CAROLINE
Nowthisiswhat I’m talking about. My body’s buzzing from the sight of two women standing on round platforms in the center of a massive red mat on the beach. Tiki torches flicker against the sunset, outlining the arena. I peer around and nod in approval. Here’s a sport I enjoy sweating over. The next round of the Sapphic Olympics is looking up after all.
While Basil sits next to me, eyes glued to the on-going match, intently watching every strike, block and weave, mine are on her. The third time I catch myself staring and return to people watching.
“What is this?” she asks. “Looks like we went from a home-improvement show to some type of survival game. Whatever we’re doing, I hope we start before it gets dark.”
“Gladiator Strike. We used to play every once in a while during boot camp.” My grin widens as I recollect memories of my victorious bouts against Kaydence. With us both being masculine-presenting Black women, people would often confuse us during training. I created a distinction. A type of legacy during my military days with Gladiator Strike. When I update Kaydence on case details later, I’ll remind her, since bragging rights don’t have expiration dates. Basil studies the equipment, seemingly attempting to picture the mechanics, so I explain.
“You stand on that stool-looking thing, holding the Q-tip-looking poles with heavy pads at the ends, called pugil sticks, and joust until someone falls.”
“Joust? LikeAmerican Gladiator?” She seems to understand when I nod, then follows me toward our corner, where two red pugil sticks and helmets sit. “That’s a bit barbaric.”
“And extremely fun.” While stretching, I think about Basil’s short frame compared to our competition, who look like models cut out from a fitness magazine. I’m prepared for this game. Basil, who’s still fumbling and sliding into equipment behind me, might be another story. “It can get intense, even with the head protection, especially with the rapid shots I deliver. If you want, I can show you a thing or two—”
Whack. Whack. Whack.
I twist around, eyes wide, and watch Basil glare at the human dummy doll. Her knees are bent, feet squared in ready position. “Looks like you’ve done this before,” I yell.
“Nope.” There’s a powerful strike to the sand-filled bag, then she winds up and hammers down like she’s splitting a log in half with an axe.Whack.
Or perhaps she has pent-up anger. Understandably so.
After a few more blows to the torso, she drops the stick and uses the bottom of her tank top to wipe the sweat on her forehead. Of course I noticed. Breathing heavily, she walks over and nods toward our opponents. “I'm ready. You take the one on the right. She looks more your speed.”
I analyze the shorter woman warming up. I have at least half a foot on her. “Are you sure about that?”
“You don’t believe I can take the one on the left?”
“She’s about my height and looks pretty intense. I just feel like you’d be better matched up with the other one.”
She places her hands on her hips. “You want another bet, don’t you?”
Based on the mischief in her eyes, I can only imagine what we’d bet on next. “I never said that.”
She passes me the pugil stick and watches me do a few practice swings. I pause until the right words come to me. “No one on this island is as strong as Robo Arms 3000 over there.”
“Sounds like someone’s worried about my wellbeing.”
I meet her sarcasm with a playful glare, then wield my own. “We can make this more interesting if you’d like.”
“I bet we don’t go to three matches.” No third match means she’s assuming I’ll beat my opponent and that she’ll beat hers. What is she planning this time? A determined smile creeps across her face. “If we both win, you come to the beach with me.”
I make a buzzer noise. “No thanks. I’m not interested in being your personal lifeguard and drink server.”
“How about a beach date after the couples’ massage? My way to apologize for ditching you back in Seattle. And I’d like to spend more time with you.”
A deep-tissue massage sounds amazing for my body right about now. I’m looking forward to that tomorrow. “You might have to sweeten this deal for me.”
Her eyes drift to my lips, then back up. “What do you want?”
You. The word hangs in the air between us as my mind wanders to places I’d normally go for a salacious response, but I hold my tongue. I face the ocean and think logically. It’s not like I technically have a choice. Where she goes, I go. At least that’s what I’ll keep telling myself.
“Actually, I just realized—” I turn back around, exaggerating my wide-mouthed expression. “You’re asking me on a dateandapologizing? Are you feeling okay?”
“You do realize you still need to actually win first.”
“Have you no faith?” I match her coy grin with a side eye.
