Goddess Boot Camp(61)

We pass the seven-mile marker. Only one blessedly flat mile left. I think our distance endurance is improving, but we need to push harder. I’m exhausted after less than ten miles and the trials are only four days away.

“The finish line,” Griffin says.

I look ahead. “Thank the gods.”

We’re so close. For a second, I imagine myself already across the finish line, already starting my recovery. Before I can take another step, I’m surrounded by a bright glow. I blink. When I open my eyes, I’m standing at the finish line, watching Griff and Tansy run toward me.

“What the—”

“That was way cool,” Tansy squeals as she crosses the finish line and pulls up to a stop.

Griffin jogs over to me. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I—” I shake my head. On instinct, I reach down and punch off the stopwatch. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“I know.”

“What do you think of my stamina now?” Tansy asks in between gasping breaths, like I’m not over here freaking out about accidentally using my autoport powers.

This is exactly what I was afraid would happen—I was so focused on crossing the finish line, on winning, that I just . . . I don’t know. I bet that’s the sort of thing that happened to Dad. He probably never even meant to use his powers to succeed in football. It was an accident, but he got smoted anyway.

I half expect the gods to smote me on the spot.

My legs start shaking, and not just because the muscles are exhausted. Griffin wraps his hands around my upper arms and squeezes.

“Take a deep breath,” he whispers so Tansy won’t hear. “You’re fine.”

“But what if they—”

“They won’t.” He sounds so certain. Like the gods wouldn’t dare contradict him. Thankful for his steady reassurance, I lean into him a little.

I nod and whisper softly, “I’m fine.”

His bright blue eyes watch me, maybe making sure I’m not just saying that. I give him a tiny reassuring smile. Apparently satisfied that I’ve returned to my sanity, he steps back.

“I’m impressed, Tansy,” he says, grabbing one wrist with the opposite hand and resting it on his head to open up his lungs.

“Ditto,” I say, trying to act like everything is fine. I suppress the urge to bend over and rest my hands on my knees. That will only make it harder to breathe—and won’t do anything to steady my tremulous nerves. “But maybe a little fast for a training run.”

“Sorry,” she says, her eyes wide. “I guess I was trying extra hard to prove myself.”

“You did,” I insist, trying to reassure her. “So next time we can try a non-life-threatening pace?”

“Next time?” She sounds shocked, like we would never want to run with her again after that.

Soon she’ll understand that we live for this kind of torture. Like my T-shirt says, RUNNING IS A LIFESTYLE, NOT A SPORT.

“Yeah,” Griffin says, dropping his arms back to his sides as he continues to cool down in little circles. “You’re a better slave driver than Coach Lenny.”

As we all keep circling, Tansy beams. She looks like we promised to give her a pony for Christmas—or the ancient Greek winter holiday, Brumalia.

“What was our time?” Griffin asks, his breathing returning to normal.

I look at my watch. “Sixty-two minutes!”

“Nine and a quarter miles in sixty-two minutes?” He shakes his curly head. “At that pace, we wouldn’t just finish the trials, we’d win them.”

“Amazing job, Tansy,” I say, resetting my watch. Our running time disappears and the actual time flashes. “It’s just after nine. We’d better finish our cooldown and head to the showers. Why don’t we cool down on the track?”

We all agree, and Griffin and I grab our sweatshirts from the drinking fountain—way too heated up to put them on.

As we walk toward the stadium, I slip my arm through Griffin’s. He smiles down at me and then presses a quick kiss to my nose. Everything with Griffin feels completely back to normal. Now if I could just get the rest of my life there.





ORCS AND STORM TROOPERS ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK

“Knock on the door already,” Troy says.

Shaking my head—I need to stop trying to understand the descendants of Hephaestus . . . they are beyond normal comprehension—I rap twice on the door. Nothing happens.

Nicole pounds repeatedly on the smooth wooden surface. “Open up.”

“Not like that,” Troy says, snatching her hand away from the door. “How I showed you.”

I take a deep breath and hold it. Having a secret knock is a little extreme, I think, but clearly Urian is not answering the door for anything else. Repeating the pattern Troy taught me, I finish knocking and then step back—as if the door might explode or something.