Six Things Before Breakfast

4

When they get their hot water back, Maxon and Sanders talk about the shower time.

"What about I shower while you're praying?" the soccer player suggests, smiling at him. "That way, you can shower after you're done praying, and after I'm done showering."

"I pray for like five minutes. You need to wake up earlier."

"Sure, no problem."

So it's not. A problem. Sanders can keep his routine on track.

It's just—Maxon moves things higher up the shelf so that Becks can't reach them. He says it's fun to mess with her.

He keeps calling her for lunch. He says he needs to watch her eat because she didn't use to before. (Sanders called Becks just as he and Rosen were leaving the courts. She answered after two rings. "Hello?"

"Are you still in the gym? Rosen and I are getting lunch. We'll come to you."

"Oh," Becks said, and Sanders stopped, raising an eyebrow. "I'm having lunch with Maxon. His training ended early. You want to join?"

The fact that she didn't tell him hurt. He smiled. "No, it's fine. Call me later. Eat a lot, babe."

Rosen was making faces at him when he puts the phone down. "Eat a lot, babe," he mimicked.

Sanders grabbed him by the neck. "You wanna die?"

Rosen pushed him off, and they almost really die when a motorcycle sped past them, but both their limbs and bodies and heads were still intact. Sanders wished Rosen wasn't. Intact.)

Maxon keeps flicking her forehead and calling her ugly, but when Becks falls asleep on the couch, he takes off her glasses and goes to get blankets and a pillow, and put them over her body and under her head. (He's still not allowed to enter her room.) Sanders found her like that. Maxon is sitting next to her with a grin.

And Becks keeps combing her hair. Straightening it. She doesn't wear baggy shorts unless she's in the gym already, and she doesn't eat a lot when Maxon's in the room. Her gloves are always hidden inside her bag, and she helps Maxon in the kitchen when he's cooking.

While they were playing a video game, Becks loses on purpose. Becks never loses on purpose. She's a sore loser. She hates it when Sanders wins.

But Becks loses on purpose, and Sanders knows this because—well, because he's been playing with Becks for years. He knows how she works.

Maxon slaps her on the wrist.

And Sanders can ignore that. He can ignore all of that.

But runs in the oval usually start off team's training. Maxon is jogging with the other soccer players in their jerseys and cleats. Sanders is with his volleyball team, right at the back of the line. Some of the other teams are taking laps, too, but boxing—they're rarely in the oval. They take their usual laps around the ring.

This morning, they're jogging in the oval, too.

Maxon waves at him. Sanders gives him a half-hearted waved back. And then he's craning his neck, searching the oval, like he's looking for something.

Or someone. Becks bumps into Sanders. "Sanders!"

"Oh, God, you—you scared me, fuck." Sanders clutches his shirt, trying to calm his racing heart. Becks is digging her nails into his arms, pulling him along the back of the line. "What are you doing here? Your coach will chop your neck off if he sees you here."

"Run with me." She smiles at him, pulling his arm, falling into step beside him. "I hate running," she says.

"I know." Sanders manages a small smile. He doesn't know why Becks is running with him, but he's not going to complain. "You should be used to it by now if you ran in high school."