Yep, definitely the starting line.
I half-run and half-stumble back to my team, fighting the nausea that roils in my stomach.
Whose idea was it for a bunch of drunk people to do a dizzy race? This is some messed up crap.
Kayla holds out her hand as I cross the finish line. I tag her and flop onto the sand, landing hard on my backside.
She manages to hold off the tweens in the first leg of the race, but she gains no ground on Jones, who is surprisingly fast. The other teams seem to be going half-speed, and I can’t say I blame them. Even if by some miracle one of them were to win this event, it would be a three-way tie.
Jones completes his spins first, but he starts off in the wrong direction. With guidance from his teammates, he quickly course-corrects, but his footing is unsure.
Kayla turns to us like a heat-seeking missile, and an unladylikewhoopbursts from my lips.
As ridiculous as these Olympic games are, I’m invested now.
I want to win, if only so that our efforts are not in vain.
Kayla crosses the finish line a few strides behind Jones, and Lexie takes off with a burst of speed, arms pumping at her sides. Heck, even her ponytail appears to be locked in, flying straight behind her to prevent any unnecessary drag.
“You’ve got this, Lexie!” I clap and whistle, cheering her to victory.
She catches the tree hugger at the midpoint and completes her ten spins with ease, beating him off the cone.
“It’s almost like she’s done this before,” Kayla muses.
The mood on the beach shifts instantly. Suddenly everyoneis cheering for Lexie as she sprints toward us, her cheeks flushed.
But it’s not over yet.
Tree Hugger is gaining ground, his long strides eating up the beach.
Then they’re neck and neck.
“Come on,” I whisper. If anyone can pull this out, it’s Lex.
Kayla grabs my biceps. “I can’t watch.”
“Don’t you dare close your eyes!” I shout as Lexie approaches the finish line and thrusts her chest forward.
At the same time she leans in, Tree Hugger dives, flying through the air like freaking Superman with his arms outstretched. He skids facedown across the sand before coming to a stop. Then he lifts his head, setting off a volley of cheers, and vomits.
Gross. My stomach rolls, and I turn my head.
Kayla blinks, shell-shocked. “Who won?”
“I don’t know.” It was too close to call. The race—and the Beach Olympics—could go either way.
Beside us, Jones is celebrating, his booming voice carrying over the chaos.
“So much for not counting his geese before they hatch,” Lexie pants, planting her hands on her thighs. “It’s a bit premature. Only Camila can call the winner.”
I squeeze her shoulder. “No matter what happens, you did great out there.”
Camila jogs toward us, eyes wide. “Ay, Dios mío! That was too close to call.”
Lexie straightens. “That means we’re tied for first place. What happens now?”
“We can’t end on a tie,” Jones interjects. “There has to be a winner.”
