Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Silence.
For half a second.
Then—absolute chaos.
The bleachers erupt.
When I raise my hand—and axe—to wave, the roar of the crowd crashes over me, my nerves disappearing. Poof, gone.
If they want a show, I’ll give them a damn show.
I adjust my stance as if I’m about to play a round of golf, roll my shoulders, lift my chin, letting the moment sink in.
I’ve played in stadiums packed with seventy thousand screaming fans, but there’s something about this—a small-town festival, flannel-clad families cheering like I just walked onto the Super Bowl field—that hits different.
I flash a slow, easy grin and raise my axe into the air.
The crowd absolutely loses their freaking minds.
Kyle groans, shaking his head. “Great. Now he’s feeling himself.” He laughs. “Is that stadium strength any match against real lumberjack muscle?”
The announcer is still hyping the crowd, his voice booming over the speakers. “Who’s ready to see if Harris Bennett can chop more than just offenses?”
I grip my axe tighter, glancing over at Kyle. “Hope you’re ready to lose, old man.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “We’ll see about that.”
Annabelle raises a hand. “Axes up!”
I roll my shoulders one last time, plant my feet, and get into position.
“Three . . . two . . . one . . . Go!”
I swing hard, the first strike biting deep into the wood with a satisfying THWACK. The force reverberates up my arms, but I don’t stop to feel it—I keep going, correcting my angle, swinging again.
Beside me, Kyle is a machine. His axe hits in rapid succession, each swing throwing up wood chips, the log splitting in slow, deliberate destruction.
But I’m faster.
Perspiration forms on my forehead as I push through, bringing the blade down again and again. My ribs ache from the impact, but the adrenaline overrides it.
The crowd is going wild. Every time my axe hits, they feel it. Each crack of splintering wood fuels their cheers.
Sweat beads between my pec muscles. I don’t stop. I can’t. The adrenaline is pumping, my muscles are screaming, and I’ve got an entire crowd losing their damn minds every time my blade makes contact with the wood.
The energy is electric.
The cheers. The heat. The sweat dripping down my back.
I swing again—Thwack, Thwack—the log splintering beneath my blade. The crowd eats this shit up, an unyielding wave of hoots, whistles, and screaming.
I should be focused on winning. On chopping more wood than Kyle.
But then I hear a voice from the stands . . . loud. Clear.
“Take it off, Bennett!”
Take it off, take it off, take it off . . .
It’s not a horrible idea. Give the ladies what they want!
I step back, gripping my axe with one hand, and with the other—
Grip the front of my flannel and rip it open.
Buttons go flying.
The crowd loses their collective minds.
Well. Maybe the dudes don’t, but the moms sure do.
“He’s possessed by the lumberjack gods, folks—look at him go!” the announcer shouts. “He may indeed be the winner—at least in the hearts of the fans here today.”
Kyle wipes sweat from his brow with his sleeve, glancing over at me, disgusted. “I can’t compete with this!”
I grin, whacking away. “Damn right!”
But then—
Crack!
His log splits.
Mine? Still standing.
Shit.
“Time!” the announcer bellows. “And the winner . . . is . . . Kyle! Give it up for Kyle, everyone!”
The second the announcer declares Kyle the winner, the crowd detonates again, breaking into thunderous applause, roaring with approval. Kyle lifts his arms in victory, grinning as if he’s conquered Everest. I clap him on the shoulder, giving him his moment. He earned it. The guy is a maniac!
Then—
“Booooo!”
Dex is standing on the bleachers, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify the most dramatic booing I’ve ever heard—and I’ve heard a ton of booing. Comes with the job.
Deshaun joins in. “Rigged! the Hottest Lumberjack Should’ve won!”
“The Man Sacrificed his shirt!”
That’s what pushes Annabelle over the edge.
“Enough! This is a family show—put your damn shirt back on!” she bellows at me, stomping over with the authority of an irritated kindergarten teacher. She jabs a finger in my direction. “You absolute menaces need to get moving before this turns into a full-blown riot.”
“Don’t blame me.” Kyle holds up his hands in surrender. “I haven’t done anything!”
I grab my flannel off the ground and sling it over my shoulder. “What’s next?”
Annabelle points toward the opposite side of the event space, where several giant logs bob in the water. “The birling competition,” she says.
I blink. “The what?”
“Logrolling,” Bill clarifies, rejoining us. “We run on a floating log and try not to eat shit.”
I hadn’t heard them call it that before—I thought it was called logrolling.
I stare at him. “And if we do eat shit? Stay in the water? Bob around? Wave?”
Annabelle smirks. “You make a big splash in front of all your adoring fans and, yes, give them all a big wave.”