by Nicole Grane
* * *
This sucked! Talking with Gunny put me eight laps behind the guys. I hadn’t run in like—forever. I’d only made two laps around the field and already I felt like I was going to pass out.
“Hey, Hollyander, you better pick up the pace if you want to keep up. This isn’t a girl's sport.” Steroid boy, AKA Chad, sped past me—backwards—the creep. I really hated that guy.
I tried to ignore him, and the rest of them. Every one of the guys made a snide comment as they ran circles around me. Some actually ran a circle around me as they passed—jerks!
“Ignore them, they’re just feeling insecure because you’re the first girl they’ve had to train with.” Roland slowed down, keeping in time with me.
“You mean, there aren’t any girl . . . what did you call yourselves? Slayers? Anywhere?”
“No, none.” He gave me a small smile. “But you’re going to change that aren’t you?” He didn’t seem bothered that I was there.
“Well, it’s not my choice, believe me,” I breathed heavily. Talking and running was not going to work.
“Hollyander!” I cringed at the sound of Gunny’s voice. That voice was going to be the root of my nightmares.
“Why does he have to shout everything?”
Roland laughed.
“That is the most pathetic sight I’ve ever seen Hollyander! Go shower and report back here tomorrow at fifteen hundred hours!”
I grimaced. Gunny was going to be a serious thorn in my side. Perhaps Hollyanders should give up.
“That’s three o’clock Hollyander!”
I know! I shouted mentally. I’d have rolled my eyes, but that would have taken too much energy.
“See ya.” Roland ran on, leaving me to slink off the field.
I practically crawled into the locker room and collapsed on a bench. I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, watching a light flicker overhead. I could feel my heart still pounding. There was no way I was going to keep up with these guys. And there was no way I was going to shower here. That’s all I needed was to be a peep show for twenty adolescent boys!
I grabbed my book bag and clothes and made my way slowly back to my dorm.
