Achilles choice

Day was here. Almost certainly their last together. No matter what the Council’s decision, things could never be the same between them. Sean could never again be coach and mentor. Probably not lover. Perhaps not even friend.

A chill swept her, and she focused on the steady rolling stroke of sole against rock.

The incline leveled out. Jillian’s breathing normalized swiftly. The dark, stony earth turned beneath her shoe, but she didn’t stumble. Her ankles were strong. By both nature and nurture, her entire body was as durable and flexible as copper wire. She compensated, caught her balance, and ran on.

Sean brushed a lick of brown hair back from his forehead. “In a couple of hours… you won’t be mine anymore.”

I never was.

The thought reached her lips, but went no further.

Sean saw the tension of restraint, misinterpreted its meaning, and hushed what he thought would be a cloying endearment. “Let’s”-he huffed for air-“not kid each other. Not now. You’ll make the team. And you’re going for the gold. Even… if you come back to Penn Tech, you’ll be different. Linked. Just want you to know”-he puffed, sucking wind as she picked the pace up-“wouldn’t have missed this for the world. All of this-“

She tried to speak again.

“Bullshit,” he said amiably. “Save breath. Need it. Race you to the bikes.”

He broke into a run. As always, she dredged up strength from somewhere in her reserves to follow him, match him. And as always, especially now, on this last of their days together, she was careful not to pass him.

There were classes scheduled at Pennsylvania Technical University, but no one expected Jillian Shomer to attend them. Not today.

She would wait for the word. Yes, or no. Go or stay.

Arm in arm they returned to her dorm room. They took a hot, leisurely shower together, sluicing away the perspiration, soaping each other’s bodies lavishly. Her long hard biceps femoris muscles tingled as the warm pulsing water dissolved knots of tension.

And as they showered, Jillian’s multifunction personal data Simulacrum Beverly analyzed her run. As always, Bev’s critique was merciless and precise. As always, it was given in a cunningly programmed Southern lilt.

“-compensating for the grade, your stride altered to twenty-three inches.”

Jillian waited for the carefully crafted sounds of disapproval.

“Tsk, tsk, Jill. Is this the best you can do? We both know that twenty-five”-Beverly pronounced the number twenny-fahve-“is optimum for your height and present weight.”

Sean chortled. “Bev slays me.”

“Energy,” Jillian called, spitting water.

“Energy metabolism appears adequate…” A pregnant pause. “But you made a little mistake, honey.”

“And what was that?”

“When you tinkled this morning, I got a urine sample-“

Jillian grimaced, and whispered to Sean: “Remind me to disconnect the toilet monitor.”

“Hah!”

“-and it looks to me like you snuck in a little snack since yesterday.”

“Me? Me? How could you say such a thing?”

“Sugar,” Bev said reprovingly. “Based on alkaloid content and protein chromatography, the contraband was most likely a hot fudge sundae.”

“Guilty as charged. Bravo, Beverly.”

“Jillian, dear child, your nutritional profile is solid enough to survive an occasional dalliance, but don’t expect me to applaud.”

Jillian toweled off as she left the shower, and watched as a holographic scan of her body appeared in the air before her. Pools of colorcoded glitter swirled in the image, displaying circulation and muscle tension.

She lay stomach-down on her bed, eyes on the shimmering image. Sean knelt beside her.

His fingers were magical, easing knots of tension from places so tight they hadn’t had room to scream. She rolled over, and her towel fell away.

At the age of twenty-three, Jillian Shomer still seemed to have baby fat along her jaw, unless she bit down hard to reveal the muscle protecting her neck. Her face, framed by short blonde hair, was too strongly angular to be sheerly decorative, softened only by eyes which were oak-brown with flecks of emerald. She might have been considered plain, except when smiling or talking. In much the same way, her body was too solidly muscled, her subcutaneous fat pared too finely for any classically feminine image. But when she was in motion..

Ah, that was quite a different thing. In motion, Jillian was liquid light, a symphony of power and grace, and ordinary standards simply didn’t apply.

“Ultrasound analysis reveals a weakness in the left Achilles tendon, which is caused by tension in the right hip flexor.”

“Suggestion?”

“Twofold. First, postpone your plyometric speed drills while we run institute rehabilitative lateral gastrocnemius exercise.”

“Fine. And the second?”

Beverly paused, almost shyly. “Well, I’d recommend some form of massage to help your hips relax, honey. Maybe that big burly hunk of a man has some suggestions.”

Sean guffawed, rolled her and scooped her into his arms. “Cheating!” he said. “That’s what she always prescribes.”

“We think alike is all. Right, Bev?”

“Humph. A Southern lady doesn’t watch such goings-on.”