Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

friendly advice when suddenly her arms snap back, the weights
slamming down with an echoing crash. Adara looks stunned, her
eyes wide open like they’re stuck that way.
Everything in the weight room stops.
“Castro!”
Why is Coach Z yelling at me? “I didn’t do anything.”
“Precisely,” he says. “As the spotter, when your partner is in trouble
it is your job to assist her.”
“But she wasn’t—”
“I begged for help,” Adara coos, apparently recovering from her
shock. “My arms were all quivery and shaky, like they were going to
give out. But she refused. She said she wouldn’t lift a finger to help
anyone on this team.”
“That’s a lie,” I shout. “I never—”
“In my office,” Coach Z says, his voice low and serious. “Now.”
Great, there goes cross-country. I’m about to get kicked off the
team, and lose any chance at getting that scholarship.
“I saw it happen, Coach.”
Everyone turns to look at Griffin. He’s looking right at Coach
Z—not at me, not at Adara.
“Adara didn’t ask for help,” he continues. “She just let the weight
drop.”
I dare a glance at Adara, who is turning an unflattering shade
of red.
“Right then,” Coach Z stammers. “Everyone back to work.”
The weight room returns to the bustle of the workout. Except
for Adara, who is glaring at me, me, staring at Griffin, and Griffin,
staring at the floor.
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