Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

We make a full lap before he speaks again.
“Coach Lenny has been working you hard, huh?”
“Yes.”
If he’s not going to apologize, I’m not going to be more than
barely civil. I realize he is a boy and predisposed to abhor admitting
he’s wrong. He, however, has given me no reason to stick my neck
out.
Besides, it’s not like he’s treated me with respect from day one.
I really shouldn’t even expect common courtesy—
“Nice morning.”
Okay, so he’s making an effort at small talk.
I’m not giving in. “Yup.”
That was apparently the extent of his chitchat repertoire
because we keep walking in silence, with only the sound of our
sneakers crunching on the cinder track. The sun is rising—must
be late morning by now—and I’m all sweaty. With the sweat comes
irritation.
Why did he come to my practice session? Or better yet, why did
he drop off the face of the earth after the whole ankle incident last
weekend? Or best of all, why did he act like such an ass when I first
got to the Academy?
“Look,” I finally say two laps later, fed up. “What’s your problem?”
“Nothing.”
One word responses are not going to cut it.
“Nothing? You show up here hours before normal people wake
up on a Saturday, seem content to not say a word more than absolutely
necessary, and I want to know why.”
Silence.
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