Page 11 of Brain Damage

I can run five miles. That’s the upper limit before the pain starts up in my right knee. It hurts on the lateral side of my knee, a sharp unrelenting pain that won’t stop until I do. At first, I hoped I could run through it. But it’s obvious I can’t.

I saw a doctor and he said it was my iliotibial band. His brilliant suggestion was to try stretching it out, maybe do some physical therapy. If that’s the best he’s got, this race is definitely not going to happen.

I’m on my first mile now, running around the small park by the office where I practice, while listening to Fleetwood Mac radio on my iPhone. I already feel a tiny twinge in my knee. This is so freaking depressing. I keep hoping that maybe the problem will go away on its own. Like maybe I would start running today and it would just be magically gone.

Guess not.

“You’re pretty fast,” a male voice says from behind me. “What’s your time for a mile?”

I slow down to a stop, channeling my frustration into anger. I don’t like it when people talk to me when I’m running. The last thing I want when I’m trying to train for a marathon is comments from the peanut gallery.

But when I turn around, I get a surprise. Jogging behind me is none other than Clark Douglas.

You know, the hottie? The one I thought I’d never see again in a million years? The one with the blue eyes like the Pacific Ocean, or maybe like my laundry detergent. They’re both pretty blue.

“Hello there, Dr. Charlotte McKenna,” he says, smiling that perfect smile as he too slows to a stop.

This is a coincidence, I’m sure. But still, I can’t help but feel the tiniest bit excited. He couldn’t possibly be here just to see little old me. Could he?

Figures that today I’d be wearing an old baggy pair of running shorts and a T-shirt two sizes too big.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, pulling out my earbuds. Stevie Nicks’s voice fades into the background.

“It’s been three months,” he reminds me.

Oh my God, he really is here to see me.

I need to put a stop to this. Right now. Except why does he have to look so good in his shorts and T-shirt?

“Mr. Douglas,” I begin.

“Clark,” he corrects me.

“Mr. Douglas,” I say again, more firmly this time. “This isn’t appropriate.”

“You said that after three months,” he says, “you’d consider going out with me.”

I shake my head in disbelief. The most handsome man I’ve ever met in my life is standing in front of me, begging me for a date. There’s something very wrong with this picture.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Clark nods. For a minute, I think he might actually accept my refusal and put an end to this ridiculousness. But then he says, “How about a race?”

At first, I think I’ve heard him wrong. “What?”

“I’ll race you one lap around the park,” he challenges me. “If I win, I get to take you out on a date. If you win, I’ll leave you alone.” He grins at me. “Seems like a pretty good deal for a runner like you.”

I look down at Clark’s muscular legs. He’s got more power than I do and more length. In a race around the park, he could beat me easily.

“Make it twenty laps,” I say. Clark might be able to beat me during a single lap, but I’m willing to bet I have much better endurance.

Clark smiles. “You’re on.”

He starts to run then, giving himself a few seconds’ head start, but I’m right behind him. Too late, I remember the issue with my knee. Twenty laps will put me over the five-mile mark. If I’m in agony from my knee, it might slow me down.

I square my jaw and pick up my pace. I’m going to win this race. Now it’s a matter of pride. I can be pretty competitive when I want to be.

Just as I suspected, Clark is ahead of me after the first lap. After the second lap, he’s still in the lead. But by lap number eight, he’s slowing down considerably. I can tell he’s starting to breathe heavier, and I wonder if he’s even going to make it the entire distance. I’m going to clobber him.