Chapter 24 Clementine
Clementine
The Wild Trails qualifier kicks off on the banks of Frog River, just north of Misthaven. By the time Alec and I roll into the lot, it looks like someone dropped an REI catalog from the sky and let it explode. Trucks are jammed in at odd angles, roof racks piled high, kayaks stacked like antlers.
The place hums. Coffee steam curls out of thermoses, half-empty cans of Red Bull abandoned in the gravel.
A guy in neon compression sleeves jogs in place, muttering mile splits under his breath.
Another ties and unties the same knot three times, like the rope might judge him for hesitation.
Someone near us groans, “If I puke, at least it’ll be carrying less weight.” His partner doesn’t even blink.
Alec barely clears the grass before the on-site press converges. Shutters rattle like cicadas.
“How’s Finn doing?”
“Is this your new partner?”
“Back for redemption?”
Alec doesn’t slow, just keeps his eyes straight ahead. “Not today.”
Meanwhile, I’m two-stepping behind him, clutching my paddle. I keep picturing myself lifting it, striking up a downbeat like the whole river’s about to break into a marching tune.
My stomach knots and riots, the same rush I used to get in the wings. That breathless moment when it’s too late to change my mind.
Gran waves us down for a photo. We line up stiffly, two hundred kayaks crammed on the shore behind us.
“Stand closer, for God’s sake. It’s not a police lineup.”
We shuffle shoulder to shoulder. Alec sighs.
“Gran—” I start.
“Shut up and look happy.”
The picture comes out looking like prom night, with life vests in place of corsages, my hair already frizzing from river spray.
“You’re going to do great. The race is only a third of the full thing, isn’t it?” Gran reminds us, fussing with the camera strap.
She’s right. Kayak, climb, rappel. Just enough to weed out the weak.
But out of 350 teams, only 100 will be allowed to compete in Wild Trails.
I frown. “Sampler platter of pain.”
“It isn’t.” Alec shakes his head
“You could at least pretend to be encouraging.”
His eyes flick sideways at me, gaze as dry as stone. “If you needed encouragement, you wouldn’t be here.”
My stomach flips, but I swallow my nerves down.
He’s right. There’s no going back now.
Four hours later, my shoulders feel like they’ve been sanded down with rocks, but Alec and I haul our boat to shore and collapse onto the grass for a breathless second. Someone shouts a number from the finish tent—“Ten!”—and it takes me a beat to realize that’s us.
Tenth. Out of three hundred and fifty.
“Holy—” I double over, bracing my hands on my knees, stomach lurching from the rapids. “Did we just…?”
Alec doesn’t answer. He’s already yanking the straps of his pack tight, long strides cutting straight for the trailhead.
“No? Okay. No celebrating. Cool.” I stumble after him, legs jelly, lungs clawing for air.
He doesn’t look back, just calls, “Keep moving.”
Easy for him to say. He runs like gravity owes him money. I run like gravity just called in my debts.
The waterfall to our left bellows, spray clinging to my skin like ice needles. Its roar fills my ears until it feels like we’re climbing inside thunder.
Two groups are ahead of us—the brother-sister pair who look like they gargle gravel for breakfast, and Zak with his neon hair, barking at his partner.
“Faster, Marc! You’re dragging!” he snaps.
Marc trips on a root, mutters something that sounds a lot like, “Drag this, Zak.”
The trail chews at my palms. My ankles and my knees. We’ve done this route before, but never like this, never with the loudspeakers blaring static. Never with this much pressure pounding through me.
“Status!” Alec shouts over the roar of the falls.
“Status: thighs on fire, lungs plotting homicide!” I yell back, voice half broken.
“That’s not a medical update.”
“It’s relevant!”
“You’re fine. Three miles left. Downhill soon. Walk backward if your knee locks.”
“Copy.” I don’t know why I answer like a soldier, but it’s easier than admitting I’m dying.
His wrist buzzes. I don’t even have to see it.
“Hydrate,” he calls, already silencing his watch.
“Already on it.” The nozzle is at my mouth before he finishes.
The rhythm finds us before I even realize it’s there.
Step, step, breathe. Step, step.
His boots hit rock. Mine follow. When he sidesteps a slick patch, I veer too. When he leans forward to gain speed, my body copies him like some overeager understudy trailing the star of the show. Apparently, in twenty-five days, my muscles have committed Alec Hastings to memory.
We round a bend, and the trail tilts viciously upward. My calves seize, my thighs revolt, and I briefly consider lying down in the dirt and letting nature have me.
“Keep with me.”
“I am,” I wheeze, though it comes out like a broken accordion.
“Not behind me. With me. That’s the difference.”
Of course, he says it like that. My legs threaten to collapse, sweat stings my eyes, but his stride and mine fall into line, rope-tight.
“You’re holding steady, Fox, you got this,” he adds, lower this time, like it’s not for anyone else to hear. “Better than half the field. Better than I thought you would.”
My chest stutters, not from lack of air but from his words. From him. I know Alec by now. He doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.
He turns back to the trail, shoulders cutting up the incline, and I follow, because somehow, unbelievably, I can.
We’re a team.
And we may actually win this thing.