Page 25 of The Amazing Date

“Me too,” I say as we watch the pair prance around with the trophy, giggling and pushing it in the face of every other team.

“Here they come,” I whisper as Caitlin spots us and strides in our direction.

“There you are. Impressive—we never thought you’d make it out of Homeland Security. Especially you, Pablo Escobar.”

I’ve been called worse, a lot worse, and barely react, but I feel Rylee tense up next to me. “Congratulations.” Her words catch both of us off guard. “Do you mind?” Her hand reaches out toward the trophy, which Caitlin pulls back toward her chest.

“Please? You know this may be the closest we ever get to the trophy.” She’s laying it on thick, and I relax my shoulders. She’s working on a plan. I flatten my expression to not give anything away, aware the last place you want to be is on the receiving end of one of her plans.

The foot-high gold trophy is shaped like a bowl with two handles on opposite sides. Caitlin’s eyes tighten as she hands the trophy over.

Rylee inspects it, appearing to read the words on the base of the trophy. “First place, huh? We have something to add to your spoils,” she says, and I feel the shudder of her body as she bends over. Only a bit of her vomit lands in the trophy’s bowl, most of it flying over the top and landing on Caitlin’s sneakers.

“Ewwwww!” Her scream causes Kelly to rush over blindly, unknowingly stepping into the stream of green and gold goo.

“Oh my god, what the hell?” Kelly screams.

I grab the handle of the trophy from Rylee and hand it to Caitlin. “We’re so sorry. She’s been sick from all those cookies.” I channel my LA actor friends and deliver my insincere line. I wrap my arm around Rylee and walk her away from the chaos at the mat. Seated again on the top step, I pull out my travel case of wipes and hand them to Rylee. She is busy pulling out something from her bag as well.

I shoot a glance over my shoulder, expecting to see an upset Wilma. Instead, she is standing tall on the mat, ignoring the chaos around her, and shooting a gaze filled with admiration in Rylee’s direction.

When I turn, I catch the smile on Rylee’s face and the nod to Wilma, an understanding between the ladies. Rylee hands me the used wipe and lifts a pen in her hand, her tiny three-by-five-inch notebook pressed up against her knee.

The top of the page is written in red: Operation Blondie Destruction. She checks off the first item on her checklist, reading it as she goes. “Embarrass the blonde brigade in a very public manner—start the war.”

She closes the notebook and hops to her feet. “I feel much better now.”

I didn’t get to see what was next on her list. It doesn’t matter. We struggled, stumbled, and almost came in last, but we’re figuring it out. Nothing brings a team together quicker than having a common enemy, and we’ve just painted a big target on our backs.

Let the games continue.

Chapter 17

Rylee

I can’t believe Roberto is forcing me to do this. We should be resting, strategizing, planning the counter moves from the blondes, and most importantly, reviewing today’s race and dissecting what we did wrong so we don’t repeat it.

Instead, he’s holding my damn hand, making my mind race with a world of possibilities I had eliminated some time ago. Each step pulls me further from reality toward an unknown place that I feel unprepared to deal with. We navigate around a group of men drinking on the street. Roberto steps around them toward a dark doorway, as if he’s been here a thousand times. I miss the sign because it’s only a paper flyer taped to the wall. Large block fonts and lightning bolts are the only image that registers. The narrow hallway smells of stale beer and weed, a combination my college-aged self would appreciate but not the new me, the responsible me, the plan-for-tomorrow version who screams this is a bad idea.

Steps lead us down a level where the sound of an electric guitar wails. Instead of preparing for day two of the race, Roberto is taking me to a seedy basement rock bar.

“One hour. We show our faces, and then we head back to the Super 8,” I say, knowing it’s going to be ignored by him.

“Live a little. We’re in San Francisco. We have all night.”

I shake my head at his logic. At the base of the steps, the club opens up. There’s another small sign on the wall, which I read this time: Slim’s Rock Club. An old-school guitar soloist is playing on a stage that is much larger than I would expect. About two dozen people stand near the stage, most sipping beer and pumping their fists to the beat. A long bar runs the length of the far wall, a few high-top tables are positioned near the columns, and the remainder of the space is filled with people at tables drinking, eating, and enjoying the music.

“There they are.” Roberto waves over a herd of bodies in front of us toward an unseen table.

He pulls me through the crowd, and I spot Adam and Laredo at a table, lifting their matching beers in our direction. Trey and Brooke are seated beside them. Trey is leaned forward, hand cupped near his mouth, shouting into Brooke’s ear.

“Glad you guys could make it.” Adam pounds fists with Roberto and waves me toward the empty chairs at the table.

“Thanks for the invite. Sorry to see you guys leave,” Roberto says as if he doesn’t know how competitions work. The twins finished last, and Wilma eliminated them. Before they head back to Indiana, they invited the remaining teams out to this club for a farewell drink.

“No, you’re not,” Laredo chimes in with a laugh. “Every one of you but one will be in this position before this is over. Cheers.”

If they’re upset about losing, it doesn’t show. Laredo leans back in his chair and takes a long sip of his beer, a twinkle in his eyes as he scans the crowd. Being in a rock club is the most relaxed I’ve seen him since we’ve met.

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