Page 32 of Good Directions

“Harder, pull!” Willa shouts, her instructions breaking the spell I’m under.

I scan up and down the line, taking in all the twisted and contorted faces as they continue to pull, the small back and forth of the flag making my pulse leap.

“C’mon!” Dolly yells.

Holy cow, I am way too invested in this. In wanting the Hayeses to win. In wanting Anton to win.

And wondering how he’ll react if he does.

The crowd around us continues to shout, some in generic support, while many have clearly picked a side. And I can’t blame them, because despite what I might have thought going into this, it’s exciting.

More grunts and groans escape from the two teams, their efforts starting to weigh on them. I have no idea how long they’ve been doing this—can’t be more than a few minutes—but each one is still giving it their all. And that flag has barely moved from its original spot.

Shit.

“Pull!” I scream.

I don’t know where it came from, the excitement of the moment taking over, ripping the word from deep down in me. More than that, it seems to make time stop.

At least for me. And Anton.

Looking over at me, he smirks. The kind of smirk that makes knees go weak and breaths hitch. Both of which happen to me. It’s also the look of a man who knows the plea was for him. And him alone.

So Anton replies in a way that is so him, I can’t explain it. He winks. Again.

With a deep, guttural growl, Anton turns back to his opponents, tightening his grip, face going beet red as he turns it up a notch. Whatever that growl was, all his brothers seem to know—seem to speak that language—and understand the message. It was a battle cry. A secret code.

In a single, swift move, one that I would have thought coordinated if I hadn’t been watching this whole thing, they heave together, as a unit. The Nobles try to respond in kind, but it doesn’t work. A couple more good pulls and they go flying, and the flag moves over the line.

All fourteen men topple to the ground, cheers and groans ringing out around us as the crowd reacts.

“Hux!” Dolly cries, rushing over to him.

It’s a mess of bodies and movement as the group is rushed by people to congratulate them—or help them up off the ground—the lot of them laughing and already starting to give each other shit about “maybe next year.” I lose track of Anton in the crowd, disappointment filling me more than I want to admit.

Backing away, I pull out my phone, pretending to have something to focus on. Now that tug is over, I don’t have any plans for the rest of the day. It’s still early enough that if I go over to the lab, I could get some tests run. Since no one else will be around, I’ll have plenty of quiet to concentrate.

“Sawyer…”

I swallow hard, knowing that when I look up, I’m going to be met with eyes the perfect shade of blue. Sure enough, that’s what is staring back at me. And paired with the damn smirk.

Fuck, he is irritating.

“Whatcha doin’?”

“Does it matter?” I retort, unable to help myself.

“Just askin’.” He takes a step closer, the musky scent of his sweat tickling my nostrils and making my insides squirm. Anton Hayes is the last man on earth I want to make my insides squirm, but there is something about him. I cannot control it. “Enjoy your first tug?”

“Only you could make that sound dirty.”

He laughs, reaching out and moving a strand of hair out of my face. The move is easy, soft, and caring, like he’s done it a million times and will gladly do it a million more, and the urge to lean into him rises in me. Except nothing good can come from leaning into Anton.

“Fireworks tonight?”

What? Where is he going with this?

Annoyed, I stand firmly, squaring myself off, trying to find as much confidence as I can. I will not let him get to me.