Every goddamn day of those long, rainy winters, she ran. As the grey afternoon light faded, skinny legs and arms churning, mud splattering in her wake, back and forth, back and forth across the football field, come on, faster. A janitor spotted her once and stopped to watch. Shook his head at the little blonde blur. Kid was fast, real fast- but who would run sprints in weather like this?
Years later, with a medal around her neck, they would call her a natural, a born athlete. And she would smile politely, and think, Fuck you, you have no idea.