Amalie Berlin - Rescued By Her Rival

Her stride became shorter and her steps less quick. No matter how fast she wanted to go, physics couldn’t be ignored.

Focus on that. Being dropped and her washing out of camp weren’t sexy.

“Easy.” He should help somehow. There was nothing he could do about his weight, but he could make himself more stable and easier to carry. Decision made, he wrapped his free arm around her hips to stop bouncing around and she wouldn’t have to engage her core so deeply to carry him.

“Hard.” She grunted the one-word response.

He was significantly heavier than the pack she’d likely trained for. He was also awkward. This was a harder test than the pack, even at the drastically shorter trek.

“Your dad would be proud of you doing it.”

It seemed like the supportive thing to say. Call on fond feelings, a desire to make people who loved her proud of her accomplishments. And it did seem to bolster her strength, though the grip she now had on the back of his thigh suggested it wasn’t with warm, happy feelings.

Dad wasn’t a good subject. Dad who was a chief in her firehouse. And this suggested he wouldn’t be proud of her or she didn’t want him to be.

This was going to be a spite victory. If they made it around.

She made it to the second bend, and three quarters of the way around the track on determination, but made it the rest of the way with far quicker steps, and with one foot over the line, bent to let him down.

And then kept on bending, to sprawl on her back on the packed earth and fine gravel.

“Good work,” Treadwell said, just as Beck reached down to drag her back to her feet.

She clearly didn’t want to get up, despite how uncomfortable it had to be, lying on little rocks, and he had to drag her.

Once on her feet, he returned the favor, wedging his good shoulder into her middle until she folded over, and carried her a short distance onto the grass to let her down again.

“Still the first around.” He nudged her once again prone body on the still-dewy grass.

Her breath was great, chest-expanding gulps, and she could’ve probably blown up a Zeppelin in one go. But it was slowing. “Yay, us.”

She went to clap, highlighting the trembling, uncontrolled quality to her movements.

“Do you get low blood sugar?” he asked, suddenly concerned she’d exerted herself too much before breakfast.

“No.” She held her hand up to him again, and he took it to help her sit back up. “Just over-exertion. I think I was wrong. You’re not an iron man. You’re that hairy one with the metal bones.”

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