Page 31 of Hunter

Beto comes running to the back of the boat and squats down in front of me.

“Hola,” he says.

“Hola,” I answer.

In very rapid Spanish, he tells me that he overheard one cameraman telling another that the detour choices were either carving a totem pole outside of town, or doing three physical challenges in town near the pit stop. He raises his eyebrows at me, his expression asking which challenge I’d prefer.

“I’m so tired,” I tell him in Spanish. “Like, almost no gas left in the tank. Maybe we should do the carving.”

“But that crab I got? It’s going to win,prima. If we can be first at the detour and get through it quickly? We’ll have a huge lead on the other teams.”

“Beto, I’m drenched and exhausted. I can barely feel my fingers!” I hold them up in front of him and scrunch both hands into painful fists.

But I look around, noticing that the waves appear to be getting smaller as we get closer to land. They’ve stopped rolling over the sides of the boat. It’s just spray now, which is needle sharp on exposed skin, but doesn’t drench you with every swell.

“Come on, Isabella. You knew what you were signing up for. We have a chance to get in front. Look at her,” he says, sliding his eyes to Barbie as she retches into her bag one final time. “You’re so much stronger than most of the girls in this race. You can do it!”

His words stroke my ego, and I find myself nodding at him. “Fine. We’ll do the physical challenge close to the pit stop.”

“Perfecto!” he exclaims. “I’ll do the heavy lifting. I promise!”

“You better,” I say, grateful to see that the stormy weather out on the sea is giving way to some pockets of sunshine over Ketchikan.

When we arrive at the marina, we discover that the other crabbing boat returned thirty minutes before ours, so Teams Soul Sisters, Hot Docs, Nerds, Outlaws and Sofa Kings have already had their crabs weighedandhad a chance to freshen up and change in the marina bathroom. They’re lying on benches and patches of grass, relaxing in the sun, when we stagger off our boat.

Nat Keegan, dressed in pressed khakis and a cheerful royal blue polo shirt, welcomes us back to dry land as several cameramen record our arrival.

“Hello, crab boat number two! Looks like you encountered some rough seas out there! Ha ha ha! You have a few minutes to freshen up while we get your crabs off the boat and onto the scale. There’s a washroom in the marina if you need it, and your backpacks are in the van over there.”

I trudge past Nat and make a beeline for the van, grabbing my backpack, and heading into the marina ladies’ room, where I find two stalls, two sinks, and a hand dryer. I use the stall to change into dry clothes, then slick back my wet hair into a neat bun. My face is pink from the cold, and I feel crusty from salt drying in crevasses I didn’t know I had, but at least I’m dry and warm.

As Beto predicted, our crab is the largest and heaviest from our boat, but comes in second to that of Team Outlaws. My cousin gives me a look, reconfirming our decision to do the more physical, but closer, challenge. I nod at him, ripping open our envelope when we receive it, but barely looking at the instructions before following Beto’s sprint from the marina to the road, where we have a mile-long jog to the arena of the Great Alaskan Lumberjack Show.

We arrive breathless and sweaty, and are greeted by…

Fuck. Me.

Hunter Stewart.

To be clear, I’m not a vain woman. Yes, I care about the way I look, and I generally try to look my best, but I’m not a glamour-puss, and I know I can’t look perfect all the time. That said, rarely have I looked worse. Sweaty and disheveled with slicked-back hair, no makeup, and ruddy cheeks, he’s got to be wondering what he ever saw in me.

I slow down to a walk as we approach, hands on my hips as I try to catch my breath. I only lift my eyes to his at the very last minute.

And what I see there surprises me to my core.

He’s on camera, yes, so maybe he’s working really hard to look positive and enthusiastic, but I don’t sense his smile is for the show. I think his expression is genuine. He doesn’t recoil or grimace. He doesn’t look horrified by my appearance. He looks me straight in the eyes and grins like he’s delighted to see me.Delighted.And after months of feeling his scorn? Tears prick my eyes.Fucking tears.I never cry. Almost never. But in that moment, I’m so weary and yet, so grateful for his kindness, manufactured or genuine, I could bawl my eyes out.

“Team Primos!” he cries, clapping his hands. “You’re the first to arrive! Way to go!”

“Hey, man!” says Beto, shaking Hunter’s extended hand. “Tell us what to do.”

“You doing okay, Bella?” he asks me, the nickname a sweet flashback to our time together last summer.

“Yeah.” I nod. “I’m fine.”

“Okay. So, go inside. You’ll find five stations set up. Choose three and get started. You can choose between: Speed Chopping, Axe Throwing—don’t worry, you only have to hit the target, no bullseye required—Speed Sawing with handsaws, Logrolling, and Speed Climbing.”

I stare at him, dumbfounded. I only know what one or two of those activities are.

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