Chapter 23 Harris
Harris
The lakefront is buzzing, the air thick with the scents of sawdust, sweat, and maple-fried donuts. Children perched on parents’ shoulders, waving miniature axes—harmless replicas sold at the makeshift concession stand. Caramel apples. Sizzling bratwursts. Mulled cider.
I stand at the edge of it all, hands on my hips, stomach twisted in knots. Laughter and chatter are almost drowned out by the country song blasting from the loudspeakers—and the hired lumberjacks taking practice swings on logs nearby.
For the first time all week, I feel like a fraud.
A phony. Fake.
I am, without a doubt, the worst lumberjack in this entire lineup and have no business being here.
Not to mention: I’m injured! The ache in my ribs is a dull, persistent reminder that I shouldn’t be doing this.
Instant regret.
Abort mission.
I step forward, rolling my shoulders, bracing myself for Annabelle’s pep talk before the day begins, eyes scanning the crowd.
Lucy has taken a spot among all the people, and I smile to myself.
She’s perched on the edge of her seat, her hands wrapped around a coffee cup, and I can see her grin from here. Unlike the rest of the spectators, who are here for the spectacle of burly men chopping wood, she’s here for me.
Probably to make sure I don’t kill myself—or keel over.
She’s so damn adorable. I wish we were still snuggled in her warm cloud of a bed. It smells like her, feels like her . . .
“Excuse me.” Annabelle clears her throat, stepping around me to the center of our little lumberhuddle. She’s chipper, sporting red lipstick as sharp as the axe she’s holding, which she brandishes like a pointer as she paces in front of us.
Kind of like a general in the army . . .
“Listen up, you fine specimens of flannel-clad manliness. You’ve been training for this moment your whole lives,” she announces theatrically. “Some of you have been conned into this under questionable circumstances—and little white lies.”
When her gaze flicks over to me, the guys chuckle.
I scowl.
“Guys, it doesn’t matter how you got here—all that matters is four out of eight lumberjacks are here.
Warm bodies.” She twirls the axe. “In less than five minutes, you’re all gonna be up there, chopping logs for the glory of the Fall Fest. Some of you will impress the crowd, earning thunderous applause.
Some of you will look like absolute morons.
And some of you”—she grins at me—“will make a certain yoga instructor swoon.”
I roll my eyes. Cheesefest.
“Here’s the deal,” she says seriously, all business. “Don’t cut off any fingers—we don’t have liability insurance for contracted labor. Don’t embarrass yourselves. And most importantly . . .” Her voice trails off. “Give the people what they came for.”
Bill whoops. Wally slaps my back so hard my ribs scream. Kyle and I high-five.
“Game faces, gentlemen!” Annabelle announces, thrusting the axe at me.
The crowd buzzes with anticipation, the announcer’s voice booming over the speakers, hyping up us “lumberjacks” for the Fall Fest Wood-Chopping Challenge.
Wally and Bill begin stretching nearby like this is the damn Olympics, and my eyes trail Annabelle as she walks off, soaking up the energy, waving to the crowd with both hands.
“Harris!”
I glance up, following the sound of my name.
Lucy is halfway down the bleachers, weaving through the crowd, dark hair tied into a high ponytail that bounces with each step. As always, she’s got a determined look on her face as she beelines toward me.
Fantastic.
I need a hug.
Full frontal, if possible . . .
I shift the axe to my other hand, steeling myself as she skids to a stop in front of me, breathless, her cheeks flushed. It’s a cold morning, and the air is chilly, the smells of cinnamon and hot tea tease my nose the closer she gets.
“You okay?” she asks, gaze dropping to where I’m cradling my ribs.
“Peachy,” I deadpan, unable to lie. I woke up slightly sore, and she gave me a few ibuprofen to take the edge off, but they haven’t kicked in yet.
Lucy tilts her head, studying me. Reaching out, she places her palm lightly over my chest, right above my racing heart. “Ready for all this?”
I swallow hard. For all her teasing, all her sass, there’s something about the way she’s looking at me—like she actually cares. Like she sees, through all my grumbling and joking around, that I’m doing this for her.
To impress her.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” I swallow again. “This is more nerve racking than the Super Bowl.”
Her brows go up. “You’ve played in the Super Bowl?”
This is no time for her teasing. “Are you fucking with me right now?”
She bites her lip, a twinkle in her eyes. “Yes, but your reaction was worth it.”
I huff out a laugh, shaking my head. “Unbelievable.”
“Oh, come on! I’m teasing.” She bumps into me gently. “If you can handle three-hundred-pound giants trying to crush you on a football field, I think you can handle log chopping for a few minutes.”
Up in the announcer’s stand, a microphone crackles. “All right, folks! Who’s ready to see some real lumberjacks in action?”
The crowd cheers, and my stomach drops.
Lucy notices my expression; her smirk softens into something gentler. She steps closer, lowering her voice. “You’ll be fine.”
“Sure,” I mutter. “If by fine you mean humiliated in front of half the town, then yeah. I’ll be fine.”
“You got this,” she says softly. “This started as fun—so go out there and have fun.”
I let out a slow breath, my grip tightening around the axe handle.
Fun. That’s what all this is about—the whole week, actually. This is what our coaching staff had in mind when they sent us to Star Lake. Comradery. Team building. Bonding.
Fun.
I scan the crowd for more familiar faces—sure enough, Miles, Deshaun, Dex, and a few others stick out like sore thumbs, the families around them seemingly oblivious to the larger-than-life figures among them. They’re here for a show!
Lucy steps in front of me, resting her hands lightly against my chest.
My pulse spikes.
“You know . . .” she muses, voice dropping flirtatiously. “You might need some extra luck.”
“Oh yeah?” My throat goes dry. “How extra?”
“Very extra.” Her fingers flex against my black-and-red flannel shirt, the smallest movement, but I feel it everywhere. Then—I watch transfixed as she rises on her toes and presses her lips to mine.
It’s not a quick peck, not some playful good luck peck on the cheek.
Nope.
It’s slow. Lingering.
The kind of kiss that has me gripping the axe tighter, fighting the urge to drop it and pull her against me completely. The kind that makes my ribs ache for an entirely different reason.
The kind of kiss that makes my dick hard.
Lucy finally pulls back, lips curling into a satisfied smile. My brain? Scrambled. My grip on the axe? Wobbly. My entire body? Tense in a way that has me wanting to scoop her up, carry her off, and bang her in the bed of my pickup truck.
And, judging by the eruption of laughter from behind me, my lumberjack coworkers appreciate it too. Kyle lets out a low whistle. “Somebody’s got a serious case of morning wood—and it ain’t me.”
The guys erupt into laughter.
I shoot Kyle a glare. “Jesus Christ. Be a damn gentleman—there are ladies present.”
He smirks. “What I meant was, we’re all about to chop wood.”
Wally waggles his brows. “If I got a kiss like that before competing, I’d be swinging too hard.”
Kyle snickers. “Or not hard enough.”
“Enough.” Annabelle claps her hands, interrupting us—thank God. “Rein it in. We have an audience, and I refuse to let you ruin this event before it starts.”
“We’re playing to the crowd.” Kyle grins. “You told us to give the people what they want . . .”
“You know what people don’t want?” Annabelle counters. “To hear you two rambling about your lack of wood while they sip cider with their cute families. Now, enough innuendos—axes up!”
Then she gives Lucy a tiny nudge. “Luce—time is up. You’ve sufficiently flustered Harris.” Annabelle waves her hand toward the bleachers. “Shoo, shoo—off you go. Let the man do his job.”
Lucy grins at her best friend but follows her directions, taking a step back. “You’re going to do great,” she tells me. “Do your best.”
Do my best?
I laugh as she kisses me one last time before jogging back up to the stands, ponytail bouncing.
The announcer’s voice crackles over the speakers. “Ladies and gentleman! It’s time for the first round of the standing block chop! Let’s hear it for our competitors as they step up in position!”
The crowd erupts, a mix of cheers, whistles, and a few good-natured boos from my teammates, who are clearly enjoying the spectacle of Harris in flannel, pretending to be a lumberjack.
Kyle elbows me as we step up to our respective logs. “You look like you’re in a goddamn Hallmark movie.”
“Was that a compliment?”
He grunts.
As I’m adjusting my grip on the axe handle, the announcer’s voice crackles once more. “Well, well, well, folks! I’ve been informed we’ve got ourselves a special guest competitor in today’s competition!”
I freeze.
Oh shit.
The last fucking thing I want is more attention on myself.
The mood shifts, murmurs of curiosity rippling through the stands. The audience members crane their necks.
My stomach drops into my ass.
“Now, I don’t know if y’all noticed,” the announcer continues, dragging out this pronouncement, savoring every damn syllable.
“But chopping wood isn’t the only thing this guy does.
You might recognize him from Sunday Night Football because standing right here in front of us, ready to take on some good old-fashioned timber, is none other than Harris Bennett from the Arizona Sentinels!
And he’s brought along a few of his friends. ”
Silence.
For half a second.
Then—absolute chaos.
The bleachers erupt.
When I raise my hand—and axe—to wave, the roar of the crowd crashes over me, my nerves disappearing. Poof, gone.
If they want a show, I’ll give them a damn show.