The next day Maine practiced in the morning.
He had been worried he would be too preoccupied with Beatrice to concentrate. She had let him into her TS, and now that he knew even more about how she thought, he admired even more about her, something that made him know she was someone special.
Beatrice Diaz was an enigma, a young woman with a seemingly infinite ability to focus on the moment, and complete lack of fear when it came to exploration.
Instead of being sidetracked, though, he found it easier to focus.
He wanted to be like her.
And to be like her was to stay in the moment.
Focus on getting his right jump out of the gate, on keeping form, on maintaining posture.
He ran a 43.12 on his second run, a number that was good, but when he and coach H walked through the 3-D stop-space replay together he realized he could have beaten. He’d been planting his foot maybe ten mils too far to the outside, causing his stride to have an almost unnoticeable torque that swung his right leg in a torsional loop across his core.
“That’s probably two-tenths right there,” the coach said.
Maine scratched his arm as he thought about that. “Two-tenths?”
“Maybe more.”
Maine set his jaw. Even he could do that math.
Two-tenths, maybe more, was maybe a sub-43. More than sub-43, really. A lot more.
If he could remove that time, Maine would not only make the Global Games, but would clearly be a contender to win. And, of course, there was still the record.
He was young, and still developing, but finding those two-tenths in a mechanical loss — a technique issue — would mean the physical growth he expected would carry him to the very edges of that record.
He had a lot on his mind as he stepped off the tram and found his way back home.
The door opened for him.
His mom was standing at the kitchen sink, pulling a sandwich out of the dispenser. He understood the look on her face.
“When do we move?” he said as he put his athletic bag on the table.
“Two weeks, sweetie,” his mom said.
He sighed and gave his head an imperceptible shake.
“Dad didn’t argue, did he?”
She scoffed.
Maine scratched his forehead. Now that it was real, he felt the loss of Beatrice like a boot to the gut. He was seventeen, and Beatrice was a few weeks younger. He was eight months out from being able to ask for a place of his own without his parents being dead.
Locking his Think Space down, he laughed at himself for wondering whether Beatrice would move in with him if he killed both his parents right now.
Clearing his throat, he drew another breath.
“I’ll be ready,” he said as he passed his mom.
Then he went to watch Lucifer Jones on replay.