“Two.”
We lowered together.
“Up.”
We rose. The ball stayed. Again. One. Two. Down. Up. Amy’s pace became a rhythm. I followed. We completed six clean repetitions before the whistle. Not enough to win the station. Enough to change the charge between us. The second station was step-ups. I suggested alternating feet. Amy had prepared a sequence. We argued for ten seconds.
Then I said, “You call it.”
She did. Our timing improved. At the rowing station, the roles reversed. Amy wanted fixed intervals. The rower resistance was higher on her machine, so I adjusted our switch timing to compensate. She trusted me. We moved in rhythm. By the sled station, the competition had become genuinely fun. We pushed together, shoulders close, laughing when the sled veered toward a sponsor sign. At the switch point, Amy tried to change sides too quickly and collided with me.
I caught her at the waist. Level One. Routine contact. Allowed. Her hands landed on my shoulders. The crowd cheered. For a second, neither of us moved.
“Public affection,” I said.
“Maintenance.”
She was smiling. Not the controlled version. Full, bright, unguarded. I forgot about the clock. Blake blew the whistle.
“Move!”
We finished the push six seconds late.
We placed seventh in the event. Amy regarded the scoreboard as though it had breached fiduciary duty.
“We improved at every station,” I said.
“We lost because of the first and because Blake awarded style points to coordinated headbands.”
“Style is subjective.”
“That remains a flaw.”
She almost smiled. Blake approached with the event photographer.
“You two were fantastic.”
“We placed seventh,” Amy said.
“You were the audience favorite.”
“That does not affect the official score.”
“It affects engagement points.”
The photographer turned the camera toward us. My arm around her shoulders. Level One. I put it there. Amy leaned into me without prompting. The camera clicked. Blake checked their tablet.
“Your sled-collision clip already has seven hundred views,” Blake said.
The video showed Amy stumbling into me, my hands at her waist, her laughing up at me beneath the caption:
WHEN YOUR PARTNER IS THE ONLY FINISH LINE YOU SEE.
“That caption is terrible,” Amy said.
“It is a cute video.”
“We almost hit a sponsor sign.”
