Chapter Seventeen Maren #2
Too fast.
Powerful and terrifying.
She held up the gold flag.
“We lost the race,” she said.
Ava called, “To be fair, we were amazing.”
“You were annoying,” Maren said.
The crowd laughed.
Maren continued, “But we did get the final flag, survive a dramatic betrayal by Tyler and Beckett’s wake, and provide the kind of canoe content that should probably be shown in a training video titled Maybe Sit Down.”
Tyler shouted, “I would watch that.”
“You would star in that.”
“I accept.”
Maren looked down at Griffin.
He watched her with that steady focus that used to make her want to hide behind jokes.
Now it made her braver.
“The carry clip is still staying private,” she said.
No joke this time.
No cute phrasing.
Just the line.
“And because Griffin and I both approve this message, I will post the canoe fall instead.”
The crowd cheered.
Someone yelled, “With consent!”
Tyler yelled back, “GROWTH!”
Maren laughed, and the last tight place in her chest loosened.
She lowered the microphone and looked at Griffin. “Do you approve?”
He stepped closer.
Not too close.
Close enough.
“I approve the canoe fall,” he said.
“What about my caption?”
“I have not seen your caption.”
“Good point.”
She opened a new post and selected the clip Denise had already airdropped to her from the event camera.
The video was ridiculous. Maren reaching for the flag.
Griffin balancing. Tyler and Beckett slicing across the frame like aquatic goblins.
The canoe rocking. Maren grabbing Griffin’s hand. Both of them going over.
The final frame froze on Maren surfacing with the flag in her fist and Griffin looking at her like she had personally invented oxygen.
Maren’s thumb hovered.
That look.
Private in public.
Or maybe not private.
Maybe just honest.
She angled the phone toward Griffin.
His eyes went to the screen.
Then to her.
“Too much?” she asked.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Because this one is not just funny.”
“I know.”
Her throat tightened.
Of course he did.
She typed the caption.
BAD IDEA BET, CANOE EDITION:We got the flag.We lost the race.We kept the boundary.We highly recommend sitting down in boats.
She showed him.
His smile came slowly.
“That is good.”
“Only good?”
“Maren.”
The way he said her name made her ridiculous.
She hit post before she could do something worse, like blush in high definition.
The reaction came instantly.
Likes.
Comments.
Shares.
Ava read over her shoulder. “People love it.”
“People have taste,” Maren said.
“They also keep commenting that Griffin looks heroic soaking wet.”
Griffin looked toward the lake like it might offer him a place to disappear.
Maren patted his arm. “Do not worry. Your wet responsible-man era will pass.”
“I hate that sentence.”
“You only hate it because it is accurate.”
Nate approached with two towels and handed one to Griffin. “Doyle wants to talk to you.”
Griffin’s shoulders tightened.
Maren felt it more than saw it.
Nate noticed too. “Not bad talk.”
“That phrase has never helped anyone,” Griffin said.
Coach Doyle stood near the alumni tent with his arms crossed, expression unreadable. Carter Vale stood beside him, sunglasses pushed up on his head, phone in hand, looking out across the dock with the calm attention of someone who saw numbers and people at the same time.
Maren’s stomach gave one sudden flip.
Carter Vale had commented yesterday.
Carter Vale had contacts.
Carter Vale had seen the account.
Griffin looked at her. “You okay?”
“No.”
His gaze sharpened.
“I mean yes,” she said quickly. “Professional no. Personal yes. Maybe reverse that. I need a towel and a new nervous system.”
His mouth curved.
He handed her his towel before using it.
She stared at him.
“Griffin.”
“You are dripping.”
“So are you.”
“I am larger. I retain more dignity wet.”
“That is wildly debatable.”
“Take the towel.”
She did.
Because apparently trust was becoming a habit.
They walked toward the alumni tent together, both wet, both barefoot, both trying and failing not to look like they had gone through something more intimate than a canoe disaster.
Coach Doyle’s gaze moved between them.
Then to the lake.
Then back to Griffin.
“That was not the cleanest execution I have ever seen,” Doyle said.
Griffin straightened. “No, Coach.”
“It was also not the worst.”
Tyler, passing behind them with Beckett, whispered, “That means love.”
Doyle did not turn his head. “Donovan, hydrate somewhere else.”
Tyler vanished.
Doyle looked at Maren. “Good boundary before the race.”
Maren blinked. “Thank you.”
“Better one after.”
Her grip tightened around the towel.
Griffin saw.
Of course he did.
Carter Vale smiled slightly. “The post is already outperforming the first kiss rumor by a mile.”
Maren’s entire body went still.
Griffin did too.
Carter held up one hand. “That is a compliment, not a request for more drama. The boundary is why it is working. People can feel when something is cheap. They can also feel when someone knows what they are doing.”
Maren forgot how to speak.
That was inconvenient.
She had a brand.
A mouth.
A reputation for quick responses and polished exits.
None of them arrived.
Griffin spoke instead.
“She knows what she is doing.”
Simple.
Steady.
No performance.
Maren looked at him.
He was looking at Carter.
Carter’s gaze flicked between them again, sharper now.
“I can see that,” Carter said. “Which is why I wanted to ask whether you would be open to a larger campaign conversation.”
Maren’s heart stopped.
Then restarted badly.
“A larger campaign,” she repeated.
“For Ridgeview’s summer rollout and possibly the preseason community launch,” Carter said. “Short-form storytelling, behind-the-scenes team pieces, event-driven content. Not just cute posts.”
Not just cute.
The words hit so hard she almost missed the rest.
Carter continued, “This weekend has a hook people are actually following. The lake, the team, the challenge structure, the consent angle, the humor. It is strong.”
Maren nodded because nodding was safer than squeaking.
“That sounds incredible,” she said.
Griffin’s eyes stayed on her face.
Proud.
Careful.
Quiet.
Carter looked down at his phone, then back up. “There is one thing.”
Of course there was.
Maren’s stomach tightened.
“The Bad Idea Bet is the engine,” Carter said. “People are following the two of you. The campaign works best if Griffin is part of it.”
The dock noise blurred.
Maren looked at Griffin.
His expression had not closed off.
Not yet.
But something moved behind his eyes.
A shadow of the man from day one. The one who knew how quickly momentum became demand. The one who had spent the whole weekend learning to trust her not to turn him into content without permission.
And now success stood in front of them wearing sunglasses and offering her the exact door she had wanted.
With Griffin as the handle.
Carter must have sensed the change because he added, “No pressure to answer now.”
But there was pressure.
There was always pressure.
That was the thing about a door.
Once it opened, everyone watched to see whether you walked through it.
Maren looked at Griffin, soaked from the lake, towel unused in one hand, trust still fragile between them.
Then she looked at Carter Vale, who had just handed her the kind of opportunity Paige would call smart, Denise would call earned, and Maren would have called impossible two days ago.
Her phone buzzed in her hand.
A new comment appeared on the canoe post.
This is not even about the bet anymore. I would watch these two do anything.
Maren’s throat went dry.
Because for the first time all weekend, success did not feel like proof.
It felt like a test.
And Griffin Hayes was waiting to see what she would choose.