The river path is far from the athletic fields. At this time of day that part of campus is a hive: field hockey, football, men’s and women’s soccer. She walks along the road in the opposite direction for a few hundred yards, then turns onto a well--trodden grassy lane. Prime NARP territory: Nonathlete Regular People. Those who run for the hell of it, who enjoy the scenery out here. The other day she saw a fox. At first she thought it was a cat, but the plush red tail gave it away.
I’m a NARP now. Or not. She still “supports from the bench,” so to speak, although she’s begged off that for a while. The bright, slanting sun in the afternoon kills her, making it agony to watch the action on the field. So she’s excused from practices, skips games . . . How is she on the team? She doesn’t go out with the other girls at night anymore. Mostly because she needs to sleep, but also because she’s not around when they make their plans—not to mention that she shouldn’t drink. They eat as a team, late, practically as the dining hall is shutting down; she’s been going earlier. Dinners have been a drag, actually. She can usually put her plate down with some of the other girls from the hall, but it’s not like they’re close. She barely knows them. From day one, when she arrived on campus two weeks early for preseason, it’s been all about the team.
And it’s not like Jenny’s company. She haunts their room, skittering out for classes, grabbing food to bring back. Occasionally, like tonight, she’ll agree to eat with Carrie and Gail in Main dining hall. The college has ordered this Jordan to only eat at the Grille or the small dining hall near the library.
Jordan. Isn’t that a girl’s name? At any rate, now she won’t just think of him as the Guy Who Raped Jenny.
Less than a mile along the path, she hears fast steps approaching from behind. Haley moves to one side to make way for the runner. He doesn’t turn as he trots by, but she recognizes the hair.
“Math Dude!”
Instantly horrified. Did she really just say that? She must have a subconscious death wish when it comes to guys. Or him.
He pivots, continues backward a few steps, surprise on his face.
She expects a quick wave, that’s it. That’s what you do when you’re running: acknowledge people you know, but never stop. You don’t interrupt the daily run; she gets that.
So when he comes to a full stop and jogs toward her, she’s unprepared.
“Soccer Girl,” he says, grinning. “Fancy meeting you out here.”
“Former Soccer Girl,” she corrects him.
“Right,” he says. “Haley.”
“Richard.”
That’s it. Neither of them speaks for a moment. Richard breathes hard.
“So. Going for a run?” she says. Wow. You’re a genius, Haley. Let’s see: he’s sweating, wearing running shoes, running . . . Obviously he’s out here doing crossword puzzles.
Luckily, if Richard Brandt—yes, she Facebook--stalked him and figured out his last name—thinks she is a complete idiot, he disguises it well. He glances at the trail ahead.
“I’m headed to the water tower. Want to join me?”
“I can’t. Still not cleared to run.”
“Catch you on the way back?”
The water tower is about a mile away.
“Sure,” she says.
He takes off. Pretty brisk pace. Pretty cute butt.
“Dare to dream, girl.” She actually says it out loud to Richard’s retreating back. Never. Never in twenty zillion years would one of Carrie Mason’s leftovers give her a second thought. Guys like that are used to . . . more. Experience. Beauty. Know--how. Of which she has absolutely none.
She’d be better off with a freshman like herself. Some eighteen--year--old who’d be oh--so--grateful for even the least bit of action. Not some hot sophomore used to sleeping with the most desirable woman on campus. Different set of expectations there. And there’s no way in hell she can meet them.
She decides to turn back, get off the path, and head to the dining hall before he has a chance to catch up with her and she has a chance to further embarrass herself. But before she’s fully retraced her route, she hears his returning steps. He slows alongside her, panting.
“Did you decide not to go all the way?” she asks.
“No, I did.” The hair near the nape of his neck stands up in little soaked spikes. His gray T--shirt is dark beneath his arms, around his neck. “Double--timed it. How are you?”
“Good,” she says.
“I run here all the time, but I’ve never seen you before.”
“Well, I usually . . . used to be . . . at practice this time of day. But I’m trying to ease back into it, you know. Long walks. Hopefully I can run again soon.”
“I pretty much need to run every day,” he says. “I’m either hooked on endorphins or just hyper. I don’t know. Must suck to be inactive.”
She sighs. “I hate it.” They walk along in silence for a little while. It’s surprisingly not awkward.
“So,” he finally says, “when you’re not playing soccer or doing calculus, what do you do for fun?”
She smiles. “People do other things for fun?”
“A few.”
“Such as?”
“Hiking,” he says. “Lot of great hikes around here.”
“Haven’t done any,” Haley says. “I had games on the weekends, practice every day, then I’d catch up on work.”
“Music,” Richard continues. “Lot of good campus bands.”
“Haven’t checked them out yet.”