Goddess Boot Camp (21 page)

Still, we’ve never seen her run. To be on the safe side we should at least test the waters before we push her to the limit. That’s how injuries happen.

“How about this?” I suggest, going for a middle ground that will save her pride and make sure we don’t push her too hard, too fast. “We’ll take one lap on the yellow course and then we’ll do interval training around the stadium.”

“Sounds perfect to me,” Griffin says, jogging in place to warm up his muscles. “I read an article about interval training last year. The alternation of sprinting and jogging builds up cardiovascular efficiency and overall stamina faster than running alone.”

Tansy looks skeptical, like we’re trying to pull one over on her. I am, in a way, but she doesn’t necessarily know that.

Finally, after eyeing me and chewing on her lip, she nods. “Okay.”

I shake out my arms and legs, checking to make sure they’re still warm and loose from when I’d stretched earlier. Everything feels in working order, so I lead us to the starting line.

“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.

“I’m impressed, Tansy,” he says, grabbing one wrist with the opposite hand and resting it on his head to open up his lungs.

“Ditto,” I say, trying to act like everything is fine. I suppress the urge to bend over and rest my hands on my knees. That will only make it harder to breathe—and won’t do anything to steady my tremulous nerves. “But maybe a little fast for a training run.”

“Sorry,” she says, her eyes wide. “I guess I was trying extra hard to prove myself.”

“You did,” I insist, trying to reassure her. “So next time we can try a non-life-threatening pace?”

“Next time?” She sounds shocked, like we would never want to run with her again after that.

Soon she’ll understand that we live for this kind of torture. Like my T-shirt says, RUNNING IS A LIFESTYLE, NOT A SPORT.

“Yeah,” Griffin says, dropping his arms back to his sides as he continues to cool down in little circles. “You’re a better slave driver than Coach Lenny.”

As we all keep circling, Tansy beams. She looks like we promised to give her a pony for Christmas—or the ancient Greek winter holiday, Brumalia.

“What was our time?” Griffin asks, his breathing returning to normal.

I look at my watch. “Sixty-two minutes!”

“Nine and a quarter miles in sixty-two minutes?” He shakes his curly head. “At that pace, we wouldn’t just finish the trials, we’d
win
them.”

“Amazing job, Tansy,” I say, resetting my watch. Our running time disappears and the actual time flashes. “It’s just after nine. We’d better finish our cooldown and head to the showers. Why don’t we cool down on the track?”

We all agree, and Griffin and I grab our sweatshirts from the drinking fountain—way too heated up to put them on.

As we walk toward the stadium, I slip my arm through Griffin’s. He smiles down at me and then presses a quick kiss to my nose. Everything with Griffin feels completely back to normal. Now if I could just get the rest of my life there.

ORCS AND STORM TROOPERS ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK

“Knock on the door already,” Troy says.

Shaking my head—I need to stop trying to understand the descendants of Hephaestus . . . they are beyond normal comprehension—I rap twice on the door. Nothing happens.

Nicole pounds repeatedly on the smooth wooden surface. “Open up.”

“Not like that,” Troy says, snatching her hand away from the door. “How I showed you.”

I take a deep breath and hold it. Having a secret knock is a little extreme, I think, but clearly Urian is not answering the door for anything else. Repeating the pattern Troy taught me, I finish knocking and then step back—as if the door might explode or something.

“Password?” Urian’s voice is muffled by the still-closed door.

I can’t bring myself to say it.

“Holy Hades,” Nicole snaps. “Just let us in, Nacus.”

No response.

Troy elbows me in the ribs.

I clench my jaw and grind out, “Ares wears pink underpants.”

Griffin would so kill me if he heard me utter those words.

The door swings open and Urian waves us inside. I’m not sure I want to go, but Troy pushes me in ahead of him.

“What did you find out?” he asks Urian as he closes the door behind Nicole.

Urian drops into his desk chair and grabs his mouse. A few clicks later, he says, “Nothing yet. My bot is still scanning the Academy server. It’s at ninety-eight percent, so it should be done soon.”

“Okay then,” I say, turning and trying to scoot around Troy to reach the door. “Thanks for trying. See you later.”

“Not so fast.” Troy grabs my shoulders before I can escape. “You have an hour until midnight. Maybe Urian’s search program will find something by then.” He looks me straight in the eyes with a very serious older-brother-like intensity. “Sit.”

While I appreciate the whole looking-out-for-me thing, I don’t need a babysitter. And I don’t need to sit around in the dark when I could be staking out the courtyard or something.

“Chill, Travatas.” Nicole shoves against his chest until he steps back.

“Like I said in my note,” Troy says, giving Nic a narrow-eyed glare. “I’m not letting you go to the courtyard until we know who you’re meeting.”

“As if you could stop me,” I mutter, crossing my arms over my chest. I’m starting to get annoyed. “What note? I never got a note.”

“The one I tucked in your pocket while you were running this morning,” he argues—not the best move at the moment. “I saw your sweatshirt hanging on the water fountain when I was on my way to your house.”

“There was no note,” I repeat.

Since I’m wearing the same sweatshirt I took with me this morning, I slip my hands into the pockets. Empty.

“See,” I say, pulling the pockets inside out. “Empty.”

“No, that’s not the—”

Knock, knock, knock.

We all freeze at the loud banging on the door.

Well, most of us freeze. Nicole reaches for the handle.

“Don’t move,” Urian whispers, grabbing Nic by the wrist. “They’ll go away.”

They don’t.

Knock, knock, knock.
Louder this time.

Nic glares at Urian—like he is the dirt stuck to the gum attached to the bottom of her combat boot—until he releases her. Actually, his hand snaps back like she gave him a 220-volt shock. I wouldn’t be surprised.

She goes for the handle.

“Nooo!” Urian shout-whispers.

But he doesn’t have to stop her. Before she can reach the handle, it turns and the door flings open.

“Griffin?” I gasp. “What are you—”

“I was about to do my laundry when I found this”—he shoves a crumpled piece of paper in my face—“in my pocket.”

I pull back, trying to bring the paper into focus—even though I’m pretty sure I know what it is.

“That’s my note,” Troy says, pointing at the paper. “How did you get it?”

Thanks, Troy. That helps.

Griffin is obviously furious. His eyes are all squinty—thankfully focused on Troy at the moment—and his full lips are clamped so tight they look outlined in white “You slipped it into the wrong pocket, genius.”

“There’s no need to get nasty,” I say, defending Troy. It’s not his fault.

Griffin’s blue eyes, burning white-hot, focus on me so intently I’m not sure he even sees anything—or anyone—else in the room. You know that whole protective thing I was thankful for last night? Well, here it is again, lashing out. I try to keep calm by telling myself he’s just worried about me. My getting defensive is not going to improve the situation.

“What is this about?” he demands.

Acutely aware of three pairs of very observant eyes, I slam my palms against Griffin’s chest and push him out into the hallway. He and I have been through enough. We don’t need an audience. “Privacy.”

“Phoebe,” he practically growls.

“You know I got that note pointing me to the record of my dad’s trial,” I point out. When he nods, I explain. “Then I got an e-mail. And another.”

“How many?”

“Five, in all.”

“From who?”

“I’m not sure,” I say. “The sender’s address was blocked.”

“In your Academy e-mail? Not possible.”

“Apparently it is,” I insist, trying not to get annoyed that he doesn’t believe me. Like I would make that up. “I couldn’t get them to print, either. So we asked Urian”—I nod at the door behind us—“for help.”

“What did the e-mails say?”

I explain the content, inching away as his expression grows darker with every word. He looks like he could explode at any second. By the time I finish, I’m pressed up against Urian’s door.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“We weren’t exactly in a sharing mood the past few days,” I say. “Besides, I don’t see why this is such a big deal.”

“I don’t think you should go.”

“Why not? Everyone seems so sure this is some master plot or something.” Like I’m important enough for someone to master-plot against me. “What if it’s just someone trying to help me out?”