Chapter 5
Hallie
I’m not going to limit myself
just because people won’t accept the fact
that I can do something else.
~ Dolly Parton
"Okay, everyone!" Captain shouts as we're finishing equipment checks. "Weight room in five."
All eyes flick to me.
The room goes still. One unspoken question sits on each tongue.
Dustin finally breaks the silence. “So, we're all working out—together?”
Cody’s face remains neutral. “We always work out together.”
Dustin chuckles, looking at me and raising his brows, “Yeah.” He nods. “Yeah. We do. Okay, Captain. Whatever you say. We’ll just work out. Like usual.”
I stand a little straighter, turn and walk to my bunk to change into shorts and a T-shirt, determined not to make this weird.
Normally, I’d exercise in yoga pants and a form-fitting spandex top.
That’s definitely not what the moment calls for.
Then I do some preliminary stretches and warm-ups—ones I’m not yet comfortable doing in front of the guys.
The sound of male laughter filters through the bay as I walk toward the weight room, which is about the size of a small master bedroom filled with weight racks, machines, a bench, a TRX and some stands holding bands and ropes.
When I open the door, the laughter dies as if I flicked a switch. Every eye lands on me—again. The silence stretches. I stare at the men—four of them, all dressed in shorts or sweatpants and T-shirts.
Greyson’s wearing a tank top. My eyes stutter on his biceps and the cording of his forearms, the way his muscles are defined across his shoulders—all lines and dips and swells.
He’s a sculpture. He’s almost unreal, with the stoic expression of stone to match his physique.
My gaze travels across his body to meet his stare.
Heat rises up my cheeks and I make the mistake of glancing in the mirror.
I’m turning as red as the truck in the bay.
I didn’t mean to check Greyson out—he’s just there. It’s kind of hard to ignore all that rippling muscle. I wasn’t prepared. I should have been, but now I’m practically a walking siren, wailing “hot man, hot man!” while my red skin flashes my embarrassment throughout the room.
Cody saves me—saves all of us. “Dustin, could you put your guns away? I don’t want anyone getting hurt on my watch.”
“These guns?” Dustin asks, flexing his arms in a way that’s so exaggerated I snort-laugh. He checks his reflection, admiring his own arms. “I can see why you’d be nervous, Captain.” He aims both fists outward and pops one bicep and then the other.
“Are we having a shoot-out?” I ask, lifting my arms and flexing one bicep and then the other in a mirror of Dustin’s display.
“Okay, then,” Patrick says with a smile and a low whistle. “Looks like you’ve met your match, Dustin.”
“I’ll see you at sundown, partner,” Dustin says in a fake Western drawl, tipping his invisible cowboy hat in my direction.
“Not if I see you first,” I say, making a finger gun and blowing across the tips of my fingers.
Greyson chuckles softly. Our eyes meet again.
I look away. This room is way too small, but I’m here, so I’m going to fit in and make it work.
I walk to the weight bench, set my plates, and ask Dustin, “Could you spot me?”
“Um. That’s one hundred thirty-five pounds, Rookie,” Dustin doesn’t step in my direction. He squints his eyes and his lips thin into a flat line.
“I know,” I tell him.
I’ve trained for just this moment. It’s one of those key times when all eyes will be on me. I’ll either earn their trust or their doubt.
In the academy, I had to prove myself—until I didn’t.
I went through CrossFit and lifted three times a week to get into the shape I’m in.
I had to pass agility testing—the hardest test a firefighter endures—to make it onto a crew.
I paid my dues so I could not only show the men I’d work alongside that I was capable, but that they could rely on me in any crisis.
“Okay, Brownie, I’ll spot you,” Dustin says, taking his place behind the bench, but still leaving me all the space I need.
I glance over at Greyson. His brow is furrowed with concern.
“I’m only doing three reps,” I tell Dustin.
He nods solemnly. “One would be impressive. Don’t hurt yourself on our account.”
“We’re here to work out, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then I’m going to bench.”
He nods.
I lay back on the bench, squaring my feet, bracing my back with my abdominal muscles.
Rolling my shoulders back, I place my hands evenly on the bar and inhale.
On the exhale, I lift the bar off the rack, extending my arms skyward with a thrust and grunt.
It’s the least ladylike movement imaginable.
I’m shaking and I’m sure a vein is bulging in my neck. I grit my teeth.
“You okay?” Dustin asks, all humor absent from his tone.
“Yep.”
I slowly lower the bar to my chest and push it away.
“One!” Dustin shouts.
“Nope,” I say, my voice strained. “That’s only half a lift.”
I hold the bar high, calculating my breathing. Lower it. Press with all my might to raise it again. “One!”
My arms are shaking. I’m like a human earthquake on the bench, but I’m still in control. I lower the bar and with a pop of exertion, I press it high overhead a second time, my elbows practically straight.
“Two!” Dustin shouts. “You’ve got this, Hallie!”
I lower the weight again, just a centimeter away from my chest, and then I grunt and press the barbell high overhead and release it with a clank onto the rack.
“Three!” Dustin and I say in unison.
When I sit up, my breath comes out in gasps, sweat beading my forehead.
All eyes are on me again. A heavy silence fills the small space.
My eyes flick to Greyson’s. He nods briefly, almost imperceptibly.
I remain seated. All the men in the room are watching me, but the look in their eyes has shifted from curious and guarded to one of respect. The heaviness in my center dissolves into a slow, steady calm. My legs still straddle the bench, chest heaving from the exertion.
Dustin lets out a loud whoop. “Dang, girl! Talk about beast mode! You can haul me out of a fire any day!”
Patrick chuckles. “No one’s hauling you out of any fire, Dustin. You and the fireman carry.” He looks at me. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you over breakfast tomorrow.”
“Okay, this wasn’t a show,” Cody says. “Let’s get back to business, men …” He turns to me. “... and woman.”
The air in the room changes. It’s so subtle, like a warming by a single degree. When I move to grab a piece of equipment, or pick up a jump rope to jump, no one accommodates me with extra space. We simply work out.
Inside, I’m screaming. A whole bleacher-full of inner cheerleaders is freaking out like their team just won the championship. On the outside, I’m calm, collected. Just a firefighter exercising with her crew.
With no warning, the bell rings through the station.
Dispatch’s scratchy relay simultaneously comes through Cody’s handheld and the overhead speaker system. “Fire situation at Sycamore Assisted Living.”
Cody grabs the handheld and presses the com button. “What’s the situation?”
“Apparently the resident in room three-sixteen refuses to leave. There are other individuals in that apartment as well. Staff report six people trapped in the room. Everyone else is evacuated and accounted for. Smoke detectors went off on the third floor.”
“On it,” Cody says, looking around the room at the rest of us.
We’re already quickly filing out of the room toward the lockers in the bay where we keep our turnout gear.
Cody trails behind us, talking to dispatch as we move into action. A minute later, we’re in the engine, strapped in, headsets on, sirens blaring as we roll out toward the senior center.
Dispatch comes through the headsets. “Alarm is still sounding. Residents continue to refuse to evacuate a third-floor apartment. Everyone else is out of the building. We’ve instructed the staff to stay out and allow you to complete the rescue.”
“Copy,” Greyson says. “We’re about two minutes out.” Then he addresses us. “Firefighters Reed and Collins will go in. O’Connell and I will man the engine and run backup.”
My knee bounces with pent-up energy. I’m going in. I’ve trained for this. I’m ready.
Dustin speaks into his headset. “Collins, stick with me. I’ll show you how this is run. Usually calls to Sycamore are minor or false alarms. But we always go in as if we could be dealing with an actual incident.”
“This time sounds real,” Patrick says.
Greyson doesn’t say anything. He rides along in the officer seat, eyes forward, face neutral.
We pull up in front of a three-story brick building with green shutters and white trim. The lawn is filled with elderly people sitting on benches or standing around, some with walkers, a few in wheelchairs. Aides and staff are mingling between the crowd of people.
I hop out of the engine, securing my SCBA mask to the clip on my chest strap, grabbing the irons and following Dustin while Greyson does a quick three-sixty of the building and Patrick stays with the engine. Dustin’s carrying an extinguisher and the TIC camera to pick up on any hot spots.
“No smoke,” Greyson relays through our earpieces.
“We’re going in,” Dustin says. “Checking the panel on the way in.”
“Copy,” Greyson’s deep, serious voice rings through my ear and I feel it to my toes.
Now is not the time to analyze why. Adrenaline, probably.
“Follow me,” Dustin says. “Just do as I do.”
I nod, following him into the building and racing to the end of the lobby.
He checks the panel. “Room three-sixteen.”
We sprint, boots pounding on the tile floor. Dustin shoves the stairway door open and we take them two at a time. At the top, he assesses for heat, then shoulders into the hallway and runs until he stops short at three-sixteen.
Dustin pulls out the TIC camera. We both watch the display. It’s dark. Low heat with a slightly lighter patch.
“Only one bright spot,” he says.
I jiggle the handle—it’s locked.
“Hello?” Dustin shouts. “We need to come in!”