My girl was running like the devil himself was chasing her. Long strides, arms pumping, hair flying—pure feckin’ poetry in motion. She’d been a beast in track since before I met her, and this one? This was the big one. The last meet before the holidays, the one she’d been training for since—what?—February? Every spare second she had went into this.

And I was there, grinning like a proud eejit in the stands, ready to watch her add another medal to her ridiculous collection.

Except… she didn’t win.

She crossed the finish line second. Just second. To anyone else, that’s still incredible. But to her? Might as well have been last. I knew she’d be gutted, but I wasn’t prepared for how feckin’ wrecked she looked. Tears spilling down her cheeks before she’d even slowed down, jaw tight, eyes flashing. She didn’t even shake the winner’s hand—just chucked her water bottle to the ground, the sound of plastic cracking against the track echoing like a gunshot. Then she spun on her trainer and barked something I couldn’t quite catch, but the tone? It was scorching.

Next thing I knew, she was storming off toward the changing rooms.

And, being the gobshite I am, I followed.

She was already in there, pacing like a caged tiger when I stepped in. Her bag was open on the bench, gear spilling out, and she was muttering under her breath about splits and seconds and how this was “impossible.”

I leaned against the doorway, trying to lighten the mood. “Hey baby, maybe next year, yeah?”

She stopped dead and turned toward me. The look on her face—Jesus.

“It’s not fucking funny, Gerard! I didn’t win. I always win!” Her voice cracked, not with weakness, but with this raw frustration that hit me square in the chest.

“I know, love, but—”

“No!” she snapped, cutting me off. “You don’t know. You’ve no idea what it’s like to put everything into something for months, and then—” She broke off, pressing her palms to her eyes like she could scrub the day out of existence. “I’ve never lost before. Not like this. Not when it mattered.”

I stepped closer, hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. It’s not the end of the world, though, is it? You’re still the fastest girl I know. And—”

“Don’t,” she warned, voice low and dangerous. “Don’t you dare try to make this a joke. I can’t—Gerard, I can’t hear that right now.”

Her chest was heaving, breaths sharp, like she was still mid-race. And for once, I shut my gob. Because this wasn’t her being dramatic—this was her entire world tilting sideways.

I just sat down on the bench beside her, letting her stew in it. “Alright. No jokes. But you need to breathe, love. You’re shaking.”

She sniffed, swiping at her cheeks. “I trained for months.”

“I know.”

“I gave up nights out, parties—”

“I know.”

“And I still—” Her voice cracked again, and she cut herself off, staring at the floor.

“You still gave it everything,” I finished for her. “Sometimes that’s all you can do. And yeah, it’s shite when it’s not enough. But it doesn’t make you any less of the beast you were out there.”

She glanced at me then, eyes glassy but still fierce. “I don’t want to be second.”

“You won’t be forever,” I said simply. “But today? You were. And it’s not gonna kill you.”

She groaned, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, head in her hands. “You’re crap at pep talks.”

“Maybe. But I’m brilliant at takeaway orders. We’ll go get chips. You can drown your sorrows in curry sauce.”