“Obviously a race to the top.”
“I figured that. What are we playing for?” I ask, and he shrugs.
“What do you want to lose?”
“What makes you think I’ll be the one losing?”
“Please. I’m younger, fitter, and faster.”
He’s not wrong on two fronts. But while I might be about a decade older than this cocky little shit, I am fit as fuck, and there’s no way I’m losing to him today.
“Okay, what do you suggest, then?” I ask.
He gets this glint in his eye, and my stomach flips. Great, what have I gotten myself into?
“How about, if I win, I get control of the locker-room television for a month?”
Okay, that’s not so bad.
“And if I win?”
“I’ll tell all my adoring fans online that you beat me.”
“I don’t play for praise,” I say as I contemplate asking him to give up on his reckless trick plays as my prize. But then he could turn around and changehisprize and ask me to try oneagain or give up trying to stop him. And the chances of me losing this race are high enough for me not to want to risk that. I settle on something simpler.
“How about, if I win, you have to get my game day breakfast for the rest of the season.”
“Done,” he agrees way too quickly. Then he shoves his earbuds into his pocket. “I’ll even give you an advantage and not listen to my park run playlist.”
“You have a specific playlist just for your park runs?”
“I have different playlists for everything. Why? You don’t like listening to music either?” he asks, and I can’t help but let out a soft chuckle.
“I’m not a monster. Of course I listen to music, but I usually just listen to the radio.”
“Don’t you get distracted by all the ads and talking and stuff?”
“I guess not. I never really paid much attention to it.”
He shakes his head like he’s not sure he believes what I’m saying, but moves into a starting pose, holding his water bottle like a baton in a relay race. “Get ready to lose, old man.”
I take a sip of my water and slide the bottle back into place in its holder around my waist, then I get into position.
“Watch who you’re calling old,” I reply, and he smiles as he counts down.
“Three. Two. One . . .”
The second he says “go,” I’m off like a shot.
I normally take these stairs two at a time in a steady rhythm until about halfway, then I sprint one at a time to the top, but today isabout endurance as much as speed. Luka keeps pace up the first third, but then he starts to slip out of my line of sight.
My legs pump harder, the muscles supporting my old knees already warm from the jog out here but still burning with exhaustion. I should slow down. Pushing too hard could put me in a world of pain, but I can’t let him win. I don’t even care about the prize. I want him to see that I’ve still got it. Whatever “it” actually is. Chest warm, heart pounding, I reach the top and turn, arms pumping in the air just like Rocky. He slowly steps up the last two stairs, head dipped forward in defeat.
“Shit . . . I guess . . . you win,” he wheezes as he hunches over, gasping for air.
My chest swells a little at how wrecked he is compared to my old ass. He coughs, and my attention shifts from my own impressive performance to his struggle to breathe.
“Shit, man, are you alright?” I ask, and he nods, holding up a hand as if to stop me from checking on him.
