TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-SEVEN

“You good to go, Aria?” Delta Nolan’s voice slices through the quiet like a starting pistol, jolting my muscles into readiness. I don’t spare him a glance—I’m locked onto my target—but I give a sharp nod that says I’m more than ready.

“On your mark. Go!”

With that single word, the stillness shatters. A roar of excited voices erupts as a dozen kids spring into motion, feet pounding against the hard earth as they charge toward me like a chaotic stampede.

I shoot forward, sprinting straight at them, adrenaline crackling in my veins. My heart thrums with the rhythm of each step, and the thrill of the chase pulses behind my ribs.

At the last possible second, when they’re just about to close in, I cut sharply to my left. My body leans into the turn, momentum carried in one fluid burst toward the arena wall.

My feet find the footholds I know by heart, and I leap onto the narrow ledge with barely a pause.

I keep moving without hesitation, the muscles in my legs tightening as I push myself faster along the ledge’s edge. My lungs burn with the effort, but I welcome the feeling—this is where I come alive.

Then comes the jump.

I hurl myself into the air in a wide arc, my arms outstretched and knees tucked slightly, the wind rushing past my ears. My toes find the top of the curved climbing bars, landing with a whisper of impact. I’m already moving again, no time to admire the balance it took to stay upright.

Ahead lies the rope section—my next move.

I don’t slow. I gauge the distance, shift slightly in stride, and leap again. But unlike the straightforward approach Leo used, I twist midair, coming in from the side.

My legs wrap tightly around two of the ropes, trapping them as my hands grab the third. It’s an awkward angle, but my grip holds strong. The ropes sway beneath me, but I climb fast, muscle memory and raw instinct carrying me up.

As I scale, I drag the other two ropes up with me, yanking hard to coil them out of reach. No one's following me up this time.

Reaching the top platform, I don’t waste a second. I lunge for the flag, fingers closing around the fabric. I tuck it into my sports bra with practiced ease, ensuring it won’t budge. It’s secure, but my challenge isn’t over.

I glance down, breath coming fast, sweat trickling down my spine.

Below, the kids are swarming, waiting to catch the ropes if I drop them. They’re smartening up. Anticipating my tactics. That’s new.

But I’m not new either.

Rather than let the ropes fall, I swing them over the thick support beam, securing them away. Then, with careful but confident steps, I walk along the narrow beam above the arena like a tightrope walker, every step a silent test of balance.

The structure wobbles just slightly beneath me. I stretch my arms out instinctively, eyes locked on the far side where the cargo net hangs.

I reach it. Relief flickers for a heartbeat, but I don’t linger.

I start climbing down the net, only descending far enough to reach my next launch point. Timing is everything now. The kids are behind me, likely flanking from all sides, guessing where I’ll drop.

I spot the arena’s opposite wall and leap from the net. My feet scrape against the stone edge, nearly slipping, but I adjust my posture and catch myself. Just barely.

One breath. Then I’m flying again.

I push off with everything I’ve got, legs working double-time as I make a mad dash along the top wall. I can feel them gaining, the energy shifting behind me. The kids are getting faster, more coordinated, learning how I move.

That was the point.

Nolan and I had agreed we weren’t going to hand them easy wins. They needed to work for it—to track, anticipate, adapt. We wanted to train them to think long-term, to notice patterns, to look beyond the obvious.

I can almost hear their footsteps getting louder, and my heart spikes with excitement.

This is what makes it worth it.

I reach the final edge and leap down from the wall, my muscles protesting from the nonstop sprint. My feet slam against the ground with force, but I keep going, pumping my arms and driving forward.

I run like the finish line is life or death.

And then—I cross it.

My lungs seize as I slow to a stop, my chest heaving as I drop my hands to my knees. Sweat drips from my forehead to the dirt below. I glance behind me—no tags. Not one of them got me.

Bad luck for them.

But I need to know one thing.

I turn toward Delta Nolan, eyes wide with anticipation. He’s standing a few feet away, stopwatch in hand, surrounded by a semi-circle of kids who are watching him just as eagerly as I am.

His face is unreadable. My stomach drops.

He doesn’t say anything at first—just looks at me, then back at the stopwatch. Once. Twice.

I’m practically vibrating with tension.

Finally, he breathes out through his nose and lifts his eyes.

“Fifty-two seconds.”

Relief explodes inside me like fireworks. My lips stretch into a grin I couldn’t stop if I tried, and the joy on Nolan’s face mirrors my own.

That’s when it happens.

The entire arena erupts in noise. The kids scream, laugh, clap, and cheer so loudly it feels like the world shook.

They surround me, piling in with hugs, high-fives, and bright-eyed chatter. I can barely hear individual voices—it’s all just one beautiful wave of praise and excitement.

Selene cuts through the swarm, arms wrapping around me in a hug. “Why are they this excited? Didn’t they lose?”

Still breathless, I chuckle and ruffle the hair of a little boy gripping my leg like a koala. “It was my fastest time yet. And they set that flag as high as possible. They really brought their A-game.”

All around me, the pups are buzzing with energy.

“Did you see that jump?” one kid gasps, looking ready to explode. “It was at least twenty feet!”

“No way,” another counters. “More like thirty. We could totally do that if we trained harder.”

“That rope move? I’m trying that next time.”

“She’s gotta have cat blood,” someone whispers. “Did you see her on that beam?”

“Faster than a cheetah,” another says reverently.

I laugh under my breath, a warm sense of pride blooming in my chest. I’m about to thank them when a deep voice rolls across the space like thunder.

“Well done today.”

I spin at the sound, startled. Instantly, the crowd goes quiet.

Every pup falls still as Alpha Lucas steps forward. The weight of his presence is enough to hush even the rowdiest of kids.

I swallow quickly. “Alpha Lucas! Thank you! We’ve been developing this drill for a while now. I’ve had lots of chances to fine-tune it.”

I can feel my cheeks flushing again—hot and undeniable. I’ve been blushing all morning, and it doesn’t seem like it’s stopping anytime soon.

He eyes me for a moment, then speaks with a slow, thoughtful nod.

“I wasn’t only referring to the obstacle run—although that was impressive,” he says, voice calm but commanding.

“What really caught my attention is that you managed to get our future leaders out of bed before six a.m. on a Saturday, and not only did they show up—they participated. Willingly.”

A ripple of laughter moves through the surrounding leaders, most of them clearly amused at their sons’ expense.

My jaw slackens slightly. I don’t even know how to respond.

Alpha Lucas smiles. “That, young lady, is nothing short of miraculous.”

I blink, speechless, heart fluttering like a drumline.

“And on top of that,” he continues, “you’re a gifted instructor. Natural with the younger ones. Confident. Intuitive. It’s no wonder Delta Nolan holds you in such high regard.”

I don’t know what to say. The praise is overwhelming, so sincere it makes my blush creep down to my collarbones.

All I can do is smile and hope my face isn’t permanently red by the end of the day.