“Time!” the announcer bellows. “And the winner ... is ...Kyle! Give it up forKyle, everyone!”
The second the announcer declares Kyle the winner, the crowd detonates again, breaking into thunderous applause, roaring with approval. Kyle lifts his arms in victory, grinning as if he’s conquered Everest. I clap him on the shoulder, giving him his moment. Heearnedit. The guy is a maniac!
Then—
“Booooo!”
Dex is standing on the bleachers, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplifythemost dramatic booing I’ve ever heard—and I’ve heard a ton of booing. Comes with the job.
Deshaun joins in. “Rigged! theHottestLumberjack Should’ve won!”
“The Man Sacrificed his shirt!”
That’s what pushes Annabelle over the edge.
“Enough!This is a family show—put your damn shirt back on!” she bellows at me, stomping over with the authority of an irritated kindergarten teacher. She jabs a finger in my direction. “You absolute menaces need to get moving before this turns into a full-blown riot.”
“Don’t blame me.” Kyle holds up his hands in surrender. “I haven’t done anything!”
I grab my flannel off the ground and sling it over my shoulder. “What’s next?”
Annabelle points toward the opposite side of the event space, where several giant logs bob in the water. “The birling competition,” she says.
I blink. “The what?”
“Logrolling,” Bill clarifies, rejoining us. “We run on a floating log and try not to eat shit.”
I hadn’t heard them call it that before—I thought it was called logrolling.
I stare at him. “And if wedoeat shit? Stay in the water? Bob around? Wave?”
Annabelle smirks. “You make a big splash in front of all your adoring fans and, yes, give them all a big wave.”
Kyle whoops. “Or. Try not to eat shit.”
“Uh—hey, Annabelle, I thought I was log splitting.” The last time I tried standing on a log, I fell in within three seconds. Maybe less.
Annabelle levels me with a look. “Oh, you thought you were only log splitting? That’s cute—we need all hands on deck.”
“I’m serious,” I argue. “I didn’t sign up for that.”
“I don’t have time for your cold feet. The crowd has seen you, they know you’re here—now they’re out for blood or, at the very least, an embarrassing wipeout.”
“But . . .”
Annabelle sighs, rubbing her temples. “Look, Harris. You’re here. You’re famous. Adding lumberjacks to the event has been the most entertaining, profitable weekend we’ve had in years. Now—youwillclimb onto that log, youwillattempt to roll it, and if youdofall in—” She smirks. “You’ll do it with grace and a smile.”
I rub my hand down my face. “There’s no such thing asgracefuldrowning.”
Four massive logs bob in the water, each one slick and spinning lazily with the current. There’s no way in hell I’m staying upright—not today.
I exhale sharply, glancing at the water. Then back at Annabelle. Then at Bill, who looks way too excited to watch me suffer.
“You’re really making me do this?” I ask, stalling. “I’m injured.”
“Lucy told me you were out traipsing through the woods hunting Bigfoot. You’re fine.” Annabelle taps the tip of her boot on the ground. “Let me ask you this: Do you want to disappoint all your adoring fans?”
I glance at the crowd.
