“Is this your way of asking for a rematch?” I opened my door, and he did the same with his.
“Fair’s fair.” He hopped out of the car.
The night’s too cold for the skirt-and-stockings pairing I have on. But I ignored the chill in favor of seeing David’s face light up. We walked toward the bars, slow at first. But then, he picked up the pace, and I matched his energy. When he does it again, I enlist my arms to help push me through an impromptu speed walk.
“Remember that walking race in middle school?” David’s breath was a white cloud, his arm pumping just as fast and steady as mine.
“Yeah.” I was already huffing and puffing.
“Heel, toe,” he reminded me, and then kicked into his third gear.
I cursed under my breath, remembering the technique our gym teacher had tried to hammer into our brains. But no amount of heel or toe could help me contend with a starting university tight end.
“You… suck…” My lungs burned when I finally made it to the bars. David stood tall with his hands on his hips as I placed my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath.
“We've got to get you back on the trails, Daredevil,” he said. “You used to dominate.”
“I’ve… been… a little… busy.” I needed water. Or an oxygen mask.
“Why did you stop?”
I held up a finger, practically begging him to give me a moment. He chuckled but let me have a quiet recovery.
“I stopped because I didn’t qualify for Westbrooke’s track team,” I said. “And I was a little salty about the whole thing.”
“Sounds like more than a little,” he teased.
“Would you still play football if Westbrooke didn’t take you on?”
He nodded without hesitation. “I’d find some kind of rec league.”
“Really?” I asked in surprise.
“It’s the only thing I can do to fully get out of my head and escape my repetitive thoughts,” he said. “The only thing that helps me avoid hand washing for a couple of hours. Playing’s the reason I’ve survived this long.”
My face softened. I stood up straight again. “That’s… thank you for sharing that.”
His smile was small and a little sad. But he moved on, reaching for a monkey bar and swinging back and forth. “So, are we racing or are you too winded?”
Despite my dry laugh and the growing stitch in my side, I went over the other end of the bars. Since there was only one monkey bar when we were kids, we’d race to see who’d get to the center first. A thinning area marked the middle of the mulch where other kids had taken over the tradition.
“Ready?” he called, still showing off by swinging back and forth.
I grabbed onto the cold metal and tried to suppress my wince at the slight burn. “Ready!”
“On three?”
“Three,” I agreed.
David counted us down with an obnoxious amount of energy. It was a turn-on. His energy, his smile, his willingness to do something so random just because it reminded him of old times. Of us.
“Three!” As expected, he was fast out of the gate. I tried to match his speed, but holding on was far harder as an adult. My legs had to curl up far more not to touch the ground, and my palms didn’t have the calluses I so carefully built up as a twelve-year-old with a title to defend.
David beat me by three bars, laughing as I cursed under my breath once I finally met him in the middle. We remained hanging for a second, our knees knocking into each other, a breath apart.
“Are you trying to hang on longer than me?” he figured after a couple of seconds.
“Maybe…” I managed through a strained breath.
