Bennett was still trying to figure out if the ear had been chewed by a teething baby or a teething puppy.
According to Matty Coates, the Trailblazers’ goaltender, who was here because he was off with his longtime on-again, off-again girlfriend, the bear had been passed from Obstacle Course Master to Obstacle Course Master for the past decade. It was a coveted prize. The gift card and beer were just bonuses.
“Timekeeper,” Hughes called from where he was resetting the course. “Who are our top two contenders?”
Bennett consulted the clipboard. “Sandro and CC.”
CC, dark-haired and dark-eyed and with sun-kissed skin like Sandro, but with an air of I-belong-in-a-teen-magazine to Sandro’s I-belong-in-a-men’s-fashion-magazine, rubbed his hands together.
“Christ,” Sandro groaned from a lounge chair. “I’m too old for this.”
“Yes, because you’re so antiquated,” Bennett said.
Heaving himself out of the chair, Sandro said, “I am according to sports blogs.”
“Come on, old man.” CC, four years Sandro’s junior and thus that much nimbler, stood at the start line—an actual line Hughes had drawn in the grass with spray paint—hopping from one foot to the other. “Bring your A-game. I’m a three-time defending Obstacle Course Master, you know.”
“How could I forget?” Sandro said as he joined him. “You’ve only mentioned it a dozen times.”
Hughes’ cough sounded like he was covering a laugh. He joined Eli, Coates, and Deeley—who was still recording—on the sidelines, and the betting began. They were split fifty-fifty between Sandro and CC, each of them placing fifty bucks on their chosen candidate.
“How about you, Ben?” Deeley said. “Who’s your money on?”
“Bennett,” he corrected, waiting at the start line with his stopwatch—an actual stopwatch that Hughes had provided him with in place of the app on his phone. “And a hundred bucks on Sandro.”
“Ooh hoo-hoo-hoo,” crowed Eli. “Big money on the table.”
Bennett narrowed his gaze on Sandro. “Don’t let me down.”
“Have I ever?” Sandro quipped back.
The comment settled heavily over Bennett’s shoulders, reminding him that he was the one who’d let Sandro down all those years ago. But it was clear Sandro hadn’t meant it the way Bennett had interpreted it—Sandro shrugged out of his leather jacket, leaving him in jeans and a sweater, and blew on his hands like he was about to step into the boxing ring—so Bennett let the past go and clutched the stopwatch.
“Timekeeper, are you ready?” Hughes asked.
“Yes, but is there a point to keeping time?” Bennett asked. “They’re competing for the championship. Whoever comes in first wins.”
Everyone looked at him with varying degrees of who brought this guy?
“How are we supposed to know if we beat the all-time record if you don’t keep time?” Sandro asked, like this was obvious.
“Right. Of course. What was I thinking?”
Sandro rolled his eyes at the sarcasm.
“And who owns the all-time record?” Bennett asked.
CC raised a hand. “I do. And I’m about to keep it.”
Sandro scoffed. “Don’t get cocky. It’s not a good look.”
“Players, are you ready?” Hughes asked.
Sandro and CC nodded.
“On your marks, get set—” Hughes blew the whistle, and they were off, their teammates cheering them on as if there was more than a creepy bear, a gift card, and beer on the line.
First were the hula hoops, ten rounds around the waist without the hula hoop falling to the ground. Harder than it looked, Bennett knew from his own recent try at the obstacle course.
