1. Este #3
“On your marks, get set, drink!” The announcer yells over the loudspeaker.
I throw back the shot without a chaser, spin around until Dom yells, “Go!” and then take off, only to fall directly onto my face after I trip over my own stupid foot.
I expected that right out of the gate. While the world is still a blur, I manage to get my hands underneath me.
Somehow, I right myself fast enough that only three teams are ahead of me, and then I shuffle my feet and find the right gait.
Shuffle, step, shuffle, step. Not taking too big of steps is the secret here, and I’m shocked to figure it out early enough to give us a slight lead.
“You got this, Este!” Dom yells after me as I reach the halfway point, spin around eight times as instructed before the race, and zigzag my way back down the field clumsily.
I keep my eyes trained on Dom’s smiling face.
All I have to do is make it over to him without falling, and I’ll be proud.
He’s cheering me on loudly as I shuffle faster, the harsh thread of the burlap scratching my legs as the sun beats down on my face, and my shirt rides up my sweaty lower back.
Quite literally, I fall at Dom’s feet, chest heaving, and flip onto my back. He reaches forward and yanks the sack down, his fingertips sliding across my legs as he pulls the sack off me. Then, he jumps into it, takes the shot, and pulls me to my feet before he spins around.
Stepping aside behind the starting line, I watch Dom appear effortless as he dashes down the field in the burlap sack.
He strides ahead of our top two opponents, and then he spins around eight more times and is on his way back to me.
He’s so adept, capable, and damn if he doesn’t make scratchy burlap look good.
I jump around and clap for him like the cheerleader I’ve never been a day in my life. I’m not sure what comes over me, but it’s a feeling of elation and almost delirium that feels foreign but good.
“Dom, Dom, Dom!” I chant as he blows the competition out of the water and glides like a gazelle to the spray-painted gray line.
Before I know it, Dom ditches the burlap and yanks me into his arms, spinning me around a few times before he sets me down.
Mid-spin, the referee blows a whistle three times, and I giggle as Dom’s hand lingers on my hip.
“We did it!” I practically shout with glee. His beaming face and adorable dimples transfix me, and I realize too late that I have my hand wrapped around his thick, bulging bicep.
Shit, girl, stop squeezing the muscles of a man you just met fifteen minutes ago!
I remove my hand like it’s been on a hot potato. As the announcer declares our team the winners, Dom wraps his arm around me and pulls me against his side, while participants and people on the sidelines clap politely.
“Who’s that guy with Mallory?” I wonder as Dom releases me. She’s getting ready for some kind of balloon-related game not too far downfield, and a movie-star-looking guy is kneeling in front of her, taping balloons to her feet.
“Oh, that’s my buddy, Jamie Bristol. We go way back, and no worries. He’s solid.”
Staring at his GI Joe-like musculature, I know the last part is true. Mallory looks up and meets my eyes, and then gives me an enthusiastic thumbs up that tells me her rebound man has been acquired. Good for her.
“Well, I hope he’s ready for her because she’s a spitfire and just had a terrible breakup. Mallory has some wild oats to sow, and it seems she’s found her rebound.” I shake my head, amused at how she found the beefiest male in the whole place, and now he was, quite literally, falling at her feet.
“They’re getting on just fine from the looks of it.” Dom chuckles, and the sound is like hearing a song for the first time you know is going to become your favorite. Nerves churn in my stomach as I realize I’m wholly affected by this man and his proximity.
Staring up at him, probably for a second too long, he cracks another exceptionally white smile that stops my heart and any thought I might have had in my head.
“I think we make a good team,” Dom says after a few seconds of affable silence. He tosses his arm around my shoulders. “How about we pair up for the beach ball volley? It starts soon.”
“Sure.” I don’t know what beach ball volley is yet, but in a few minutes, I find out it involves carrying a giant beach ball from one side of the field to the other and back as a team without using your hands.
It sounds simple enough until the race rule guy declares the beach ball cannot touch the ground at any time.
We can drop it once, but if we drop it twice, we will be disqualified.
I really don’t want to disappoint Dom, so we talk strategy before the whistle blows.
When it does, we stand with the ball between our chests, his arms long enough to wrap around my shoulders and pull me close.
I’m dizzy from the feeling of his fingers on my bare shoulders, feeling heat dancing in my belly as he directs me. “Big hop! You got this, babe!”
I choose not to focus on the accidental pet name drop as we balance the ball between our chests; I take huge hops, and he takes tiny ones sideways, never letting go of me, matching one another’s strides.
We laugh the whole way, feeling ridiculous for a good cause, and we manage not to lose the ball once as we continue our silly hops to the finish line.
I notice several teams adjusting their strategy to align with ours as we progress.
What we have going for us is our strange synchronicity—we move practically as one, never taking our eyes off each other, and finish ahead of every other team by at least twenty feet.
I don’t expect Dom to crush me against his chest and hold me tight as our names get announced over the loudspeaker as the winners, but he does. I’m deliriously happy when the thought hits me: I really like the way our names sound out loud together. Something about “Dom and Este” just sounds right.
“Well, I think it’s best we stay partners today,” Dom announces.
I chuckle. “God forbid we end our winning streak.”
“The next event involves water balloons.” Dom grins, and butterflies swirl in my stomach as he pulls me in tight, his arm around my shoulders again. I can’t remember the last time anyone was this affectionate with me, much less such a handsome man.
“Alright, Cowboy. Let’s go get ‘em.”
We walk toward the next event, and our winning streak never comes to an end.