About half a mile from the finish, I see Jeremiah leaning against a mile marker. I haven’t seen him in over a month. How did I miss seeing him on the trails today? Was he coming from another direction and switched onto this trail at the interchange? As I get closer, I realize his face is bright red and his breathing is rough. I sprint to him.

“Annie, my ankle,” he says through gritted teeth.

I drop to my knees and touch his foot, making him wince.

“Shit!” he says. I glance up to find him looking down at me with watery blue eyes. Considering he’s got scars all over him and he did crazy races, his ankle must hurt pretty bad for him to have this kind of reaction.

“Are you pacing somebody today?” I ask, looking around for that Charlie guy he works out with.

He shakes his head. “I moved our sessions to Sundays. I was just training myself today—I have a race next weekend,” he says quietly.

Did he move his work to Sundays so he wouldn’t have to see me on Saturdays or something? That sure makes me feel good. It’s like he couldn’t get away from me fast enough. Was our hookup that bad for him?

“We need to get you back to your brother.”

“I can’t walk,” he whispers. “I don’t want to make it worse.”

“I’m only a half mile from the end of the trail. I’ll go get your brother.”

Jeremiah bites into his hand and nods.

“Can I help you sit down first?” I ask, wrapping an arm around his waist. Nodding, he inhales deeply through his nose. I can tell he’s in a ton of pain as I lower him to rest on the ground. I yank off my CamelBak and slip it under his ankle, to prop it up.

“I’ll be back in a few, okay?” I say softly, then hop to my feet, and I’m fixing to start sprinting when he speaks again.

“Annie.”

I look into his blue eyes.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” I rush back onto the trail and make a mad dash to Matt. I’ve never run so hard in my life, not even during suicide sprints at the gym. I imagine Jeremiah wincing and that pushes me even harder. Run faster.

When I see the finish line and my teammates cheering, I don’t hold my arms up in celebration or yell “Woo!” like I normally do. I run straight into Matt’s arms. I’m panting so hard I can’t form words.

“Annie, why were you running so hard? You shouldn’t push yourself too soon,” Matt scolds me.

“Jere,” I blurt and lean over, my hands on my knees. “Jeremiah is hurt.”

“Where?” Matt asks.

“Half mile that way.” I point down the trail. “He can’t walk.”

“Let’s go,” Matt says, jerking me toward his truck. “Bridget! Stay with everybody else,” he yells to his assistant.

I jog to Matt’s truck, hop in, and he drives along the trail, hitting tree branches and running over tree roots all the way to Jeremiah. When we get there, Matt slams the truck into park, leaves the engine running, and leaps down before I can even get my seatbelt unbuckled. Matt squeezes Jeremiah’s shoulder, then immediately starts examining his ankle.

“Annie,” Matt says calmly. “Get an ice pack out of the backseat. And an ace bandage. And Tylenol.”

I push emotion aside and do everything Matt says, happy to play nurse. I bend down next to Jeremiah and touch his wrist as his brother patches up his ankle.

“What were you doing when you hurt yourself?” Matt asks in a low voice.

“I stepped wrong on a rock.”

Matt stops examining his ankle and gives him a long look.

“I swear,” Jeremiah says. “I swear.” When Matt nods, Jeremiah lets out a sigh, almost as if he was more worried about Matt’s reaction than his hurt ankle.

“Did I rip a tendon or break it?” Jeremiah goes on.

“It’s just a sprain, I think,” Matt says, gently moving the ankle in circles. “We’ll know more once we get the X-ray.” Matt gestures for me to move closer. “See, Annie? If it were broken, we wouldn’t be able to move it at all.”

“So it’s a sprain?” I ask, in awe of how much he knows about the human body.

Jeremiah wipes sweat off his face. “If it’s a sprain, I can run on it next week, then.”

Matt nods, but my mouth falls open. “What?” I say. “You can’t run on this. You need to get better!”

“I’ll push through it.”

“You probably can,” Matt says. “But you’d better not let Mom find out you’re racing on a hurt ankle.”