Meanwhile, the arm-wrestling match continues with both men locked in a stalemate. Sweat beads on Wes’s forehead, while Ransom’s knuckles have turned white from his grip.
“Two minutes in!” Boomer announces. “This is unprecedented!”
Marlie’s ghost floats around the table, studying both men like only a woman can. “The captain is weakening,” she informs me. “See how his left eye twitches? It’s a classic sign of impending defeat. Victoria used to look for that in poker scenes.”
She’s right—I can see a slight tremor in Wes’s arm now, though he’s fighting valiantly to hide it. Ransom, sensing the shift, increases his pressure ever so slightly.
Just as it seems Ransom might claim the victory, a loud crash from the nearby buffet table distracts everyone. One of the ice sculptures—a majestic swan—has toppled over, sending ice shards and seafood platters flying.
In that split second of distraction, Wes regains his strength and pushes back. The momentary advantage shifts back and forth several times until Boomer checks his watch again.
“Another tie!” Boomer declares. “These gentlemen are too evenly matched! We’ll have to settle this with our final challenge—the Norwegian Plank-Off!”
The crowd shouts with excitement as crew members clear the table and lay out exercise mats. The trophy wives press closer, their designer workout gear glinting in the fjord sunlight that has finally broken through the clouds.
“The rules are simple,” Boomer explains. “Both competitors will hold a plank position. Last man holding the position wins!”
Ransom and Wes take their positions on the mats, both dropping into perfect planks with military precision—forearms on the mats, bodies straight as boards, toes balanced on the deck.
“And...begin!”
The minutes tick by, neither man showing any sign of fatigue. The soap husbands watch with a mixture of admiration and relief that they’re no longer competing.
“Two minutes!” Boomer calls out.
“This is nothing,” Victor scoffs. “I once had to hold a plank for an entire commercial break while the set was on fire.”
“That was a body double,” Harper mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.
“Three minutes!”
Bess and Nettie have started a betting pool among the passengers, with odds slightly favoring Ransom due to hismysterious FBI backgroundas Nettie keeps reminding the crowd.
“Four minutes!”
A fine sheen of sweat now covers both men, but neither shows any sign of breaking. Wes’s face has taken on an unruly red hue, while Ransom’s expression remains impassive, although I can see the concentration in his eyes.
“Five minutes!”
The trophy wives have formed a semi-circle around the mats. Their designer sunglasses might be hiding their expressions but not their interest. Val keeps checking her phone, but her gaze keeps returning to Ransom with alarming frequency.
“Six minutes!”
I notice Beth slip away from the group with her phone pressed to her ear as she moves toward the ship’s railing. She seems agitated, casting furtive glances back at the competition.
Marlie’s ghost follows my gaze. “That looks suspicious,” she declares. “Very suspicious. I say we follow her!”
But before I can decide whether to listen to my otherworldly advisor, a collective gasp draws my attention back to the competition. Both Wes and Ransom are starting to shake, their muscles pushed beyond any endurance they might have.
“Seven minutes!”
“They need to end this before someone pulls something,” I whisper to Marlie, genuinely concerned now. Both men are far too competitive for their own good.
Boomer checks his watch and nods.
“And that’s time!” Boomer announces. “After an unprecedented seven-minute plank, we declare this competition... a TIE! Ladies and gentlemen, let’s hear it for Captain Crawford and Security Chief Baxter!”
At precisely the same moment, both Wes and Ransom collapse onto the deck, breathing hard but maintaining their dignity.
