From the corner of my eye, I see him release his second teammate’s foot and turn my way.
“I can—”
“Nothere,Tobe,” I plead in a low voice, shaking my head. “Please.” I know I said we should help each other, but I absolutely cannot let him help me. It would be better to lose the whole thing than have everyone credit the win to Tobin’s one second of heroism instead of my willingness to go face down in the mud for my team.
The entirety of Team West sees him hesitate and screams at him to go, go,go already we’re winning what are you doing.
“Liz.”
“Go, Tobin. This isn’tThe Great Canadian Baking Show. There’s no aiding the enemy. Come on, Bethany.” I go down on one knee. “Use my leg as a stool and Dick Head can pull you up.”
“Dick Head,” she repeats wonderingly, the treads of her hiking boots cutting into my thigh. “Yes. That’s always been his name.”
David grabs Bethany and hauls her up, feet scrabbling. A second later, both of them reach back down.
I need this jump. I need this win so badly. David’s a dick, but he’s right: it’s better not to show weakness out here.Please please please please please.
“One. Two. Three—”
I’ve never jumped like this before—high, easy, right on target. The only word to describe it is “magical.” Our hands lock, clasped at the wrist, and I’m floating up The Wall.
At the top, I glance at the lodge. Craig’s leaning forward to watch, elbows on his knees.
“See?” David says. “I was right to stay up here.”
“Shut up, Dick Head,” Bethany and I chorus as we race to tag in our puzzle team.
After the open-air awards ceremony, everybody sprints for their yurts. I want no part of the inevitable death match at the lodge over the four shower stalls. My plan is to sacrifice a set of dry clothes, spend an hour running through my slide deck, then shower once the fifteen-deep lineup is gone.
It’s a disgusting strategy, and I’m blitzed with fatigue, but if I miss this opportunity to practice I’ll regret it in the morning. Every intensely planned paragraph needs to feel fresh; each sentence has a word I painstakingly selected for extra emphasis. Every spontaneous mistake I could make can be polished away, until I shine too brightly to overlook.
Engrossed in mental rehearsal, I bump into Tobin in the corral-like exit to the obstacle course. I overcorrect, tripping over my feet; he reaches out.
Then stops himself, pulls back, and waits.
My body regains balance, but my brain is thrown off by the weirdlyclosedlook on his face. It’s pleasant, but off-limits in a way that gives me an uncomfortable vibe.
“Congratulations,” he says, nodding at my Most Valuable Player ribbon. We’re getting left behind in the stampede toward the main compound.
“Thanks,” I say, embarrassed for no reason. “Too bad yourpuzzle team misplaced that piece after you made up so much ground on The Wall.”
“Yeah. At least Team West lost by a lot. So no one can say a couple seconds’ delay helped the North side too much.” The cords in his neck don’t stand out when he’s merely angry. His jerky, mechanical steps propel him up the grassy hill with furious efficiency, forcing me to speed-walk after him.
“What do you want me to say?” I ask, catching up on the pebbled path to the yurts. “Our teams spent all day low-key sabotaging each other. If the woman in the company’s only couple flames out on the physical challenge, and her husband throws the game for her, how do you think that looks for me?”
“It doesn’t look like anything, if you turn around and help me up after you.”
I throw my hands in the air. “You got up that wall in two seconds! You didn’t need my help.”
Even under the dark, lowering sky, the strain around his eyes shows. “Not physically. But we could have showed them how a real team works. So what if it wasn’t a baking show—we could’ve made it into one!”
His starry-eyed optimism is laudable, but not especially realistic when applied to anyone but himself.
“That’s fine when we’re alone, Tobin. But we’re in the middle of a company event with sixty witnesses watching our every move. Where, like every workplace, bias still exists. You can get away with stuff I can’t.”
“Okay. You’re right. I’m sorry,” he says, eyes closed, chin sunk to his chest. “If privacy is what you want, Lyle left my truck in the parking lot. Let’s take some time to ourselves after dinner.”
The thing is, I want to say yes. There would be no sex—my body’s been sending me increasingly dire damage reports now that the adrenaline rush of victory is fading—but I would die tobe able to abandon all muscle control while clinging to his chest like a baby koala.
