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That tiny room had been transformed. White boards lined the walls. The old desk was covered in computer monitors and Post-it notes. Her bookshelves were artfully arranged and almost filled to capacity.
And Hazel’s research consumed her. She was so damn dedicated.
I wanted that. To feel the fire in my belly and push for more.
And so here I was. It was five a.m., and I was running through the woods. The days were getting warmer, but the mornings were frigid and wet. I had layered up, but I was still freezing my balls off. I ran the trails on Henri’s land, looping around the forest and coming back up the main road.
My lungs burned and my quads ached, but I felt… at peace.
The trails, the woods. And Hazel. That was all I needed. Though I wasn’t sure how to—or if I should—admit it out loud, but my feelings for my wife were growing. It was all so new and confusing. She had always been funny and interesting and sassy. I’d admired her since we were kids. But I’d never really noticed her, maybe out of respect for Dylan, or maybe because I was so infatuated with Crystal for so long. But things were different now. The connection between us was evolving, and I was completely out of my depth.
As I rounded the final copse of trees, the cabin came into view, and standing on the front porch, wrapped in my tan Carhartt jacket, was Hazel.
I sped up, showing off a bit. Hey, I was a human. And this was my wife, standing in the chilly air in my jacket.
Subtly yet distinctly, my belly flipped. My wife. My partner. Mine.
I had never felt this way with Crystal. Not in the beginning, and not after years together. Not even after I proposed. She’d never felt like mine. Never felt like a partner. She was a pretty, shiny object I’d spent years working to obtain. Then, once I’d succeeded, I’d fought a constant battle to keep her.
Hazel was like the missing piece to a puzzle I’d spent my life trying to solve.
On the porch, she stood, holding a steaming mug of coffee. “I made this for you,” she said as I jogged up the steps. “Figured you could use the warmup.”
“You didn’t have to wait outside,” I panted, ushering her into the cabin.
“I had a feeling you’d be back soon, so I went out to check. It’s supposed to be in the seventies today. Great training weather.”
I was sweating, and my heart was racing, but a tranquil sensation spread inside my chest at the idea that she’d gone out of her way to care for me.
She wagged a finger at me. “Don’t go getting ideas. I’m not one of those women who’ll wait on you hand and foot.”
I laughed. “No?” I tapped my chin. “I thought for sure we were falling into one of those routines where I came home from work, all sweaty and manly, and you’d be in the kitchen, cooking dinner while wearing nothing but an apron.”
She punched my shoulder playfully. “Maybe your next wife. I’m going to get changed. Eat something. We need to start training.”
* * *
For most people, athletic training involved sneakers and sweat. But Hazel? She started our first training session with a PowerPoint.
“Okay,” she said, pushing up her glasses. “I’ve spent the last week researching. This,” she said, handing me a neatly stapled stack of papers, “is our training plan. We’ve got less than six weeks, and you still have work and your normal training. So I did a deep dive on the data, and hopefully my shortcuts can get us there in time.”
I casually flipped through the training schedule while she showed me different carrying positions on her laptop.
“Competitive wife carrying is all about teamwork, communication, and flexibility. We have to move as a unit and anticipate one another’s movements. And we both contribute to your balance and stability through the course.”
I reviewed the exercises she had outlined. In typical Hazel fashion, it was a lot.
“We don’t have to actually do this,” I said.
Her face was stony. “Dear husband,” she seethed, although there was a hint of humor lurking there too. “I’m taking this extremely seriously, and you should too. This competition is another great opportunity for you, and we’re not letting it slip away.”
Protesting, I started, “But—”
She held up her hand. “No buts. I’ve never been sporty. It wasn’t an option because sports costs money and require transportation to and from practice and games. Someone who will buy the right shoes or whatever and cut up the orange slices for halftime. I never had that luxury. So I honed my competitive streak at school.”
“And I think we can both agree that worked out really well for you,” I said, sitting forward and planting my elbows on my knees.
“Yeah, maybe it did. But when I do something. I do it. The Gagnons are going to crush this. We may not win, but we’ll be the most hardworking team out there.”
