Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Reid
Day eight. I wake to Mac’s voice over the PA system.
“Rise and shine. Formation in twenty. Dress for distance.”
Distance. That means ruck march.
I’m pulling on boots when Sulla sits up on his cot, already alert. No grogginess. Just immediate awareness.
“Ruck march,” I say.
“How far?”
“Won’t know until briefing. But ‘dress for distance’ usually means at least twelve miles.”
He nods. Starts gearing up efficiently. He rolls his right shoulder once, testing it. The one I worked on yesterday.
“How’s the shoulder?”
“Better. Thank you.”
We don’t discuss it further. Professional. Partners maintaining each other’s operational capacity.
At formation, Mac stands with a single massive rucksack beside him. Looks like it weighs at least eighty pounds.
“Today’s challenge, partner ruck march. Fifteen miles through varying terrain. One pack per team, eighty-five pounds. You decide who carries when. Your time is measured by the last of the pair to walk over the line. Time limit seven hours. Questions?”
Sienna raises her hand. “Can we switch carriers as often as we want?”
“Yes. But every transition costs time. Plan accordingly.”
He dismisses us to collect our assigned packs and map coordinates.
Sulla and I check our route. Fifteen miles northeast through forest and moorland, two significant elevation gains.
“Strategy?” he asks.
I’m already calculating. “We rotate every hour. That’s fair distribution of load.”
“What about terrain-based rotation? I take uphills, you take flats and downhills.”
I look at him. “Why?”
“I’m heavier, more muscle mass. Uphills require power. You’re faster on flats. Makes tactical sense to use our strengths.”
He’s not wrong. But it means unequal distribution.
“That puts more load on you overall.”
“I know. But we’ll be faster. Time matters more than fairness.”
I consider this. My instinct is to prove I can carry equal weight. But he’s right; this is about team performance, not individual ego.
“Okay. Terrain-based rotation. But if you’re flagging, if your shoulder flares up, we switch regardless of terrain.”
“Agreed. Same for you.”
We set out at 0700. I shoulder the pack first—flat terrain for the first two miles.
Eighty-five pounds is heavy but manageable. I’ve carried worse in worse conditions. I set a brisk pace, military standard: four miles per hour.
Sulla keeps up easily, staying within three feet. No rope connecting us this time, just verbal agreement and mutual awareness.
The first two miles pass quickly. Other teams are spread out along the route—some ahead, some behind.
At mile three, the terrain shifts. Significant uphill, rocky ground.
“Switch,” Sulla says.
I stop, shrug off the pack. He takes it, shoulders it like it weighs nothing. The pack settles against him without visible strain. His spine stays straight. His pace doesn’t break.
For a second, I just watch him—the easy competence, the way eighty-five pounds might as well be nothing, the controlled power in the movement. Heat rises under my sternum—irritation at the efficiency of it.
“You good?” I ask.
“Yes. Set your pace.”
I want to move faster. Every instinct says push harder, gain ground on the teams ahead. But Sulla’s carrying eighty-five pounds uphill. I need to be realistic.
I set what feels like a moderate pace. Still aggressive, but sustainable.
“Faster,” Sulla says behind me.
I glance back. “You sure?”
“We’re not strolling. Move.”
I increase my pace. Not sprinting, but definitely pushing. He keeps up without complaint, breathing steady.
We pass Trevor and Zay halfway up the hill. They’re moving slowly, Zay carrying and clearly struggling.
At the top, the terrain flattens out. Three miles of moorland.
“Switch,” I say.
“I’m fine. Keep your pace. We’re making good time.”
“Sulla—”
“We agreed terrain-based. This is still mixed terrain, elevation changes ahead. I’ll carry through this section.”
He’s being tactical, not martyr-like. And he’s right, there are more hills visible ahead.
“Okay. But tell me if you need a break.”
“I will.”
We continue. Mile five. Mile six. He’s still carrying, still keeping pace. I’m pushing harder now, trying to maximize the ground we cover while I’m unloaded.
Maybe too hard.
Mile seven, I hear his breathing change. Still steady, but deeper. Working harder.
“Switch,” I say.
“Not yet.”
“Yes, yet. You’ve been carrying for four miles straight.”
“And you’ll carry the next four. Let me get us through this elevation first.”
Stubborn. But also right; we’re approaching another significant climb.
I let him carry.
Mile eight, near the top of the climb, I see it. The slight hitch in his stride. The way he shifts the pack fractionally. The shoulder.
“That’s enough. Switch now.”
“Reid—”
“Now. Your shoulder’s bothering you. Don’t lie.”
He stops and shrugs off the pack. I take it, feel the full weight settle on my shoulders as I tighten the strap around my waist.
Heavy. Very heavy. I look at him—really look at him—and register the damp at his collar, the controlled set of his jaw, the fact that he would have kept going. He carried this for five miles. With an old shoulder injury that was aggravated yesterday. Without complaint. For the team. For me.
“You should have said something sooner.”
“I was fine.”
“You’re favoring the shoulder.”
“It’s manageable.”
We start moving again. I set a slower pace now—I’m carrying eighty-five pounds and my ego won’t let me admit it’s harder than I expected.
“Faster,” Sulla says.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re going too slow. We’ve lost our momentum.”
“I’m carrying eighty-five pounds.”
“I know. I just carried it for five miles. You can go faster than this.”
Irritation flares. “I’m going a sustainable pace.”
“You’re going a cautious pace. There’s a difference.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re worried about failing. So you’re being conservative. But we have four hours left and seven miles to cover. We can push harder.”
He isn’t wrong. I increase my pace. Not by much, but enough that my thighs start burning within half a mile.
Mile nine passes. Mile ten. The pack is brutal now. Shoulders aching, lower back tight, breathing hard.
“Switch,” Sulla says.
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve been carrying for two miles. We agreed to rotate.”
“We agreed terrain-based. This is still—”
“Reid. Switch.”
His tone makes me stop. Not commanding. Not aggressive. Just… certain.
I let him take the pack.
My shoulders immediately loosen as I breathe easier.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
“We’re a team. I carry when you need me to. You carry when I need you to. That’s how this works.”
We continue. Mile eleven. Twelve. We’re making good time now, but I can see other teams ahead of us.
Aiden and Jacks are in first place, maybe half a mile ahead. Sienna and Juno are second.
We’re third.
My instinct is to push harder. Close the gap. We can still win this.
But Sulla’s been carrying for the last two miles. Uphill terrain. His breathing is controlled but I can see the effort in his shoulders.
“We should increase our pace,” I say.
“Why?”
“We’re in third. We can catch second place.”
“We’re in third with three miles to go, and we’re both still strong. That’s good positioning.”
“But we could be better.”
“We could also burn out and drop to fourth or fifth.”
I want to argue. Want to push. Want to win.
But I look back at the trail behind us. See a team stopped completely—one partner sitting, the other standing over them. Medical crew approaching.
Another team moving very slowly, both partners clearly exhausted.
We’re in third. We’re strong. We’re going to finish.
Finishing intact is the mission.
“Okay,” I say. “We maintain current pace.”
“Agreed.”
Mile thirteen. Fourteen. My legs are burning but functional. Sulla’s still carrying, still steady.
Mile fifteen. The finish line appears ahead. Aiden and Jacks have already finished, sitting on the ground with space blankets. Sienna and Juno cross the line as we approach.
Third place.
We cross together—not one ahead of the other, but side by side. I don’t surge. He doesn’t slow. Our strides align without discussion.
Mac checks us in.
“Sulla and Reid. Five hours, forty-two minutes. Third place. Strong finish. Good work.”
I expect disappointment. It doesn’t arrive.
But then I see the medical tent. Four teams being evaluated. One team still hasn’t finished.
We finished third. Strong. No injuries. Both still capable of tomorrow’s challenge.
That’s a win, even if it’s not first place.
Sulla and I collect our space blankets and find a spot to sit.
“Good work,” he says.
“You too. You carried more than your share.”
“You would have done the same if our strengths were reversed.”
A week ago, I would have insisted on equal weight. Optics over sense.
“Yeah,” I say. “I would have.”
His gaze holds for a beat longer than necessary. Not agreement. Assessment.
We’re learning each other. Learning to work together. Learning to trust each other’s judgment.
It’s only been two days of partnering. Feels like longer.
Later, production pulls me for a confessional interview.
Michelle gestures to the chair. “Reid. Day eight. How’s the partnership going?”
“It’s going.”
“That’s not very descriptive.”
I think about how to answer honestly without revealing too much.
“He’s predictable.”
“What did you expect?”
“Someone more difficult. More rigid. Someone who’d fight me on every decision.”
“And he’s not?”
“He’s tactical. If I have a better plan, he follows it. If he has a better plan, he says so. We’re learning to communicate.”
“Do you trust him?”
The question catches me off guard.
I consider the terrain before I answer. Always buy time.
“I trust him to be a good partner,” I say carefully.
“That’s not the same as trusting him.”
“No. It’s not.”
“So what would it take for you to really trust him?”
“Trust is performance over time,” I say.
“And so far?”
“So far, he’s been solid. Competent. Willing to adapt.”
“That’s high praise from you.”
“Is it?”
“You’re not exactly easy to impress.”
Competence is measurable. That’s the only standard that matters here.
“He’s a good partner,” I say finally. “That’s all I can say right now.”
Michelle smiles like she knows I’m holding something back.
I don’t give her anything else.
But what I’m holding back, I’m not ready to examine yet.
Back at our tent that evening, Sulla and I prepare for sleep. The routine is familiar now—turn away to change, settle into separate cots, darkness, breathing.
“Reid?” His voice in the dark.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For calling the switch today. When my shoulder was bothering me.”
“You did the same for me at mile ten.”
“Yes. But thank you anyway.”
“You’re welcome.” I hesitate, then add quietly, “You carried more than your share today. I noticed.”
He doesn’t answer immediately.
The silence stretches. It isn’t strained. It isn’t easy either.
Two days of partnering. Tomorrow will be day three. Two and a half weeks left after that.
That’s enough time to stop second-guessing a partner.
His breathing evens into a rhythm in the dark.
I register the cadence automatically.
I don’t need to.
I do anyway.