I had always loved the hush that came over a starting line, in the moment before the referee dropped their checkered flag and yelled go. It was a moment of focus, of anticipation, of hope. But lining up next to Sebastian King, his long, lean legs stretched out behind him, his dark eyes dead-set on the section of the field that roared out before us, I felt fear. Fear for my future, on the track or otherwise. If I didn't impress him in this 400 metre sprint, everything I'd been working towards—training towards—for the last four years would be for nothing.

"Runners!" our principal shouted, his hand out like the gate to a parking garage. He was a balding man, all angles and school pride beneath his neatly pressed grey suit and face paint. "On your marks."

I had half a second, maybe, to prepare, and in the back of my mind I could hear my father say, "Never take your eye off the prize." But maybe he'd forgive me, for looking at Sebastian again. At his stern expression, the tips of his black hair, his high cheekbones. He was lithe, in every way my awkward elbows and knees made me look out of place. I'd seen enough runners in my life to know when I was standing next to someone great. Someone who was probably better than me.

Probably.

"Get set."

I looked away—away from him, from our principal, from the eager eyes and pumping fists of our whole school, crowding around the edges of the field or filling the shiny, metal bleachers. I could no longer hear them; I was back in the zone. I was here. I was present. My eyes were locked on nothing but the grit of the soil under my fingertips and the soft press of the grass under the soles of my shoes.

I felt like a bullet, in the barrel of a gun, the hammer partially raised, the trigger cold and sharp against my skin. Waiting.

Waiting.

"Go!"

The seven of us launched from the start line, springing forward like horses and jockeys leaving the fences. We were little more than blurs; long arms and longer legs, shoulders back, hair flying.

I didn't dare breathe. Not for the first few seconds. Not while the world was reorienting, my perspective shifting, my feet finding their pace.

Beside me, the rest of the runners disappeared. I outpaced them immediately, leaving only Sebastian and me. Sebastian, ahead by inches, tearing across the grass. Sebastian, sprinting like an athlete meant for stadiums and podiums and Olympic medals, the bright colours of his tank top flickering in the corner of my right eye like an exploding firework.

My lungs were starting to burn, now, in that horribly beautiful way that told me I was going faster than I should be. Faster than I could maintain. Faster than I'd trained to.

I knew the risks. And I ignored them.

Sebastian was still ahead of me, with maybe 100 metres left in the race. I knew he'd beat me, his body so coordinated it was like watching art in motion, or a wildcat let off its leash.

I sucked in a breath. Then another. I went faster. And faster.

There was a hiss of air passing my ears, cataclysmically loud. A flash of something dark, filling my vision on the right side.

I passed Sebastian, just as his eyes turned, a fraction of a degree, to see me. To watch me. To stare.

Someone was holding up a long length of yellow string over the finish line—two someones, pulling the marker as taut as possible. They were screaming something, their mouths open wide, but no sound was coming out.

The string—was it a skipping rope?—didn't snap when I ran into it. Instead, it whipped out of their hands, swinging backwards into my shoulders, tangling around my legs.

I went down in a heap, choking on a breath that wouldn't come, wouldn't settle between my teeth. All at once, everything ached. Everything throbbed.

I was crying. Just out of the side of one eye, my tears mixing with sweat and a few drops of rain. During the sprint, the sky had darkened like a dropped curtain behind a theatre stage, changing the scene. Umbrellas, muted and dark, had popped up like budding flowers over the bleachers, shielding the a handful teachers supervising Brentwood's annual Sports Day—and no one else—from the coming storm.

There were spots in my vision now, swirling around the edges. I could smell the grass and the dirt and the rain as it crowded up under my nose, but for a few moments, all I could see was splashes of colour. Green. Black. Grey. Blue. And I could hardly move my legs, even if I wanted to. I felt like I was completely tangled in a mess I couldn't escape.

But then, suddenly, two strong hands were flipping me over, and a brown face with rain-slicked brown hair and brown eyes was all I could see.

"Harrison?" I said, because that felt like the right thing to say. I was sure he'd come in third, right behind me and Sebastian. He was on the relay team too, with his younger brother, Laurie.

I wasn't sure why he was frowning, his forehead creased with deep, crinkled lines. "You okay, Jack?" he asked, his voice breathy, a bit laboured. He took one of my hands in both of his, his palms smooth and warm, and pulled me upright, so I was sitting in the mud. Everything had started sticking to me—my shorts, my shirt, even my socks. I felt like a book that had been left out on a park bench for a week.

"I don't know," I replied, and as I sat beside him, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps, a shadow fell over my lap. Without looking up, I knew who those long legs belonged to. Of course I did.

His shoes were expensive, with a crisp, black checkmark running along both sides. His socks, once white, were now dark grey, soaked by the rain. His shorts, longer than mine, form-fitting and sleek, looked like part of a body-suit, with the top hem disappearing under a loose tank top, equally as expensive as the shoes.

I couldn't meet Sebastian's eyes. Should I have thrown the race, so he could beat me? I suddenly felt so stupid—why would he pick me as the relay team's fourth runner, if he hated me? Because surely, he had too; I'd heard from my classmates all day that Sebastian hadn't lost a single race since middle school. He was the best of the best. The best this town had ever seen.

But it was only one race. A fluke. I knew the whispers that would dog me the rest of the week—that Sebastian had had an off day. He'd hiccuped, slipping on the wet grass. That if we'd run on the track, that was being redone and repainted, he'd have won.

I hadn't been better. I'd just gotten lucky.

I held my breath again, waiting. I wasn't sure what he'd say.

Fuck you. Who even are you? Some transfer, scholarship student, thinking he's better than me—

Instead, to my horror, Sebastian bent down on his heels, crouching next to me and Harrison. His dark eyes, made darker by the rain, seemed to swallow me.

"You need new shoes," he said, pointing at my ruined ones. The sole on my left shoe was peeling off, and there was a hole in the right one, large enough to show the black of my socks. "And your form needs work."

His voice was soft and melodic, brushing past my skin like mist off the side of a speedboat. It was refreshing. Exhilarating.

"You need to run with your shoulders further back," he continued to say, and he demonstrated, tilting my body backwards on the grass. Like Harrison's, Sebastian's hands were warm. Too warm. "It's so you can breathe deeper, using your diaphragm."

"Oh," I said dumbly. I knew that, of course; I'd been running all my life. I'd just been trying to prove myself to everyone watching. To my class, to my teachers, to the school. To him.

I looked down at my shoes, then knocked my feet together. "I'll have to save up my allowance," I mumbled, a bit embarrassed, "for new shoes." Which was a lie; my mother didn't have the money to spare for almost anything, let alone my allowance. I'd gotten these shoes two years ago out of a lost-and-found bin.

Nodding, Sebastian bent closer, his hands on my legs, pulling at the rope twisted around my calves. Harrison started helping too, and he was smiling now, the expression lighting up his face.

"I'll buy you some," Sebastian said. Sebastian King, Brentwood Academy's top athlete, its rising star. He...wanted to buy me a pair of shoes?

"Oh," I said again, just as Harrison pulled the last of the plastic rope off my legs. I realized, then, that I hadn't really been trapped. Just stunned. Confused by the crisscrossing lines pulled tight over my skin. "Why?"

I shouldn't have asked. People didn't ask Sebastian King questions. But he met my eyes again, his expression serious and flat.

"Do you want to join the team or not?" he asked. "If you do, you need better shoes. We train every morning on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, so you'll need something else by tomorrow."

I stared at him. Gawked, really, but managed to keep my mouth shut tight.

"Oh," I said for the third time, in as many minutes. "Okay."

And to my shock, Sebastian reached out to ruffle my hair. Sebastian King, who everyone had told me didn't smile. Didn't care. Didn't have friends, other than Harrison and Laurie, and maybe his mom.

"Good," he said, and as he pulled his hand away, he heaved me to my feet, his grip gentle around my arm. I was grinning like an awestruck fool. "We can work with that."