Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Gasping, I throw my arms around my teammate’s neck. “THANK YOU!”
To cool off after the last water event, Debra Dooley announces it’s time for tug-of-war.
Zale and I are representing Team Beacon. He’s lean but muscular, and, as I told Mackenzie during our strategy session, I’m freakishly strong.
“All right, Cass, you ready for this?” Gen encourages. “Let’s see you use that boob power!”
I roll my eyes at her. Normally I might bristle at the big-boobs joke, but that one was actually kind of funny. “I’ll do my best,” I promise.
Since Deb’s scoring system makes very little sense to me, I struggle to understand as she explains how the tug-of-war event will work. It seems to be a bracket setup, four teams narrowed to two, narrowed to one winner. But you also get one point for every round you win along the way. And then the usual first-, second-, and third-place scores. Whatever. Just pull the rope, right?
Zale and I face off against the Soapery ladies: Felice and her manager, Nora. I feel like a sadist at the notion of destroying two fifty-year-old women, but they surprise us with their fortitude.
“Dig in!” Zale shouts. He’s our anchor in the back. I’m in the front. “Dig your heels in, Cassie! We got this.”
I hold on to the rope for dear life, while our teammates scream their encouragement from the sidelines. Inch by inch, we manage to drag our opponents closer to the red line. Sweat drips down my forehead. I see Felice’s forearms straining. A red vein in Nora’s forehead pulsating. They’re losing steam. Giving up. Zale and I give a final tug and Team Soapery is out.
“One point for Team Beacon,” Deb declares after blowing her whistle. “You guys are moving on to the next round.”
Of the other three matchups, I’m not shocked that the teams with the biggest dudes make it through. The Hartley twins, the firefighters, and the yacht club guys.
We’re facing the firefighters next, and I’m not optimistic.
“We can take them,” Zale assures me.
We’re huddled together several feet from the battle area. Deb’s given each team a couple minutes to talk strategy, but the firefighters don’t bother utilizing their allotted time. They’re already in position, rope in hand. Cocky assholes.
Rightfully so, however. “Zale. There’s no way. That big dude is, like, two hundred pounds.”
He disagrees, his voice low and confident. “You saw what they did against the mechanics, right? They placed the short guy in the front, big one anchoring. Now look what they’re doing.”
I discreetly peek over. Interesting. The big dude is up front now.
“See?” Zale says knowingly. “Bad strategy. They think because you’re in the front, he’ll be able to single-handedly wrench you over the line.”
“So I should go to the back this time?”
“No. Let’s not talk crazy now. You need me to anchor. But you, my special goddess warrior, won’t let him move you. You’re not gonna budge, because we’re gonna what?”
“Dig our heels in,” I answer dutifully.
“Exactly. Dig those heels in. You’re a stone, Cassie. Immovable. You’re a statue. You’re Stonehenge.”
Now that’s a pep talk.
“Now rub sand on your hands to dry them off,” he orders. “A dry rope is a winning rope.”
As we’re getting in position, I notice Tate grinning at me. “Come on, ginger,” he calls. “Let’s see what you got.”
Deb blows the whistle and the round begins. Somehow, against all odds, Zale’s strategy works. We’re statues. We don’t move. Don’t budge. I don’t think the firefighters know what hit them, and they expend all their energy attempting to dislodge our heels, which are dug in so deep we’re part of the sand now. Our opponents are dripping with sweat, but we’re Stonehenge. We’re immovable. Standing our ground.
“Now,” Zale orders, and we make our move, yanking hard. The shorter guy can’t control the rope and the two men go flying forward, landing face first in the sand.
“Another point for the Beacon!”
“Holy shit,” I exclaim, dazed. “We’re in the top two!”
Zale screams and lifts me off my feet to spin me around.
The Hartleys face off against Tate and his partner next, the latter team beating the twins after a competitive battle involving many an expletive. Then Tate’s sauntering up to me with a shit-eating grin.
“Ohhhh, look what the cat dragged in,” he taunts.
“You’re the one who dragged yourself over to me, dumbass,” I point out. I kneel down to stick my hands in the sand. They’re sweaty, and I need them dry. As Zale says, a dry rope is a winning rope. That’s not a real phrase, but hey, it got us to the finals.
Where, I suspect, our luck is about to run out. Tate’s six-one and has those strong sailing hands. His partner Luke is six-five and also happens to have strong sailing hands. The two of them have dominated their matchups. But Zale and I did manage to beat the firefighters, so maybe there’s a shred of hope for us.