Episode 1
“Did our boat just stop?” I stand and stretch my arms toward the sky, then join the others gathering at the front, seemingly as confused as I am.
I’m standing next to Beya, a small cat cafe owner, a foot shorter than me with short pink hair as bright as her personality.
She’s been talking about her cats for the better part of twenty minutes.
She’s already offered a detailed rundown on nine lattes from her menu, all named after one of her cats.
Atlas, standing two feet away, finishes announcing for the sixth time that she’s a professional soccer player who built a treehouse in her backyard once. I’ve started mentally referring to her as the professional jackass.
“Mochi is the shy one. She gets cuddles all day long. Customers love her.” Beya continues, seemingly unbothered by my lack of response. “But once she warms up to you, she’s extremely affectionate. I think you’d like her.”
“Beya. Focus.” I get her back on track. “Look.”
Across the water, another boat sits parallel to ours. I squint to study the people on it, but a banner stretching the length of the boat’s side unravels before I can scout the opposing team clearly.
TEAM FEMME
A loud thud yanks my attention away. A wooden crate hits the deck floor in front of me, orange fabric poking through its sides.
Bo, with the big eighties hair and country twang in her voice, pries it open and starts distributing them.
Dana tosses one to me, then ties one around her bicep with the determination of someone who has done this before.
I catch my wrap and stare at the outstretched fabric in my hands.
Striking orange and tropical leaves scatter the background. I thumb the bold letters.
The Final Summit
TEAM MASC
Plot. Persist. Prevail.
Then it hits me. Despite being surrounded by cameras and drones, this is real. It’s not that I didn’t believe life events hadn’t led me to this moment, like the first time I read Jill’s email stating my company was on track to miss payroll. Here I am on The Final Summit. A member of Team Masc.
I scan ahead to the beach seventy-five yards away.
Crystal clear ocean in every direction, the type of gorgeous view that should be enjoyed with a pineapple-shaped drink underneath an umbrella, not whatever TV show Megan railroaded me into bringing back my undercut for.
At least the shorter length will keep me cooler.
I tighten my orange wrap around my head, carefully rearranging any dangling locs out of my face.
Up ahead on a giant floating wooden platform sit crates and burlap sacks overflowing with various food, supplies, and other things I can’t make out.
Water stretches between the two boats with the platform in the middle.
What the hell did I get myself into?
“Cat’s really out of the bag now.” Beya points toward the platform. “There’s Steph Rhodes!”
I look up at the incoming roar of a helicopter hanging low over the water.
It hovers near the side of the wooden platform, kicking up a massive spray of mist before a rope ladder drops.
A familiar figure in a safari shirt, tan pants, and sunglasses.
Megan did mention that the host was dramatic.
I shouldn’t be surprised to see a simple introduction turned into a spectacle.
Steph’s boots hit the platform. Her voice cuts in over the loudspeaker immediately. “Team Masc. Team Femme. Welcome to The Final Summit. I’m your host, Steph Rhodes. As you can see, we’re not starting at the beach today.”
The teams erupt in cheers. Steph eats up every second of it, dimpled grin wide, one hand raised like she’s onstage at a concert. I clap twice, which, given the conditions of my life, is more enthusiasm than I’ve shown in weeks.
“Here are the rules for your first challenge.” Steph jumps right into the game.
“Swim to the platform. Grab all the supplies you can in three minutes. Load your canoes and your team, then, on my whistle, race to shore. Finally, grab the tiki torch and light the fire bowl. The first team to get the fire going wins the very first reward challenge and gets a flint fire starter kit.” A devious chuckle follows. “Might come in handy out here.”
I replay the instructions in my mind. Swim. Load. Race. Fire.
“Your challenge starts now. Go!”
Adrenaline launches me off the side of the boat before my brain fully catches up. I dive into the water, tuning out the surrounding chaos the same way I did on the swim team in high school. When I reach the platform and boost myself up, Team Femme is already loading their canoe with bags of beans.
Steph’s voice booms from the loudspeaker.
I sprint across the platform. “Team Femme with an early lead! Got some goods already in their canoe.” She pauses for effect.
“Someone from Team Masc is running with a live chicken. Now someone else is racing for the other two.” A burst of overjoyed laughter.
“Folks, we are off to a remarkable start.”
I dodge two women barreling in my direction and spot the coil of rope I’ve had my eye on since the challenge began, hanging off the side of a stack of crates in the far corner. I sprint for it. My hand closes around the coil, then another hand lands on the other end.
I look up and do a double take. “Paya?”
She freezes. Her deep brown eyes meet mine, just as beautiful as the first time she walked into my office. I spent the rest of the morning pretending I hadn’t noticed. Her wet hair is pushed back from her face, chest heaving and water dripping from her bikini body.
“Celeste?” Her jaw goes slack as if she can’t believe that the woman who signs her paychecks is standing dripping wet in a white tank-top and shorts on a floating platform in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
“What are you doing here?” We both ask at the same time.
“I—”
“Les, move your tail!” Beya materializes between us out of nowhere, snatching the rope from both our hands in one motion and shoving it against my chest. “Canoe. Now.”
Before I can process a single thing, that Paya lied to me, that she’s on this game show, or how damn hot my assistant is, she’s gone.
Absorbed back into the fumbling chaos of Team Femme trying to wedge themselves into their canoe.
Beya grabs my arm and drags me toward ours with surprising force for someone with her short frame.
“Move it, team. We are not losing day one!” Atlas shouts.
I haul the rope, tarp, and crates of coconuts into the canoe, loading as fast as I can. Steph has already cleared Team Femme to advance toward the beach.
A whistle sounds, and our paddles hit the water. Everyone is yelling. I can’t understand a single word over the splashing and the host’s commentary. We’re fighting our own weight through the waves, the canoe heavy with supplies, our strokes uncoordinated and desperate.
I glance up from my seat. Paya dives out of her team’s canoe into open water and swims toward the shore.
My competitive instinct overrides everything else. I dive in after her.
More shouting from both teams echoes through the air. Steph says something I can’t hear over the rush of water in my ears.
Paya reaches the beach first. She sprints toward the lit torch standing in the sand beside the fire bowl, grabs it, and thrusts it in. Flames roar upward. She raises her arms to the sky in victory.
Steph, somehow now on the beach in dry clothes, shouts, “Team Femme wins reward!”
I’m gripping my sides at the shore’s edge, struggling to catch my breath from the most intense ten minutes I’ve had in years.
Behind me, a medical team is hauling away a blonde woman wearing a red cut-off t-shirt from our team, her face twisted in pain, clutching her leg.
We hadn’t officially met. She looked strong.
Damn it. We’re down to six players before day one is finished.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead and force my breathing to steady. Somewhere in the chaos of Team Femme, Paya disappeared into a huddle of flailing arms and screaming teammates. I watch the space where she had been standing a moment ago.
My very first challenge of The Final Summit is over, and the day is already ending in literal flames.