She was obviously impatient talking to the other girl, eager to get back to the workout. The other girl went on for what seemed like forever, and then smiled and waved and walked off. A visible look of relief crossed Darcy’s face. She took off the warm-up suit and folded it neatly on the bench bordering the track. She was wearing track jersey and pants, no number on the jersey, the shorts slit partially up the side to allow easier movement of her muscular legs and thighs. She stood at the starting line for a moment, surveying the track, and then she placed her left foot just behind the line, stooped over it, right foot and left arm back, right arm up, took a deep breath, and was off from a standing start.
He clicked his stopwatch again, timing her as she went through her longer third-day sprints, adding to yesterday’s distance by half now, running 330 yards in forty-five seconds, walking for five minutes after each of the three runs. She was beginning to sweat through her jersey and pants. He watched her carefully as she zippered open her carry bag, took out her blocks, and placed the lead block some fifteen inches behind the starting line. She measured the distance for the rear block, adjusting both blocks carefully. She stood up, sniffed of the brisk autumn air, put her hands on her hips, hesitated a moment, and then knelt into the blocks. She was such a pretty girl, black-haired and blue-eyed, nineteen years old — it was a pity she had to die.
Her form was excellent.
Some coach back there in Ohio had taught her well.
He could almost hear the silent command in her head: On your marks!
Left leg reaching back for the rear block. Right leg moving back to touch the front block with her toes. Hands behind the line now, not quite touching it, thumbs pointing inward. Weight on the left knee, the right foot, and both hands. Head level. Eyes looking out some three feet ahead of the line.
Set!
Hips rising. Body rocking forward to move the shoulders ahead of the line. Soles of both feet pressed hard against the blocks. Eyes still fixed on that imaginary spot three feet ahead. A spring tensed for sudden release.
Bang!
The sound of an imaginary gun in her head and in his, and her arms were suddenly pumping, the right arm pistoning forward, the left arm thrusting back, the legs pushing simultaneously at both blocks, left leg reaching out to take that first long important step, right leg thrusting hard against the block, and she was off!
God, what a glorious runner!
He timed her at nine seconds, give or take, for each of the half-dozen 60-yard sprints, watching as she walked back for recovery after each one. She was drenched with sweat when finally she came back to the bench to take a towel from her carry bag and to wipe her face and arms with it. She put on the jacket of her warm-up suit. There was a chill on the late afternoon air.
He smiled, and put the stopwatch back into his pocket.
She was walking away from the track, head bent in seeming thought, even her jacket soaked through with perspiration, a high sheen of sweat on her long legs, when he approached her.
“Miss Welles?” he said.
She stopped, looked up in surprise. Her blue eyes searched his face.
“Corey McIntyre,” he said. “Sports USA.”
She kept studying him.
“You’re putting me on,” she said.
“No, no,” he said, and smiled, and reached into his pocket for his wallet. From the wallet, he took a small Lucite-enclosed card. He handed it to her. She looked at it.
“Gee,” she said, and handed the card back to him.
“You are Darcy Welles, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Uh-huh,” she said, and nodded.
She was, he guessed, five-feet-eight or-nine inches tall. Her eyes were almost level with his. She was studying him, waiting.
“We’re preparing an article for our February issue,” he said.
“I’ll bet,” she said. She was still skeptical. He was still holding the card in his hands. He was tempted to show it to her again. Instead, he put it back in his wallet.
“On young female athletes,” he said. “We won’t be concentrating exclusively on track stars, of course...”
“Oh, sure, stars,” she said, and rolled her eyes.
“Well, you have attracted some attention, Miss Welles.”
“That’s news to me,” she said.
“I have your complete file. Your record in Ohio was an impressive one.”
“It was okay, I guess,” Darcy said.
She was glowing from the workout. Her skin looked fresh, her eyes sparkling. There was that about athletes. All of them, men or women, all looked so goddamn healthy. He envied her youth. He envied her daily regimen.
“Much more than just okay,” he said.
“Right now, if I can break twelve, I’ll go dancing in the streets.”
“You looked good out there today.”
“You were watching, huh?”
“Timed those last sprints at about nine seconds each.”
“Sixty yards at nine isn’t worth much.”
“For practice, it’s not bad.”
“If I’m going to do the hundred in twelve, I’ve got to shave that down to seven.”
“Is that what you’re aiming for? Twelve?”
“Eleven would be better, huh?” she said, and grinned. “But this isn’t the Olympics.”
“Not yet,” he said, and returned the smile.
“Oh, sure. Maybe not ever,” she said.
“Your personal best in Ohio was twelve-three, am I right?”
“Yeah,” she said, and pulled a face. “Pretty shitty, huh?”
“No, pretty good. You should see some of the high school records.”
“I’ve seen them. Last year, a girl in California ran it in eleven-eight.”
“Eloise Blair.”
“That’s right.”
“We’ll be interviewing her as well. She’s at U.C.L.A. now.”
“What do you mean, interviewing?” Darcy said.
“I thought I mentioned...”
“Yeah, but what do you mean?”
“Well, we’d like to do an interview with you.”
“What do you mean? For Sports USA?”
“For Sports USA, yes.”