“Couldn't get comfortable.”
“Uh huh.” Her eyes cut to Everett, then back to me. “Anything you want to share with the class?”
“Nope.”
“Sierra.”
“Holly.”
We stare at each other. She doesn't blink. I don't either.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Later. When there aren't cameras everywhere.”
“I'll hold you to that.”
The morning drags on through log rolling. Roman falls in three times, Nolan wins, Caleb claims the logs were rigged. They follow up with something called “timber tossing” that's basically just throwing heavy things while grunting.
By early afternoon, the crowd has swelled. Word spread about the #MountainDaddyTour phenomenon, and now there are approximately five hundred people crammed into a space meant for fifty, all of themdocumenting every flex, every grunt, every suspender snap on their phones.
It's chaos. Tara is thriving.
I station myself near the axe-throwing range, getting shots of the setup, when I overhear them.
Two of Tara's camera crew, positioned just behind the hay bales where they think nobody's listening. The taller one—Kyle, I think, based on the name embroidered on his jacket—nudges his buddy and gestures toward the crowd.
“Look at all these Lift Line Lulus,” he snickers. “Showing up in their cute little snow bunny outfits, pretending they give a shit about lumberjack sports.”
The other guy—shorter, beard, equally punchable face—laughs. “They're not here for the logs, dude. They're here for the wood.”
“Yeah, well, at least they're easy on the eyes.” Kyle adjusts his camera, panning across the female spectators like he's shooting a nature documentary about prey animals. “Too bad none of them could actually throw an axe. Twenty feet might as well be twenty miles for these chicks.”
My spine snaps straight and it takes everything in me to not strangle my camera.
“Nah, man.” The bearded one shakes his head. “Women can't throw. Upper body strength, spatial awareness—it's just not in the biology. That's why this is a men's event.”
No one said it was just a men’s event. Fucker.
I don't know who taught me to throw first—Roman,with his patient explanations of balance and follow-through, or Nolan, who just handed me an axe and said “aim for the center and don't let go too early.” All I know is I've been hitting targets since I was twelve, learned by brothers who never once treated me like I was incapable.
“Shutterbug.” Nolan materializes at my elbow, because of course he does. His eyes track from me to the camera crew and back. “You gonna take that?”
I don't answer. I'm already moving.
The axe-throwing range is technically closed between heats, but notices as I slip past the orange tape. Nobody stops me as I grab one of the competition axes from the rack—good weight, clean edge, perfect balance.
Kyle notices me first. “Hey, sweetheart, that area's not?—”
I throw.
The axe rotates twice in the air and buries itself dead center in the target. The thunk of metal hitting wood echoes across the suddenly silent clearing.
Kyle blinks. “Lucky shot.”
Without taking my eyes off him, I pick up another axe.
This time I don't even aim properly. I just turn, extend my arm, and release in one fluid motion—the kind of muscle memory you only get from years of practice.
Dead center. Half an inch from the first axe.
