Then she gives Lucy a tiny nudge. “Luce—time is up. You’ve sufficiently flustered Harris.” Annabelle waves her hand toward the bleachers. “Shoo, shoo—off you go. Let the man do his job.”
Lucy grins at her best friend but follows her directions, taking a step back. “You’re going to do great,” she tells me. “Do your best.”
Do my best?
I laugh as she kisses me one last time before jogging back up to the stands, ponytail bouncing.
The announcer’s voice crackles over the speakers. “Ladies and gentleman! It’s time for the first round of the standing block chop! Let’s hear it for our competitors as they step up in position!”
The crowd erupts, a mix of cheers, whistles, and a few good-natured boos from my teammates, who are clearly enjoying the spectacle of Harris in flannel, pretending to be a lumberjack.
Kyle elbows me as we step up to our respective logs. “You look like you’re in a goddamn Hallmark movie.”
“Was that a compliment?”
He grunts.
As I’m adjusting my grip on the axe handle, the announcer’s voice crackles once more. “Well, well, well, folks! I’ve been informed we’ve got ourselves a special guest competitor in today’s competition!”
I freeze.
Oh shit.
The last fucking thing I want is more attention on myself.
The mood shifts, murmurs of curiosity rippling through the stands. The audience members crane their necks.
My stomach drops into my ass.
“Now, I don’t know if y’all noticed,” the announcer continues, dragging out this pronouncement, savoring every damn syllable. “But chopping wood isn’t the only thing this guy does. You might recognize him from Sunday Night Football because standing right here in front of us, ready to take on some good old-fashioned timber, is none other than Harris Bennett from the Arizona Sentinels! And he’s brought along a few of his friends.”
Silence.
For half a second.
Then—absolute chaos.
The bleacherserupt.
When I raise my hand—and axe—to wave, the roar of the crowd crashes over me, my nerves disappearing. Poof, gone.
If they want a show,I’ll give them a damn show.
I adjust my stance as if I’m about to play a round of golf, roll my shoulders, lift my chin, letting the moment sink in.
I’ve played in stadiums packed with seventy thousand screaming fans, but there’s something aboutthis—a small-town festival, flannel-clad families cheering like I just walked onto the Super Bowl field—that hitsdifferent.
I flash a slow, easy grin and raise my axe into the air.
The crowd absolutely loses their freaking minds.
Kyle groans, shaking his head. “Great. Now he’sfeelinghimself.” He laughs. “Is that stadium strength any match againstreallumberjack muscle?”
The announcer is still hyping the crowd, his voice booming over the speakers. “Who’s ready to see if Harris Bennett can chop more than just offenses?”
I grip my axe tighter, glancing over at Kyle. “Hope you’re ready to lose, old man.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “We’ll see about that.”
