When I Need You (Need You #4)(25)

"Yeah? Says who?"

"Says me." He flashed those pretty pearly whites. "Soon as you're warmed up with cardio? You're runnin' a dash check."

I started to say, "Try and make me," but as I inventoried the room-eight of us in all-I realized I had no choice.

Jesus. My protein shake threatened to come back up. It was one thing to worry about failing on my own; it was another thing to fail in front of a damn crowd.

"Ain't no one here gonna blab the results to the front office," Devonte assured me.

Wrong. Either way what happened on the track wouldn't stay on the track.

Reckoning day had arrived.

"Whatever. Give me twenty to warm up."

"I'll warm up with you," Mitchell offered.

Yeah, they were making sure I couldn't sneak out. "Sure."

Most guys tuned out the world during cardio. I didn't listen to music or podcasts or audiobooks. Instead I focused on the cadence of my steps on the treadmill as I started out slowly and gradually picked up the pace. When I hit the full-run stage, I focused on my breath and keeping my body loose.

Mitchell turned everything into a competition with me-or at least he tried to. Whenever I sped up, so would he. If I wasn't concentrating on form I'd fuck with him just because he'd expect me to.

Ten minutes into the warm-up, I did a quick mental inventory. Heart rate good. Respiration rate good. Pace . . . faster than normal. Just a twinge of pain in my knee. No pain or strain in my Achilles. No tension in my shoulder-either the right or the left. Jaw relaxed. Abs tight; hands loose. Today my body felt more in tune physically than I had in several weeks since before my checkup. I took that as a positive sign that I was up to the task of pushing myself just a little further.

I kept up the full-out running pace for six more minutes and used the last four minutes to cool down. When the machine shut off, I snagged a towel, mopped my face and headed to the track.

Several guys were parked on the turf "stretching"-aka sitting on their asses pretending to work out as they waited for the show to start. They eyed me with speculation and I literally had to shake off the fear pulling my guts into knots. I rolled to the balls of my feet and bounced a couple of times. First, arms above my head as if I were trying to launch myself into the sky. Then I jumped and pulled my knees into my chest.

"Do the running-man dance move next," Richards called out behind me.

A spinning back kick to his jaw would shut him up, but I knew better than to take a chance with a twisting maneuver-even in jest.

I wandered over to the stretch of the track where three lanes were marked off for the forty-yard dash. Thoughtful that Devonte had supplied me with a starting block. If I saw him holding a starter pistol, going "thug life" on me, I'd be laughing too damn hard to run. The massive African American defensive end might act like he'd just wandered out of an urban housing project, but the man's family owned a multimillion-dollar shipping company that stretched along the East Coast from South Carolina to Maine.

"You ready, White Bread?"

I snorted. That wasn't a racist comment. My wise-ass friend called me White Bread because the Lund family had gotten its business start in the grain and flour milling industry. I grinned at him. "Just watch the damn timer, Black Sails."

Devonte leaned closer. "Getcha head in the game, brother. We got us a few gate crashers."

"My head is there, D. Let's hope my body is."

He nodded. "Hit the block. Leon is timing you."

Good. That way there'd be no accusations that Devonte had rigged the timer.



       
         
       
        

I addressed my teammates standing around. "Do I get one shot at this? Or you gonna let me run it more than once?"

Bob "Bebo" Johnson, one of the special teams' trainers I hadn't noticed, stepped forward. "You gotta run it three times, Rocket. A ninety-second break between heats. There's a block at the other end and Ray-Ray is timing you from down there. He'll cue you when your break is over and when to line up."

"Cool." I took a swig from the bottle of water Mitchell held out to me. "You gonna announce my official time after each run?"

"Up to you," Bebo said.

Giving him my trademark cocky grin, I sang, "Shout it, shout it, shout it out loud," complete with air guitar.

Laughter echoed around me.

"Hit the block, smart-ass."

As soon as I got into position, my focus became absolute. I willed my body to work, to do the job I'd spent years training it for. This time it wasn't about anything but speed.