Zombie Mode at the Finish Line

Maya's legs burned like she'd been swimming through lava instead of running the final stretch of sophomore cross-country tryouts. Her borrowed spikes pinched, her lungs screamed, and somewhere in the distance, Coach Miller's voice bellowed times through a megaphone that felt way too enthusiastic for 6:45 AM.

She'd spent the entire summer training—swimming laps at the community pool until her fingers pruned, then immediately switching to running because apparently that's what 'real athletes' did in high school. Her dad had called it 'cross-training.' Maya called it 'absolute torture that she volunteered for.'

At least she wasn't dead yet.

Correction: she absolutely felt like a zombie right now. Three hours of sleep because of that bio project due at midnight, plus cross-country practice, plus her cat Pancakes deciding 3 AM was the perfect time to knock her phone off the nightstand and scatter her carefully organized index cards across the floor like confetti at the world's worst party.

'You got this, Maya!'

Ethan. Of course Ethan was there. He sat on the bleachers near the finish line, looking unfairly good even in the gross humidity. He'd already made varsity as a freshman—something everyone whispered about like he'd unlocked some secret sports achievement. Maya had been low-key crushing on him since seventh grade health class, when he'd somehow managed to make the reproductive system diagrams funny instead of just awkward.

Now or never.

Maya dug deep, channeling every sports movie she'd ever binged with her friends. She could practically hear the motivational music swell. She leaned into the final curve—

—and her brain chose that exact moment to replay the zombie apocalypse show she'd mainlined until 3 AM. Her body jolted with genuine panic for a split second, her eyes widening at imaginary walkers, and she fully stumbled, arms windmilling like a panicked cartoon character.

She didn't fall. She definitely didn't look cool either.

Ethan was still grinning when she finally crossed the finish line, chest heaving, face definitely tomato-colored.

'Nice recovery,' he said, sliding off the bleachers. 'That stumble though? Total zombie impression.'

Maya groaned, bending to rest her hands on her knees. 'I walked into that one.'

'You really did.' He smiled, and it was genuinely nice, not the mean kind. 'Hey, you made the time cutoff. Welcome to the team.'

A sudden warmth bloomed in her chest that had nothing to do with the awful morning air. She looked up, still breathless, and caught his easy expression—like she belonged here, like she'd never needed to prove anything at all.

'Maybe,' she said, 'but don't think I won't beat you next time.'

He laughed. 'I'll be the judge of that.'

Coach Miller's megaphone crackled. 'Alright everyone, bring it in!'

Maya straightened up, legs aching, cat chaos awaiting at home, but for the first time all morning, she didn't feel like she was faking it. Being new at something didn't mean she had to be perfect at it.

And honestly? That was enough.