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“But fun,” Max says.
“Totally fun,” Amelia agrees.
“In England, everyone chases the same wheel of cheese down an extraordinarily steep hill. As you can see, here it’s more of a gentle slope, and we all get a wheel of cheese each. No one has ever fallen and broken anything here,” Sofia says.
Maddie looks concerned. “That’s good to know.”
“It’s a lot of fun,” I reassure her. “Let me explain how it works. You hit your stick against the wheel of cheese as you run after it to keep it on course.”
“With this thing?” She holds her stick up. Like all of ours, it’s a branch from a tree, stripped of any leaves. “Don’t they have specific cheese hitting sticks you can buy at a store? This feels way too DIY.”
“Afraid not,” I reply.
She examines the stick with her forehead furrowed, and I have to stop myself from reaching out and smoothing the lines, taking away any worry she may have.
“Here. Let me help you. You hold your stick like this,” I begin, taking her hand in mine and wrapping it around her stick. The touch of her skin against mine sends a wave of desire through me.
“Okay,” she says, her voice suddenly breathy.
“And you simply whack it against the side of the cheese,” I explain, as though hitting something with a stick needs explanation—and it certainly doesn’t need me to hold her hand in position.
But I find myself not wanting to let go.
“Alex, you’re such a flirt,” Sofia observes to my right.
“I’m not flirting,” I protest, but all of my siblings burst into laughter and I slide my eyes to Maddie’s. She smiles back and we share a moment before I reluctantly let go of her hand.
“Thanks,” she murmurs.
I wink at her. “Anytime, Texas.”
“Your Majesty, Royal Highnesses, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to this year’s cheese rolling event,” the emcee begins. “The only rule is sticks must be used, which means no hand can touch the cheese. Instant disqualification! The first over the finish line with their cheese wins.”
It’s the same speech every year, and it always makes me think of that movie Fight Club.
The first rule of cheese rolling is not to talk about cheese rolling. What’s the second rule? I look my father’s way. Don’t win.
“On your marks. Get set. Go!” the emcee calls out as a gun is shot and the cheeses surge forward.
Everyone springs into a burst of energy. I glance at Maddie to see her taking off at breakneck speed. Not to be outdone, I race downhill, dodging and leaping, the ground uneven under my feet as I focus only on the bouncing wheel. I nudge it into as straight a line as I can with my stick, aiming for the finish line at the bottom of the hill.
And then disaster hits.
My cheese wheel hits uneven ground, flies up in the air, and slaps down, coming to a sudden stop.
I know the rules. I can’t touch it with anything but my stick. So, I wedge underneath it to lever it. But I know with momentum gone, I have little hope of completing the race, let alone winning it.
I look up as a blur of competitors dash past me.
“That’s it. Game over,” I murmur to myself, wondering how Maddie’s doing, when someone hurtles into me, sending us both down the hill in a rolling heap of legs and arms.
“What the…?” I exclaim in shock as we come to a rolling stop. I look down to see Maddie lying on the grass beneath me, a look of dazed surprise on her face.
“Are you hurt?” I ask in a rush of concern.
“I-I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Are you sure?” I cup her head in my hands and peer into her eyes.
