Zombie Lips at the Finish Line

The stupid orange Gatorade was supposed to be my secret weapon. Instead, it ended up splashed across my white uniform like a murder scene right before sectionals.

I'd been running cross country since freshman year, mostly because soccer tryouts were a disaster and my best friend Chloe said, "Just come to practice, it's literally just putting one foot in front of the other." Which, yeah, technically true, but also she didn't mention the hill workouts that make you question every life choice that led you to this moment.

Now I was a junior, captain material maybe, if I could stop being awkward long enough to actually lead. The problem was Tyler Evans, who ran for our rival school and had that effortless thing going on — the kind of guy who could wear orange highlighter stains on his face and still look good.

Which is exactly what happened at the pasta dinner before our meet against them.

I was mid-conversation with Tyler, actually talking like a normal human being for once, when my bull of a little brother decided it would be hilarious to body-check me from behind. The orange Gatorade went everywhere. Mostly on me. Some on Tyler's shoes.

"My bad," Dylan said, not sounding sorry at all. "Thought you were a zombie."

Because we'd spent the previous night at Chloe's house watching zombie apocalypse movies until 3 AM, and apparently my brother had decided this was now his whole personality.

Tyler, bless his heart, just laughed and helped me clean up the mess. "At least you'll be easy to spot on the course tomorrow," he said. "Like a beacon."

"A very sticky beacon," I muttered.

The next day, during the third mile, Tyler pulled up alongside me. "Hey, Orange."

"Hey, Rival School Guy."

"Wanna push the last mile together?"

We did. And somewhere between mile marker 3 and the finish line, I realized that being covered in orange Gatorade and having a weirdo brother wasn't the end of the world. Tyler's hair was kind of messy, he laughed too loud, and he hummed zombie movie soundtracks during races.

Perfect, honestly.

We crossed the finish line together, coaches yelling, Dylan waving from the sidelines wearing a fake zombie bite mark on his neck. Tyler looked over, grinning.

"Same time next week?"

"You're on, Rival School Guy."

Sometimes the most embarrassing moments become the ones that actually matter. Even if you smell like artificial fruit punch for three days straight.