Mandatory joint training is the universe's way of reminding me I could have chosen a quiet, noncompetitive career. Like wrestling alligators.

Out behind the station, the obstacle course sprawls across the back lot like a fever dream designed by a sadistic gym teacher: mud pit, rope wall, cargo net crawl, tire gauntlet, balance beam over a kiddie pool, and a final sprint to a line spray-painted on asphalt. Cones. Whistles. Clipboards. Everyone's already too caffeinated and untrustworthy.

Jude's got the official "I'm being responsible" face on. "Remember: safety first, team-building second."

Kai Hart, Captain of Team Testosterone, calls, "And humiliation third?" and half the crews cheer like he's a prophet.

He's leaning against a rack of sandbags like he owns the concept of gravity, sleeves shoved up, forearms roped and ridiculous, and his expression is set to a default smug. The sun is doing that annoying thing where it likes him. I refuse to let the sun influence me.

I tie my hair tighter and ignore how my pulse ticks up when his gaze slides to me and stays, lazy as a cat in a window.

"Partner drills," Jude says. "Fire and EMS paired. We want smooth handoffs and good communication."

Kai lifts two fingers. "I volunteer as Violet's handler."

"I volunteer as your court-appointed therapist," I shoot back.

Laughter. A few hoots. And then someone starts a chant of "RIVAL-RY! RIVAL-RY!" which dies mercifully fast when Jude glares.

Janelle sidles up with a plastic laundry basket. Inside: cash. Coins. And a deli punch card. My crew has been busy. She whispers, "Odds board is live."

Next to the cones, Josh has slapped a whiteboard on a folding chair:

OBSTACLE ODDS (Fire vs. EMS)

Mud Pit: Hart dunks Sinclair +120

Rope Wall: Sinclair slips, Hart "assists" −200

Cargo Net: Tangle kiss? +600

Tires: Violet face-plants +150

Beam: Straddle Incident 2.0 −150

Finish: Photo-finish shoulder bump +175

Under that: Side Bets

First to swear: Kai (−130) / Violet (+110)

First to laugh: Violet (−180) / Kai (+220)

First to apologize: none (−5000)

"Book me for 'assists' on the rope wall," Janelle says, slapping a fiver down. "Pure science."

"Traitors," I mutter.

"Economists," she corrects, eyes bright.

Jude blows the whistle. "First pair on the line: Hart and Sinclair."

Of course.

We toe the chalk line like rotisserie chickens volunteering for the heat lamp. The blacktop shimmers. A Bluetooth speaker coughs up a relic from the mid-2000s—Jude puts it out of its misery. The crowd bunches into a sloppy horseshoe of badges and bad decisions.

Kai leans close, all warm soap and faint smoke. "Ready, Sunshine?"

"Always," I say crisply. "Try not to sprain your ego."

He smiles like he's truly worried for me. "If you get scared, grab the big, strong man."

"If I get scared, I'll call a therapist."

"Tell them you're obsessed with me."

The whistle shrieks.

Mud pit mayhem commence. The whistle knifes the air, and I launch.

The mud pit yawns like a war crime. It's the color of melted chocolate and smells like regret. Ropes dangle overhead. The smart method: swing hand-over-hand, feet barely skimming. The Violet method: commit and pray.

I plant, leap, and grab the rope. My boots slap mud with a suction squelch so loud the crowd OOOHs. Kai is right behind me, rope in his hands, annoyingly graceful, like he trains on vines in a rainforest.

"Don't look down," he says, which is illegal to say.

"Don't talk," I say, muscles burning. "Breathing is hard enough without commentary."

Mid-swing, his rope arcs into mine. Not a collision—just enough to nudge, to throw me off-balance. My glove slips. I windmill, let out a sound I won't be repeating, and splash into the pit face-first. Mud floods my collar, cold and gooey and profoundly personal.

The crowd detonates with laughter. From the sidelines: "PAYOUT ON +120!"

I push up, brown slime dripping off my nose. Kai swings past with an angelic smile. "Oops."

"I'm going to salt your lawn," I spit, and hurl myself forward again. The mud clutches at my shins like needy seaweed. I slog, he clears. He's out first, boots slapping asphalt. I emerge like a swamp creature, my hairline gritty, and my soul damp.

He offers a hand. "Up, Sunshine."

I slap it away. "Don't touch me with your helpfulness."

I use the toe of his boot as leverage anyway. "OW."

"Consider that interest," I pant, and sling myself into the next hazard—the tire gauntlet.

The row of old, mismatched rubber wobbles like a bad alibi. The trick is quick knees and committed rhythm. I dance the first six like I'm late to Firehouse Zumba; on the seventh, Kai "accidentally" toe-taps a sidewall so it shimmies right as I plant. My ankle rolls; I hop like a furious flamingo, windmill, and somehow stick the landing with a bent arm and my dignity jogging ten yards behind me, asking for a ride.

"Careful," he says, not careful at all.

I grit my teeth. "Your concern is noted and filed under 'trash.'"

He laughs—an unwise, pleased sound that makes my stomach tilt. I hate it.

Behind us, the bets fly:

"Ten dollars says she shoves him at the wall!"

"Twenty bucks she swears in the next thirty seconds!"

"Five dollars on accidental butt grab!"

"Who's running this casino?" Jude mutters, but doesn't stop it. He's human.

Next up: the rope wall—a fifteen-foot vertical insult strung with knotted lines and slick slats that still smell like other people's bad decisions. Kai launches first; I'm on his heels, fingers burning, boots hunting for anything that isn't betrayal.

Halfway up, my stomach lurches as my sole skates on a wet rung; gravity drafts my resignation letter. Before I can eat plywood, a very confident palm plants squarely on my backside and boosts.

"UP YOU GO," Kai grunts like he's helping a toddler onto a pony.

Time freezes. Heat flashes from my neck to my ears so fast it could power the station. Then my soul leaves my body, files an HR complaint, and returns wearing a whistle.

The chorus from the sidelines is immediate and catastrophic. "ASSIST! PAY OUT THE ASSIST!"

Someone else cackles, "HR! HR!"

"Hands!" I bark, scrabbling over the top platform with a dignity level of 'feral cat on laminate.' My voice is at least one octave higher than OSHA recommends.

"At least say thank you," he calls, climbing after me like gravity owes him money.

"Thank you for the unsolicited forklift," I shoot back, crab-scuttling down the far side and vowing never to acknowledge the handprint destiny just stamped on my pride.

He lands beside me a second later, too close, breath hot, grin feral. "You owe me one."

I'm going to owe him several, but he's not getting the satisfaction.

We hit the cargo net—the Human Pretzel portion of today's poor decisions—we drop to our stomachs and belly crawl. The mesh is staked so low it makes claustrophobes reconsider religion. Gravel grinds my elbows; mud squelches into my socks like cold guilt. A loop of net snags my ponytail; I hiss, inch back, and the mesh immediately grabs my shirt for the double jeopardy round.

"Hold still," Kai says, right at my shoulder, his breath in my ear.

"If you touch me, I'm filing paperwork thick enough to stop a bullet."

He doesn't touch. "Relax, counselor." He hooks two fingers under the net and lifts just enough for me to shimmy free, hands visible like he's testifying before HR.

I could kiss him. I will not.

"See? No contact."

"This never happened," I mutter, army-crawling forward.

From the sidelines: "TANGLE KISS? Denied!" followed by booing and one hopeful, "Appeal?"

"Keep moving," I tell him, gravel in my teeth and dignity somewhere back at the stake line.

"After you, Sunshine," he says, and the net snags his radio instead. I absolutely do not laugh. Out loud.

"Nice teamwork!" someone catcalls. "Are they flirting or fighting?"

"Yes!" Janelle yells.

We swing around the cones, and I beeline for the cooler like it's an oasis. Two squeeze bottles sit there, innocent as nuns. Mine's clearly labeled EMS in purple Sharpie. I grab, squeeze, swallow—and immediately choke on a liquid that tastes like pickle brine and betrayal.

I gag so violently that I scare two rookies. "WHO," I cough, eyes watering, "turned my water into a deli?"

Across the lane, Kai's acting like he's very busy, not looking at me. "Hydration's important," he says, saintly. "Electrolytes," he halo-flexes.

"Electrolytes don't come with dill," I wheeze, trying to scrape the pickle off my tongue with pure hatred. "You absolute deli-quency!"

"Language," he sings.

From the odds board: First to swear: PUSH written in big capital letters with three question marks.

From the whiteboard, Josh announces, "New side bet: does Violet pelt Hart with her 'sports drink'? +150!"

I set the bottle down like it's hazardous waste and smile the calm, professional smile of a woman drafting a murder alibi in her head. "Noted," I say sweetly. "I'll return the favor at lunch."

Kai finally glances over, all dimples and sin. "Looking forward to it, Sunshine."

We jog straight into the next sadistic feature: a kiddie pool below, a narrow beam above, and the worst part? Kai's in front of me, moving at a grandpa-on-ice pace. He's doing it on purpose. I can tell by the jaunty little shoulder roll he adds every three steps.

"Move," I say.

"Ask nicely," he says.

"Move, or I'll narrate your technique to the mayor."

He considers. "You can pass."

I step to the side, one foot on the beam, one foot testing the air. He shifts right when I do. The beam wobbles. I pinwheel. Physics decides I've said something rude about its mother and enacts revenge.

I sit. Hard. One leg on each side of the beam, graceless and unforgettable.

The crowd detonates.

"STRADDLE PAYOUT! CASH ME OUT!"

"HR! HR!"

Kai's not laughing. He's trying not to, but it's in his shoulders and mouth. He makes a choked noise like a cough, swallowing a laugh. "Comfortable?"

I grit. "I hope you lose your balance, Captain Grace."

"Unlikely," he says, because hubris is his favorite seasoning.

"I'm listing you as my emergency contact and writing 'Reason: pelvic chaos.'"

I push up, knees jelly, brush past him—maybe with an elbow that's questionably accidental. He overcommits to not falling, which goes great for me and terribly for his center of gravity. Full dunk. He splashes into the kiddie pool with the comedic dignity of a capsized swan.

Somewhere, a lifeguard blows an imaginary whistle and gives me a gold star.

He surfaces slick and blinking, water pouring off his face, expression halfway between impressed and plotting murder. A chorus from the sidelines: "PHOTO FINISH JUST GOT PERSONAL!"

The cheer that goes up could power the station. I execute a bow like a ballerina who hates everyone and sprint the last twenty yards.

I hit the chalk with a boot that says pay me, lungs on fire, heart trying to set a land-speed record. Kai slaps it a breath behind me. Jude blows the whistle like a tea kettle with anger issues. The field erupts—cheers, groans, and the sweet sound of grown adults who should be working but are absolutely gambling on our mutual downfall.

Josh is already waving the latex-glove "bank" like it's a holy relic; Janelle's doing victory math on her fingers; Beans the station dog contributes a celebratory arf. Someone yells, "Photo finish review!" like the Olympics are taking calls from our parking lot.

Josh scribbles the results:

Mud Pit: Hart dunked Sinclair → Paid

Rope Wall "Assist": Paid (gross)

Cargo Net Tangle Kiss: Denied (booing)

Beam: Straddle Incident 2.0 → Paid

Photo-Finish Shoulder Bump: Pending review (bigger booing)

Janelle stuffs cash into the latex-glove "bank" with deadpan efficiency. "The economy thanks you for your service."

I bend, hands on knees, trying to catch my breath and not my feelings. My socks squish. My pride wheezes.

Kai shakes water out of his hair like a Labrador, slings an arm over my shoulders for exactly half a second, and I duck out from under it before my body can decide that was a good idea.

He grins, close enough for his breath to warm my cheek. "Admit it—you had fun."

"I had tetanus," I say. "And a religious experience."

"Was it me?"

"It was deciding not to drown you."

Jude herds us back to the cones like a dad wrangling toddlers at a petting zoo. "Notes: EMS, smoother handoffs on the stretcher relay. Fire, pace yourselves on the tires. And both of you—" he points between our faces "—tone down the homicide. This is training, not Thunderdome."

"Team-building," Kai echoes, saintly.

"Team-breaking," I correct.

A few mock boos ripple through the crowd. Josh sighs, "So... light maiming only," while Janelle writes NO MURDER in Sharpie on her wrist like it's a to-do list. Kai gives me a look that says he's absolutely ignoring at least two of those notes; I give him one back that says I already am.

Across the group, new side bets sprout like dandelions:

Will Kai fake an injury to get Violet to "assist" him? (+300)

Will Violet replace Kai's socks with shrinking wool? (even money)

Will they stop breathing the same air for five consecutive minutes? (no takers)

Nguyen (new EMT, freckles, deceptively chaotic) waves a clipboard. "Interview time. Public outreach content."

She plants us shoulder-to-shoulder, hits record on her phone. "Captain Hart, Captain Sinclair, thoughts on interdepartmental cooperation?"

Kai smiles for the camera like he's never sinned. "Love it. Builds trust."

I stare straight into the lens. "Trust is important. Like trusting your partner not to poison your water with pickle brine."

The crowd HOWLS. Nguyen gives the camera a deadpan zoom on his face. "Pickle?" she says innocently.

"Electrolytes," he repeats, utterly shameless.

"Follow-up question," Nguyen says, "what was the sensation when you experienced an, ah, external assist on the rope wall?"

"Supportive," Kai says. "Deeply supportive."

"Violation of personal space," I say. "Technically an OSHA incident."

Jude takes the phone and ends the recording like a man who needs a vacation. "Great outreach. Delete half."

We separate into gear. I peel mud out of my socks and think about vengeance. Gentle vengeance. Beautiful vengeance. Legal vengeance.

Kai drifts over with two towels and a bottle of normal water (I sniff first; I learned). He hands me one of each like he's not the devil.

"You pushed me up that wall," I say.

"You were slipping," he says. "I'm not letting you fall on my watch, Sunshine."

Something treacherous in my chest stutters. I stomp on it. "Don't call me Sunshine."

"Fine." His mouth curves. "Sir, Yes, Ma'am."

"Towel returned," I say, trying to hand it back.

"Keep it," he says, already turning away. "Souvenir."

I toss it into my bag so I don't do something unwise with it, like inhale it.

Janelle struts over, holding the whiteboard like a trophy. "Quick announcement. EMS would like to challenge Fire to a rematch on Friday. The loser buys pizza. Winner gets naming rights for the station group chat for one week."

"Deal," Kai says, immediately. "I'm renaming it Kai's Kingdom."

I smile with all my teeth. "Violet's Victory Lap has a nicer ring."

"New side bet," Josh crows, scribbling. "What will Violet actually name the chat after she wins?"

Suggestions fly:

"Sir, Yes, Ma'am & His Minions"

"Boxer Briefs Anonymous"

"Hydration Nation No Pickles Allowed."

Kai snorts, the sound low and warm, and something in my stomach flips. It needs to stop doing that.

Jude claps once. "Alright. Stretch, hydrate, and shower. Afternoon drills in thirty."

The crowd disperses. Cash changes hands. Someone plays back a slow-mo of my beam incident, and the entire apparatus bay erupts like fireworks.

Kai falls into step beside me as I head for the locker room. "Truce until after lunch?"

"Define truce."

"No sabotage during sandwiches."

I consider. It's rude to violate the sacredness of sandwiches. "Fine. Truce."

He tips his head, satisfied. "You've got mud on your cheek."

I swipe the wrong side.

"Other cheek," he says, faintly amused.

I scrub both. "Better?"

"Worse. Now your face looks like war paint."

"Good," I say. "I'm the war."

He laughs, and I hate how it sounds like victory—mine or his, I couldn't say.

As I push the locker room door open, he calls, "Hey, Sinclair?"

I turn.

He lifts two fingers in a salute, mouth curving. "Nice shove."

I shut the door on a smile I absolutely refuse to analyze.

By the time I'm out of the shower, a new whiteboard has appeared, magnet-clipped to the fridge:

PRANK WAR SCOREBOARD

Coffee Swap: Kai ☑ / Violet ☑ (instant grounds caper)

Turnout Pants Debacle: Violet ☑ (historical)

Training Day Shenanigans:

Mud Dunk: Kai ☑

Rope Wall Assist: Kai (arguable, under review)

Beam Dunk: Violet ☑

Underneath, in neon marker: FRIDAY REMATCH: LOSER BUYS PIZZA. Someone drew two tiny crowns. One labeled K, one labeled V, each with flames. Subtle.

I cap my water, feel my muscles beginning to throb in that good, used way, and allow myself exactly three seconds of smugness.

Then I start planning.

Because if today was chaos, Friday will be biblical.

And I fully intend to write the gospel.

I hope you enjoyed the chapter!! 🤞🤞