I am in the Academy's gym when he wins, scaling the rock wall. It's early in the morning on a Sunday. Two nights ago, a sponsor sent in the most expensive gift the Hunger Games had ever seen: a shiny silver trident. Since then, he made quick work of the remaining tributes. The dense forest arena was rigged with his nets, and he had killed six of the remaining ten tributes in the first 24 hours since he received it. The girl from District 2 eliminated two of them. I scoff when I see his final opponent trapped in one of his nets, legs dangling through the holes. I wonder who taught him to net like that, I think sarcastically.

The girl from District 2 isn't so brave anymore. She heard the cannon go off when Finnick killed the boy from 7. In fact, she's crying and begging Finnick to spare her. But he doesn't. He walks up to her, face blanker than ever, and throws the trident through her chest. I only see a hint of regret in his eyes as he retrieves the trident and Claudius Templesmith announces the victor of the 65th Hunger Games. As the hovercraft picks him up, I tally his kills from the arena. He slit the girl from District 12's throat on the first day. Three kills with the spear—the girl from District 10, the boy from 8, and the boy from 3. In that order. Then came his eight kills with the trident. Both tributes from 5, the boy from 6, both tributes from 7. He killed his district partner, Meredith. The girl from District 1 and the girl from 2. All three were his former allies. Until the trident came.

I do what I've been taught to do here at the Academy; shove away any feelings I have as I scale the wall. Meredith, blonde hair, blue eyes. The life disappearing from her eyes. My brother knew her.

But I laugh as I think of the girl from District 2. Making herself seem bloodthirsty in her interview, calling herself a gladiator. Crying for her mother as Finnick's trident flies through the air. Pathetic. Twelve kills total. They say his were the best in Games history.

I scoff at my best friend now, but I know there's a reason he won. He was chosen by the Academy at the age of fourteen, which was unheard of. Almost all of the tributes coming out of the Academy are chosen when they're eighteen. Three were chosen at seventeen, two at sixteen. And Finnick was chosen at fourteen.

Angry, I push myself further up the wall. I vow to train longer and fight harder so I can be selected in five years. Maybe four, if I'm lucky.

"Annie," he calls. I roll my eyes, but turn around. He was two years older than me, so I had to listen to him.

"Is there something you want, Odair?" I scowl at him, and he just shrugs it off.

"I saw some of your nets when I was down at the pier with my parents yesterday."

"Who said they were mine?"

"Your dad," he answers.

"Yes, well. I wasn't so lucky as you. My parents couldn't afford to put me into the Academy until I was nine. Unlike you. I had to work on my parents boat until they opened their store, so yes, I net." I say all of this with no small amount of bitterness in my voice. District 4 was a rich district, but my parents still had to work to put me through the Academy. Finnick's were just rich.

"You should teach me."

"No," I respond.

"Come on, I can teach you something in return." I'm still scowling, but I lift my eyebrows, curious.

"Like what, Odair?" If an instructor was around, I would be chided for my lack of respect. But there isn't.

"Hand to hand. Spears. I noticed on your score sheet that you were struggling in those two areas."

"And why do you want to learn how to net?" I ask skeptically, but really, it's a good deal. I could use some work in hand to hand combat and spears.

"I'm taking my Games practical next year. And if I score high enough, I may be selected to volunteer." His eyes, the same color as the ocean, plead with me. But I'm distracted. Games practical? Already?

"They're letting you take the practical? You're only thirteen, Finnick." My voice is gentler now. He doesn't mention that I address him by his first name and not his last. And neither do I.

"I know."

I wonder if he forgot. I pace around restlessly, the sand creeping between my toes. It's Saturday, six days after he was pulled from the arena. He arrived back today, and now I'm here. Waiting.

I wait for another hour before I decide that I look desperate. Maybe this isn't our spot anymore. I should leave. My parents are expecting me home tonight anyways. I come back every night from the Academy, but my parents are used to me sleeping there sometimes. I like to train after hours. But not tonight.

I'm about to pull my toes from the surf and go home when I hear a familiar cough behind me. Refusing to believe it without seeing him, I spin around to see Finnick Odair, living legend of Panem.

"Finnick!"

"Hey, Annie," he says, smiling.

"Those were good nets. Your knife work could be better though." He laughs at me, but I notice it's a little bitter.

"Always the coach. Annie Cresta, master of knives."

"How were the Games?"

"Fine," he says, but his eyes tell me differently. His eyes tell me that they were terrible, and I want to laugh and cry at the same time. The Games are my dream, but Finnick's eyes tell me they shouldn't be.

"So what will you do now?" I ask, curious how he'll fill his time. He doesn't have to attend regular school, not that he ever did, his presence obviously isn't required at the Academy anymore, and he doesn't have to work.

"Train future tributes. Work on a talent. Fish. I don't know."

"Well, if you want to fish, at least you have the net skills for it now," I say, superior. He grins widely, and the smile finally reaches his eyes.

"Wanna swim?" He asks me, his voice playful. I laugh out loud.

"Why else do you think I met you down here?"

We race to the sandbar, we bet who can dive deeper, hold their breath longer, do the best backflips. Finnick and I are creatures borne from the sea, and he's finally home. I resurface to find him back at shore already.

Finnick watches me as I walk out of the ocean. He is leaning back on his elbows, sand smudging his stomach, eyes focused on me and not the ocean. I flush for a moment, before remembering that this is Finnick. Finnick who, after months of netting and spear lessons, became my best friend in the world. Finnick, whose parents are friends of my parents, who taught me how to bring down someone three times my size, who showed me how to hold a spear properly. Finnick, whose heart I could put a knife through at fifty yards. Finnick, whose eyes remind me of my favorite place in the world, whose eyes have watched twelve children die by his own hand.