“Run’s over, boys.” I toss a bottle at Dexter’s head. He snatches it from the air before it falls to the ground.
“How’s your girl?” Laws says before chugging half his bottle.
“Chewing up my socks.” I twist the cap and sip the water.
Lawson raises an eyebrow. “What, you don’t feed your probies on shift?”
“Haha, bud. Remember that one time you had a thing for your coworker? Did I give you shit?”
“Of course you did. Besides, you don’t have a thing for yours, do you?”
“She fucking hates me, and the feeling is almost mutual.”
“Only almost. There’s hope yet, Milo.”
He slaps me on the back, and I all but choke on the mouthful I just took.
You’ll keep, bud. You’ll keep.
“You have to be joking, yeah?” Tennison is inches from me, all heavy breathing, sweat-laden skin, and heaving chest.
“Nope. Go again.”
She hauls the hose off the ground, shoulders it, and takes off up the stairs. Behind the station is the old watchtower with six flights of stairs. Six turns. Six sets of treads that feel more impossible the higher you climb.
For good measure, I take off up them after her, a hose on each shoulder.
On the fourth flight, I catch up to her. “Faster, Tennison.”
A little moan leaves her lips, but she pushes faster, her expression twisted with something akin to discomfort, annoyance, and determination.
This is part of her fitness assessment. Which is, according to Schmidt, my job for the next twelve months. But this is the one task I’ll gladly take on, regardless of who assigned it to me. Fitness is the foundation of what we are capable of as firefighters.
It’s right up there with technical training and instinct.
Davies waits at the bottom. He’s next. Then I’ll put Sandy and Heids through their paces. Schmidt can go die in a hole, as far as I’m concerned. I’m not worried about his fitness orabilities. The guy is a disaster in turnouts. And the more reason for him to get made redundant, the better.
“Urgh, shit.” Tennison stumbles on the fifth flight, righting herself before her shin meets the edge of a step.
Her footwork is getting sloppy, her steps starting to drag.
“Come on! Push harder.”
The glare that snaps my way is full of damn fire.
Good, Tennison. Use it.
We make the top landing a moment later and the hose falls from her shoulder. A look of disgust wraps her face when she notices the two hoses still mounted on my shoulders.
“Must be nice to be Superman,” she rasps.
“Another go will burn that attitude right out of you, Tennison.”
Her brows knit as she leans over, hands clasping her knees. The day is warm, the breeze almost non-existent. I squat to pick up her hose. She could use a break.
Her hand snaps out. “No fucking way.”
She shoulders it and takes off down the stairs.
