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Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

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would know it. I’m only amusing myself to pass the time. In about<br />

half a kilometer you’ll be in my dust.”<br />

Well, I didn’t get to be Western Regional Champion—twice—<br />

without learning how to ignore head games. Cross-country is full<br />

of trash talk, but it’s only effective if you let it get to you.<br />

“Whatever.” I shrug, “We’ll see at the finish line.”<br />

Looking ahead, I realize we have dropped back a little from the<br />

main group. I can’t let him get me off my race. I count to three<br />

before kicking up my pace another notch. Already I can feel myself<br />

closing the gap.<br />

“Never,” Griffin says as he speeds up, “mess with a descendant<br />

of Ares, nothos.”<br />

Then, before I can reply, a flash of light glows at my feet and<br />

the next thing I know I’m tumbling headfirst into the packed dirt<br />

path.<br />

Griffin and the other runners disappear around a bend in the<br />

course and all I’m left with is a thin cloud of dust. Jumping to my<br />

feet, I look down to find my shoelaces untied, or, more accurately,<br />

untied and retied together.<br />

Stepping out of my shoes rather than bother untying the supernatural<br />

knot—which is probably impossible to undo, anyway—I<br />

turn and start the long trudge back to the starting line.<br />

81

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