Page 59 of Sweat

My Rowan.Why does my heart beat so quickly when those two words are paired together in my mind? If he’s my Rowan, does that make me his Tommy?

“Hh—She’s, um…” I clear my throat and lower the heat on the burner. “Weird. Intense. Funny. Loves soccer even more than I do.”

“So, the opposite of Annalese?”

I chuckle at just how accurate that it. “Yeah. Rowan is…unique. Could be the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.” I look back at her and smile. “Besides you getting better.”

She smiles back, but there’s something behind her eyes that doesn’t seem as hopeful as I’d think she would be. “Can we talk?” she asks. “After dinner?”

16

Rowan

On my ass at McKinley Park with the evening sun lingering enough to make me sweat, I check my watch and see it’s five after seven. Tommy isn’t just late. He’slatelate. Just as I’m about to text him, I notice his truck pulling into the lot.

“You’re late!” I call out to him before hopping to my feet. “You know what that means!”

No stretching. These suicides were already going to hurt, but now they’re going tohurt.

“I know,” he mutters, dropping his backpack on the grass after yanking his cleats out. He looks like someone just shat in his Cheerios. A mix of exhausted and pissed off.

“You good?”

“Peachy.” He toes off his sneakers and pulls on his cleats, not paying me one glance. The first time he looks at me is when he’s at the goal line, taking his mark. He tips his chin at me and asks what I’m waiting for.

Hmm. I can’t think of why he’d be mad at me, but only because I’m very careful not to share anything too personal with him. Tommy can be jealous, but I haven’t even looked at another guy since letting that pathetic dude suck my dick behind the bathroom. Did Tommy find out about that? I don’t know how he could have.

Was it the porno I sent him? He knows I watch porn. He even knows I watch gay porn. I didn’t even wank it to the video I sent him. I just wanted to make him laugh.

Maybe it’s not me. Tommy did say his boss was being a dick today. Probably because he wanted me to comfort him. I’m just not good at comforting people. I don’t know what to say or what to do.

The best I come up with is, “You sure you’re good?”

“Are we gonna run or what?” Tommy shoots back, his typically smooth voice turning coarse as loose gravel, like he’d been screaming earlier. Or crying.

“Yeah, man. Let’s sync up.”

Once our watches are on the same timer, I give a three count, start my watch, and run.

When I texted Tommy about running suicides for an hour, it was only to mess with him. I figured we would do a few dozen then switch to technical drills, but Tommy is on another plane right now. He stays at my pace, but other than that, it’s like I’m not here. Usually, Tommy rambles between sprints, wasting his air like a dumby, but not tonight.

“Last one,” I tell him, the first words we’ve spoken between us since the timers started. I’m out of breath, calf muscles howling, and my clothes soaked through.

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t pay me one look. We run the last suicide, and I plant my hands on my knees, sweat dripping from my nose to the grass below. I haven’t stopped my timer yet, and when it gives a soft-tone beep, I notice Tommy going again.

After that, he goes again.

I watch him from behind the goal line, not sure if I’m witnessing a Rocky moment or a mental breakdown.

“Tommy!” I shout after he goes a fifth time past when I stopped.

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t look my way. Doesn’t stop.

In the few seconds’ rest between sprints, I tell him, “That’s good, Tommy. You can stop.” But he goes again without so much as a grunt of acknowledgement.

Fed up, I march to the center of the field. As Tommy barrels toward me, I shout, “Stop!”

At the last second, Tommy swerves around me, then carries on like nothing’s amiss.

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