“About your heritage?” He focuses on the water. “Travatas.”

Suddenly there’s a distance between us, and not the physical kind. Griffin is miles away on the inside and I’m not sure what that means. What if that means there’s some kind of Olympic law against our dating? Maybe Ares’s and Nike’s aren’t allowed to—

“There was a prophecy,” he says, interrupting my increasingly panicked thoughts.

“A prophecy?” This could be even worse. I remember that prophecy from Oedipus—what if Griffin is supposed to kill me, or, ew, what if we’re related or something.

“Before I was born, my mother visited the oracle and requested a reading.” There’s a hint of sadness in his eyes. My panic vanishes as I realize that he’s thinking about his mom.

“What did the oracle say?”

He smiles sadly and shakes his head. “She told my mother that her son would find his match in a daughter of victory.”

“Oh,” I say. Then, “Ohhh! Wow.”

Daughter of victory. That’s me.

Turning to look at me—a few stray curls falling across his forehead—he says, “Yeah, wow.”

I tuck one of the curls behind his ear. “Well, I am the only one who beat your tail on the racecourse.”

He throws back his head and laughs. “Oh Phoebe,” he says—I still get shivers when he says my name—and hugs me close to his side. “That’s the least of it. You just found out you’re Nike’s great-granddaughter. You can do—almost—whatever you want in the entire world.”

I close my eyes. It’s the almost that brings sudden tears to my eyes.

All I can think is why did Dad choose football over staying with us? He loved us, I know he did. I have enough memories of him to know that without a doubt. Was football worth more than that? More than us?

For six years I’ve thought he died in a freak accident, in some bizarre act of nature. That if he had known about it beforehand, he would have never played in that game. If he had only known, he would still be with us.

But now I know he did know. Maybe not that he would be smoted at that particular game, but eventually.

Everything I ever thought about my dad is wrong.

Like I never knew him at all.

Then again, when I’m running I can’t imagine giving that up for anything. I don’t think I would ever cheat, but maybe the temptation of greatness was more powerful than questionable ethics for Dad. Or maybe, like how mine tried to come out during the race, he hadn’t meant to use his powers.

“I didn’t mean to try to cheat,” I say, wanting Griffin to know I would never cheat on purpose. “I know if Coach hadn’t grounded everyone’s powers, mine would have come out, but that’s not me. That’s not how I—”

“Come on, Phoebe.” He levels an exasperated stare at me. “You’ve just realized you have powers. Of course it’s going to take some training to learn how to control them.” His lips creep into a small smile. “When I first got my powers I was eight. I zapped my nanny to the Amazon.”

“But see . . .” I turn to face him. “. . . you’ve had ten years to practice. How can I expect to control them like you—”

“You won’t,” he says, squeezing me closer. “Not at first.”

I shake my head, overwhelmed by the idea of having powers and having to learn to control them.

“For a while—maybe even a long while—they’ll be controlled by your emotions.” He places his hand over mine, lacing our fingers together. “Like today.”

I turn to face him. “That’s what I’m worried about. I didn’t even know what I was doing. What if I—”

“You wouldn’t have been driven to using your powers by the need to prove yourself if I hadn’t let my emotions get the better of me at tryouts.” He looks out at the water, his cheeks red. “I didn’t consciously knot your shoelaces, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

He takes my hand and starts rubbing his thumb in little circles against my palm.

He sighs. “I was so conflicted about my feelings for you—feeling like I should scare you off because I thought you were a nothos and at the same time feeling overwhelmingly attracted to you . . . to something inside you. Since that first morning on the beach. Even though I knew who—what—you were, I couldn’t stop feeling this way. I just—” His cheeks turn redder. “My powers responded to my emotions and—”

“Sent me tumbling face-first into the dirt?” I say, joking. “Yeah, I remember that part.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, squeezing my hand tighter. “I wish I could go back and—”

“So you’re saying even you can’t fully control your powers?”

With his free hand, he rubs his palm against the knee of his jeans. “It takes a lifetime to have complete control. We all have to work at it.” Looking up at me from beneath his lids, he adds, “The teachers at the Academy can help you learn control faster than you ever could on your own.”

Is he right? Would it be better if I stayed on Serfopoula through next year and learned how to use—I mean control my powers?

“Who knows what havoc you might wreak on the poor, unsuspecting citizens of Los Angeles?” He leans over and nudges me with his shoulder. “You’d be endangering the safety of millions of people.”