She pushes me out of the way and shuffles to the kitchen, and I go back to packing. “What are you doing here?”

“Coffee.”

I look up at her. “You ran out of coffee?”

“Coffee first. Talk later.”

“Right.”

I finish packing, drop my bag by the door.

4:53. I need to get going, and she needs to tell me what’s going on.

“Lane?” I slip on my shoes by the door. “What are you doing here?” I ask again. I should probably explain why nothing is making sense. Laney does not do well this early in the morning. That’s an understatement. She doesn’t even know how to function. Last time I had a meet she had to get up this early for, I picked her up, and she had on two different pairs of shoes, her arm through the neck hole of her top and her jeans were inside out. After I helped her dress properly (the top half anyway—I left her to work out the whole jeans problem later) we got in the car, and she slept the entire drive, her head against the window and drool streaking down her chin. I found a parking spot, grabbed Wet Ones from the glove box I kept for Lachlan. I cleaned her up, helped her walk to the stands and wrapped her up in a blanket I brought specifically for that purpose. It took forever for me to register for the event, and when I got back to her, she was asleep. It wasn’t until the first starter pistol that she shot up and realized where she was. She sent me a text right away.

Omg!

Did I miss it?

I fell asleep!

Did you win?

I was sitting right next to her. She jumped when she realized. Then she looked down at her lap, at her inside-out jeans. She covered her face. I told her she could fix it under the blanket. She told me it wasn’t just that—she’d also forgotten to put on underwear. Then I really fucking regretted not helping her with that earlier.

Now, she grabs a thermos from the top cabinet. She pours her coffee, then she walks past me, through the door, down the stairs and stands by my truck.

“You’re coming with me?” I call out, still in my apartment.

She sips the coffee. Shivers. “Hurry up! We’re going to be late!”

Laney downs the entire thermos (the equivalent of four cups of coffee) in less than five minutes, so it’s no real surprise that halfway through the drive, she’s dancing in my truck with Justin Timberlake blasting. “I love Justin Timberlake!” she shouts, winding down her window, causing her cheeks to redden, her hair to whip around. She looks over at me, displays her perfect teeth behind her perfect smile created by her perfect lips, and I want to punch Justin Timberlake in his perfect face.

I lower the volume, move on to her other love that isn’t me. “You want to hit up that craft store while we’re there?”

She stops dancing immediately, her eyes wide and on mine. “Don’t tease, Luke.”

“I’m not,” I say. “My heats and final should be done by midday so we’ll have time. Maybe grab food, too?”

She pouts. “I have to be at work by four, so we’ll see.”

We get to the track, and I line up to register while Lane sits in the stands, a blanket around her shoulders, yarn and knitting needles ready. Garray cuts in line to get to me. He hushes the people behind me by saying, “Chill, bruhs, I’m just here for the tits.” Then a few minute later, he laughs in their faces when he gives out his name, gets his number. “If you break your PB,” he tells me, following me around like a sick puppy, “party at my house. My parents are… I don’t know where, but they’re sure as fuck not home.”

“Cool,” I tell him, but I’m distracted by Lane, her hands frozen, her gaze locked on the red Porsche pulling into the lot.

“Is she here for you?” he asks.

I point to the Porsche. “Or him. I’m not sure.”

“You can’t worry about that shit today. You’re here on a mission. Focus.” And he’s right, of course, and focusing on Cooper is going to ruin that.

There are three heats in the Under 21s’ hundred-meter sprint; each heat is an elimination round. I plan on flying through all of them, winning the final. I’ve done my research on the other competitors, and it’s a given. But I’m not here to win or to compete against them. I’m here to compete against myself. Beating my PB will bring me one step closer to beating Cooper Kennedy’s record. That’s what I want. What I need. And I only have three more official races until the season’s over, which is why I’m here. In a nonofficial school event that clocks official times.

I sit next to Lane, wait until it’s time to start warming up. “You think you could ask Garray to sit with me when you can’t?” she asks, looking toward the end of the registration line where Cooper stands, watching her, me, us.

“Garray’s running cross-country, so he’ll be on the track a while,” I tell her. “You want me to give him the money now, get it out of the way?”

“No,” she says quickly. “He’ll want to talk, and I don’t want to—not yet. Not until you’re done. This is your day.” She turns to me, smiles. “How are you feeling? Confident? Scared? You’re going to kill it. I can feel it.”

“Yeah?” I ask, looking over at Cooper again. “You think he’s going to give you a hard time?”

She cups my face, forces me to get lost in those eyes. “I don’t want you worrying about him, okay? I want you to worry about you and about that PB and about where you’re going to take me in twenty days.”

I smile, I can’t help it. I hold her wrists; Keep touching me, Lane, and say, “I have it all planned out.” And it’s true. I do.

“Can I do anything?”

I push my luck. “You could always give me an advance on that first-date kiss.”

She rolls her eyes—instinct, but then bites down on her lip—contemplation. Then slowly, oh so slowly, she leans forward, presses her lips to mine.

Two seconds.

Zero heartbeats.

“Did it help?” she asks.

“You have no idea.”

Dad shows up with Lachy and the twins right before the first heat starts. They sit with Lane, and Lane points me out, and Dad smiles and waves. Lachlan gives me a thumbs up, and I return it while the twins check out the program. I win the race. I win another short, light kiss from Lane.

Logan and Leo arrive just before the second heat. I didn’t know they were coming but I’m happy they did, and I win that race, too. They cheer from the stands—my brothers, my dad, my kind-of-now-but-definitely-soon-to-be girlfriend—all making me proud to be a Preston. I earn another kiss from Lane. When we actually do start dating, I’m going to ask for backpay on all my previous winnings. One kiss (or blowjob, whatever) for each win throughout my entire high school life.

I win the third heat, beat my PB. I don’t need to see the clock to know I’ve done it; my body’s already told me. So instead of looking at the screen, I look over at my family. Lane’s the first to stand, her hand to her mouth. She says something to my dad, and he hollers, jumps, scares everyone around him and swear, this feeling, this high, is greater than sex, pre-Laney, of course.