Chapter Forty-Nine
Kirk
Gretchen urges me to lie down on the grass once my breathing has become relatively normal.
I know she worries I've gone too far with the Hill Race, but I remind her that know what I'm doing.
When I tell Gretchen that, she gives me a schoolteacher look of disapproval.
Sweat has soaked my T-shirt, but that's expected when a Scotsman takes part in the Highlands Games.
My fiancée lies down beside me, wiping my forehead down with a cool rag someone found.
Gretchen slaps my arm. "You idiot. After the other games you took part in, you really didn't need to prove your manliness again. We all know how tough you are, Kirk Balfour."
I manage a sloppy grin. "But it's a cracking good time, aye?"
Neil ambles up to us, shaking his head at me. "I hope ye aren't planning to do any more events. Ye look like death warmed over with a stake driven into its heart."
"Och, ye fannybaws, leave me be."
"Calling me stupid, eh?" Neil smirks. "Should we call for an undertaker?"
"Falbh a ghabhail do ghnùis airson cac."
Gretchen lifts her brows. "What did you just say, Kirk? I assume it was in Gaelic."
"Aye. I told Neil 'away and take your face for a shite.'"
The lass sits up, her sharp gaze nailed to me. "Please tell me you aren't determined to do that pressing-the-feet-together silliness."
A shadow falls over me from behind, and I crane my neck to see who's blocking my sunshine.
"Of course he'll do it," my father pronounces. "For all his life, we tried to stop him from doing outlandish things." Da smirks. "By the time he turned eighteen, we'd given up on that idea. He's more stubborn than any mule."
I push up onto my elbows. "Maide-leisg will be cakewalk after the Hill Run."
Gretchen tries to help me get up, but I shoo the lass away. "Ahmno ninety years old. I can still drag my own erse off the ground."
Once I'm vertical again, I ask who will be taking part in maide-leisg, but no one seems to know yet.
Rory MacTaggart has been canvassing the area to find out which men might agree to the event, which isn't quite the most coveted Highland sport.
But Rory and his brother Aidan eventually find two willing competitors.
Magnus MacTaggart and some eejit called Kirk Balfour. Aye, it's MacTaggart versus Balfour.
Gretchen sets her hands on her hips, aiming a halfhearted scowl at me. "All right, Kirk, have it your way. Go on and push your feet into another guy's feet for whatever silly macho reason you two have for doing this."
I kiss her cheek. "Thank you, gràidh."
And so, the maide-leisg event begins.
Magnus and I take our places on the ground facing each other.
My legs are still wobbly from the Hill Race, but I'll be damned if I let it show.
We place the wooden stick---the maide-leisg itself---between the soles of our feet with our legs bent at the knees.
A small crowd has gathered around us, including Neil and Tam who are making betting gestures to some of the other lads.
"Ready to get yer erse handed to ye, Balfour?" Magnus asks.
"In yer dreams, ye great lummox."
Rory stands between us with one hand raised. "Remember the rules, lads. Feet pressed together with a stick between ye. The first man to push the other back or make him let go of the stick is the winner. No dirty tricks, MacTaggart."
Magnus feigns offense. "Since when do I need dirty tricks to beat a wee man like you?"
"On three," Rory announces, glancing between us. "One...two...three!"
The moment Rory gives the signal, Magnus and I press our feet together with the stick between us. I feel the burn immediately in my already-exhausted thighs, but there's no way I'm letting this baltan win. The wooden stick groans under the pressure as we both push with everything we've got.
"That's all ye got, Balfour?" Magnus grunts, his face reddening from the effort.
I waste no breath on answering his taunt.
Instead, I dig my heels into the grass and push harder, feeling the muscles in my calves scream in protest. The crowd surrounding us has grown larger.
Their cheers and jeers blend into a roar of excitement.
I notice Gretchen covering her eyes, peeking through her fingers with an expression that says she can't believe she's marrying this lunatic.
"Come on, Kirk!" Neil shouts. "I've got twenty quid on ye!"
I can feel the veins in my neck bulging as Magnus and I remain deadlocked, neither ready to give an inch. My legs burn something fierce, but I'll be damned if I'll show weakness now, even as the wooden stick creaks ominously between our feet.
"Ye know," Magnus pants, "I heard ye needed a stunt double for the Hill Race."
"How strange," I grunt back. "I heard you needed one for getting out of bed in the morning."
That earns me a laugh from the crowd and a scowl from Magnus. I can see his concentration falter for a second, two at most---and that's all I need. With a mighty heave, I push forward with everything I've got left in my sorry body.
Magnus's eyes widen in surprise as he clearly feels himself sliding backward. The wooden stick wobbles between our feet as I gain the advantage. My thighs are burning like I've dipped them in hellfire itself, but the look on Magnus's face is worth every ounce of pain.
"Bod an Donais," I hear Neil shout. "He's actually doing it!"
I can hear Gretchen's voice cutting through the crowd now. "Come on, Kirk! Finish it! Destroy the bastard!"
Magnus isn't giving up without a fight, though.
He grits his teeth and pushes back with renewed force, halting my momentum.
For a moment, we're locked in a stalemate again, both of us trembling with exertion.
Sweat drips down my face and stings in my eyes.
My lungs burn for oxygen. Every muscle fiber in my body is begging me to give up, but that's not the way Balfour men are built.
"Is that all ye got, old man?" I taunt, summoning strength from somewhere deep inside.
Magnus's face twists with determination. "Just warming up, ye cocky ersehole."
My father's voice cuts through the crowd. "Remember the Argyll games of '98, son!"
That memory flashes through my mind. It was the day I refused to quit even with a sprained ankle. I'd learned then that sometimes winning isn't about strength but about outlasting your opponent.
So, I revise my strategy. Rather than pushing with constant force, I start pushing hard, then ease back slightly, then push even harder. Every pulse catches Magnus off-guard as confusion flickers across his face.
"What the devil are ye doing, Balfour?"
"Ahm winning," I reply with a grunt, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a real explanation.
The pulse strategy is working. Magnus is struggling to counter my rhythm, and his expression grows more frustrated with every push.
The crowd is going wild now, sensing the tide turning in my favor.
My leg muscles burn like fire, and every muscle screams in protest after the Hill Race, but there's no way I'm backing down now.
Not with Gretchen watching. Not with Neil's money on the line.
And certainly not with Magnus MacTaggart's smug face opposite me.
"Ye cannae keep this up," Magnus hisses.
"Watch me," I wheeze back, summoning another surge of strength.
With one final, mighty push, I drive forward with everything I have left. Magnus's eyes go wide as he realizes he's sliding backward even more. The wooden stick trembles between our feet as he loses his balance. With a final, desperate lunge, I push forward and---
"Aaaaargh!" Magnus bellows as he topples backward, losing his grip on the stick.
I collapse flat on my back, lungs heaving, while cheers erupt around us. Through my exhaustion, I see Neil jumping around like he's won the bloody lottery, waving his betting slip in the air.
"Ye did it, ye mad bastard!" he shouts.
Magnus sits up, shaking his head with reluctant respect. "Christ on a bicycle, Balfour. Ye shouldnae have had that in ye after the Hill Race."
I can't even form words yet and simply lie here gulping air like a beached fish. My legs feel disconnected from my body, like two burning logs someone's attached to my hips.
Gretchen kneels beside me, her face hovering over mine, and shakes her head even while smiling softly. "You goddamn idiot."
"Lass, did ye..." I manage between desperate breaths, "...get that on video?"
"Duh, of course I did." She shows me her phone. "Your future children need to see what kind of ridiculous genetic material they're inheriting."
I can't help but laugh, which sends a fresh wave of pain through my abused muscles. With Gretchen's help, I manage to sit up, though my legs feel like they've been replaced with jelly. Da claps me on the shoulder with enough force to nearly topple me again.
"That's my boy," he says, beaming with pride. "Balfour men never back down, even when they bloody well should."
Neil jogs over, waving what I assume are his winnings. "That's a week's worth of whisky, all thanks to your stubborn erse! Kirk Balfour really does have steel for bones."
"Aye, and pudding for brains," I mutter, trying to flex my toes and wondering if they're still attached.
Magnus extends his hand toward me, and I take it, letting him haul me to my feet. The world tilts alarmingly for a second before I find my balance.
"Well fought, Balfour," he admits with grudging respect. "Next year I'll best ye, though."
"In your dreams, MacTaggart," I reply, but we're both grinning like eejits, the way men do after they've done something completely pointless yet somehow essential.
Gretchen is smiling too, until something snares her attention and makes the lass freeze as if in horror.
I'm about to ask her what's wrong, but then I realize what's happening.
The figure of a man pushes through the crowd, though I cannae figure out who the newcomer is.
But the looks on everyone's faces prove this is not a friendly acquaintance.
"Is that..." Gretchen trails off mid-sentence, her eyes wide and her jaw slack. "It can't be him, it can't."
But aye, it is him. "That's Dougal MacWraith coming our way."