Three Miles to Maybe

The July heat in Altamonte Springs hit different—like the air itself was trying to fist-bump your sweat glands. I leaned against the Vitamin Shoppe counter, my polyester work shirt already clinging to my back.

"You good, Maya?" Marcus asked from the stockroom, not even looking up from his phone.

"Just living my best life," I muttered, which was a total lie. My actual best life involved being anywhere but here, specifically at the track where Jordan and the varsity crew were definitely warming up without me.

My palms were literally sweating. Not figuratively. I wiped them on my leggings for the third time. The Vitamin Shoppe AC was fighting a losing battle against my pre-race nerves.

Coach had dropped the bomb yesterday: I was running the 1600 at regionals. Actually running. Not alternate running. Not "hope someone gets food poisoning" running. The real thing.

The bell jangled. I didn't look up until I heard the familiar shuffle of worn-out Nikes.

"Hey."

My stomach did that thing it always did when Jordan walked in—which was often, since his mom was weirdly obsessed with supplements.

"Hey." I smoothed my hair, which was pointless. The humidity had already transformed it into a question mark.

He placed a electrolyte mix on the counter. His hat was backwards today (cute but dangerous territory). "You running today?"

"Regionals." The word came out weirdly squeaky. Smooth, Maya. "Saturday at 4."

"I'll be there." He smiled, and it was the kind of smile that made me forget how to speak English. "You're gonna crush it."

He paid and left, and I stood there like an absolute idiot, grinning at the counter like it had just told me a joke.

Saturday came in a blaze of Florida sunshine. Palm trees lined the track, their fronds swaying like they didn't care about the biggest race of my life. My heart was somewhere in my throat.

The gun went off.

And I ran.

I ran past the water station at lap one. I ran through the wall at lap three. I ran until my lungs burned and my legs screamed and everything narrowed down to this one moment, this one chance.

Jordan was there. At the finish line. Wearing my lucky hat—the one I'd left at the shop by accident two weeks ago. The one he'd "borrowed" and "forgotten" to return.

He was wearing my hat.

I crossed the finish line and he caught me, literally caught me as my knees buckled. We ended up on the grass, laughing while I gasped for air like a dying fish.

"You placed," he said, still wearing my hat backwards. "Third."

"I know," I wheezed. "I was there."

"Yeah, but you don't know what comes with third."

"A medal that says 'Participant'?"

"Nope." He grinned. "Post-race slushies. My treat."

So maybe the Vitamin Shoppe wasn't so bad. Maybe the humidity was just part of the deal. And maybe Jordan wearing my hat meant something, or maybe it didn't.

But as I sat there in the grass, palms no longer sweating, heart still racing from everything except running, I figured third place was actually pretty damn good.