Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 124005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 620(@200wpm)___ 496(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 620(@200wpm)___ 496(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
“That guy was a clueless idiot. Just because he has an IQ of one-forty doesn’t mean he understands how my sister ticks, but you do.” Isaac claps me on the shoulder. “Pro athletes have a different kind of smarts. You’re good at reading people, you understand risk management, and you know when to set your ego aside for the welfare of your team. That’s why Hemi wanted to work in this field.”
“Come on, guys! Let’s pick up the pace,” Sam shouts.
An hour into the hike, I’m soaked with sweat, my balls are chafed, and my legs are rubber. I could really use a five-minute rest—or a five-hour nap—and I only have a quarter of a water bottle left. According to my smart watch, we’ve already hiked eight kilometers. I’m not sure how far we’re going, but if we don’t turn around soon, I’ll have to cancel with Ash tomorrow because I doubt my legs will be able to handle squats. I might have to cancel regardless.
Three and a half hours, two rope bridges on which I thought I was going to die, and twenty kilometers later, we’re finally back at the car. I guzzle three bottles of Vitamin Water and accept two sandwiches from the cooler in the back of Sam’s luxury SUV.
My plan is to sleep all the way back to Toronto, shower off the salt, soak in the hot tub for an hour, and follow that with a three-hour nap (during which I will dream about their sister sitting on my face).
We pile into the car, and I’m grateful that my legs no longer have to do anything other than feel like Jell-O as I stretch out in the back seat.
“Next up is paintball!” Sam exclaims with more enthusiasm than anyone should have after a twenty-kilometer sprint-hike through the woods.
Isaac looks over his shoulder and gives me a thumbs-up. “You in? We know a great place.”
I’m definitely not in. All I want to do is sleep for the rest of the day, and probably part of tomorrow, but I return the thumbs-up because I will not tap out on Willy’s brothers. There’s too much at stake. “I’m in.”
Willy messages for an update.
I send her a thumbs-up.
She sends a frowny face in return.
I send heart eyes and kissy lips.
She sends a middle finger.
I follow it with the tongue.
She doesn’t reply.
Forty-five minutes and a brief ten-minute nap later, I’m outfitted in paintball gear, holding a paintball gun, while Sam and Isaac do jumping jacks and knee-ups in preparation for whatever is about to happen. I still have no idea what Sam does for a living, but he seems to love paintball guns.
There are several things I am not a fan of, one being clowns, two sauerkraut, three heights, and lastly, but also most importantly, I am definitely not a fan of dark, confined spaces. And it turns out, that is essentially the whole point of paintball. I have a raging anxiety boner, the head of which is tucked uncomfortably into the waistband of my pants. My skin is gritty with salt. Places that shouldn’t be chafed are really fucking chafed.
And to add insult to injury, we’re surrounded by an exceptional number of teenage boys, who scream incessantly at each other, and a few girls who obviously got dragged along for the ride. I relate to their lack of enthusiasm.
We enter the paintball room. At this point, I’m just trying to hide, and maybe take a small break so my legs can stop feeling like overcooked spaghetti.
A gaggle of noisy teens is headed my way, their giggles and swearing giving them away. I’m forced to leave my protective cover as they draw closer.
Sam’s booming voice echoes through the vast room. “Two o’clock! Light him up!”
Paintballs slam into my arms, legs, back, and chest. I aim shots in their direction, but I’m decidedly shitty at paintball, and every one goes wide. I don’t think it can get worse, until one hits me right in the anxiety boner, taking me to the ground.
I curl into the fetal position and pray for death. Instead, Isaac’s black-booted feet appear in my vision. “You all right, buddy?”
“That was a nut shot,” I groan.
“Sam’s dirty like that.” Isaac extends a hand. “I should have warned you to wear a cup.”
Who needs a cup for paintball? Apparently these guys.
I would prefer to stay on the floor for the rest of the day, even if it means being trampled by teenagers, but I really want Wills to sit on my face, so I let Isaac help me to my feet.
Thankfully, Sam eventually runs out of paintballs, and Isaac expresses how hungry he is. I’d be down for a giant buffet.
We change out of our paint-covered clothes—I would love a shower to wash away the grit, but that’s not on the menu yet—and we climb back into Sam’s car and drive to a restaurant. I order four appetizers and two meals and reluctantly share them with Willy’s brothers.