Page 33 of Hunter

This is how a team becomes a favorite, I tell myself, winking at Beto.

“Listo?” he asks me.

“I’m ready,” I say.

We move slowly at first—far slower than the beat playing overhead. But as we get more comfortable with what we’redoing, the log rolls faster and faster beneath us, until we’re moving at the same pace as the song.

“That’s four seconds…five…six! Oh my god! Ten seconds!” yells the lumberjack. “Never seen anyone catch on that quick!”

I look at Beto, and he looks at me. Still holding hands, we jump together into the shallow water, then high five each other before climbing out of the pool and rushing, without our shoes and socks, to the bright blue mat just outside of the arena.

“Congratulations,primos!” crows Nat Keegan, giving us his trademark Colgate smile. “You’re team number two!”

¡Órale!

Chapter 6

Hunter

I don’t know much about logrolling, and I’ve never tried it personally, but watching Isabella Gonzalez nail it on the first try is one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen.

While she’s dancing on a log with that loud Latino music filling the arena, no one can keep their eyes off of her and her cousin. The other teams pause in whatever they’re doing. The cameramen all redirect their lenses to the pair. And I realize that I’m watching a reality star in the making.

Standing just inside the arena, I overhear Nat tell Isabella and Beto that they are team number two. So when they re-enter the arena for their backpacks, shoes, and socks, I call out to her.

“Hey, Bella!”

She turns around.

“Bravo!”

Her lips wobble for just a second before she flashes a smile at me. “Thanks.”

I tilt my head to the side and give her a look that other ladies have cited as sexy. “Can I buy you a drink back on the ship?”

Her smile disappears as she crosses her arms over her chest. “Why?”

“To celebrate. You came in second.”

She looks away from me for a beat, then raises her dark eyes to mine. “Not necessary, Hunter. I don’t need your pity.”

My…what?

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not broken,” she says, turning on her heel and running to catch up with her cousin. She passes by me a second lateron her way out of the arena but makes a concerted effort not to make eye contact with me.

I’m about to yell, “It’s not pity!” when another team arrives at the arena, looking exhausted and frazzled.

“We tried the carving thing!” cries one of the Barbies.

“But she cut her finger!” complains the other, rolling her eyes.

“This is so haaard!”

These young women, who looked so hot and flirty when they arrived yesterday, look like a train wreck now. They are not—as Kit and I predicted—going to last. I’d be surprised if they make it to tomorrow.

“Just do your best,” I say, feeling a little bad for them. “Go to whatever station doesn’t have a line.”

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