CHAPTER 26
CASSIE
I never gave much thought to pep talks. In school, I didn’t play sports or belong to a team. But I’m fairly certain a pep talk is supposed to pump your teammates up, not make them fear you. The Hartley twins never got that memo.
“Let’s hear it again,” yells Evan. “Louder this time! What are we gonna do?”
“Murder,” the two non-Hartley team members recite. Thoroughly unenthused.
“And who are we gonna murder?” shouts Cooper.
“Your girlfriends.”
“Hey, assholes,” Genevieve calls. “We’re right here, you know.”
Evan turns with an expression of the utmost innocence. “Baby, hey. Didn’t see you there.”
She just snorts.
Mac, meanwhile, seeks out the authorities. “Hey, Deb,” she says, waving a hand. “Any chance we can switch sandcastle stations? Our neighbors are obnoxious.”
“Tattletale,” Cooper taunts.
Debra Dooley waves back. “No, siree! We’re about to start!” Our Beach Games host looks exactly like her name sounds. Short, plump, with a helmet of brown hair and bangs slashing a straight line across her forehead. She’s wearing khaki shorts, a white polo, and a pink adventure hat that would make my dad drool.
Looks like we’re stuck next to Hartley and Sons. To our other side, huddled about six feet away, are the women from the Soapery, the store on the boardwalk that Grandma loves so much. Their team consists of the owner, Felice, her manager, and two employees. To be honest, I’m more worried about them than the Hartleys. They hand-carve all their soaps. A sandcastle should be easy for them.
Deb Dooley and her team of volunteers from the tourism office wrote up a practical event schedule for our two-day competition. The more labor-intensive events are taking place in the morning when it isn’t too hot. Once the sun starts scorching us around noon, we’ll be switching to water events. The teams arrived at nine, and I’ve been told we’re done by one thirty. We also get an hour for lunch.
“All right,” Gen says while the tourism people discuss some last-minute details among themselves. She lowers her voice. “Are we still doing a fish?”
“We must,” insists Zale, who became my all-time favorite person within three seconds of meeting him. “We agreed to be ambitious.”
“I know, but it’ll be tough,” Gen argues. “Especially the scales. How are we going to make them look all detailed?”
“Oh, my sweet talentless flower,” Zale chirps, “leave the artistic endeavors to the designers. You and Cassie are the muscle. The pail bearers. Mac and I will handle our fish friend.”
Gen rolls her eyes. “Did you just call me talentless?”
“’Fraid so.” He flashes his bright white teeth, which he informed me he had professionally whitened just for this occasion. In the twenty or so minutes I’ve known Zale, I’ve become privy to his beauty routine, his family history, and the reasons he broke up with his last three boyfriends, two of whom were named Brian. With his tall, lanky frame, dazzling smile, and wild Afro held back by a navy bandana, Zale is larger than life. His exuberance is downright contagious.
A crowd has already gathered at the boardwalk. Deb and her army of volunteers roped off the sandcastle-building area from the public, and I smile when I catch sight of my dad and sisters. The girls insisted on showing up for the “opening ceremonies” to cheer me on.
“Go, Cassie!” Roxy shouts when Dad hoists her onto his shoulders.
I look over and wave, then scan the beach for Tate’s team. I didn’t see where Deb placed them. On the other side of Hartley and Sons are the mechanics. Beyond them is the team from the bakery—Nia’s friend Chandra catches my eye and waves. I finally spot Tate’s team about fifty feet away. They’re huddled together, talking strategy. Last night I kept bugging Tate to tell me what they planned on building, to which he declared he would drown himself before sharing trade secrets with the enemy. And I thought I was overdramatic.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the twentieth annual Avalon Beach Games are about to commence!”
Damn, where did Deb get a microphone? And did she say twentieth?
“Twenty years they’ve been doing this shit?” Zale says. He’s not from the Bay, only moved here this summer after Mackenzie’s headhunter poached him from a golf resort in California. “Damn. You southern peeps have too much time on your hands.”
Gen snickers.
“My name is Debra Dooley, and I’ll be your host for this year’s competition.” Deb is bouncing around with excitement. “I’m the president of Avalon Bay’s Tourism Board, and that means I love this town! I love it hard, folks!”
I smother a grin.
“The Bay is home not only to some very extraordinary people, but to the greatest, most unique businesses on the eastern seaboard! And we have a group of brave and beautiful participants for this summer’s Games, including a team from the newly renovated Beacon Hotel, which is reopening at the end of the month.”
“Whooo!” Genevieve shouts, jumping up and down. Since she’s in tiny shorts and a black string bikini, her antics draw the eyes of nearly every male on the beach. My eyes aren’t idle, either. She has great boobs. Perfectly proportioned.
“I know what you’re doing,” her fiancé warns from beside us.
“What?” she says innocently.
“You want to distract all the dudes into thinking about your tits instead of their sandcastles. Well, it ain’t gonna work, Fred,” he declares, using that completely random nickname he has for her that they both refuse to explain.
“Too late,” his teammate Spencer says. “All I’m thinking about is her rack now.”
Evan glowers at him. “That’s the mother of my future children, asshole.”
“The mother of your future children has a great rack.”
“Our first event requires all four team members,” Deb says into her mic. “The rules are simple—just build something! Anything! It could be a castle, it could be a flower, it could a self-portrait! You’re allowed to use your hands and any of the tools provided. Shovels, pails, spatulas. Go nuts, everyone! You can also take advantage of any natural objects you find on the beach. Driftwood, shells, seaweed, and rocks are all fair game. What isn’t allowed is anything man-made. If we see any food coloring or cement—”
“Who the fuck brought their own cement?” I hear Cooper mutter, and our respective teams shudder with laughter.
“—you will be disqualified.” Deb claps her hands. “All right, everybody, get those sculpting hands ready! You have ninety minutes to wow the judges with the most impressive sand structure ever made. May I remind you that last year’s winners, the beautiful ladies from the Soapery—”
I knew it. They’re definitely our biggest competitors in this event.
“—constructed a five-foot sand interpretation of Cinderella’s castle. That will be a tough one to top, ladies, but I believe in you.”
“Someone’s playing favorites,” Mackenzie grumbles.
“For real. Dooley better not be one of the judges,” Cooper growls.
“I think we found the competitive couple on the beach,” I whisper to Gen, who giggles.
“Ready, set, sculpt!”
Anyone who thinks building something out of sand is easy is dead wrong. It’s hard. And my only task so far is carting plastic pails from the ocean to our build site. It’s nine o’clock and the sun’s rays aren’t even that strong, yet Genevieve and I are sweating profusely as we toil to replenish our team’s water supply. After each trip, though, each sharp order from Mac and Zale to pat this, tamp this down, build this up, I’m starting to see a method to their madness. Gradually, our fish comes alive. It’s about six feet long and three feet wide, its curved tail slashing a semicircle in the sand, scales intricately carved by Zale’s spatula.
By the time our ninety minutes are up, I’m genuinely impressed by Team Beacon’s creation.
“Not half bad,” Gen says, admiring our handiwork.
“Not half bad?” Zale echoes. “It’s exquisite.”
“I wouldn’t go that far—”
“Yes. You would. And you should.” His tone brooks no argument, and Gen wisely shuts up.
I check out the Hartley team’s creation, my eyebrows soaring when I notice it’s not half bad either. They constructed a lion, complete with a wavy mane, thick paws, and an open mouth brandishing a set of lethal-looking teeth.
“Dammit,” Mackenzie mutters, sidling up to Genevieve. They’re surreptitiously studying their boyfriends’ work. “It’s pretty good.”
“Ours is better,” I assure them.
Zale agrees. “There’s no structural integrity in that lion’s mouth. One gust of wind and those teeth are falling off.” He grins. “And my weather app has just informed me we should be expecting a lil’ bit of wind.”
Turns out he’s a prophet. By the time the judges are nearing our section of the beach, the wind has picked up. They approach the Hartley lion just as half its face crumbles off.
“Son of a bitch,” Cooper curses.
Mackenzie looks over with a sweet smile. “Better luck next time, sweetie.”
This couple is vicious.
The three volunteer judges scribble something on their clipboards, then walk over to inspect our fish. I hear a couple oohs, which bodes well. Zale links his arm through mine, whispering, “We got this in the bag.”
But there’s no contest, not when the Soapery created a sprawling sand replica of Santorini, Greece. Even if I hadn’t been told what it was, I could have easily guessed. Santorini’s trademark staggered, dome-shaped buildings crop out of the sand, topped by colored shells the ladies scavenged from the beach. They’ve somehow managed to create blue accents. White walkways made of crushed shells. It’s goddamn breathtaking.
The oohs and ahhs get louder. The judges furiously scribble and take pictures. Nobody is at all surprised when Felice and her team are declared the winners.
Team Soapery now leads the scoreboard with three points. The bakers, no surprise, come in second with their four-foot-tall sand cake, earning Team Bakery two points. And to my delight, our fish places third, which grants us one point.
“We’re in this,” Mackenzie exclaims, pumping her fist.
“Unlike some people,” Genevieve says loudly.
I love my teammates.
The next few hours are some of the most fun I’ve ever had. Due to the windy conditions, the windsurfing race ends up being the most competitive. It’s split into two heats, which means two scoring opportunities. Tate and Danny compete for the club; Mac and Gen for the Beacon. And Gen, who practically grew up on the water, causes an upset when she beats Danny. He crosses the finish line a mere second later, stunned to find himself in second. Zale and I cheer like maniacs from the shore, because Gen’s win just earned our team three points. Mac, sadly, doesn’t even place. Tate takes that heat easily, with Team Mechanics finishing second, and another upset occurs when Team Bakery steals third place from Team Firefighters.
I’m frankly shocked by all the upsets. There are eight teams in total, the participants ranging in age and skill level, but some of the competitors come out of left field. Like when the tiny waitress from Sharkey’s Sports Bar defeats a gigantic mechanic in the footrace to take third. Or when one of the firefighters, who’s two hundred and twenty pounds with tree trunks for legs, nimbly dances across the tightrope as if he were raised in the circus, winning first place.
After his windsurfing win, Tate strides down the sand, shaking water droplets from his golden hair. He smiles as he passes me.
“Nice win,” I say grudgingly.
“Thanks, ginger.” He winks before rejoining his team.
“Why does he call you ginger?” Zale asks blankly. “Your hair is clearly copper.”
Gasping, I throw my arms around my teammate’s neck. “THANK YOU!”
To cool off after the last water event, Debra Dooley announces it’s time for tug-of-war.
Zale and I are representing Team Beacon. He’s lean but muscular, and, as I told Mackenzie during our strategy session, I’m freakishly strong.
“All right, Cass, you ready for this?” Gen encourages. “Let’s see you use that boob power!”
I roll my eyes at her. Normally I might bristle at the big-boobs joke, but that one was actually kind of funny. “I’ll do my best,” I promise.
Since Deb’s scoring system makes very little sense to me, I struggle to understand as she explains how the tug-of-war event will work. It seems to be a bracket setup, four teams narrowed to two, narrowed to one winner. But you also get one point for every round you win along the way. And then the usual first-, second-, and third-place scores. Whatever. Just pull the rope, right?
Zale and I face off against the Soapery ladies: Felice and her manager, Nora. I feel like a sadist at the notion of destroying two fifty-year-old women, but they surprise us with their fortitude.
“Dig in!” Zale shouts. He’s our anchor in the back. I’m in the front. “Dig your heels in, Cassie! We got this.”
I hold on to the rope for dear life, while our teammates scream their encouragement from the sidelines. Inch by inch, we manage to drag our opponents closer to the red line. Sweat drips down my forehead. I see Felice’s forearms straining. A red vein in Nora’s forehead pulsating. They’re losing steam. Giving up. Zale and I give a final tug and Team Soapery is out.
“One point for Team Beacon,” Deb declares after blowing her whistle. “You guys are moving on to the next round.”
Of the other three matchups, I’m not shocked that the teams with the biggest dudes make it through. The Hartley twins, the firefighters, and the yacht club guys.
We’re facing the firefighters next, and I’m not optimistic.
“We can take them,” Zale assures me.
We’re huddled together several feet from the battle area. Deb’s given each team a couple minutes to talk strategy, but the firefighters don’t bother utilizing their allotted time. They’re already in position, rope in hand. Cocky assholes.
Rightfully so, however. “Zale. There’s no way. That big dude is, like, two hundred pounds.”
He disagrees, his voice low and confident. “You saw what they did against the mechanics, right? They placed the short guy in the front, big one anchoring. Now look what they’re doing.”
I discreetly peek over. Interesting. The big dude is up front now.
“See?” Zale says knowingly. “Bad strategy. They think because you’re in the front, he’ll be able to single-handedly wrench you over the line.”
“So I should go to the back this time?”
“No. Let’s not talk crazy now. You need me to anchor. But you, my special goddess warrior, won’t let him move you. You’re not gonna budge, because we’re gonna what?”
“Dig our heels in,” I answer dutifully.
“Exactly. Dig those heels in. You’re a stone, Cassie. Immovable. You’re a statue. You’re Stonehenge.”
Now that’s a pep talk.
“Now rub sand on your hands to dry them off,” he orders. “A dry rope is a winning rope.”
As we’re getting in position, I notice Tate grinning at me. “Come on, ginger,” he calls. “Let’s see what you got.”
Deb blows the whistle and the round begins. Somehow, against all odds, Zale’s strategy works. We’re statues. We don’t move. Don’t budge. I don’t think the firefighters know what hit them, and they expend all their energy attempting to dislodge our heels, which are dug in so deep we’re part of the sand now. Our opponents are dripping with sweat, but we’re Stonehenge. We’re immovable. Standing our ground.
“Now,” Zale orders, and we make our move, yanking hard. The shorter guy can’t control the rope and the two men go flying forward, landing face first in the sand.
“Another point for the Beacon!”
“Holy shit,” I exclaim, dazed. “We’re in the top two!”
Zale screams and lifts me off my feet to spin me around.
The Hartleys face off against Tate and his partner next, the latter team beating the twins after a competitive battle involving many an expletive. Then Tate’s sauntering up to me with a shit-eating grin.
“Ohhhh, look what the cat dragged in,” he taunts.
“You’re the one who dragged yourself over to me, dumbass,” I point out. I kneel down to stick my hands in the sand. They’re sweaty, and I need them dry. As Zale says, a dry rope is a winning rope. That’s not a real phrase, but hey, it got us to the finals.
Where, I suspect, our luck is about to run out. Tate’s six-one and has those strong sailing hands. His partner Luke is six-five and also happens to have strong sailing hands. The two of them have dominated their matchups. But Zale and I did manage to beat the firefighters, so maybe there’s a shred of hope for us.
“Don’t look so worried,” Tate tells me. “It’ll be okay. I’ll help you up after your face hits the sand.”
“That’s so romantic,” I say. I look at Zale. “Isn’t he so romantic?”
“You guys dating?” Zale asks, his gaze shifting between us.
I answer, “Sort of,” at the same time Tate responds, “Just a little.”
We look at each other and grin.
Then I drag my fingers across my throat and warn, “You’re going down.”
“Oh, I am going down. On you later tonight.”
Zale lets out a howl.
“Is that supposed to be a threat?” I demand. “Because it sounds fun.”
Tate winks. “More like a promise.”
Then the whistle blows and we get our asses handed to us. The round lasts about four seconds, and I do indeed get sand in my face after I collapse. I’m pretty sure Luke was capable of taking us down all on his own.
Like the gentleman he is, Tate keeps his promise and helps me to my feet. “You okay?”
“I’m good. Nice win.”
Although we lost, our efforts in the tug-of-war event awarded Team Beacon with four points. Mackenzie does some quick math and looks concerned when she realizes the Hartleys are closing in on the lead we accrued thanks to our windsurfing upset.
“It’s fine,” Gen reassures her. “We’re still ahead by a lot.”
Except suddenly we’re not. Team Hartley embarks on a winning streak that makes Mac and Gen see red. They crush it in beach volleyball. Then Evan and Alex dominate their swimming heats, each coming in first. By the time one thirty rolls around, Team Hartley has added nine points to their total score.
Everyone’s tired and ready to go, but we’re stuck there for Deb Dooley’s final speech.
“All right, everybody! How much fun did we have today? I think this was peak fun for me! And I’m looking forward to seeing all of you again tomorrow, bright and early! We’ll be starting the obstacle course at eight forty-five sharp—the rest of tomorrow’s events are listed on the schedule we emailed to you this week. We’ll be wrapping up around one thirty P.M., with the winners’ ceremony starting at two. Today’s standings are being posted outside the tourism center as we speak, so make sure to take a peek before you head home for the day!”
The moment she finishes speaking, it’s as if everyone on the beach has transformed from adult to child. A mob of us hurries across the street toward the tourism center, a little blue building that stands at the entrance to the boardwalk. Near the door, an easel holds a huge chalkboard with the scoreboard written on it. Genevieve practically hurls herself at it. She studies it, then threads her way through the other teams back toward us.
“We’re in third place overall,” she says flatly.
“That’s great!” I counter. “Why do you look so pissed?”
“Hartley and Sons are in second place.”
“Damn it,” growls Mackenzie.
First place is currently held by the firefighters, with the yacht club in fourth. When I see Tate wandering my way, I stick out my tongue at him like an immature ass. “We’re beating you.”
He slaps his chest as if struck by a bullet. “Oh no. My ego can’t handle it. I might need a blowjob to make me feel better.”
I snicker, and he slings an arm around me and leans down to plant a kiss on my lips. My heart skips a beat, because I still can’t get used to the reality that Tate Bartlett just goes around kissing me.
“That was fun,” he says.
“It really was. Did you compete last year?”
He nods. “We came in second overall. Third the year before.”
“Look at you, collecting trophies left and right.”
“Baby, don’t even talk to me about trophies. My dad’s kept every single trophy I’ve ever won in my life, since I was, like, five years old. They’re collecting dust all over the house.”
“What trophies were you winning at age five?” I challenge.
“You kidding me? I was five when I won my first dinghy race. Damn trophy was taller than I was.” He grins. “Pretty sure Dad has a framed photo of it at the house. Tiny me struggling to hold up a monster trophy.”
“I need to see that picture. Get on that.”
“I’ll see if my dad still has it prominently displayed in his office,” Tate promises with a laugh.
“Hey,” Evan interrupts, elbowing Tate in the arm. “Bonfire at our place later.” He winks at me. “Gotta celebrate our lead.”
I look at Gen, who’s standing next to Evan. “Fraternizing with the enemy, are we?” I say, raising a brow.
“I mean, we live together.”
“Fair. I’ll allow it. Do you want to go?” I ask Tate.
“Like, a date?” He feigns uncertainty. “I don’t know. That’s a big commitment.”
“Fine. I’ll go alone.”
“Nah, I’ll go with you. I’m stopping in to see my folks for dinner, but I can come grab you after.”
He removes his arm from my shoulder but doesn’t release me completely—his hand instantly seeks out mine. As Tate laces our fingers together, I don’t miss the amused gleam in Evan’s eyes.
“So this is a thing now, eh?” Evan says.
Once again, Tate and I answer at the same time.
“Sort of.”
“Just a little.”