14. Court
CHAPTER 14
COURT
Day 12—On the way to Egypt
Standings after leg 6, Nepal
1. Bombshells (Gianna and Alexis)* Shortcut
2. A Team (Mitchell and Kennedy)
3. Old Bay (Haylee and Kadeeja)
4. Kick Asspen (Treva and Boyd)
5. Us
6. Wise Guys (DeAngelo and Big Mike)* Repeat
7. Alaska Girls (Stephanie and Marcail)
“ A ct natural,” I whisper to Hartley as we near our gate.
“I am acting natural.”
“You have a shit-eating grin on your face for no reason.”
Her smile grows impossibly wider. “I assure you it is not for no reason.”
Okay, that’s fair, but still. “They’re going to figure us out. If you can’t stop grinning, we at least have to walk farther apart.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m being cautious. There’s a difference.”
She rolls her eyes but adds a few feet between us.
We finally sacked out around eight this morning and managed to get about four hours of sleep before we had to meet the crew downstairs. As Hartley says, we can always sleep on the plane.
The same can’t be said for anything else we did before the sun rose.
I actually thought I was hallucinating when I first saw her watching me last night. After a grueling day, I was dehydrated, exhausted, and ready to crash for the night.
Until our game of strip laundry, that is.
In my defense, getting out of my dirty clothes and into a towel was purely about logistics because it made no sense to put clean clothes on when I hadn’t showered yet. I didn’t expect her to look at me like I was her next meal, and I damn sure didn’t expect her to throw gasoline on the fire.
Should I have waited to jack off until it was my turn in the bathroom? Yes, except I was powerless against the defiant little smirk she unleashed as she took off her shirt. Then I started thinking about whether she was in the bathroom touching herself, and jacking off became a need rather than a want.
I was halfway to my release when she came back into the bedroom, but there was no point in trying to cover up since we both knew what I was doing. In fact, mutual masturbation used to be one of our favorite methods of foreplay.
And then she climbed on my bed and came on my cock and I spent the rest of the night worshipping her body in all the ways I’ve fantasized about since the race started. Not being able to touch her for the next who knows how many hours is going to be hell.
“Hey guys,” Hartley says to Treva, Boyd, Haylee, and Kadeeja, who are sitting in a row of chairs near the window. We sit across from them, and I put a chair between me and Hartley for good measure.
The girls greet us with smiles and hellos, but Boyd’s is more of a flat grunt than an actual word.
Hartley looks to Treva, who waves a dismissive hand at her teammate. “Don’t mind him. He’s grumpy because he didn’t sleep well.”
“I’m not grumpy because I didn’t sleep well,” he interjects with a pointed finger before recrossing his arms. “I’m grumpy because of why I didn’t sleep well.”
“What happened?” Hartley asks.
Fighting to keep a straight face, Treva says, “Our neighbors kept him awake.”
“Were they fighting? ”
Kadeeja clamps her lips between her teeth and shakes her head while Haylee gives him a conciliatory pat on the knee.
“Apparently, poor Boyd couldn’t sleep because the people in the room next to him were up all night getting it on.”
I know for a fact that Hartley and I didn’t see anyone from the race in the lobby, elevator, or hallway when we were going to and from our room so there’s no possible chance that Boyd knows it was us. Or maybe it wasn’t, and two couples were having an all-night sex fest?
“Four times. Four times !” he says, hands flailing out and falling to his lap with a loud slap. “They’ll probably have to pay for the headboard.”
Okay, it could’ve been us. If so, it was technically five times—once was in the shower—and the headboard was intact when we left.
“And that wasn’t even the worst part,” he continues. “I think they were into some dom-sub stuff because I kept hearing her yell, ‘Lord.’ It was so annoying.”
Yeah, that was definitely us, except that Hartley was screaming Court , not Lord . I steal a quick glance to gauge her reaction and relax when I see she’s listening with amusement rather than embarrassment.
“Well I slept like a log, but someone here”—Treva pokes Boyd in the shoulder, eliciting another grunt from her teammate—“was too stubborn to take melatonin and use my essential oils. Maybe next time he’ll listen.”
“I think it’s romantic,” Kadeeja says wistfully. “I mean, spending the whole night with someone who has moves and stamina like that? We should all be so lucky.” She fans herself with her hand for effect.
“For real. Maybe they were on their honeymoon,” Haylee adds, waggling her brows.
Still scowling, Boyd crosses his arms again. “Well whoever they were, they should tone it down or pass out some earplugs.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t get any sleep, Boyd, but I have to admit I’m with Kadeeja on this one,” Hartley says. “That sounds like an amazing way to spend the night.”
I hide my laugh behind a cough while they exchange high fives because only Hartley could fess up without actually fessing up.
“Also, you’re forgetting the very best part about today,” she continues.
“You mean besides not having to listen to Mr. and Mrs. Headboard anymore?”
“Yes, besides that,” she playfully huffs. “Where are we going?”
Hartley’s question cues Boyd’s first smile of the day. He loosens his arms and sits up a little. “Egypt. ”
“Cairo freakin’ Egypt,” she says, tapping his knee to emphasize each word. “And you can borrow my eye mask and sleep on the plane.”
I grew up believing I’d been cursed by Isaac Newton.
I realize this sounds ridiculous but stay with me.
My mom was a science teacher and loved showing us that science is everywhere. The grocery store. The bathtub. The airport. Great Smoky Mountains National Park. While other kids were listening to superhero stories before bed, Mom was reading Magic School Bus books. I could tell you who Marie Curie was before I knew how to tie my shoes.
In elementary school, she started talking about this guy named Isaac Newton who saw an apple fall from a tree and used that to basically change the world. When I got older, she told me all about his laws of motion and how they applied to everyday life. She was big on that stuff—connecting lessons to things we did on a daily basis so we’d remember them—and it worked.
It was also annoying.
I mean, sometimes a kid just wants to play baseball without hearing about inertia and acceleration and all the other things some dead guy wrote about three hundred years ago. Especially when there were more important things to discuss with his teammates, like whether Eliza Van Allen was wearing a real bra and who had the newest cheat codes to Intergalactic Apocalypse Three .
You know . . . real baseball talk.
So when it was Mom’s turn to work the Gatorade table at practice and she started up on every action having an equal and opposite reaction and that’s how baseballs are hit and blah blah blah, I said, out loud and straight from the diaphragm, “No one gives a shit about Isaac Newton.”
I was thirteen.
And grounded.
And officially in the crosshairs of the Father of Physics himself.
Among the mounds of empirical data I’ve collected over the years, I present the following:
Bobby Gallagher moved away and I finally became the starting pitcher...and then I broke my arm and was out for the rest of the season.
I saved money for almost two years to buy a car...and a week later the transmission died.
I planned a picnic date with my high school girlfriend...and had to ditch everything and drive her to the emergency room when she got stung by a bee and nearly stopped breathing. (She was fine after a dose of epinephrine and some fluids.)
Then there was the time I cooked dinner for a different girlfriend...and we both got food poisoning.
So there you go. Concrete proof of my “every action has an equal and opposite reaction” curse. To be honest, I thought it’d struck again in Dallas because why else would my once-in-a-lifetime chance to win a million dollars rest in the hands of the woman who hated me most? But then things started going well between us, and the possibility of coming in first place didn’t seem so far-fetched anymore.
Which is exactly why I should have seen Isaac Newton coming.
We arrive in the City of a Thousand Minarets just after 10 p.m. Boyd, fresh off a half-dozen hours of sleep, is in a much better mood. Giddy, even, if it’s possible to describe a twenty-nine-year-old man as such.
I can’t say I blame him though.
Cairo is mind-boggling.
There are people everywhere doing all matter of people things—shopping, dining, running errands—even though we’re approaching midnight. Hartley described it as “bustling,” but that’s like calling a tornado “breezy.”
Now we’re looking for a clue box in Khan el-Khalili. Technically, it’s a market in the heart of Cairo, but in reality, it’s more like a sprawling labyrinth of narrow corridors stuffed with cafés, shops, and—you guessed it—more people.
Also, there’s a decent chance we’re already lost.
“Didn’t we just pass this shop?” Treva asks.
Boyd hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “I think that was the other lantern vendor back there.”
“It still feels like we’re going in circles though.”
“I wish we had a map,” Hartley says, craning her neck over the crowd.
“The producers are probably counting on the fact that we don’t.” We’ve only been here for twenty minutes so it’s not time to panic yet, but it is becoming obvious that we’re essentially searching for a needle in a haystack. For all we know, we walked right by the clue box and didn’t see it because the corridors are so packed. “What does our clue say again?”
Hartley unzips her fanny pack and removes the blue-and-orange envelope .
Fly to the City of A Thousand Minarets. When you arrive, make your way to Khan el-Khalili to find your next clue.
“Damn. I was hoping they would’ve given us a hint.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” she says with a wry smile. “But on a positive note, we haven’t seen the Bombshells or the A Team and they got here an hour before we did. Maybe that means it won’t be that hard to find after all.”
“Or it could mean they’re on the other side of this maze just as lost as we are,” Treva says. “Wait, where’s Boyd?”
“He was just right here.” I point to the now-vacant space at my left.
Hartley peeks into the adjacent shop.
“He couldn’t have gone far.” I look down both directions of the corridor and come up empty.
Hartley turns to the crew. “Did either of you see where he went?”
They shake their heads.
“Boyd?” Treva shouts into the din of the market.
“Don’t worry, we’ll find him,” I say, still scanning our surroundings.
Hartley cups her hands around her mouth, but before she can call his name, he pops up on my left, grinning like an idiot as he holds up a clear plastic bag. “Look what I got!”
“Where the hell were you?” Treva says in her mom voice.
“Over there.” Oblivious to the panic he created, he points to a wall of lanterns about ten feet behind me. “There’s a food cart on the other side of that shop. I got enough for all of us and it was only a dollar !” He waves the bag again, and this time I get a better look at what’s inside.
“Is that . . . a pita?”
“Aish baladi. I guess you could think of it as the pita’s Egyptian, whole-wheat cousin. I’ve been dying to try it. Plus, I figured we could use a snack since it looks like we’re going to be up for a while.” He delves into the bag and passes one to each of us, including the crew, before biting into his with a hearty moan. “Ohmagoh. Ih amahing.”
Hartley, Treva, and I have a silent conversation to the effect of:
Bread? Seriously?
He’s worse than a two-year-old.
Do we say thank you or wring his neck ?
It is pretty good, though. I’ll give him that.
Treva tells Boyd to lead the way when we set out again, probably so he stays within eyesight, and we continue working our way through the market. A few minutes in, we hear an American voice shouting, “Make a hole!” behind us. A second later Big Mike and DeAngelo run past us, shoving me into a rack of clothing. I narrowly avoid knocking it over but roll my left ankle in the process.
“Court! Are you okay?” Hartley’s arms are around me in an instant, steadying me as I regain my footing.
“Yeah.”
“Are you sure?”
I wiggle my foot and ignore the pain firing through my ankle. “I’m fine. But more importantly, they’re either running toward a McDonald’s or someone told them where the clue box is. I vote we follow them.”
Boyd shrugs. “We don’t have any other leads.”
Treva and Hartley nod their agreement, so we pick up a jog and do our best to dodge oncoming pedestrians while keeping the Wise Asses in our sights.
Well, they’re doing their best. I’m just trying to keep up because fuck, this hurts.
“Why don’t we slow down a little,” Hartley says, eyeing me.
“We don’t have time to slow down,” I say.
We can assume the Bombshells and the A Team are already onto the next clue, but we haven’t seen Old Bay since we left the airport. If they beat us to the box, that means we’re in the back of the pack with the Wise Guys and Kick Asspen.
Not a great place to be, especially with an injury.
“We also don’t have time to make your ankle worse,” she continues. “Maybe we should have the medic look at you.”
“You’re annoyingly persistent.”
“You’re annoyingly stubborn.”
I smile, despite the throbbing in my ankle. “Pretty sure those are synonyms.”
“Pretty sure?—”
“There’s the box.” Boyd points to where the Wise Asses have stopped long enough to toss something on the ground, snag a clue, and take off again.
Treva frowns when she picks up a wad of paper a few seconds later. “I guess not littering in a foreign country is too much to ask.”
“Assholes,” Hartley mutters. “What is it?”
Treva unfurls the paper, revealing a crudely drawn clue box and something written in Arabic at the top. “They must’ve been asking locals if they’d seen it.”
“I hate having to admit that’s not a bad idea,” Boyd says.
“All that matters is it worked in our favor.” I open the clue box and exhale my relief when I see three envelopes inside. Boyd and I each take one and we move off to the side to read them.
Travel on foot to Bab al-Futuh to find your next clue.
Shit. I guess Ol’ Isaac isn’t quite done with my ankle yet.