Oh. My. Gods.
Page 20
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Holy crap!
Next to me, Troy says, “Looks like Griffin and Adara are on-again at the moment.”
“Who?” I ask absently.
“Griffin Blake and Adara Spencer. They get back together every summer,” Nicole says. “Never lasts more than a week into school.”
Griffin Blake. The name rolls through my mind like gentle thunder. He is a god—okay, bad choice of words, but even with his face hidden behind the cheerleader he is the most beautiful specimen of boyhood I have ever seen.
After a brief fantasy about his luscious hair, I take in the rest of him, starting with his height—all six-foot-plus of him. (Wait, do they use feet and inches in Greece? Maybe I should say all two meters of him.) Tall and broad-shouldered, but with the lean, sleek athletic build of a runner. Which instantly appeals to me, of course.
There’s something vaguely familiar about him.
His coal black hair curls over the white collar of the navy and sky blue striped rugby shirt he wears. Lifting his head from kissing Blondie, he turns to laugh at something someone at the table says.
It’s him! The guy from the beach.
Those full and soft lips spread into the most beautiful, open smile I have ever seen. So much more than that half smile he had given me that morning. And I know, absolutely 100 percent know, that one day I want him to smile at me that way.
Then I see a girl at the table—one of the lesser blondes—pointing a finger in my gawking direction. Griffin’s gaze turns on me, sees me openly staring at him, and erupts into laughter.
Winning that smile is going to be much harder than I thought.
“Absolutely not.”
“What?” I turn back to Nicole to find her glaring at me.
“Trust me,” she says with her customary bitterness. “You want nothing to do with Griffin Blake.”
“Why not?”
“Because Nic and Gri—” Troy begins.
“Shut it.” She gives him a warning look and then turns back to me, her bright blue eyes steady and serious. “Because no girl should leave the Academy with a shattered soul.”
Without another word, she drops her gaze to her food and resumes eating. I look to Troy for answers, but his attention is fully on his plate, too.
Nicole’s warning doesn’t make any sense. Sure, he’s with the cheerleaders and the jocks—normally a formula for making a jerk— but when we met on the beach this morning he was totally nice. He even got me home in time to clean up before school.
Nicole must be mistaken. Griffin Blake is a really nice guy.
“Welcome to the Academy track and cross-country team tryouts,” Coach Zakinthos says. “Some of you are familiar with the process, but for new students I will explain.”
It may be my imagination, but I think he is talking only to me. Everyone else seems bored by his little welcome speech.
We’re sitting on the soccer field at the center of a big stone stadium that’s on the far side of the campus from Damian’s house. It looks like a mini version of the Coliseum in Rome, complete with rows and rows of stone benches. We’ve already done group stretching and some stuff to get our blood flowing, like jumping jacks and push-ups—while Coach Z paces back and forth. His white and blue track pants whoosh with every step.
The apparel aside, he looks like he’s never seen the athletic side of a sporting event. I guess being part-god is no guarantee of physical perfection. Approaching ancient, over fifty at least, he has a beer gut to rival diehard football fans. A light jog looks like a stretch, let alone actually making it on a run.
Maybe he coaches discus.
“Everyone will select up to five events and will compete in those events for a position on the team. The top three finishers in each will automatically earn a slot, but the final roster rests at the coaches’ discretion. In distance running, there’s just one race. Six boys and six girls qualify. Any questions so far?”
He looks right at me. There are at least sixty kids sitting on the field, but his question is only for me. I throw a sideways glance at Griffin, sitting near the back of the group with Adara between his legs and surrounded by the rest of the Ares clique. His piercing blue eyes are trained on me.
I start to smile, but as soon as he notices me looking, he scowls and looks away. Boys can be so strange.
When I don’t answer, Coach Z glances at his clipboard. “There are twenty-five events to choose from. Throwers stay here with me. Jumpers go with Coach Andriakos. Hurdlers with Coach Karatzas. Sprinters meet Coach Vandoros at the starting line. And distance runners, Coach Leonidas is waiting for you at the entrance to the tunnel.”
Around me, everyone gets up and heads off toward their coaches. I know I am going to the tunnel, but I hold back, waiting to see where Griffin goes.
Adara, her arms wrapped around his neck, gives him a quick kiss before bouncing off with the rest of the sprinters. He turns and sets off at a jog.
Toward the tunnel.
Omigod.
Heart thumping in my chest, I follow close behind. From the second I saw him on the beach I thought he looked like a distance runner, but now I know it’s true.
That’s one thing we have in common.
“Ah, Miss Castro,” Coach Leonidas says as I walk through the tunnel, “you are a distance runner.” He smiles and rubs his hands together. “Excellent. Tell me about your background.”
Griffin is in front of me and he turns to hear my answer.
“Well,” I say, trying to focus on running and not the gorgeous hunk watching me with the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen, “I ran cross-country and long-distance track for three years at my old high school.”
Next to me, Troy says, “Looks like Griffin and Adara are on-again at the moment.”
“Who?” I ask absently.
“Griffin Blake and Adara Spencer. They get back together every summer,” Nicole says. “Never lasts more than a week into school.”
Griffin Blake. The name rolls through my mind like gentle thunder. He is a god—okay, bad choice of words, but even with his face hidden behind the cheerleader he is the most beautiful specimen of boyhood I have ever seen.
After a brief fantasy about his luscious hair, I take in the rest of him, starting with his height—all six-foot-plus of him. (Wait, do they use feet and inches in Greece? Maybe I should say all two meters of him.) Tall and broad-shouldered, but with the lean, sleek athletic build of a runner. Which instantly appeals to me, of course.
There’s something vaguely familiar about him.
His coal black hair curls over the white collar of the navy and sky blue striped rugby shirt he wears. Lifting his head from kissing Blondie, he turns to laugh at something someone at the table says.
It’s him! The guy from the beach.
Those full and soft lips spread into the most beautiful, open smile I have ever seen. So much more than that half smile he had given me that morning. And I know, absolutely 100 percent know, that one day I want him to smile at me that way.
Then I see a girl at the table—one of the lesser blondes—pointing a finger in my gawking direction. Griffin’s gaze turns on me, sees me openly staring at him, and erupts into laughter.
Winning that smile is going to be much harder than I thought.
“Absolutely not.”
“What?” I turn back to Nicole to find her glaring at me.
“Trust me,” she says with her customary bitterness. “You want nothing to do with Griffin Blake.”
“Why not?”
“Because Nic and Gri—” Troy begins.
“Shut it.” She gives him a warning look and then turns back to me, her bright blue eyes steady and serious. “Because no girl should leave the Academy with a shattered soul.”
Without another word, she drops her gaze to her food and resumes eating. I look to Troy for answers, but his attention is fully on his plate, too.
Nicole’s warning doesn’t make any sense. Sure, he’s with the cheerleaders and the jocks—normally a formula for making a jerk— but when we met on the beach this morning he was totally nice. He even got me home in time to clean up before school.
Nicole must be mistaken. Griffin Blake is a really nice guy.
“Welcome to the Academy track and cross-country team tryouts,” Coach Zakinthos says. “Some of you are familiar with the process, but for new students I will explain.”
It may be my imagination, but I think he is talking only to me. Everyone else seems bored by his little welcome speech.
We’re sitting on the soccer field at the center of a big stone stadium that’s on the far side of the campus from Damian’s house. It looks like a mini version of the Coliseum in Rome, complete with rows and rows of stone benches. We’ve already done group stretching and some stuff to get our blood flowing, like jumping jacks and push-ups—while Coach Z paces back and forth. His white and blue track pants whoosh with every step.
The apparel aside, he looks like he’s never seen the athletic side of a sporting event. I guess being part-god is no guarantee of physical perfection. Approaching ancient, over fifty at least, he has a beer gut to rival diehard football fans. A light jog looks like a stretch, let alone actually making it on a run.
Maybe he coaches discus.
“Everyone will select up to five events and will compete in those events for a position on the team. The top three finishers in each will automatically earn a slot, but the final roster rests at the coaches’ discretion. In distance running, there’s just one race. Six boys and six girls qualify. Any questions so far?”
He looks right at me. There are at least sixty kids sitting on the field, but his question is only for me. I throw a sideways glance at Griffin, sitting near the back of the group with Adara between his legs and surrounded by the rest of the Ares clique. His piercing blue eyes are trained on me.
I start to smile, but as soon as he notices me looking, he scowls and looks away. Boys can be so strange.
When I don’t answer, Coach Z glances at his clipboard. “There are twenty-five events to choose from. Throwers stay here with me. Jumpers go with Coach Andriakos. Hurdlers with Coach Karatzas. Sprinters meet Coach Vandoros at the starting line. And distance runners, Coach Leonidas is waiting for you at the entrance to the tunnel.”
Around me, everyone gets up and heads off toward their coaches. I know I am going to the tunnel, but I hold back, waiting to see where Griffin goes.
Adara, her arms wrapped around his neck, gives him a quick kiss before bouncing off with the rest of the sprinters. He turns and sets off at a jog.
Toward the tunnel.
Omigod.
Heart thumping in my chest, I follow close behind. From the second I saw him on the beach I thought he looked like a distance runner, but now I know it’s true.
That’s one thing we have in common.
“Ah, Miss Castro,” Coach Leonidas says as I walk through the tunnel, “you are a distance runner.” He smiles and rubs his hands together. “Excellent. Tell me about your background.”
Griffin is in front of me and he turns to hear my answer.
“Well,” I say, trying to focus on running and not the gorgeous hunk watching me with the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen, “I ran cross-country and long-distance track for three years at my old high school.”
