16. Paula

Paula

W e all stood in a clump near the starting line, waiting for the International Games Women's Marathon to start. Eighty women were toeing the line, each of us hoping to get on the podium. The Kenyans and Ethiopians were the ones to beat. They'd dominated this sport for years and had taken most of the top spots in yesterday's men's marathon.

It was early enough that the heat wasn't too bad yet, and I knew that the boisterous crowds lining the streets would also help make time go by quickly.

I glanced over at Deena, who was staring sightlessly ahead, taking slow deep breaths. Last night we'd talked about pre-race rituals, and she'd shared that one of hers was to consciously eliminate everyone around her from her awareness.

"But not me, right?" I'd teased from my position laying on her shoulder.

"Not you," she promised.

We'd had sex twice the night we watched Bridgerton, and once again in the morning, but with our race in a few hours, last night we'd resisted, settling for a little heavy petting before we returned to our own uncomfortable cardboard beds.

Even though we'd only been here for four days, it felt like a lifetime had passed. We'd gone from enemies to friends to lovers at lightning speed, probably because we'd spent hours talking and laughing and getting to know each other. Coming into race day, I felt closer to Deena than I'd felt to anyone in my life.

Once we were finished with the competition, I was planning to tell her how I felt about her.

Deena and I were almost evenly matched in terms of speed and pacing, and assuming that we both had a good race today, we'd likely finish pretty close to each other. We were generally neck and neck in every race, but this time would be different. I wouldn't be running against my enemy, I would be running alongside the woman I loved. That made it feel different.

The countdown started, and then the starter pistol went off. The group of us shot out onto the road, a few overeager newbies running harder than they should have for their first mile. They would tire out eventually, but for now the rest of us were running behind them in a triangle formation, drafting off them. Letting the fast starters block the wind was a smart race strategy no matter what the event.

The first ten kilometers went quickly, but then again, even our shortest training runs were that distance.

"It's hard tracking in kilometers," Kara called as we ran. The three of us had been running in a line since we left the start.

"I like the way it seems like you've gone farther," I said. "Ten kilometers sounds way longer than six point two miles."

I glanced over at Deena, expecting her to make a comment about how everyone except the U.S. used the metric system and how we'd run the same distance whether we used kilometers or miles, but she was silent, staring at the road with intense focus as her legs moved in a steady pace.

"You doing okay, Deena?" I asked loudly as we approached the sign for kilometer eleven. Just over thirty one to go. We were still warming up.

She startled, as if she'd forgotten I was there. "Yes."

Her voice was cold and dismissive. Okay, so no talking then. Not that we should be chit chatting during a competition, but still her casual dismissal stung the slightest bit.

By the half marathon mark we were down to twelve at the front of the pack. Besides us three Americans, we had the three Kenyans, three Ethiopians, and one runner each from Britain, Japan, and Poland. I didn't dare risk a look behind us to see how far away the next group was, but given the silence behind us, we had a good lead.

We'd need it because the next few miles were mostly uphill, and the temperatures were rising quickly.

The race went through several districts of Paris, each one lined with cheering fans, but the views of the city were lost on all of us. We couldn't enjoy the view of the Arc de Triomphe or the castle at Versailles, our entire focus was on the pavement beneath our feet and the continuous monitoring of our bodies as we pushed them to extremes.

The last six miles the course flattened, and with the finish line almost in our sight we all turned on the gas. We'd lost Kara in the hills, as well as a few of the other runners, although they weren't too far behind us.

One of the Kenyans pulled ahead of us, and an Ethiopian matched her. The rest of us picked up the pace, trying to reel them in. My heart was thumping in my chest, and while I tried to keep my heartrate steady in a race, I couldn't help the surge of excitement I was feeling.

We were down to five runners heading into the last part of the race. Drawing on my reserves, I picked up my pace, Deena just a step ahead of me. The woman from Poland fell a little behind. Now it was me and Deena chasing the two leaders.

Out of the blue, one of the British runners came from behind, coming even with me and Deena. With the two African runners a full thirty seconds ahead of us, the rest of us were competing for third.

We passed the forty kilometer mark, the crowd getting louder as we entered the straight path to the finish. Then the forty one kilometer mark came, and Deena and I managed to drop the British runner.

With zero point two kilometers left, we entered the chute, the runner from Kenya breaking the tape with her Ethiopian rival a few steps behind her. Realizing that Deena and I could tie for third place, I raised one hand to wave to the crowd, then reached for her hand with the other.

In my mind we would cross the finish line together, hand in hand, then run off into the sunset together.

Deena jerked her arm away, causing my steps to falter for just a second before I caught myself. Then she pulled ahead of me, crossing the finish line five seconds in front of me and taking the bronze medal.

Hurt filled my body. We ran the same race. We had the same time until she put on that last burst of speed. We could have shared the bronze medal, but instead she'd selfishly left me behind.

Deena turned around with a big smile, ignoring the people running towards her and instead pulling me into a quick hug. I stood stiffly in her arms, unable to bring myself to congratulate her, and when she pulled back, I could see confusion in her eyes although her face was as impassive as ever.

Coach Radcliffe pulled her away for a hug, then an official came to congratulate her, shaking her hand before giving her an American flag. Deena lifted it high in her hands, taking a walk along the finishing area as reporters took her picture and the other runners came in behind her.

"Damn, you got burned," someone on the sidelines said, sending me a sympathetic smile that assured me that the spectators had seen me try to hold Deena's hand and be rebuffed.

Without a word I grabbed a bottle of water and a space blanket, a thin reflective sheet we wore after races to prevent a sudden drop in body heat and headed for the shuttle back to the athlete's housing. I knew I was being a sore loser, and that I'd get in trouble for not sticking around to take pictures with the American team and the rest of the top ten finishers, but I didn't care.

The woman I loved had just betrayed me, and the only thing I wanted to do was go home.