Goddess Boot Camp(38)
And if I don’t, will I ever find out what really happened to Dad?
CHAPTER 7
VISIOCRYPTION
SOURCE: HADES
The ability to hide, mask, or cloak an object. Duration of effect and size of object affected varies depending on strength of power. Effect is temporary and does not affect the physical characteristics of the object. (See Visiomutation for permanent changes of appearance.)
DYNAMOTHEOS STUDY GUIDE © Stella Petrolas
WHEN I WALK THROUGH THE TUNNEL and out onto the stadium field the next morning, Griffin is waiting for me next to the soccer goal—sure, in Greece they call it football, but my dad played football. The sport with a round, black-and-white ball will always be soccer to me. Griff smiles that heart-melting smile, gives me a quick kiss, and says, “I missed you, kardia tis kardias mou.”
Until that moment I have every intention of letting the whole Griffin-and-Adara-in-the-bookstore thing go. Not every guy is a cheating jerk like Justin.
But when he says he missed me, I wonder, Did he really?
I can’t stop myself from asking, “How was the trip to Serifos?”
“Oh,” he says. “We had to reschedule. The freezer malfunctioned and flooded the cellar. Aunt Lili and I spent the morning rearranging the stockroom.”
So he hadn’t left the island yesterday. “Is that why we’re running in the morning again?”
“Didn’t I say that?” He bends over, reaching for his toes.
No, he didn’t say that.
Joining him in the stretch, I ask, “What did you do in the afternoon?”
I feel like the Inquisition.
He’s not avoiding eye contact, I tell myself. He can’t exactly look me in the eye when he’s hanging upside down and pulling himself into deeper extension.
“I stopped by the bookstore.” He spreads his feet and twists to reach for one ankle. “Wanted to see if they had anything on endurance conditioning and nutrition.”
Of course it was something innocent—he was researching our training.
I smile as I mimic his stretching, mentally whipping myself. Clearly, I need to get a handle on that jealousy monster—which Nicole insists has red eyes, not green. Sometimes I wonder how she knows so much about mythological beasts. Other times I don’t want to know.
“Did they?” I lift my foot behind me and grab my ankle, stretching my quads.
“No.” He smiles and says, “But Iona said they would order some for us.”
Why am I so eager to assume the worst about Griff ?
As the daughter of a psychiatrist, I do not go in for the therapy thing. After a lifetime of psychoanalysis, I’m immune. But I’m starting to think that maybe I need some help on my trust issues. I mean, I shouldn’t be so quick to doubt Griffin. Especially not after what we went through to get together.
We’re fated by an oracle, after all.
If the prophecy says Griffin will “find his match in a daughter of victory”—aka the goddess Nike, aka my great-grandmother—then our relationship, our future is secure, right?
The red-eyed monster needs to take a hike.
“So what’s our training plan for today?” he asks, interrupting my self-exploration.
I give him a wicked grin. “Steps.”
“Excuse me?”
I nod in the direction of the stadium stands. “We’re going to run steps.”
He looks warily up at the stands.
The stadium is a smaller version of the Roman Colosseum—or maybe the Colosseum is a bigger version of the Academy stadium?—but it’s still several stories high. From field level to the top row of bench seats is probably around one hundred steps. I don’t know what Griffin is worried about. This is nothing. It’s my dream to run the steps of the Eiffel Tower, the Statue of Liberty, and the Empire State Building. Stadium steps are no big deal.
“All right,” he says, without enthusiasm. “Let’s do it.”
After a quick four-lap warm-up and another round of stretching, we tackle the steps. There are ninety-six, to be exact, and I know this because we run them a dozen times. I count them aloud each time.
As we turn around for our final climb, I begin counting down. “Ninety-six, ninety-five, ninety-four . . .”
“How many more?” Griffin gasps.
“Ninety, eighty-nine, eighty-eight,” I pant, keeping my count. “Last one.”
“Thank the gods,” Griffin gasps as we keep climbing.
I manage a smile that probably looks more like a wince. Griffin doesn’t notice—he’s too busy trying not to die.
“Sixty-three, sixty-two . . .” I manage, though my lungs and my quads and my everything are burning. Every last muscle in my body is screaming, desperately begging me to stop this insanity, to just drop down and die like a normal person.