The Devil's Heart - Carmen Carter [94]
Picard felt himself flush with shame, and the wave of warmth drove more beads of sweat out of his skin.
So, Gareth had heard.
Everyone at the Academy had probably heard.
He mopped his face and neck with Chiang’s towel and raked back a wayward curl of hair.
Well, there was no help for it now. The boast had been made and was beyond recall.
He heard the crunching tread of boots on grass coming up behind him, and his muscles tensed and tightened, counteracting the effects of his recent warm-up.
“Jean-Luc.”
“Oh, hello, Walker.” He continued to dry himself off, rubbing first at one arm then another, careful not to turn and look his friend in the face.
Walker Keel lacked flair, some cadets even implied he lacked the fire necessary for command, but at this moment Picard would gladly trade all of his own brash bravado for just an ounce of Walker’s quiet dignity.
“We’ll be waiting for you at the finish line.”
His hands clenched and twisted the soft cloth into a knot. “Jack’s here, too?”
He caught Walker’s nod out of the corner of his eye. “The crowd is already pretty thick, so we’re taking turns holding our space.”
“Actually, I’d rather … it would be easier …” Picard couldn’t finish, couldn’t find the words to tell them both to go away. Neither of them had reproached him for his arrogance, for the absolute lunacy of his drunken outburst, yet facing them at the end of this race would be as great a trial as suffering the scorn of the entire Academy for the remainder of the term. “You know something, Walker?
I talk too much.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed that,” said Walker with a slow smile. He thumped Picard’s back with an open hand, a gesture of both exasperation and affection, then strolled away, melting into the stream of spectators rushing to take their places along the path.
“Starters up!”
Blue-clad figures all across the field froze in mid-motion at the announcement, then responded to the call with a leisurely approach to the broad white line that marked the beginning of the 40k marathon. Picard mimicked their nonchalance, but his gait felt stiff and unnatural. He longed for another stretching session, but there was no time left.
As fifty-three pairs of feet stepped up to the starting line, he had one last stabbing thought What if Boothby had heard?
The sharp crack of the starting gun caught him unprepared. He pushed off last, almost immediately trailing behind the throng of runners who jostled for position and pace. He was a front-runner— he’d always been a front-runner—but his concentration had flagged during that critical instant when reflexes triggered muscles into a first burst of speed. Faced with an unexpected wall of pumping legs and flailing arms, he faltered again, then braced himself for a collision with any runners moving up behind him. He risked a darting backward glance.
There were no other runners. He was last.
No freshman has ever won the Academy Marathon … until now!
Those echoing words—his own foolish words—set fire to his lagging feet. Enough of this self-pitying indulgence; he had a long race to run. Shoving aside despair, he narrowed his mind to the demands of the moment. The track surface beneath his thin-soled shoes was firm with a slight texture that provided traction without gripping for too long. He barely registered the towering forest trees that lined the first portion of the winding path, but he welcomed their cool shade as exertion warmed his body.
For the first two kilometers he worked at loosening his tight muscles and setting a rhythm to his breathing. In the process, he passed six runners out of the fifty-three, counting them off one by one. By the fifth kilometer he was sufficiently centered to ignore such petty distractions and his weaving progress around slower runners was unconscious, the automatic avoidance of obstacles.
When he broke out of the forest into bright sunlight and baking heat, he spied the quarter-marker of the Delula course. The air