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[indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=808080]Colton tracked River’s movement with a steady eye, jaw tight, one part impressed and one part determined not to get left in the dust. But beneath all that, a quieter worry pulsed— Sloane. He hadn’t seen her since her fall, hadn’t been able to catch her eye, hadn’t known if she was hurting or just shaken. She was tough, he’d learned that fast, but toughness didn’t cancel out pain. He’d check on her the second everyone finished their run. No way was he letting the day end without making sure his new, and only, friend was alright. There were others he felt bad for, that he wanted, instinctively, to check on; the dark haired girl who had thrown up, the redhead who’d cried, the man who had broken his nose— though when he’d taken off his shirt, Colton had been struck in a stunned sort of surprise for a moment. [i]Were men supposed to be that handsome?[/i] He’d shaken off the thought, confused with himself. In the end, it didn’t make sense to approach anyone right now, especially not when shame and embarrassment were so heavy in the air.

So, Colt focused on readying himself, and when his name was called he stood, fingers hooking at the hem of his crewneck. The fabric clung to the warmth of his skin for a beat before he pulled it over his head in one smooth motion. Cool air kissed the broad plane of his chest, raising goosebumps across his arms. He folded the shirt neatly— muscle memory from years of Ma insisting clothes respected the body that wore them —and set it atop his bench. Already his senses sharper, muscles humming beneath the surface like coiled rope ready to be pulled taut.

He stretched once, arms overhead, spine arcing, shoulders rolling, feeling every carved line of strength built from dawn-to-dusk work, hauling hay bales, turning soil, swinging hammers, wrestling stubborn machinery into obedience. This body wasn’t crafted in a gym, it was earned under the weight of honest days and unkind seasons. Useful, not decorative. Sturdy, not sculpted.

The tires met him first, and he slipped into the rhythm instantly, feet darting between them like water moving through a river’s split stones. His steps were sure, quiet, nimble in a way that belied the heft of his frame. Knees high, chest forward, body folding and unfolding with smooth precision. The world narrowed to the percussion of rubber underfoot, the steady push of breath, the distant shouts of others running their own race.

Then the logs. He approached them with the swing of a man who trusted his body not to betray him. He pumped his arms once, twice, then vaulted the first log cleanly. The second. The third, his landing was solid, balance easy. For the fourth, he placed a hand on the bark and vaulted with graceful economy, his palm leaving a print of warmth on wood. He didn’t break pace. The fifth loomed slightly higher, but height had never troubled him. He leaned into the jump, muscles contracting, legs carrying him upward and over in a single explosive motion.

He landed soft as a man his size could manage— dirt shifting, breath steady. He dropped to his belly without hesitation at the low crawl, elbows sinking into grit. The world compressed around him, body long, limbs folding in a practiced pattern as he pulled and pushed his way forward. Sand scraped along his ribs, stuck in a damp line across his chest and abdomen. It crept into his sneakers, grinding between his toes in that particular brand of discomfort reserved for beaches and bad terrain.

He grimaced but kept moving. His body worked like a machine, shoulders pulling tight, core locked, legs driving rhythmically behind him. The rope brushed against his back with each shift forward, and the scent of earth rose thick in his lungs, grainy, metallic, honest. It reminded him of plowing fields in late summer, of digging trenches with his brothers, of a simpler kind of exhaustion. He cleared the crawl with a final push, sand clinging stubbornly to his forearms and chest. Standing felt like shedding a shell of dust and effort.

Colton hit the base of the rope without slowing, sand still clinging to his ribs, breath thick in his throat. He reached up, wiped his palms hastily against his pants, and grabbed hold. The first pull burned sweet and familiar through his biceps, the kind of strain he’d grown up on—lifting equipment twice his size, hauling feed bags across muddy fields, climbing beams in the loft just because work demanded it. His muscles coiled tight, then lengthened with each deliberate motion, body rising inch by inch in a steady, powerful rhythm. He pinched the rope between his boots, locking it, climbing higher—hands over hands, breath puffing against the cold air, sweat sliding down the line of his spine. At the top he paused only for a heartbeat, enough to savor the height and the burn, then braced and descended fast, careful not to let the rope sear angry lines across his palms. He dropped the last few feet with a solid, practiced thud that reverberated up his legs.

The rope bridge greeted him with a familiar sway, nothing he hadn’t felt moving across barn rafters in a storm, or crossing makeshift bridges over swollen creeks back home. He moved lightly, steps sure, finding each cross section with instinctive precision. The ropes creaked under his weight, but never enough to break his stride. By the time he reached the platform at the end, his breath came harder, chest rising and falling in deep, steady pulls. A grin tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth, this course was work, but it was good work. The kind that reminded him he still had a body capable of more than memory or grief. 

He grabbed the rope swing, backed up a few steps, and ran forward. His feet thundered against the wood before he leapt, momentum carrying him across the water below. He hit the opposite side ungracefully, knees bending hard, shoes skidding, but he caught himself, rolling to bleed off the landing, coming up on his feet without a pause. The smile widened, breathing now a rough rhythm against the air, sweat beading on his bare skin.

The balance beams appeared next, three long, narrow planks that looked like they’d been stolen from a construction site and nailed together by someone with a loose definition of safety. He stepped onto the incline, arms instinctively lifting for balance. The first beam went well, his weight shifting smoothly, feet finding their anchor points by instinct. The second, however, betrayed him. His boot slipped a fraction on damp wood, hips tilting too sharply, breath catching in his throat. For a moment he wavered, windmilling one arm to counterbalance—

—but muscle memory caught him before gravity did. He righted himself with a grunt, heart hammering, then powered through the decline with quickened steps. The third beam felt mercifully straightforward, his body adjusting, finding that old, stubborn stability again. He hopped off the end, boots thudding into the earth. And there it was, stretching out before him, the pool. He slowed, just slightly. Just enough to feel the cold rise off the water in a smooth, glassy breath. Enough to realize he’d pulled far ahead of the others in his group, that the arena behind him was quiet, save for the distant sound of someone still wrestling a log or a rope. Enough to register that old, familiar prickle of instinctive fear— 

Except it didn’t come. Not the sharp bite. Not the tightening in his chest. Not the ghost of smoke in his lungs or the memory of crackling heat. Just water. Still. Waiting. He swallowed, one hard, grounding motion, then stepped forward and dove. He entered the pool without finesse, no elegant arc, no practiced grace, just the solid, determined plunge of a man who saw the finish line glinting ahead and wanted it. The shock of cool water slammed against his skin, a bracing jolt that cleared the last of the sand and sweat from his thoughts. He kicked hard, cutting through the water with raw efficiency rather than style, each stroke a blunt statement of intent. His arms carved forward, legs driving behind him, the water parting around him without complaint. 

He wasn’t fast like a natural-born swimmer. He wasn’t pretty like River’s effortless glide. But he was relentless. Colton surfaced from the pool in a rush of sound, water sluicing from his hair, breath tearing loose from his chest, heart pounding hard enough to match the roar still ringing in his ears. The chill clung to his skin in bright beads as he slapped both palms against the pool’s edge and hauled himself upward, muscles surging beneath his ribs and across his back. For a moment he hovered half out of the water, catching sight of the course still stretching ahead, but there was no thought of slowing. He planted a knee, then a foot, dragging himself fully solid ground wet slap and like squelch of drenched shoes. His crewneck was a distant memory on the bench, now he moved with only the weight of vague  and sneaking exhaustion, and determination clinging to him. He pushed off into a run once more, water flying from his skin in glittering droplets that caught the sun like sparks thrown from a forge.

The log ladder towered ahead, comically large, uneven, built for someone twice his size. But the sight of it tugged loose a thread of memory, the old barn back home, its rafters long since warped by heat and weight; the shaky beams he’d had to climb as a kid to fix hanging chains or retrieve a stubborn pulley. Those jobs had never been graceful. They demanded grit, balance, and a willingness to trust wood that creaked under his feet. This ladder felt no different. 

He grabbed the lowest rung and swung himself upward, muscles in his shoulders and arms surging as he hoisted his full weight in one smooth pull. The wood bit into his palms, rough and familiar. He climbed in an unsteady but relentless rhythm, knee, foot, hand, heave, never stopping long enough to lose his momentum. At the top he rolled his body over the log with a grunt, breath sharp in his throat, then started down the other side with long, skipping descents, each controlled drop sending a jolt up through his heels. He hit the ground running, lungs burning, but a grin already tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The final challenge rose ahead like a dare, the long pool stretch that could end a run or crown it. He spared only half a heartbeat to gauge the distance, shifting his weight, feeling the spring coil in his legs. Then, with a low exhale, he launched himself forward. The world narrowed into a single arc of motion, his body cutting through the air, arms thrown forward, chest lifting with the jump. He hit the ground on the other side with a thunderous thud, knees bending deep to absorb the impact, and let out something between a laugh and a gasp as he stumbled into a run for a few more strides before skidding to a dusty stop. Heat flushed through him, exertion, pride, disbelief. He’d finished. Cleanly. Strongly. First among his group.

He was surprised to feel the water drying upon his skin, gaze reflexively bouncing toward River, nodding once in wordless respect before heading toward his bench after he realized the other man had, somehow, dried him off. [i]That’s mighty kind of him.[/i] Each step felt looser, lighter, as if pride itself buoyed him. He’d pushed himself, trusted the body that had carried him through countless dawn chores and long, backbreaking days on the farm, and it had answered without hesitation. As he reached his bench, lifting the crewneck to tug it back on, he let out a deep breath, shoulders unspooling, a slow smile finding its way across his face before he even realized it. He’d done it. And he’d done it well.[/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent]

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