“Not that you will,” I say to Tansy, “but if your muscles start burning or you can’t catch your breath enough to speak, then pull up. Stamina is easy to fix. Injuries are not.”
“Fine,” she says, jamming her hands on her hips.
I can tell we’re on the verge of witnessing a huff.
“Then let’s go,” Griffin says. “I’ll take the lead; Tansy, you’ll run middle, and Phoebe will bring up the rear. She’s used to that,” he teases.
“You’d better run,” I say, lunging for him.
Before I can smack him on the shoulder, he pushes into a run and starts following the little yellow flags marking our course. Tansy follows him, easily matching his gentle pace. I remember to start the stopwatch and then fall in behind her, knowing Griffin placed me here so I could watch her form . . . and her condition.
He starts off at a jog, clearly not wanting to push Tansy beyond her ability. Without having discussed a plan of attack, I know he’s going to keep nudging up the pace until I let him know she’s reached her peak. But halfway through the one-and-a-quarter-mile course, he’s at top training speed, and Tansy is still in perfect shape. Her form is a little rough—her arms flap around a little too much and she lets her hips sway instead of keeping them in line—but she hasn’t missed a step. She doesn’t seem to be wearing out.
We hit a straight stretch and Griffin turns to glance back over his shoulder. Our eyes meet. He lifts his brows, silently asking me what I think. I shrug and lift mine back, indicating that everything seems good to me. Then he’s facing front again and maintains his pace.
As we round the final bend of the course and the finish line comes into view, Griffin says, “We’re almost there.”
“Let’s do another lap,” Tansy says, not sounding at all out of breath.
“Phoebe?”
“Yeah,” I say, suitably impressed by Tansy’s endurance and willingness to work hard. Feeling confident, I suggest, “Why don’t we switch to the blue course?”
“You sure?” he asks.
The blue course is the longest, measuring in at eight miles. It also has a two-mile-long section that boasts a thirty-degree incline. I’ve run it a few times, but always on fresh legs.
Something tells me that not only has Tansy run the blue course before, but that she’s probably run back-to-back laps.
Just to make sure, I ask, “You up for it, Tansy?”
“Yes!”
“Okay,” I say as we cross the finish line and turn immediately back onto the course. “Why don’t you take the lead, then.”
She turns and looks at me. “Really?”
I nod and before I can say, “Really,” she speeds up and passes Griffin to take first position. He drops back to my side and asks, “Are you sure she’s ready?”
“She thinks she is,” I say, watching her pound the dirt. “She deserves a chance to prove it.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re racing up the incline, working hard to keep up with Tansy’s pace. Her training speed is at least fifteen seconds faster than Griffin’s. And a couple seconds faster than mine. By the time we reach the decline, he and I are both breathing hard and a low burn is starting in my quads. From behind, I can’t tell if Tansy is wearing out. Her arms may be hanging a little lower than when we started, but I can’t be sure.
We pass the seven-mile marker. Only one blessedly flat mile left. I think our distance endurance is improving, but we need to push harder. I’m exhausted after less than ten miles and the trials are only four days away.
“The finish line,” Griffin says.
I look ahead. “Thank the gods.”
We’re so close. For a second, I imagine myself already across the finish line, already starting my recovery. Before I can take another step, I’m surrounded by a bright glow. I blink. When I open my eyes, I’m standing at the finish line, watching Griff and Tansy run toward me.
“What the—”
“That was way cool,” Tansy squeals as she crosses the finish line and pulls up to a stop.
Griffin jogs over to me. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I—” I shake my head. On instinct, I reach down and punch off the stopwatch. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
“I know.”
“What do you think of my stamina now?” Tansy asks in between gasping breaths, like I’m not over here freaking out about accidentally using my autoport powers.
This is exactly what I was afraid would happen—I was so focused on crossing the finish line, on winning, that I just . . . I don’t know. I bet that’s the sort of thing that happened to Dad. He probably never even meant to use his powers to succeed in football. It was an accident, but he got smoted anyway.
I half expect the gods to smote me on the spot.
My legs start shaking, and not just because the muscles are exhausted. Griffin wraps his hands around my upper arms and squeezes.
“Take a deep breath,” he whispers so Tansy won’t hear. “You’re fine.”
“But what if they—”
“They won’t.” He sounds so certain. Like the gods wouldn’t dare contradict him. Thankful for his steady reassurance, I lean into him a little.
I nod and whisper softly, “I’m fine.”
His bright blue eyes watch me, maybe making sure I’m not just saying that. I give him a tiny reassuring smile. Apparently satisfied that I’ve returned to my sanity, he steps back.