Chapter Seventeen
If anyone asked Amy two days ago what the most important thing in the world was, her answer would have been easy.
It would be to write a book that could rival Colleen Hoover or Emily Henry on the New York Times Best Seller list. But somewhere along the way, that dream had changed.
Savannah had kissed a slow path down her neck, her breath hot against the base of Amy’s throat, and suddenly Amy wanted more than another bestseller. She wanted Savannah.
It had taken literally ten seconds to resolve four days of distance.
Ten seconds Amy had no idea how to sum up in words.
But if she tried, if she really tried, she’d have to say it felt like the sky turning that bruised, sulfur green right before an Oklahoma twister dropped.
Savannah’s hands on her body hadn’t just touched her; they’d flattened the wind right out of her lungs, and had whipped up a wild, brown-dirt frenzy that flattened every boundary Amy had tried to build.
“AMY, WHAT ARE YOU DOING? RUN!” Savannah shouted from the other side of the field. “RUN! YOU’VE GOT THE BALL! RUN!”
Amy shook her head clear just as she realized the ball was tucked tightly against her ribs.
When did that get there? Oh yes, then she remembered.
Right after the whistle had blown, Amy had charged for the ball in the center of the field.
Her fingers had snagged the heavy leather right out of the sludge before Luna or Kate could get there.
But somewhere between grabbing it, seeing Savannah’s mud-slicked legs in those hot pants, Amy’s brain had floated straight back to last night.
She was reminiscing about the exact texture of Savannah’s skin under her thumbs, the hitch in her chest, the way her waist had pressed so tight against her in the dark.
THUD!
Amy didn’t even see Luna coming.
The author hit her like a runaway train. Amy’s breath left her lungs in a pathetic whoosh as her feet flew out from under her. Time slowed down just long enough for her to catch a glimpse of the blue sky, the two dark spots that she assumed were birds flying in the distance, and then... SPLAT!
“AMY’S DOWN!” Naomi called from the sideline, though her voice was muffled through the thick wall of sludge that was currently coating Amy’s ears.
She wiped it off just in time to tilt her head up and watch Luna pounce on the loose ball.
Amy nearly screamed for Savannah to take her, but her voice came out all soft and screechy.
Had Luna damaged her voice box with that tackle?
Not that it would’ve mattered. Savannah was busy wrestling Kate off her back.
The actress was hanging on her like a monkey.
There was no way Savannah was going to catch Luna in time. No way.
Through her dripping lashes, Amy watched Luna race toward the wooden target at the other end of the field and felt every cell in her body sag with disappointment as Luna dipped into a crouch, wrapped both hands around the ball, and drove it skyward with a force Amy had no idea she had.
The post wasn’t exactly tall, but still. The ball soared right into it.
“LUNA SCORES!” Naomi shouted, clapping her hands together.
“ONE POINT FOR LUNA AND KATE! COME ON OUT, SAVANNAH AND AMY.” She flourished her hand toward the losers’ bench.
Ezra was already seated there because she was the only contestant without a partner.
That meant she had no chance of winning the reward. “NEXT PAIR IS UP!”
The rules of the Mud Run reward challenge were painfully simple.
Every round, two pairs entered the cordoned-off field covered in a layer of thick sludge.
They had to wrestle, run, and tackle each other to haul a waterlogged ball across the sludge and dunk it into the target hoop.
The pairs would swap out after every point, rotating back and forth until the first pair reached two points.
The challenge had been brought back a few times over the seasons.
It was apparently a fan favorite. Watching women covered in mud tackling each other seemed to satisfy a lot of people’s fantasies.
It was filthy, and quite frankly, unhinged, which naturally made it perfect television.
But the reward was worth it. Wood-fired pizza, unlimited Aperol spritzes, and lemon meringue pie aboard a private catamaran that sailed along the coast during sunset.
Amy would literally kill for a pizza.
And yet, it was entirely her fault that they’d lost the first round.
She’d been daydreaming like a simpleton.
This was eleventh-grade gym class all over again, when she’d spent way too much time admiring Stacie Bianco’s ponytail swinging during volleyball.
Her hair was literally the color of spun gold and swung like a metronome in slow motion.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered just as Savannah slung her arm over her shoulder. “I was distracted.” Amy glanced at Savannah and wondered if it was possible for the mud streaking her cheeks to somehow make her more gorgeous.
“Hope I’m the reason you were distracted,” Savannah said.
Amy laughed, and without thinking, she leaned into Savannah. Had anyone even noticed? Fortunately, no one was looking at them.
Wyn and Maya had just walked into the mud pit.
It may have been Amy’s imagination, but Luna looked a little more scared this time around.
Apparently for good reason. Wyn was the Usain Bolt of the Mud Run.
She reached the ball in the middle of the field in three seconds flat, and before Luna or Kate could even get close to the ball, she plowed straight across the field.
Maya didn’t even need to block. She just stood near the wooden hoop, cheering Wyn on as she tossed the ball in a perfect arc through the air.
It landed against the rim of the hoop, then bounced in.
“WYN AND MAYA ARE THE ROUND TWO WINNERS!”
“You two don’t stand a chance,” Ezra said from the bench. “Did you see Wyn? She should be part of the national rugby team. I’ll be surprised if they don’t snatch her up after this.”
Amy gave her the side-eye. But Ezra was right. They didn’t stand a chance. And if Wyn and Maya Lin won this round, they would win the reward. Her dream of sharing a cheesy pizza with Savannah aboard a boat while the sun dipped the world in gold was slipping further away.
“I have a plan,” Savannah said before Naomi could call them up. “Did you ever play catch growing up?”
“Catch?” Amy asked, frowning. How could they play catch if they couldn’t even get their hands on the ball?
Savannah leaned in closer, stepping into Amy’s space.
Her fingers brushed against Amy’s lower back for a fraction of a second, but it was enough.
Lightning shot straight through Amy’s sludge-coated skin.
How could she possibly concentrate on a strategy when all Amy could think about was last night and how Savannah had unraveled her with nothing but her two fingers.
And then she had proceeded to admit she liked her.
The Savannah Rigsby liked little Amy Sandler from Porter, Oklahoma.
What the actual fuck? How was she not dreaming?
“There’s no rule against throwing mud,” Savannah whispered in her ear. “Wyn’s a sprinter. And the only way to get a sprinter down is to get a little down and dirty.”
“What are you saying?” Amy wasn’t above playing dirty. It just depended on how dirty. “You want me to throw mud at Wyn? Knock her down before she can get to the ball?” If that was what Savannah was implying, well, then Amy didn’t think Savannah could get any hotter.
“Obviously don’t go for the face. That’s just cruel,” Savannah said. “Just distract her enough for me to swoop in. I can take Maya Lin at the goalpost easily.”
“Next round begins in ten,” Naomi declared, then she started counting down while she shaded her eyes from the harsh sun. “Eight. Seven. Six...”
Amy and Savannah sloshed back to the starting line.
Savannah gave Amy’s ass a quick slap as she walked to the other side.
Had that been a little too obvious? Then again, Amy had watched enough women’s sports to know that an ass tap was standard protocol before a game, and hopefully the rest of the contestants wouldn’t think twice about it.
Across the field, Wyn stood like a sprinter in the blocks. Her eyes were locked on the ball resting on the ground in the center.
The whistle shrieked.
Wyn exploded forward, flecks of mud flying behind her.
Amy watched as Maya did exactly what Savannah said she would do.
She bolted straight toward the goalpost. Then Savannah sprinted forward toward the center line, but she didn’t try to go for the ball right away.
This was it. It was up to Amy. She plunged her hands into the mucky soup, scooped up a massive glob of mud, and then aimed for Wyn’s shoulder.
She miscalculated.
The wet ball of mud slipped from her mud-slicked fingers a microsecond early and arced straight into Wyn’s trajectory. It didn’t hit her shoulder as Amy had aimed. Instead, the mud ball struck Wyn square across the eyes with a horrific, wet slap.
Wyn dropped like a stone.
Fuck, Amy thought, her blood turning to ice water. She’d killed her. She’d literally killed the Hollywood starlet, and for what? A pizza. What the hell was she thinking?
Time slowed down. The world stopped moving. There were shouts from the bench side of the field, but Amy couldn’t hear what they were saying. I’m going to prison, Amy’s brain screamed. They’re going to air this season as a true-crime documentary.
Out of the corner of Amy’s eye, she could see both Maurine and Naomi heading toward the field, but before either could get over the shin-high pegs that cordoned off the space, Wyn exploded upward out of the sludge like a sea monster breaking the surface.
She wiped a heavy slab of sludge from her eyes and locked her gaze straight onto Amy.
“I’m coming for you, Sandler,” she snarled, her voice dripping with rage.
Amy had only ever been faced with one other life-threatening situation.
It was when she was seventeen and a panicked squirrel had gotten trapped in their living room.
Within seconds, it had knocked a lamp off the end table, sent glass flying across the carpet, and chewed through the microwave cord.
Amy didn’t count her encounter with Brutus and Nero because surely she was never in any real danger?
And both times, her body dared to freeze.
Not fight. Not flight. Just complete paralysis.
Wyn charged across the pit like an angry bull. Worst of all, Amy was wearing a faded Eat My Cherries red T-shirt. She might as well have been waving a matador’s cape.
Somewhere to Amy’s left, Savannah shouted, “It was my idea, Wyn. I told her to throw mud at you.”
But that didn’t stop Wyn. She was driven by pure rage and took another three thunderous strides directly toward Amy. Then, right when Amy’s brain had somehow convinced her feet to unstick themselves, Wyn’s left heel stayed locked in the mud while her body twisted awkwardly to the left.
A sickening pop suddenly cut through the beach, followed instantly by a guttural scream as Wyn collapsed sideways into the pit, clutching her left ankle. “FUUUCK!”