8. Court
CHAPTER 8
COURT
Day 3—Brazil
D espite Paul’s hopes, Hartley and I did not make progress in our communication by the time we arrived at the checkpoint for leg two—a cathedral in S?o Paulo, Brazil. In fact, we barely made it there in time. Again.
And she blamed it on me. Again.
And now we’re stuck in a hotel together.
Again.
But at least we get to have dinner with a few other teams before we’re confined to our room for the night. Mitchell and Kennedy, also known as the A Team, are the current topic of discussion. Not their second first-place win or our strategies on how to knock them out of the race—we aren’t allowed to talk about the competition itself when the cameras aren’t rolling—but about Mitchell’s abnormally white teeth.
“Just imagine the chemicals he’s using. What’s the point of having glowsticks in your mouth if you’re poisoning your body?” Treva says while loading her fork with salad.
“Yeah, but I bet those whitening strips take up less space in his backpack than a headlamp,” Oscar says (loudly, as usual). “All he’s gotta do at night is smile, and bam!” He mimics a tiny explosion with his hands. “Let there be light!”
Rather than contribute to trash talking that can bite me in the ass later, I use the opportunity to put out more feelers for future alliances. For example: Treva’s family owns a health and wellness store in Colorado. When she’s not selling locally grown, sustainably sourced products, she participates in ultramarathons. Earlier this year, she completed a one-hundred-kilometer run through the Rockies.
For fun .
That kind of perseverance and strength is a goldmine when it comes to partnerships.
“It’s a shame we’re not allowed to have our phones with us, Treva. I’d love to show you the project I did at a high school back home.”
Her face lights up. “You have kids too?”
Hartley, who’s sitting across the table and a few seats down, stiffens and pauses her conversation with Kadeeja mid-sentence.
“No, none of my own, but I’m a substitute teacher.”
Okay, is it me or did Hartley just let out a breath? Why would she care if I have kids or not? She’s probably married to some art professor and owns her own gallery somewhere.
“What type of project was it?” Treva asks.
“The company I manage sponsored a garden at our local library. I brought seeds to all the ninth-grade classrooms as part of a module on the life cycle of plants. The students planted them in class and took a field trip at the end of the year to plant the seedlings in the library garden.”
“I’ve always said that getting kids into nature is the best way to grow their minds and keep them out of trouble.”
I don’t have a strong opinion on the merits of good child rearing, but I figure there’s no harm in playing along in the name of camaraderie and alliances. “I couldn’t agree more,” I say with a congenial smile.
“So...” Gianna sets her elbows on the table and rests her chin on the tops of her laced fingers. “If you don’t have kids, does that mean you’re single?”
Hartley’s fork clatters to the floor. After mumbling an apology at her water glass, she bends to retrieve it, then fixes her gaze on the table of crew members sitting next to us. Yesterday in Costa Rica, she assumed I have a girlfriend based on my lack of a wedding ring. Although she hasn’t said anything else about it since then, it’s obvious she’s interested in my answer.
But like I said—the only thing I’m interested in tonight is gathering intel for alliances .
“As a matter of fact, I am. How about you?”
I pull out my notebook and flip to a new page to jot down yesterday’s standings from leg two in Brazil.
1. A Team (Mitchell and Kennedy)
2. Alaska Girls (Marcail and Stephanie)
3. Kick Asspen (Treva and Boyd)
4. Niles (Padma and Bobby)
5. Old Bay (Haylee and Kadeeja)
6. Bombshells (Alexis and Gianna)
7. Loudmouths (Oscar and Janessa)
8. Wise Guys (DeAngelo and Big Mike)
9. Us
10. High Tech (Ji-ho and Homer)
The Wise Guys—who forgot to tell their taxi driver to wait during the last challenge—kept their twenty-minute lead by pseudo-stealing Team High Tech’s taxi instead of waiting for a new one. I say “pseudo-stealing” because Xtreme Quest is clear about penalties for removing another team’s backpacks from their mode of transportation, but there aren’t any rules against using their leg money to bribe the driver to remove their gear for you.
Unsurprisingly, Big Mike used that loophole to his benefit.
Very surprisingly, High Tech’s new taxi got a flat tire a few miles up the road. I felt bad as we drove past them, but that delay kept Hartley and me in the race.
Our instructions this morning told us to search the grounds of San Ignacio Miní, a mission tucked into the northeast corner of Argentina, for our next clue. After confirming that our taxi driver will wait for us, we get out and jog down a dirt path toward the ruins.
“This is incredible,” Hartley whispers as we approach.
It really is.
Two crumbling walls, each bearing two columns, mark the main entrance to the mission, which is made of massive red stones. It’s about four hundred years old according to the plaque out front, putting the kapok tree at Arenal in the same chunk of history as the Jesuits who built San Ignacio Miní. Who knew history could be so cool?
“The clue could be anywhere,” Hartley says, scanning the clusters of smaller buildings surrounding the behemoth rectangular structure at the center of the grounds.
I point to Team Niles, who are running across the far end of the main building. “True, but it’s not in there, otherwise they would’ve already found it.”
“Court!”
I spin to my left and find the Bombshells waving us over to a group of buildings.
“What do they want?” Hartley asks.
Immediately, I reply with, “Maybe they missed me,” because getting under her skin is the best part of my day.
She rolls her eyes but follows me as we jog across the open field.
“What’s up?” I ask when we’re in speaking distance.
Alexis points to the end of the building behind them. “The clue box is in the back left corner.”
I blink as my gaze bounces between Hartley, the building, and the Bombshells. “Oh wow. Um...thanks.” I give them an appreciative smile, and to my surprise, so does Hartley.
“We’re hoping to get to know you better, so you can’t get eliminated yet,” Gianna says.
Hartley isn’t smiling anymore.
Whatever.
She can be mad tomorrow when we’re still in the race.
“Guess this means we have an official alliance?” I crank up my smile at the Bombshells.
Alexis pops a brow and...did she just look me up and down?
“Only if we get a secret handshake,” she teases.
“Excellent idea,” Gianna adds. “We can make one after the next checkpoint. See you later.” She squeezes my arm as they head out.
“We’ll see you later,” Hartley parrots in a high-pitched voice as soon as the girls are out of earshot.
“Don’t be jealous because I’m making friends and you’re not.”
“Padma and Bobby are my friends and I’m not propositioning them.”
“Alexis and Gianna weren’t propositioning me either.”
“Okay,” she says sarcastically .
“And furthermore, why do you care who propositions me?”
“I don’t. I just want you to stay focused on the race, not whose pants you’re getting in.” She turns in a huff and stomps in the direction of the clue box.
Not to be outdone, I stride past her.
So she runs.
And then I run.
By the time we reach the clue box, we’re sprinting. At the last second, Hartley shoves my shoulder, which, combined with my momentum, sends me flying a dozen feet to the right of the clue box.
“Ha! I win!” She does a ridiculous dance as she pulls out a blue-and-orange envelope.
“Only because you cheated,” I say, backtracking to her.
“Don’t be a sore loser.”
Taking my place behind her, I whisper, “Trust me. I don’t lose.”
Our clue from San Ignacio Miní took us to a kiosk in Plaza San Martín in the heart of a city called Posadas. A sweet older woman selling churros gives us our next envelope.
“It’s a solo challenge,” Hartley says.
Who can we count on?
“I’m better at numbers. I’ll do it.”
“Surprise, surprise,” she mutters as I take the challenge card from her.
“What does that mean?
“You’re hogging the solos.”
“No, I’m not.”
Her hands fly wildly through the air before landing on her hips. “I’m sorry, it must’ve been my other teammate who made espresso in Sarchí and worked at a fish market in S?o Paulo.”
“You don’t even like espresso, and I seriously doubt you wanted to be up to your elbows in fish guts. ”
She opens her mouth to say something but apparently changes her mind and settles on, “Whatever. Have fun counting.”
“Thank you. I will.” I unseal the card, which says:
Go to the Museo de Arte ? —
“What? Unbelievable.” Hartley’s arms are back in the air again, but this time she’s pacing in front of the kiosk. “The auto chop shop guy gets to see an international art museum while I get to sit outside, and we can’t switch without taking a three-hour time penalty. This is great. Just. Freaking. Great.”
I hold my palms up. “It said counting ! How was I supposed to know the challenge would be at an art museum?”
“Ugh!” She completes another paced circle, then stops and aims a finger at me. “The next solo challenge is mine, Courtney. So help me god.”
“Fine.”
Neither of us says anything on the half-mile walk to the museum. According to the directions, I’m supposed to count the number of tiles on five mosaics, then go back to Plaza San Martín to find a kiosk selling replicas of the mosaics and give them my answers.
Numbers and memorization. I can do that.
Except . . .
It’s hard.
Really fucking hard.
We’re not allowed to write anything down, and the first mosaic alone has two hundred forty-six tiles. And that’s the smallest one in the group. Oh, did I mention Oscar is here too? Counting so loud that Janessa can probably hear him outside? I resort to plugging my ears so I can hear myself think, but that doesn’t help either.
By the time we find the right kiosk, I’ve forgotten the last two totals. I’m not surprised when the woman shakes her head after scanning what I’ve written below each mosaic.
“Which one is wrong?” I ask.
She doesn’t say anything, because of course she doesn’t. Why would the producers make this show easy?
Frustrated (and a little embarrassed, if I’m being honest), I turn and start the jog back to the museum. Along the way, Hartley offers words of encouragement like, “Nice job, Mister ‘I’m Better at Numbers,’” and “I was hoping to get more cardio in.”
But I get the last laugh when we reach the museum and see Alexis waiting outside.
“Hey!” she says.
“Did you guys just get here?”
“No, this is Gianna’s second try.”
“Same. We must’ve missed each other on the way to the plaza.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Did you get lost too?”
I laugh and shake my head. “I owe you guys, though. Maybe Gianna and I can work together and knock this out quicker so we can all get out of here.”
“Excellent idea.”
She lifts her hand for a high five and sends me off with a parting, “Good luck!” while Hartley plops down on the curb and frowns at her knees.
It turns out it’s Kadeeja’s twenty-ninth birthday, so a bunch of us are celebrating at a restaurant along the waterfront in Posadas. A live band started playing about a half hour ago, and Hartley, Haylee, Padma, and the Alaska Girls (who I haven’t had much of a chance to talk to but seem nice) are dancing with the birthday girl.
Once we correctly counted the mosaic tiles, we were given a challenge of “In the Street” (delivering fifty hardback books on foot to six locations across the city) or “Fancy Feet” (learning a two-minute electrotango routine). Hartley and I originally chose Fancy Feet like everyone else but switched after discovering we’d have to touch each other all evening. How she’s still upright and mobile after running five miles with twenty-five pounds of books is anyone’s guess, but I overheard her tell Padma that she’ll rest her feet on the plane tomorrow.
As for the checkpoint, would you believe we beat the Niles and we were a whole forty-five minutes ahead of the Loudmouths? It’s a new record for us, and it’s largely in part to our alliance with the Bombshells, who are a lot quieter and a hell of a lot nicer to look at than Oscar. They’ve opted to stay at the table with me instead of dancing with the other girls, while a few members of the security team sit nearby as chaperones.
So far, I’ve learned Alexis and Gianna are professional makeup artists from California and they dream of opening a boutique on the beach. Also, they really like my eyes. I appreciate the ego boost, because I haven’t been on a date in a couple of years. Living in a small town where you already know everyone has that effect.
The band moves into another song that I recognize instantly thanks to my younger sister, Ella. The makeshift dance floor is only about fifteen feet away, so it’s not difficult to hear Hartley belting the lyrics to “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together” by Taylor Swift.
“Is it true you broke up with her so she’d go to Europe?” Gianna asks. When I lift a brow, she chuckles and shrugs with her palms raised. “Good gossip travels fast.”
Can’t say I miss that part of college. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“I think it’s sweet. Like a real-life case of, ‘If you love someone, let them go,’” Alexis adds.
“I’m pretty sure ‘sweet’ wasn’t one of the ‘s’ words she used when she found out.”
Gianna gives my hand a reassuring pat. “She went six years thinking one thing and learned the truth right before an international race. She just needs some time to process it.”
I find Hartley on the dance floor again. I haven’t seen her this carefree since before I left for Wade’s bachelor party, and I hate knowing that one look at me is all it’ll take to ruin it.
“I promise you, the only processing she wants to do involves my body and a meat grinder.”
They think I’m joking, but they haven’t?—
Hold on.
I give my full attention to the scene unfolding on the dance floor. Hartley’s dancing with Kadeeja and Haylee, but the guy behind her keeps putting his hands on her waist. She turns and maneuvers to the other side of the girls.
That works for about five seconds.
Then the guy wedges himself into their triangle, wraps his arms around her from behind, and grinds into her ass.
I don’t remember shooting out of my chair or making it to the dance floor in four strides, nor do I remember what I say to Hartley, but I vividly recall what I say to the asshole who groped her as I lift him by his shirt and haul him to the staircase leading to the sidewalk.
“Keep. Your. Fucking. Hands. Off. Her.”
He holds his arms up, feigning innocence. “Hey man, she was the one shaking her ass at me.”
White-hot rage burns through my veins as I lift him another inch off the ground and press his body further into the railing. “She was fucking dancing . That wasn’t an invitation to touch her.”
“Then maybe she shouldn’t have?—”
My fist connects with his jaw before he finishes his sentence, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to kick him in his face when he collapses on the concrete.
Through the rush of blood in my ears, I hear a male voice call my name from somewhere at my left. I turn and see our security team...along with everyone else in our group, two waiters, and a police officer.
Shit.
If I get kicked out of the competition for being arrested, Hartley’s gonna be pissed .
The officer exchanges a few hushed words with the waiters, then approaches me slowly.
“He punched me!” The asshole pushes himself up and rises on two wobbly feet. “I want to press charges.” I take great satisfaction in watching him swipe at the blood dripping from his nose and his bottom lip.
The officer removes a set of handcuffs from a pouch on his belt and eyes me. “You hit him.” It’s not a question, but his stony face and ensuing silence tell me he expects an answer.
What are the rules for international arrests? How do I get a lawyer when Hartley and I only have two hundred American dollars in leg money? Do Argentine jails allow collect phone calls?
As I consider my options, I spot her over the officer’s shoulder. Five minutes ago, she was belting a breakup anthem and having the time of her life. Now, she’s standing with one arm wrapped around her waist and her other hand pressed to her mouth. Burning hatred or not, I’d do it all over again without hesitation.
“Yes. I hit him.”
The officer’s gaze bounces between me, the asshole, and my bloodied knuckles. When his eyes meet mine again, he nods once and says, “Good.”
I blink.
“Good?”
He extends his hand and grips mine in a firm shake. “Good.” Then he turns to the asshole and says, “ Te jodiste .”
The man pulls a face. “What the hell does that mean?”
“You fucked up. You want to touch women? Okay. Maybe I know some people who want to touch you tonight.” With that, the officer handcuffs the asshole and shoves him forward through the small crowd of onlookers.
Unsurprisingly, we all decided to return to the hotel. I don’t know the protocol for what to do or say after stopping a narcissistic tourist from feeling up your ex-girlfriend, so I mostly tried to stay out of Hartley’s way as we wound down for the night.
Before we got on to the elevator, Gianna made a quiet remark about Hartley no longer needing a meat grinder for me. Maybe there’s some truth to that because once we’re in bed with the lights out, she says,
“Court?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. That could’ve...” She releases a long breath. “Just, thank you.”
Stunned, it takes several seconds to come back with, “You’re welcome.”
It’s not until I’m almost asleep that I realize for the first time in six years, she didn’t call me Courtney.