Page 9 of Fallen Crown

“You okay back there?” Maren huffs out, her voice filled with false sweetness.

“This the best you got, Tucker?” I grunt out. It’s a taunt I can’t follow up because if this is the start of her torture, I’m in trouble. My goal is to make it up the hill without stopping or without walking, and I’m not sure I can do it. She’s already putting an increasing amount of distance between us, and my sense of competition as well as my temper are flaring in response. It’s one thing to wish I wasn’t part of the team. It’s another to sabotage me on the first day. This is an ambush, meant to cut me down to size, and I won’t let her do it.

Jag rolls down the window of the SUV and leans out the side. I raise my hand to him. “Don’t! Not a word.” The vehicle could be in park for all the ground I’m covering right now, but I’m still jogging, and even if it kills me, I’m getting to the top without stopping. My quads are screaming in protest, but I’m almost there.

When I crest the hill, Maren is jogging in place, and she glances at her watch. She makes a tsking sound and shakes her head. “Bit slow, I’m afraid. Back down we go to the marina or we’ll be late to meet the others.”

She turns on her heel to descend the hill, and I follow her, my legs so wobbly I’m afraid I might skid down on my face.

Jag cheers me on while he inches along the road beside me. Someone will die today, and I’m starting to think it’ll be me.

“You’ve got this, Your Highness,” Jag calls when I get to the bottom of the hill and start the agonizing journey back to the marina. Maren is so far ahead, I can’t even see her anymore. The brutal pace she set leading up to the hill has murdered my legs. They are jelly, and I have no idea how I’m going to stand on a SUP board for however long we paddle for next.

She’s an evil genius, and as much as I hate her right now, I have to respect an opponent who doesn’t play fair. Means I won’t have to feel bad about whatever I plan in retaliation. Today will not go unanswered.

When I stumble into the parking lot, there are four familiar faces watching me, Maren and her three ex-teammates who are now my teammates. All of them are from wealthy families with diverse cultural backgrounds who can trace their family’s arrival back hundreds of years. Bellerive only tightened their immigration borders about a hundred years ago when it became apparent the island could only hold so many people comfortably. Now, it’s incredibly difficult to gain permanent citizenship. While we’re in the same social circles, I don’t know any of them well.

Given the amount of training I’ve been warned about, avoiding formal employment must be the key to putting in the hours. Paxton Smith is short with tan skin and close-cropped brown hair. By contrast, Riker Grant is a tall Black man with a broad smile and athletic build. Both men are in their thirties. The final team member is Wren Jones whose pale skin has to be a liability under the full force of Bellerive’s sun. Her red hair is piled into a messy bun on the top of her head, and she keeps glancing at Maren as though she’s already worried about our coach.

The paddleboards are stacked against the main building, and a glow is starting to seep across the horizon. Being out on the ocean in the dark didn’t seem safe to me, but at least the sun is rising now.

Each person grabs a board, and I’m left with the one on the bottom. Brent and I have taken these out for a lark before but usually in sheltered inlets or coves. The ocean isn’t white caps, but it’s choppy. While everyone else slides their board into the water, paddles past the breaking water, and rises onto their feet with no issues, my gut clenches at what’s ahead for me.

Wobbly legs and choppy seas aren’t a great combination. At some point, I’m going to fall in. Gritting my teeth, I climb onto the board and paddle out to everyone else. At least the paddling part is mostly arms and back. The team is stretched out in a line, stabilizing themselves as though it’s second nature. I sit for a beat with my legs dangling in the water. Feels good to have my runners off after Tucker’s first effort at torture.

“To Tucker’s Point Hotel and back?” Maren says.

“That’s probably five or six kilometers out and then the same back. Too far for me today.” Wren glances from me to Maren. Like me and Maren, Wren is in her mid-to-late twenties.

“It’s not like you to want to do less.” Maren frowns, and her gaze narrows.

“And it’s not like you to come out of the gate at a sprint when a walk will do just fine.”

This is a battle of wills I’m not opposed to witnessing. I’ve never been part of an organized team before, and figuring out the dynamics will be important to besting Maren and establishing myself.

“Fine,” Maren says. “We’ll go to Walker’s Line and back.”

Wren dips her paddle into the water and strokes forward without saying a word in response. At least not all of them enjoy the idea of my suffering.

With both hands pressed into the board, I manage to get to my feet. But I’m no sooner up than the rocking motion of a bigger wave causes me to drop to a push-up position on the board while the rest of the team balances with ease. At least I didn’t tumble into the water, but my muscles are groaning at the sudden movements.

“Balance,” Maren calls out in a lilting tone that grates on my nerves.

“No shit,” I mutter as I rise to my feet again.

Maren strokes out ahead of the rest of us in a long, even pattern suggesting a lot of experience. Not long later, in a move that I’m sure is designed to show off, she actually turns around on the board and observes me and the others as we paddle toward her.

Another swell comes out of nowhere, and this time, I’m not prepared. Before I can drop to my knees or fall flat, I’m knocked off the board. I hit the water and tumble in the darkness for a moment before I orient myself to the surface again. When I emerge, Wren is beside my board, and she helps me back on.

“Balance,” Maren calls over her shoulder again.

When I rise to my feet, Wren checks my positioning and gives me a few pointers on where to put my feet. Not that it matters. The muscles in my legs are already seizing up from the run.

“Epsom salts and a hot bath when you get home,” Wren says. “You’re part of the team now, and Maren is only riding you because part of her wishes she was racing.”

And she hates me, but I’m not going to say that out loud if she hasn’t admitted that nugget to her teammates. I’ll pick my moment to make her look petty. Today isn’t it. Her pettiness is already obvious.

“Knocking me down a peg or two is just a bonus,” I say.