Page 89 of Never Date A Player
Hauling ass up the incline I pray is my last, I nearly tumble back down at the view of the bottom.
I am so screwed.
A climbing wall taller than all the rest, and concave to boot, blocks the finish arch. The few people tumbling over are doing so with the help of at least one other person, two or three in most cases. I search the dozen or so men surrounding me. Lewis isn’t anywhere in sight, nor are my other teammates, whom I haven’t seen since we started.
The wall is too tall. I’m not going to make it.
I’ve come so far—pretty damn sure I broke my hand—and this is how it’s going to end?
Anger fills me, raising my heart rate and making my head pound. No way.
I fly down the hill, willing speed to be enough momentum to get me high on the wall. It looks impossibly tall. I shove that thought aside and leap over the concave bit, clinging with my good hand, my fingers digging into the tiny grooves. With the elbow and forearm of my bad arm, I crawl up, but my feet can’t find purchase and I begin to slip.
A frustrated scream erupts from my throat as I skin my good knee and slide off the curved bit at the bottom. I tuck my bloody knees to my chest and cradle my throbbing hand. Two guys leap over me and thump up the wall.
I look pathetic, sitting here like a weak, broken thing—like a burden—not the strong person I’ve worked so hard to be. This is not how I want to go down.
Rising, I shake out my aching legs and tuck my bad hand to my chest. The wall is impossible for me to climb without aid, but no one pays me a backward glance. The only remaining competitors are a bunch of dudes who appear as tired and haggard as I feel.
I jog back several feet and hurtle with everything I have toward the wall. My toes scrape the side, grabbing purchase this time. My good arm and the elbow of my bad one lift me steadily.
Halfway up, the thought that I might actually scale this thing distracts me for a split second. My fingers slip, the center of my injured hand burning with the strain of using it when I shouldn’t. I’m going down, and this time I don’t have the strength to land gracefully, to whimper or groan at my failure. Splinters lodge in my fingertips as they skid over the surface, my head falling back?—
A wide hand grasps my wrist and pulls me up like a sack of groceries.
I know this sensation. Know who has me before I look.
Lewis drags me onto his lap, clinging for a beat before he shoves me over the ledge into a vat of freezing water that steals my breath.
The cold shocks my overworked muscles into functioning. I don’t know how Lewis found me or why he came back. I can’t think about that right now. I paddle to the surface and crawl out.
A surge of adrenaline has me bursting toward the finish arch, the roar of spectators pummeling my ears. I tune them out. I have only a short distance to pass a dozen bodies before the finish. These competitors could be from my heat, an early one—I don’t care. Running is my wheelhouse and I want to defeat every last one before the end.
I’m racing without a concern for rocks that could break something if I land wrong—pushing with everything I have, past one person, then another. My form isn’t tight, my body overheated, chest heaving. I’m at my max in terms of exertion.
I don’t know where Lewis is. He could be behind me. He could be in front of me. All I know is that I need this. I need to finish this race—bloody legs, broken bones, burning chest—with everything I have left in me, I need to finish this race. To prove I can push past the pain, the humiliation, and fight for myself.
I pass two—three—four fit guys, their panting breaths fading as the shouts from the crowd grow louder, blotting out other sound. The guy I’m about to pass, his hair buzzed, biceps bulging with a barbed wire cuff tattoo, casts me a glance and steps it up a notch. He can’t keep my pace, and I blow past him too.
Before I know it, I’m through the finish, half the spectators behind me. My legs slow, cramps knotting my thighs. I jog to cool down and catch my breath. Finally, I stop and bend over gasping, straining for air and cradling my hand.
Strong arms lift me in an embrace. Lewis nuzzles my neck, mild beard scruff grazing my collarbone. “You did it.” He squeezes me, knocking out what little air I’ve regained.
“Can’t breathe,” I gasp.
“Sorry.” He loosens his grip and sets me on the ground, his arms wrapped around my waist protectively.
He’s sweaty and dirty, but he smells so good—the same Lewis but with salt and soil mixed in. I should let go of him now. I said I couldn’t be his girlfriend, but I almost killed myself completing that damn mudder and I need this embrace. I need him.
I rub my face on his chest and he cups my head. Nothing has ever felt better than Lewis holding me. When Lewis holds me, the brittle edges of the world smooth out.
“Look.” Lewis loosens his arms and turns me to the side.
Beyond the rope my mom is jumping up and down and calling my name, Fred looking equally happy beside her. Jeb and his wife are there too, holding hands with bright smiles on their faces. Jeb’s hair looks a little mussed, like he’s been pulling at the ends. He wipes the corner of his eye and pumps his fist in the air.
They were watching. All of them together: my mother, her soon-to-be husband, and her high school sweetheart—my father. God, this day is like an alternate reality.
I bury my face back in Lewis’s chest. Maybe it’s his arms tightening, or this little family tableau I never thought possible, but tears well behind my eyes.
