Chapter 2: The Agreement

Across from her, Cole was doing the same thing. Staring at his contract like it might spontaneously combust.

"We don't have to do this," Zoe said after a long moment.

"No," Cole agreed. "We don't."

Neither of them moved.

"Your mom," he asked quietly. It wasn't a guess. Everyone in elite track knew everyone else's story. You had to. It was how you found the edges to play with.

Zoe's jaw tightened. She didn't answer.

"Yeah," Cole said, like she had. "That's what I thought."

He reached over and slid a pen across the table.

"So here's how this works," he said, and his voice was steady now. Resigned, maybe, but steady. "We're going to sign this contract. We're going to post a photo together. We're going to pretend to be in love for four years while we destroy each other on the track."

"Just the 100m," Zoe said, but it wasn't really a correction.

"Just the 100m," he echoed, and something that might have been amusement crossed his face. "And we're going to be absolutely professional about it."

Zoe picked up her copy of the contract. She read the first page. Didn't process any of it. Signed anyway.

Cole did the same.

"We need to take a photo," he said.

"Tonight."

"Now," he said, standing up. He grabbed his phone. "Get over here."

Zoe stood. Walked around the table. She could smell his cologne, something clean and warm, and she hated that she noticed it. She hated that her heartbeat had picked up.

Cole held his phone up at arm's length. Their shoulders had to be touching for the frame. She could feel the line of his neck, the curve of his shoulder, the warmth radiating off his chest.

"Smile," he said.

She did. It probably looked feral.

He took the photo and looked at it, then looked at her. Their faces were close. Close enough to be a problem if she moved a millimeter in the wrong direction.

"We still need to exchange numbers," he said.

She pulled out her phone with one hand, still close enough that he could see the screen. He rattled off his digits. She typed them in. Saved his contact under "COLE".

She gave him her number. Watched him save her in his phone.

"So," he said, stepping back finally. "I'll call you in an hour?"

"Fine."

"We'll coordinate the caption."

"Fine."

He walked toward the door. Stopped with his hand on the handle.

"For what it's worth," he said, "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"That you're not going to win Paris because you'll be distracted by fake dating your biggest competitor."

Zoe's eyes narrowed. "That's not how this works."

"No?"

"No. You're going to lose Paris because you can't handle the pressure of pretending we're together when you're already terrified of actually racing someone at my level."

Cole's slow-burn smile finally arrived, and it was dangerous. It was the smile of someone who'd just realized exactly what they were walking into.

"I'm terrified," he said softly, "of a lot of things. You're not one of them."

He left before she could respond.

Zoe stood alone in the conference room, her phone buzzing in her hand. His name was already appearing in her contacts.

She didn't answer. Let it ring out to voicemail.

But she pulled up her photos. Found the selfie he'd taken. Both of them caught mid-expression, caught in the exact moment before they realized this was real.

She thought about the message she was supposed to craft. The narrative they were supposed to sell.

The first step was always the hardest one.

She picked up her phone and called him back.