Chapter 176
Summer's POV
The runners took their positions at the starting line. Kieran glanced up toward the bleachers one last time, his eyes finding mine with that uncanny accuracy he always had, and I lifted my hand in a small wave, mouthing: You've got this.
He nodded once, and then his expression shifted into something focused and distant, like he'd already started running in his mind, already calculated every variable with the same precision he brought to physics problems.
The starting gun fired.
They exploded off the line in a mass of bodies and flashing legs, and I lost sight of Kieran immediately. The 5K was twelve and a half laps around the track, and for the first few circuits, the pack stayed relatively tight, with Evan and Blake leading from the front, their strides long and confident, their form perfect from years of Coach Brennan's training and private coaching sessions that cost more than most families' monthly rent.
Kieran was somewhere in the middle of the pack, not pushing, not falling behind, just maintaining a steady pace that looked almost effortless, his breathing controlled while others around him were already starting to show strain. Logan was a few positions behind him, his longer legs eating up ground but his arms swinging a bit too wide.
"Come on, Evan!" Brooke screamed from the front row, too loud, too trying-too-hard, like she was performing her devotion for anyone who would listen, like if she cheered loud enough she could make everyone forget how he'd treated her twenty minutes ago. "You've got this, babe! Show them what a real champion looks like!"
Even from the bleachers, I could see the tension in Evan's shoulders, the way his jaw was clenched tight. He wasn't just running to win. He was running to destroy, to prove that Kieran Cross had no right to challenge him, and if he had to break his own body to make that point, he would do it without hesitation.
The thought sent ice through my veins. I knew this particular brand of rage—the kind that didn't care about consequences, that would sacrifice anything to avoid the humiliation of losing. And if Kieran lost, he'd have to leave. Forever. The bet they'd made hung over me like a blade suspended by a thread, and every stride Kieran took felt like it could be the one that severed it, the one that would cut him out of my life completely, and I couldn't breathe thinking about it, couldn't stop my hands from shaking as I gripped the railing hard enough to leave marks.
"Come on, Kieran," I whispered, the words barely audible even to myself. "Please. Please don't lose."
By the fifth lap, the pack had started to spread out, the weaker runners falling back. Blake had dropped to fourth place, his face red, one hand pressed to his side like he had a stitch.
But Evan stayed at the front, his stride still strong, his arms pumping with mechanical precision. He looked like he could run forever, like pain and exhaustion were concepts that applied to lesser people.
And Kieran stayed exactly where he was—middle of the pack, steady and patient, like he was waiting for something.
"Why isn't he pushing?" Mia asked, her fingers digging into my arm. "He needs to catch up. There's only seven laps left."
I didn't answer because I didn't know, and because the panic clawing at my throat made it impossible to speak. All I could do was watch and trust that the boy who could solve impossible physics problems and work two jobs and take care of his family while maintaining perfect grades also knew how to run a race. But trust felt like such a fragile thing when the stakes were this high, when losing meant he'd walk away and never look back, and I'd be left with nothing but the memory of his dark eyes and the way he said my name like it was something precious.
By the seventh lap, I noticed something shift. Kieran's position hadn't changed dramatically, but he'd moved up slightly—no longer dead center in the pack, but edging toward the front half. His stride looked exactly the same, that same controlled rhythm, but he'd closed the gap by maybe ten meters without appearing to exert any extra effort.
By the eighth lap, Evan was starting to struggle. His form was still good, but there was a tiny hitch in his stride that suggested he'd gone out too fast, burned too much energy establishing dominance early. Blake had dropped back even further, and Logan had moved up a few positions.
Kieran had moved up again—still not pushing, still maintaining that steady pace, but now he was in the top five, close enough that I could see the concentration on his face, the way his eyes tracked Evan's back like a physics problem he was solving in real-time.
"Three laps to go!" the announcer called out. "Evan Whitmore maintains his lead, but folks, we've got some movement in the pack!"