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“I am the team.”

She gives a sharp laugh. “And they say there’s no I in team.” She looks over at her brother’s team once more and frowns. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” she asks, leaning closer so I know she’s talking to me.

“Don’t worry about me,” I reply while flexing my biceps. “I’ve got this. This isn’t my first rodeo.”

“If you say so,” she murmurs. “Except this is tug-of-war, not a rodeo, so…”

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” I tease, lifting my arms over my head and knitting my fingers together to stretch my shoulders.

Riley clears her throat and quickly looks away. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve got this.” She smirks. “This might be my first rodeo, but I’ve had plenty of experience with tug-of-war thanks to summer camp.” She straightens her shoulders and walks to the center point I’ve carved into the ground. “Okay, everyone, here’s how it’s going to work. The first team to pull the other team’s bandanna over the center line wins. No locking, touching the ground, or wrapping the rope around your hands. If you fall on your butt more than once, you’re out. No tugging until I say pull. Everyone ready?”

I plant my feet shoulder width apart and nod.

“Pick up the rope…take the string…pull.”

My boots dig into the dirt, my muscles burning as I lean back into my heels and hold the rope steady in my hands. It slides over the pad of my left hand and I tighten my grip, grateful for all my hard-earned calluses. I’m tempted to pull back on the rope and end it now, but I don’t want to be a jerk. It’s nothing to let them think it was a fair fight. For a little while, at least. Slowly, the middle marker on the rope eases toward their side. An inch. Two. Three. But there’s still plenty of rope left between the line in the dirt and my bandanna marker.

Riley looks over with a worried frown but then offers up an encouraging grin. The other team is stronger than I expected, but there’s no way I’m going to let them win. Not with Riley watching all this go down.

“Told you we could take him.”

“He’s done for.”

“Let’s show him how it’s done.”

“Thinks he’s a pro.”

“What a chump.”

They might have a solid chance at besting me if they spent more time coordinating their efforts than trash-talking. But each snarky comment has them losing focus. Already, I feel them easing up on the rope. I squat down low and the middle mark creeps back toward center, but they’re so busy being confident, I don’t think they notice.

“Let’s end this now.”

“Finish him.”

Riley bites her bottom lip, which sends another rush of power through my muscles. I lean back a little more and the middle marker bobs toward me. The guys grunt and struggle.

“Pull,” someone hisses.

“I’m slipping.”

On the other side of the campsite, a cowbell clangs, signaling dinner. It also means it’s time to end this battle. One. Two. Three.

I yank the rope toward me while leaning back at the same time. The unexpected movement throws them off balance and their piece of bandanna crosses over the center line.

The smaller kids release the rope and run off toward food. Some of the older kids grumble that I cheated. Only Caleb comes over to congratulate me before he heads off for sustenance.

“That was quite the victory,” Riley says.

I shrug and coil up the rope. “The older kids needed a fair fight.”

“Seven against one is hardly fair.”

“Unless those kids start tossing hay bales, lugging cattle feed, or roping steers, I think I’ll have ’em beat. I’m co-captain of Darby’s tug-of-war team, county fair gold medal champions for the fifth straight year.”

“Impressive.”

“If you think that’s impressive, you should see my lasso technique,” I say with a confident grin. “County solo champion in the eighteen and under category three years running.”