Zoe's POV
"Again!"
Seth's voice rang out sharply across the sidewalk behind the house, echoing with the kind of authority that made your spine straighten whether you liked it or not. He sounded like a football coach pushing his team through the final seconds of a championship match—unyielding, relentless, and completely uninterested in excuses.
I barely completed my last turn.
My heel had just touched the ground, my balance still shaky, when he called for another run.
My ankles screamed in protest.
A dull, throbbing ache pulsed through them from the countless catwalks I had already done. Back and forth. Again and again. Turn. Pause. Walk. Repeat. It had been one thing or the other. Either my back was not well stretched or my gaze was predictable.
I was beginning to understand what he meant when he said hardcore.
For a moment—just a fleeting one—it felt like this competition meant more to him than it did to me.
And I was the one who needed this win.
