Blue Crush

by Barnard, Jules

  The first obstacle we approach is the one that looks like a playground monkey bar set, except it goes uphill. Swinging bars immediately follow. Both obstacles are slicked with mud and oil.

  I leap for the first rung and almost slip and fall in a muddy gully. That little shake-up has my head entirely in the game and not on the man a few feet in front of me, skipping bars two at a time like Tarzan. I can’t skip bars, but I trained for the greased apparatuses. A technique that involves speed and grip adjustment gets me across the initial set. Lewis is nearly to the next obstacle, a wall a quarter of a mile away, by the time I exit the second.

  My first test of upper body strength is made of flat, vertical boards smeared in mud from competitors who didn’t make it through the monkey bars without a bath. My heart sputters in a panic. The wall is twice Lewis’s height.

  A sudden image of him above me at the cascades runs through my mind, along with the split second when I nearly fell to my death.

  Lewis waves with frantic full-bodied arm movements for me to hurry, and I shove aside my fears, pump my legs at full speed, and leap onto the wall. He boosts my foot, propelling me up until I loop a leg over the top. This is why I didn’t want to partner with him. I’m slowing him down.

  A random stranger boosts Lewis and he reciprocates by giving the guy an arm lift to the ledge. Okay, maybe we all need help in this competition.

  “Go!” Lewis shouts in my ear and shoves me over the other side.

  Son of a bitch! He had climbed to the top of the wall and helped the guy in the time it took me to wiggle around without falling, and that’s what I do anyway.

  Bales of hay cushion my fall, but I land hard, jolting my spine. Lewis rolls off beside me and beelines it for the next obstacle.

  I stumble after him, passing people along the way. Even at this stage, competitors look haggard.

  A bottleneck up ahead blocks my view of the next hurdle and it’s not until I’m nearly upon it that I get a good look. The ice bath.

  A girl in front of me enters the water and screams.

  No sweat. Lewis prepared me for this with the Cave Rock torture. Of course, what I remember about that day isn’t the cold water, but the way he warmed me afterward.

  Focus!

  I clamber over the side, and—Holy mother of God! My limbs lock, hands curling into claws. I’m in the Arctic, ice cubes burning my flesh. I clench my teeth and book it to the other side, my arms and legs moving like sticks as I bump into bodies attempting to get the hell out.

  Hurling myself over the end, I flop like a fish and land on my ass with a sting. Hop-sprinting, I attempt to circulate warmth into the popsicles that are my legs, and head for the mud ditch just ahead.

  People exit the brown moat, groaning and covered head to toe in splatter. A few unfortunate souls look like swamp monsters.

  My first step inside explains why contestants appeared to be moving in place. The mud acts like quicksand. With each step, I stumble and sink, the bottom sucking my shoes like a sponge. My quads burn, my back aches—this is by far the most strenuous obstacle up until now.

  Our team planned for walking through mud by lacing our shoes snugly and triple-knotting so we wouldn’t lose them. I emerge on the other side exhausted, but with all my clothes. I’m covered in brown goop and shaking because the mud was freaking cold, and after the ice bath, I really didn’t need it. I ignore the chunk of dirt I swallowed and jog, picking up speed as my limbs warm.

  I’m not sure if others have dropped out, or simply lag behind, or if I’m in between heats, but the competitors along this swath have thinned. Lewis appears strong just ahead and is rapidly approaching the obstacle that psyched me out during training, because there was literally no way to prepare for it.

  Dangling live wires hang from a wooden edifice, constructed for the sole purpose of shocking the crap out of people.

  Some runners slow, possibly to determine how others cross successfully.

  I kick it up a notch.

  Lewis looks back. “Chin tucked, arms in front. Run hard!” he yells before bursting into the wires a few seconds ahead of me.

  We couldn’t train for the electrodes, but we talked about them. Lewis and Zach agreed the best strategy is to not slow. You slow, you’re more likely to get hit by a pulse.

  I’m doing as Lewis says, running full force when a guy on my left, using some sort of dodging strategy, jerks with a yelp and drops like a stone.

  Shit! My pace falters, fear messing with my head. A zap spears my bad arm, radiating pain down my side. I scream and nearly fall.

  Hands braced on my knees, I look up, blinking. My side got hit by a pulse, that’s all. My arm is not in fact falling off.

  Lewis is yelling from the other end for me to run. I raise my arms in front of my face and battle cry my way out and into his arms. He squeezes me to his chest—then shoves me with a hard push onto the next stretch of the race.

  Miles of rocky incline lie ahead. Lewis passes me, but we’re both moving fast compared to the others. He’s a handful of people in front as we enter the stone. Like the shale outcropping at the cascades, the rock forms steep, sharp stairs. Center of gravity, legs instead of back. I repeat Lewis’s instructions in my head and push until my legs burn. It works because I’m catching up to him.

  A big, beefy guy blocks my path. He has more muscle on one forearm than I do on my entire body, but he’s slow. I swivel a fraction at the top of a boulder and round him.

  Something happens. The guy loses his balance and uses me to regulate, or he makes a blocking move. The only thing I know is that my ponytail gets yanked back, sending my center of gravity to hell.

  This time, no sound erupts from my mouth. I’m just falling, falling … arms windmilling. I land with a crunch on my hand and elbow, my knee taking the next brunt.

  Competitors race past, the sound of panting and hard footfalls in my ear. One guy raises his eyebrow. “You okay?” he calls.

  I gulp in air and clamber to my feet. Blood gushes down my knee. There’s a good chance I broke something in my hand, but everything else seems in working order, including my temper.

  Motherfucker. Where the hell is the added security the mudder hired?

  I scale the few feet I dropped back and cut ahead of the people who passed me a moment ago. My face burns, sweat pouring down my temples. I shouldn’t be using this much energy until the finish, but I’m behind because of that fall.

  The next mile is downhill, which I take at a dangerous speed the big guys don’t risk, including the one who made me tumble. He glares as I sweep past him, the road wider here; he can’t grab me for support or a boost. Logically, I probably shouldn’t run this fast either, but the fear is gone, which will either help me or get me killed.

  I slip by Lewis several minutes later before we reach another set of obstacles. We’ve completed a dozen or more. I’m praying this is the last cluster. Although my adrenaline surges, and my stamina is solid, I can’t help but worry about my hand. It throbs and I’m not sure how I’ll manage the last obstacles without the use of it.

  A field of logs looms ahead. I leap from one to the other, maintaining my balance. My hand is no help during the next exercise, a barbed wire crawl, so I use my elbow to scurry beneath. Lewis glides by me on the right. He’s got a hundred pounds of height and muscle on me, but he moves like a damn lizard, his stomach flat to the ground. His gaze goes straight to my arm and the hand I’m not using, his mouth twisting as he speeds past. He didn’t see me fall, but he’s perceptive. Too perceptive.

  I emerge on the other side a good minute behind him, but I make up time in a short sprint segment, until I arrive at the log carry. The wood is as thick as my torso, two feet in width, and I have to lug it a hundred feet.

  Using my good hand and the wrist of my bad I lift the log, and nearly crush my toes as it slips and crashes to the ground. Lewis taught us to prop the logs on our shoulders, but that’s out of the question with one hand. I manage to wrestle the weight on m
y chest in a squat—good arm combination. I’m panting by the time I drop it and follow the shouts toward what I assume is the home stretch.

  We’ve been racing for a couple hours and I am so close to finishing. I mean, I had hoped I could, but I never knew for sure.

  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, 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 land on my ass, sliding 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 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. I’m halfway up, the thought that I might actually scale this thing distracting me for a split second. My fingers slip, the center of my injured hand burns with the strain of using it when I shouldn’t. No!

  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 before 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 and Fred high-five each other, Mom jumping up and down and calling my name. Next to her, Jeb and his wife hold hands, 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.

  Lewis ducks his head to my ear and holds me tight. “Don’t leave me, Gen. Give me a chance to show you what you mean to me. This last week has killed me. I’ve missed you so much.” He squeezes me tighter and kisses the top of my head. “Please, just—I want to tell you everything.”

  I nod, my face muffled by his broad, warm chest. Lewis has been there for me when I’ve least expected it. I thought I wasn’t important enough to him, but I don’t know anymore. The safe thing to do would be to tell him no and walk away, to hold my heart close like I always do.

  Apparently, I’m no longer playing it safe.

  Chapter Thirty

  Well, damn.

  I won the mudder.

  Not the entire race. That went to some male triathlete who’s like the best in the country and did the mudder for shits and giggles—and for the five-thousand-dollar grand prize. I won best time among the women. Granted, there were a tenth as many women participating as men, so my odds were outstanding, but still, I received a thousand dollars for the women’s first place.

  My mom and Jeb and their significant others followed the race via some app for spectators. They knew all along that I had a chance at winning. Lewis was in line for fifth place, my mom said, but he helped me at the last minute. If he’d stayed in fifth, he would have earned prize money comparable to mine. A thousand dollars isn’t chump change and he gave it up. For me.

  The medics onsite told me to see a doctor for my hand, explaining it was likely broken. They put my arm in a sling and bandaged my cut knees and splinters. Once Mom received Lewis’s sworn promise to take me to the hospital for my hand after the festivities, she and Fred left to get food with Jeb and Simone, the four of them like long-lost pals. Totally bizarre, and I’m not sure what to think of it so I’m trying not to.

  I drink about a gallon of water and one beer. The beer was obligatory, a mudder tradition. For a minute, I worried it would make a reappearance. Turns out pushing your body to the limit, then pouring alcohol down your throat, is not a good idea.

  Cali holds out my purse. She applied eye black at some point to get into the spirit of the race. “You sure you don’t need me to stick around? Go with you to the hospital?”

  I sling my small bag across my chest. “We
’ll make sure she gets home,” one of my drunken teammates shouts way too loudly. None of them placed, but they drank after the race like they had.

  No way am I getting a ride from those drunken asshats, but Cali and Jaeger have plans. I tell her I’ll be fine.

  My team and I mingle for an hour with other Alpine Mudders, basking in the glory of having trained like a Navy Seal, or a Green Beret, or whatever this race is about. For me, it was about stepping outside my comfort zone and holding my own in a male-dominated environment.

  Nessa and her secret Buddhist wisdom … She was right. I am stronger. That strength began the moment I decided to face a fear. It snowballed, shaped me. I couldn’t face one without facing others. Which brings me to Lewis.

  He is the embodiment of all my fears—of opening up, of having my heart crushed, of trusting. I’ve jumped at every opportunity to push him away, but he’s asked me to give him a chance. He’s been there for me in ways no man has. That’s why I’ll listen to what he has to say.

  And because I love him. The person he is, the way he makes me feel—all of it.

  Off to the side, Lewis hesitantly chats with another mudder who’s unabashedly sticking her double-Ds in his face. I don’t blame the girl one bit. With caked-on mud, blue war paint, and muscles bulging from competition—really, the entire package—Lewis is a little mysterious and a lot hot. I drool in his presence; of course other women do too.

  He sips water, glancing at me every few seconds, tracking my progress through the throng. My drunken teammates are celebrating off to the side. I make my way over and get waylaid by three college-looking guys with goofy green headbands.

  One of them slips an arm over my shoulders. “It’s the girl who won! Dude, you crushed me on one of the uphills.” He lists to the side, obviously having dabbled in free alcohol for a good while, and steers me toward the keg, in the opposite direction of Zach and the others. “What’s your—”

  Lewis grabs my good hand, leans down, and throws me over his shoulder, my purse digging into my side. “She’s with me,” he calls to the guys as he strides away.