Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Sulla
Day seven. First partnered challenge.
Mac briefs us at dawn. “Tandem obstacle course. You and your partner will be connected by a six-foot rope at the waist. You must complete the course together, coordinated. Time limit, thirty minutes. Questions?”
He looks directly at Reid and me. “You’re up first. Communication is mandatory. Figure it out.”
The course is brutal even without being tethered to someone else. Wall climbs, rope swings, balance beams, crawls under barbed wire, rope climbs, water crossing. Everything requires coordination.
Reid and I stand at the starting line while crew members attach the rope. Six feet of nylon connecting my waist to hers. Close enough to feel the tension when either of us moves.
“Strategy?” I ask quietly.
“Move efficiently, stay tight, communicate on obstacles that require timing.” Her voice is clipped. Professional. “I’ll call the rope swing count. You call the wall climb timing.”
“Agreed.”
Mac blows the whistle.
We move. Reid sets a brisk pace—not sprinting, but aggressive. Military efficiency. I match her, the rope between us staying taut but not pulling.
First obstacle: wall climb, twelve feet high. No rope, only foot, and hand holds at irregular intervals, wide enough that we go up side by side.
We approach together.
“On three,” I say. “One, two, three—”
She’s faster, more aggressive. I’m methodical, testing handholds. Securing my foot placement.
We continue to climb. She adjusts her pace and reaches the top. I’m right behind her. She swings her leg over, sits on the top, and holds the rope out of the way as I copy her maneuver.
There is a foam pit below. “Ready. Jump.” I call.
We leap exactly together but she hits the foam pieces in a sitting position, bounces on her buttocks and leaps for the edge.
I’ve never landed in foam like this and hit it with my feet, knees bent.
The rope pulls me forward. I lose balance.
Reid stops at the edge of the pit as soon as she feels the rope pull.
I tuck my head using the forward momentum and somersault out of the foam. We’re out.
Not perfect, but functional.
No time to think as we approach the rope swing across a mud pit. Two ropes.
“Running start,” Reid says. “I’ll count. Match my stride. One, two, three—”
We run together, hit the ropes in sync, swing. Her timing is good. We land on the far side, stumble once against each other as the rope between us goes slack, recover, and continue moving.
Crawl under barbed wire: we go side by side, matching pace. She’s faster, I’m more careful. The rope between us occasionally jerks when our rhythms don’t quite match.
We adjust. The tugs become less frequent.
Fourth obstacle: rope climb, twenty feet.
My shoulder twinges as I reach up. Old injury from stress positions in Rome—dislocated joints that healed but never quite right. I push through it, climb steadily.
We reach the top together, scramble down, and continue to the next obstacle.
Balance beam: narrow, twelve feet long, elevated six feet over a mud pit.
“Single file,” I say. “You lead. My hands on your hips. It steadies us both. I’ll drape the rope across my arms so the slack doesn’t trip us.”
She glances back at me. A beat of hesitation I don’t miss.
“Agreed,” she says.
We step onto the beam. My hands settle on her hips. She’s warm through the tactical fabric. We move slowly, deliberately, her setting the pace, me matching it.
We cross without falling. She steps off the end first onto a platform. I follow behind.
Neither of us mentions my hands on her hips for the length of that beam.
Final obstacle: water crossing. Slippery rocks, fast current. She moves quickly, I move cautiously. The rope stays connected but there’s tension—pull, slack, pull, slack. Not smooth.
We cross the finish line.
Mac checks his watch. “Sixteen minutes, forty seconds.”
When everyone is done with the event, we’ve earned fourth place. We’re both better than fourth place.
Trevor and Zay finished in fourteen minutes. Sienna and Juno in a little over thirteen. Aiden and Jacks in fifteen.
Blake and Heather finished at twenty seven minutes. There was no communication. Blake yelled and constantly moved too fast for Heather to keep up and they had to repeat several of the obstacles. He was fuming. When they finished, she sat with Sienna and Juno and kept her head down.
James and his partner finished at eighteen minutes.
The last team to run the course finished in twenty-five minutes. They were both covered in mud. Not only did they miss time the rope swing but also fell off the balance beam. They were both laughing and congratulating each other on finishing the course in spite of the two falls.
We easily should have been in the top three.
Back at tent four, Reid is frustrated. I can see it in the set of her jaw, the way she’s aggressively unlacing her boots.
“That was sloppy,” she says.
“Yes.”
“We’re better than fourth place.”
“Yes.”
She looks up at me. “We should run it again.”
I wasn’t expecting that. “The challenge is over.”
“I know. But the course is still there. We can run it on our own time. Dial in our coordination.”
She’s right. And I respect that she wants to improve, not just accept mediocrity.
“Agreed. After lunch?”
“After lunch.”
We return to the course around 1400 hours. Most other contestants are resting or doing maintenance on gear. The course is empty. Except, of course, the crew assigned to film us.
We attach the rope ourselves, check the connection.
“Same strategy?” Reid asks.
“Yes. But let’s actually communicate before each obstacle. Not assume.”
“Agreed.”
This time it’s better.
Wall climb: we discuss approach and landing. “I liked your exit. We’ll do it together.” I count the start, we climb together with better timing, then nail the landing with perfectly coordinated flips.
Rope swing: as before, she counts clearly, I respond, we swing in sync.
Crawl under barbed wire: smoother, more coordinated.
We’re finding the rhythm. Reading each other’s body language. Anticipating.
Fourth obstacle: rope climb.
I reach up, grab the rope. My shoulder protests immediately—sharper pain than before, radiating down my arm. I adjust my grip, climb anyway.
Reid is watching me. Of course she is. She’s military—trained to read bodies under stress.
Halfway up the climb, I wince. Can’t help it. My shoulder is screaming.
When we reach the top, I’m breathing harder than I should be. We slide back down.
Reid’s eyes are on my face. Assessing. “I think we’ve got the coordination down. Let’s call it here and rest that shoulder.”
“I’m fine. We can finish.”
“You’re favoring it. Don’t lie.”
I want to argue. But she’s not wrong, and there’s no point in making it worse.
“Old injury,” I admit. “Flares up sometimes.”
“From what?”
“Training. Long time ago.”
She doesn’t push. Just nods. “Come on. Let’s head back.”
We leave the course, balance beam and water crossing unfinished. But she’s right—we proved we can coordinate. No need to aggravate an injury.
At tent four, I start removing my gear. The shoulder is stiff, aching deeply.
Reid pulls a small jar out of her kit. “It’s mentholated arnica. Sit.”
“It’s fine. Just needs rest.”
“Sit down. I’m going to work on it.”
“Reid—”
“Partner maintenance. You can’t perform if you’re injured. Sit.”
I sit on my cot. She moves behind me.
“Shirt off.”
I hesitate, then comply. Pull the shirt over my head carefully, shoulder protesting.
She doesn’t comment on the scars. I don’t look back to see the horror or disgust I imagine is on her face.
Her hands settle on my shoulder. Warm. Strong. Competent.
She works the salve carefully into the muscles, finding the knots, applying pressure.
Her hand pauses on the front of the shoulder joint feeling the weakness in the damaged muscles and the slight forward position of the ball-like ending at the top of the arm bone.
“It’s not dislocated, but it’s not lined up where it should be.” This is said under her breath like she’s talking more to herself than me.
I don’t respond. I let her concentrate.
I let her help me.
She moves my hand to rest in my lap, then, holding her palm flat against the front of the joint, applies pressure while maintaining counter-pressure behind.
“Now, keep your elbow tucked tight into your side and rotate your arm away from your lap with your thumb pointing up.”
It hurts. But it’s the good kind of hurt—releasing tension, the joints slides back into the cradle of the shoulder socket with a soft pop, not causing damage, giving almost instant relief.
“You’ve done this before,” I say.
“Part of training. We had to learn basic sports medicine. How to keep a team functional in the field.”
Her hands move methodically. Professional. Therapeutic.
But I’m aware of every point of contact. Her fingers on my skin. The warmth of her body close behind me. The way she leans in slightly to get better leverage.
This is professional. Partner maintenance. Nothing more.
I try but fail to suppress a sound when her thumb digs into a particularly tight spot.
“That hurt?” she asks.
“Yes. But it’s helping.”
“Good. Just breathe through it.”
She continues working. My shoulder starts to loosen. The pain recedes from sharp to dull.
I’m extremely aware of her. The sound of her breathing. The occasional brush of her body against my back when she shifts position to work on my left shoulder. The competence in her hands.
This is dangerous. I shouldn’t be thinking about her hands this way. Shouldn’t be noticing how good it feels to be touched without violence. Shouldn’t be wanting her to continue just so I can feel her close.
“Better?” she asks after several minutes.
“Much. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Just keeping my partner in top condition.”
Partner. Right. That’s all this is.
She pulls back, gives me space. I reach for my shirt and pull it back on, careful not to undo all her work.
When I turn around, she’s already on her own cot, focused on cleaning her boots. Professional distance restored.
Grabbing mine, I do the same. The silence between us is easy.
“Get some rest,” she says without looking up when we’re both done. “We have another challenge tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
I lie back on my cot. Close my eyes.
The shoulder feels better. Looser. Functional.
The rest of me does not.
Her hands were steady. No cruelty. No force. Just intent.
I lie in the dark and listen to her breathing. Four feet away.
The space between our cots feels smaller tonight.
I don’t examine why.
I sleep anyway.