We’re in the top three.
I glance at Joe. He’s to our right now, no longer smiling. His hands are shoved into his pockets, his foot tapping a nervous rhythm in the snow.
Sarah is gnawing on a fake nail, staring at the scoreboard like it might explode.
If we’re called now, I lose to him.
I hold my breath.
No. There’s no way his heart rate beat Cohen’s. Cohen practically melted the equipment.
“Bronze medal!” Tina shouts. “With one-thirty beats…”
She pauses far too long.
“…Joe and Sarah!”
Yes.
I let the air out in one long, glorious exhale.
I won.
I beat him.
Joe stiffens. The perfect-boyfriend mask slips, revealing a flash of genuine irritation. He marches to Tina, snatches the marshmallow without a thank-you, and turns back stiff as a board.
When his eyes meet mine, the greasy sympathy is gone.
Now there’s anger.
And the sting of being beaten.
Cohen tugs me closer, silent laughter rumbling through his chest. He knows exactly how satisfying this is for me.
“And now—our final duel!” Tina cries as the music swells.
It’s down to us and Lucy and Lars.
I look at Lucy. She’s beet-red, clutching Lars’s enormous hand, looking seconds away from fainting.
Lars gazes at her like she’s the only thing in color in a black-and-white world.
“In second place… with a very respectable one-sixty… Lucy and Lars!”
The clearing erupts in genuine applause.
Tina presses a hand to her chest. “Oh, my loves… Lars, sweetheart, you stood there like a mountain, but your heart ran like a freight train. Lucy barely brushed your beard and whispered one poem. If that’s not pure devotion, I don’t know what is!”
Lars takes the marshmallow delicately between his dinner-plate hands and presents it to Lucy like a rare flower.
They’re adorable.
If I weren’t determined to win at all costs, I’d root for them.
But then—pink lights flash wildly.
Pedro starts flapping and shrieking, “Champions! Champions! Hot! Hot!”
