“TELL ME AGAIN WHY WE’RE DOING THIS?” I ASK LATER THAT AFTERNOON as we make our way back down to the beach. We stop at the sidewalk’s edge to remove our flip-flops before stepping onto the hot sand. Post-lunch, I’ve thrown a pair of pink linen shorts over my black one-piece. Charlie has put on a fresh pair of gray swim trunks and a hunter-green shirt with dark gray lettering that reads SURELY NOT EVERYONE WAS KUNG FU FIGHTING.
“Because it gets us out of the suite. And it’s already paid for.”
I raise my eyebrows at him to make it clear these are not good enough reasons. Yes, I’ve worked on my game most of the day. Even so, a break requires significant justification.
“Paid for,” he reiterates. “In full. And it includes drinks.”
I sigh.
Sand stinging the bottom of our feet, we scurry toward the group, likely giving the impression that we are particularly excited to be here.
“Yeah! Two more! Welcome, welcome!” a man with short, thin dreadlocks calls out as we approach. His shirtless torso is deep brown and glistening, and his turquoise cargo shorts are so blue they make the water behind him look drab. His waist is the size of my ankle, but somehow he’s one of the most toned humans I’ve ever seen. “You must be . . .” He looks down at the clipboard in his hands while still flicking his hips to the beat of the Jay-Z song that’s playing on the boom box beside him. “. . . Ah, Charlie and Brooke. Welcome, welcome!”
The bullet of her name hits Charlie first, then ricochets into me.
“Sloane,” we both say in unison.
“Charlie and Sloane,” Charlie says, pointing to himself, then me.
Please don’t make it more awkward, please don’t make it more awkward.
I stare at the thin-waisted man, silently begging him to understand and retreat. He looks at his clipboard, then back at us again, and says, “Ah yes, of course! Charlie and Sloane! Come, come!” He puts his arm around my shoulder and escorts me to the rest of the group. “Andres,” he says, pointing to his chest.
We join the group, which now consists of eight resort guests in total, and from the looks of the handsy duos around us, it appears we are the only pair that has not had sex in the last twenty-four hours.
I’m about to suggest to Charlie that we duck out and head back to the safety of our suite and the room service menu, but our host must sense my hesitation because he grabs my hand, places his other arm around Charlie’s shoulder, and pulls us to the front of the group.
“You two will be my team captains!” he says, placing us in front of the six others, and I’m more confused than ever. Team captains for what? All Charlie has told me is this is some sort of resort contest that previous guests raved about online. Right now, my gut tells me all those supposed praise-filled reviews were posted by Andres.
“Charlie and Sloane, it’s time to choose your teams for our first event, water balloon dodgeball! And choose wisely. You never know what may come of the day.” Andres releases a maniacal laugh toward the sky, and Charlie and I exchange a glance.
“Are we in Squid Game right now?” he whispers.
“I think it’s a cross between that and a horrible adult summer camp.”
I have so many questions: What are the rules of water balloon dodgeball? What do we win if we do, you know, win? Will I regret having just washed my hair? How much would it cost to adjust my plane ticket home for right now?
Just as I open my mouth to suggest we make a break for it, in an unexpected turn of events, Charlie shouts, “I’ll take that guy!”
He points to the man on the far right, who must be at least six five. With his too-wide stance to avoid his thigh muscles rubbing together, he looks a lot like Catapult’s game character Cannon Jack. I go ahead and assume he is an avid CrossFitter.
The group is now standing at attention facing Charlie and me.
“Sweet,” CrossFit Guy says, then jogs over to Charlie’s side without a word to his significant other—a toned, perky woman he’s left standing on the beach.
I shoot Charlie a look. He shrugs his shoulders at me like I’m the ridiculous one here.
We are very much not on the same page.
“Okay! Yes! And now you, Sloane.” The more Andres says my name, the more it sounds like a moan. “Who do you want for your team?”
I feel the sweat trickle down the small of my back. “What are we doing, exactly? I’m not sure I understand the situation here.”
“Don’t worry. It’s fun! Just fun. Choose your team!” Andres says, still bopping to the music and seemingly unburdened by my stress. I play video games. I don’t do team sports. I’d much prefer being annihilated on a screen in the safety of my apartment to an in-person competition with the Mount Rushmore of a man that is CrossFit Guy.
“But it really depends on—”
“No, no, Sloane.” Andres steps toward me and gives me a look of pity. The poor American who can’t cut loose. “Just go with it, huh?” He bends his knees and runs his hand out in front of me like he’s petting a dog while surfing.
I look over at Charlie, but he’s no help at all. His and CrossFit guy’s hands are clasped together between their faces, like they’ve just decided who to kill first as soon as the whistle blows. Now I’m afraid we’re in The Hunger Games, and Charlie and CrossFit Guy are career tributes.
It’s evident to me now that whatever resentment Charlie is still holding about my drunken message to Brooke, he plans to channel into beating me during this field day from hell. A burst of adrenaline washes through me. I’m going to have to harness all the power of Satan Sloane. I can have rage. I most certainly have rage too. Charlie and his stupid shirtless torso and kiss and charm clouding my ability to work. Zane and his audacity moving into my neighborhood, going to my deli, and interviewing for my job. My mom and her engineering connections. The owners of my apartment building expecting me to pay rent on time. Oh yes, I have rage. And I can certainly channel it all toward Charlie today. The idea of him beating me is unconscionable.
“I’ll take her!” I yell. Charlie and CrossFit Guy look over to find I am pointing at CrossFit Guy’s partner. CrossFit Girl. She’s also built like a steel pylon, her quads roughly the same thickness of about ten Amazonian centipedes. She clasps her hands together excitedly like a cheerleader and rushes over to my side.
“Don’t worry, I know his weaknesses,” she says in a thick Australian accent, twitching her chin in the direction of CrossFit Guy and then looking me square in the eye. I nod in solidarity, confident I’ve made a sensible choice. I’m a little afraid of her, but also assured. Now I’m in this. I widen my stance, bend forward, and shift my weight from side to side. I can think of nothing but beating Charlie and wiping that smug expression off his face.
It’s his turn to pick.
Charlie and CrossFit Guy are huddled together, whispering wildly, evaluating the remaining four options. Finally, they nod and Charlie straightens. In a voice at least three octaves deeper than usual, he says, “Him. The guy in blue.”
I deflate. The thirtysomething guy was going to be my next pick. He doesn’t look particularly strong, and I’ve already overheard him and his partner refer to each other with the pet name Bacon Bit with obscene repetition, but his face turned snarly when we started picking teams and I can see he’ll do what it takes to win.
Everyone shifts their focus back to me. I’m up.
“What about that one?” CrossFit Girl says, pointing with no attempt at discretion. It’s Bacon Bit’s Boyfriend. Or the man whom I presume to be Bacon Bit’s boyfriend because they’re not wearing rings. He’s also wearing blue and I want to say no simply because of their matching outfits, but he’s staring at us with an eager expression.
“Him!” I yell, pointing at Bacon Bit II. His face lights up and he executes a perfectly round cartwheel over to us. Yes, okay, we may be able to use those skills.
There’s one man and woman left and it’s Charlie’s turn to pick. They are the oldest among us, probably in their early fifties, and have matching heft. Her frizzy curls remind me of my own in this damp air. The guy has a pretty epic mustache with thin hairs sprouting in all directions. Charlie’s going to pick the guy. I know it.
I look over to find Charlie grinning at me, a villainous glimmer in his eyes. “Come on over and join the winning team, sir,” he says, attention still fixed on me. Mr. Mustache gives the woman I presume to be his wife (given their matching gold bands) a kiss on the cheek and walks calmly over to Charlie’s team. Mrs. Mustache is standing there alone, and I immediately run over and sling an arm around her shoulder. “Don’t worry, we’ve got this!” I tell her with my most convincing pep.
She smiles at me graciously. “I’m not sure how much help I’ll be, but I’ll sure try,” she says.
As we huddle together, I look around at my team: CrossFit Girl, Bacon Bit II, and Mrs. Mustache. We are a spectacle. Not the good kind. I glance over at Charlie’s team and it’s hard not to feel outmatched. I take in Charlie’s arrogant smirk and try to get my head in the game. I’m about to suggest introductions, but Andres blows the whistle and we all obediently make our way back to him.
“Water balloon dodgeball is on!” he proclaims, mostly to the sky.
Charlie finds his way to my side as Andres explains the rules. “Care to make it interesting?” he says, his mouth close to my ear. We stand shoulder to shoulder, though my shoulder hits at about the middle of his upper arm. We’ve both taken on a similar stance—legs far apart, hands locked behind us.
“What did you have in mind?” I look up at him and try to ignore his face’s proximity to mine.
“If you lose, I get to send that guy Zane a cringeworthy message, even worse than what you sent Brooke,” he says, his face positively exhilarated. Or exhilarating. Both, actually.
“What? No way! And I told you, Zane is nobody.”
“Yeah, okay. If he’s nobody, why would it matter if I send him a message?”
I break eye contact and look to the ground, desperate for a comeback, but nothing comes to me.
“Oh yes. In fact, it’s already coming together.” He circles his finger at his temple. “Dear Zane with the big . . .” He looks at me, eyebrows raised.
I shake my head in vigorous disagreement.
“No? Shame. I’ll have to work on the opening then. But moving on, Zane, man, thanks for being an idiot and letting a girl like Sloane go. What the hell were you thinking? She can be a pain in the ass, but speaking of asses . . .”
My mind betrays me. When Charlie says asses, I briefly fantasize about his open palm swatting my bare behind.
“It’s not the same thing,” I say, annoyed by his certainty that Zane is the ex who broke my heart, though I’ve still shared no such information with him. And as much as it mortifies me to think of Zane reading a message like the one I sent to Brooke, I can’t help but worry it would somehow make its way back to the team at Catapult and my candidacy for the job would be dead in the Caribbean water. I’d like to think Zane wouldn’t do that to me. But he’s certainly capable of hurt. I can’t argue with Charlie, though, as doing so would mean admitting how much Zane actually meant to me.
“Oh, and I get the bed for the night. You get the couch. My neck is killing me after three nights on that cement pullout. A disappointing pullout.”
“That’s what she said.”
“You’re twelve.”
I ignore his comment. “Fine,” I say, acting as though the thought of him sending that message to Zane wouldn’t shove me into a complete spiral. “And if I win, you have to be my servant for the day tomorrow.”
“Servant? Like feed you grapes and fan you on the terrace all day?”
“Yes. That and, you know, order me breakfast, foot rubs, generally wait on me hand and foot while I work.”
“Sure, that’s fine. It’s not gonna happen anyway.”
“So cocky. What makes you so certain you’ll win?”
He shrugs. “The odds are ever in my favor. Look at your team.”
He points past the sand to the grass where CrossFit Girl is doing high knees with perfect form. Bacon Bit II is yawning. Mrs. Mustache is sitting in the grass, swatting at a fly.
“May the best man win.” He squares up and extends his hand.
“She will,” I say, squeezing his hand as tightly as I can manage and shaking it vigorously, knowing a loss to Charlie is simply not an option.
Andres finishes giving the instructions (which I’ve missed completely) and passes out T-shirts. Our team gets red, Charlie’s team is blue.
“Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do.” CrossFit Girl huddles us after we’ve put on our shirts, rubbing her hands together in anticipation. “My husband over there may look tough and be putting on a brave show, but he’s terrified of water balloons. Absolutely petrified. A neighborhood boy used to hide in the bushes and throw them at him on his way to school. I guarantee as soon as the game starts, he’ll be cowering in the corner like a scared puppy. All we’ve got to do is pummel him first, then the rest will be outnumbered.”
She’s vicious. I love it. “Yes, become your enemy. Rule number one on the battlefield. I like it,” I say, running through the tactics I’ve gleaned from every war game I’ve ever played. “We should also employ a concealment strategy. Perhaps we all start in a line and then break away once we have water balloons, that way the person in front can provide cover to the rest.”
My team seems pleased, their eyes coming alive with a glimmer of possible victory. Even Mrs. Mustache is nodding through gritted teeth. I would have expected her to say something about feeling sorry for CrossFit Guy after that sad story, but no. She’s in it. At this moment, I’m glad Charlie chose her husband instead.
I think again to ask my team members for their names, but there’s no time. Andres blows his whistle and we all take our spots in the grass next to the beach on opposing sides of the grid. He’s marked the court with sand and there’s a large tub of already-filled water balloons at the centerline. A small crowd of resort guests has gathered in anticipation.
Great, an audience. The pressure gathers in my neck.
“Okay, okay, everyone! Welcome to the first game!” Andres is still swaying his hips. “Blue team, what is your team name?” he asks, focused on Charlie.
Team name? When were we supposed to come up with a team name?
Apparently Charlie heard the instructions because without missing a beat, he steps forward and says, “We’re team Good Hair.”
I look around their group, none of whom has particularly exceptional hair, and I know it’s a dig at me. At my message to Brooke.
I must beat this man-child.
“Ah, indeed!” Andres says. “And red, what is your team name?”
I open my mouth, hoping my brain will toss out an equally thinly veiled dig at Charlie. Perhaps something about his fear of airplanes or wearing my sweatshirt or—
“Team Kick ’Em in the Nuts!”
I turn to find that sweet Mrs. Mustache is the one who yelled it. She steps forward, glaring at the other team, shifting her focus to each of them.
“Okay, okay! Team Good Hair versus Team Kick ’Em in the Nuts! Let’s do this!” Andres says the last bit in that slow, lithy drawl.
He blows his whistle again and just like that, the game is in play.
CrossFit Girl and I run to the bucket at the centerline while Mrs. Mustache and Bacon Bit II hang back, our concealment strategy entirely out the window the moment the adrenaline of battle takes over. Charlie and I reach the bucket at the same time and the look he gives me is nothing short of diabolical.
He really wants to get even.