“What kind of workout are you doing?” I ask.
“Just some sprints,” she says before taking a deep breath. The road is empty, with a few cars parked along the curb at varying intervals.
“Do you do this often?” I ask, walking alongside her. As far as I know, she’s not an athlete in any sport. I’ve been wrong before. Maybe she’s a runner, though?
She shrugs. “Sometimes I don’t want to work out at all. Telling myself I can hate life for ten minutes to get something in is the best way to motivate me.”
I stare at her for a few moments before realizing that I’ve got my head tilted to the side and I’m trying to understand her.
“Wait, you tell yourself that you’re going to hate running and you still do it?” I’ve never heard of that logic, but it’s got me curious.
She shrugs. “Getting a workout in is the goal. On days motivation is lacking, I say I can get mad as I sprint, which is short, or cry while I run a few miles.”
I blink and say, “So you only do sprints?”
Laney laughs. “No. Believe it or not, there are days I don’t mind working out. Sometimes I run and smile the whole time. Others, I’m dragging myself out of bed. What do you do when you don’t want to work out?”
“I do it anyway. Most of the guys in my sport are young and fast. So I try to do anything that’ll help me keep up with them.” I hadn’t put that into words before, but I realize how true it is.
She gives me a small smile and says, “You don’t think you’re young?”
I blow out a breath. “Think of Jackson. The kid is twenty-one. It’s like I watch him play, and I remember being able to move that easily. But with experience come injuries sometimes. I tore my ACL my second year of pro lacrosse, and now I’m always conscious of it.”
“But the experience got you to this point, right? The working through the setbacks and enjoying the high moments that much more.”
“Yeah, I guess I haven’t thought of it that way. How many of these sprints do you do?” I ask, doing walking butt-kickers as I keep up with her.
“Depends on how much I really don’t want to do it. Sometimes I’ll do six or eight. They’re about a hundred yards from stop sign to stop sign.”
“I’ve lived here for almost two years, and I didn’t know that,” I say, shaking my head.
She gives a soft laugh and says, “You probably don’t have trouble with motivation like I do.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “Well, you don’t know the struggle it was getting out of the house this morning.”
“I thought your season doesn’t start for a couple of weeks.”
I’m surprised she remembers that much. “Well, the outdoor lacrosse team, yes. I also play box lacrosse in the winter.”
“You play lacrosse in a box? Or is that your armor?” she asks me with a small grin.
“Sometimes it feels like that,” I say, doing some walking high knees as we continue down the road. “It’s indoor lacrosse. The field is a lot smaller than an outdoor field, and there are a few different rules.”
She nods, and I notice that even though there’s a lull in the conversation, she doesn’t move to put her earbud back in. We’re almost at the other stop sign.
“Which sprint number is this one?” I ask.
“This will be number four.” She reaches the line and pivots, taking quick strides at first before lengthening out and going full tilt.
I start a light jog, needing to get some warmth coursing through my muscles before I do something like that. The advantage of playing box lacrosse is that it keeps me in shape during the Utah winters and cold spring days.
I jog until I catch up with her on the walk back again.
“You run like you’ve done this before. Did you run track or cross-country?”
She gives me a surprised expression. “I did both. They were the easiest to work with in between farm chores. My grandparents couldn’t really take me all over the world for tournaments and games.”
I nod, surprised by her admission. “You lived with your grandparents?”
