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“Get out before I make you spell precious.”
“Don’t piss me off, you’re going to need me. Clock’s ticking. Put your panties on.”
The thirsty look in his eyes instills a small amount of fear. “Out.”
He shuts the door behind him as I prepare myself for battle. I’m smaller than ninety-nine percent of the guys doing camp today. When I signed up weeks ago, I was mildly buzzed and feeling invincible partly due to the girl, okay mostly due to the girl. Some part of me knows I did it to try and prove something to the masculine part of myself; while the more sober, more intelligent part of me knows it’s suicide to try and fight my way through a mile-long booby trap with dozens of blood-thirsty athletes.
Once dressed, and after putting any lingering Napoleon complex aside, I put my game face on and head downstairs where a few guys wait, draining Red Bull. Troy greets me with a fresh can.
“Amp up, you’ll need it.”
“That shit is poison.”
“Drink it,” he says with a hint of warning. “Drink fucking two and stay close to me.”
“I’m good,” I insist taking the offered can and popping it. He jerks his chin. “Totally different kind of field today.”
“I’m up for it.”
He grins. “Let’s do it then.”
Slight unease coats me as I hop into Troy’s truck along with a few of th
e other guys before he peels out. It’s when I see the obstacle course come into view from the side of the highway and dozens of muddied men twice my size gasping for air at the finish line that I sink in my seat. I’m terrified but do my best not to alert the fear-smelling, steroid-infused bees chattering around me with excitement.
Troy reads my posture and chuckles before cranking up the music as Kevin puts a reassuring paw on my shoulder. “We’ve got you, man.”
I do the only thing I can, I nod and pray.
At the starting line, I survey the course, my mind racing with potential tactics. A short sprint, followed by a climb over a nine-foot wall, then a crawl through the mud beneath barbed wire. Beyond that, it’s child’s play—hills, ropes, and tires.
Ted Nugent’s “Stranglehold” starts blaring through several large speakers around the course just as I decide my best bet is to flank Troy, and so I shift in line next to him. I scan the eager crowd of blood-thirsty testosterone to my left and know, without a doubt—I’m. About. To. Fucking. Die.
Steady guitar thrums into my ears, picking up speed and something in me shifts to beast mode as I study the hellacious trek paved out for us. I’m probably high off the Red Bull, but I feel like pounding my chest and yelling a war cry as my fingers itch at my sides. I think of the girl who just last night looked at me like I was the sun revolving the Earth.
I’ve fucking got this.
I lift my chin in defiance, batting any doubts away.
It’s when the bullhorn sounds and activity spikes on either side of me that I charge, tackling the sprint like a motherfucking boss celebrating my triumph of being one of the first to make it to the wall, well ahead of the hulk parade. The pride-filled grin I sport is smashed off my face when I catch the first elbow.
“Jesus man, that was epic. I’ve never seen a guy fly so far, so fast, and still get the worst fucking time,” Kevin laughs uncontrollably as I down my sixth beer in five minutes. Troy shakes his head laughing every time he glances my way, unable to get a word out, but I see a new respect in his eyes when he looks at me. At the finish line, and for the first time in my life, I’m at the King’s table. I can’t say that I hate it. I wasn’t an outcast in school, I just was the one everyone waved to while walking down the hall before they reached someone more important. Aside from my high school best friend, Nora was the first one to stop for me. She was the first person to take the time to get to know me. I’d latched onto that interest. It made me bolder.
But Laney’s attention makes me feel invincible.
Maybe I subjected myself to this massacre partly for her. But in all my years, I’d never taken the chance, never pushed myself like this and always just assumed I wasn’t capable of the athleticism or the stunt I pulled today. And the truth is abundantly clear, I’m nowhere near fucking capable. Despite that, I can’t regret it. To an outsider, I got pulverized, but every minute of the hell was a personal victory for me. It must show because the guys are crowded around me.
“Jesus dude, you need a medic,” Troy says, looking me over.
“I’m good,” I say finishing my beer and reaching for the collective duffle we brought before searching it for my phone. “Do me a favor and take a picture.”
“Crowd in, assholes,” Troy says as the guys gather around, dwarfing me. Muddy and bloody, I flex my arms in front of me Hulk-style. Troy takes a few pictures while trying not to piss himself laughing.
I scroll through a few shots and pick the most humiliating of the three before uploading it.
“You’re seriously posting that?”
“Favor for a friend.”
