“A thousand pardons,” she’d said. Then she’d started giggling . . . and, eventually, he started laughing, too. But was that what their life was going to be like? Was that what he had to look forward to? Mud masks and unannounced farting?
Maisie reached across the table and took his hand, tracing the lines with the tip of a fingernail. “Your love line. It’s very strong.” When she looked up, into his eyes, he felt his heart skip. Andy shifted in his seat. He and Rachel hadn’t had sex before he left, which was their routine. “My stomach’s kind of funny,” she’d said, slipping out of bed to get the Pepto-Bismol right after he’d reached for her, and between that and the farting he’d left her alone. “Your life line,” said Maisie. He could feel her breath on the palms of his hands. “I see lots of success. Blue ribbons. Gold medals.” Andy smiled. Rachel was hundreds of miles away. She’d never find out. And wasn’t he entitled? He’d slept with only seven women in his entire life. He was a world-class runner, an Olympic contender, possessor of one of the longest winning streaks in all of American collegiate track history. He should have been getting, as Mitch liked to say, more ass than a toilet seat at a girls’ school, and he could still tally his conquests on two hands, with fingers left over. If his teammates ever learned he’d had this chance and failed to close the deal, they’d laugh him right off the track. It was like you’d had TV dinners for a year and someone offered you filet mignon; like you’d been riding a bike—a nice one, but a bike, still—and someone handed you the keys to a sports car, something low-slung and beautiful with a motor that purred when you touched your foot to the pedal.
Andy signaled for the check. Maisie smiled in approval as he pulled out his credit card—between his generous stipend and the bonuses the sneaker company paid him for his wins, he had money to spend. Maisie didn’t even try to reach for her wallet, the way Rachel always did. They strolled back to the hotel in an expectant silence. In the lobby, she looked into his eyes.
“Do you think I could come up for a glass of water?”
A voice spoke up in his head. Not Rachel’s voice, not his mother’s, not a voice belonging to any one of the coaches he’d had through the years, but Mr. Sills’s voice, asking him, very seriously, Is this the kind of man you want to be?
Feeling like the biggest jackass in the world, Andy took her hand and folded it in his. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, “and I’m probably going to regret this for the rest of my life. But I’m not exactly single.”
Maisie gave a pout that caused Andy to think that whatever she did when she’d finished modeling, it probably wouldn’t be acting. “Shit,” she said. Andy tried not to flinch. He didn’t like cursing, never had; it reminded him of Lori, when she’d been drinking. “Why are all the good ones either taken or gay?”
“Come on,” he’d said, giving her a tripod-style hug, careful to keep anything below their shoulders from touching. “You could have any guy in the world.”
“But what if you’re the guy I want?”
Andy didn’t answer. He just wanted to get up to his room, splash some cold water on his face, and call Rachel. But Rachel didn’t answer. The cold water didn’t work, so Andy took a cold shower and masturbated briskly, like it was the sexual equivalent of clearing his throat. Still, it took him two hours to fall asleep, and when the alarm shrilled, he woke up with a groan, still feeling tired, thinking that if he blew the race Rachel would be to blame.
That afternoon, crouched and waiting for the pistol, exhaustion dragged at him, and he felt frustrated and angry. Poised at the starting line, his body curled and ready to spring, all he wanted to do was go back to the hotel and sleep. Instead of being nervous, the way he usually was, so tense that sometimes he’d throw up right before a race began, he felt tired and calm almost to the point of boredom . . . and then, when he started to run, a weird thing happened. He felt almost airy, like his body was made of something less dense and more durable than flesh and blood. Leaning into the turns, arms swinging smoothly, he knew he was setting up for a PR, maybe even a course record . . . and then what? Would Maisie be waiting at the finish line? Would Rachel call his cell phone, wanting to congratulate him?
Be your body, he thought. It wasn’t one of his official mantras—light and lean, he’d taught himself to chant, or no pain—but, as he finished his first lap, that was what he told himself. He knew what this victory would mean—that Athens was a certainty, that he’d have his shot at the gold. With every step, he put more and more distance between himself and the guy behind him, breathing easily, moving effortlessly, thinking that he could run a marathon if he had to, that he could run forever.