Page 43 of Get Me to the Starting Line

“It’s when the connective tissue around your tibia is inflamed from overuse.”

“What? No!” Her features contort into something resembling devastation, so I try to console her.

“You can still run, you just have to take it easier.”

“Easier than slower than a snail for five minutes at a time?” She blows out an exhale as I release one leg and pick up the other. She winces.

“Does this one hurt more?”

“No, I’m ... a little embarrassed. I haven’t shaved my legs in a while.” Her cheeks flush.

“I’m French.”

“So?”

“I don’t mind a little hair.”

She laughs, but her cheeks flare brighter with her blush as I realize what I said. It’s true, I don’t mind. Not one bit.

With a little cough, she clears her throat. “Good ...” Her voice trails off as she inhales. I’ve moved to massage the back of her calf muscle. She’s so tight—she needs to stretch, or at the very least, sheshould foam roll.

There’s a long stretch of silence between us as I continue massaging her legs. I know she’s not in as much pain anymore. She’s relaxed her posture and doesn’t wince. Her muscles are pliable in my hands. I could stop at any moment.

But I don’t.

I don’t want to remove my hands from her. The sun has risen over the city now and more people are peppering the path. I wonder what they think when they see us here on the bench.

My heart clenches when I turn to Levi and meet his curious stare. He has the same eyes as his mom.

They’re big and round, green as the grass around us. I think Leah mentioned he’s around a year and a half, but he seems older. That might be because he’s bigger than other toddlers I’ve seen, not that I’m around kids a lot.

There’s also something in his gaze, making me feel like I’m being analyzed.

“Hello, Levi.”

Leah sits up a little straighter, but I don’t take my attention away from her son.

Levi snaps his teeth in greeting, his round little face turning to his mom and then back to me. He chomps his teeth again, and I laugh.

“What big teeth you have,mon petit loup.”

“Woo,” Levi says, and I smile at his parroting. But Leah’s reaction to his impersonation of my French is much stronger.

“Do that again,” she hisses.

“What?”

“Say whatever you said in French again.”

“Mon petit loup?”

“Woo,” Levi repeats. And for some reason, when I look at Leah, her eyes are brimming with tears. Alarm blasts through me. Does she not want her kid speaking French?

“What does it mean?” she whispers, focus glued to her son as he repeats the word over and over again.

“My little wolf.”

Mylittlewolf.

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