Page 19 of Puck Love
However, we’d now officially entered the “real camping” phase, and I had to keep my wits about me.
The Four Forest area consisted of four small towns whose borders were delineated by thick forests, winding roads, and the lake. The goal was to hike from Pinecrest to Wood Hollow along narrow trails and arrive at the campsite before dusk. This was wildlife central. We’d been told to stick with our assigned group and be mindful of deer, moose, bobcats, and black bears. There were rules about food storage and general forest etiquette. Don’t leave trash out, and don’t feed the fucking bears.
No problem.
I spent most of the two-hour trek with Michael and friends he’d made with some kids in Denny’s group. Pushing brush aside for the teens while chatting with Denny should have been the perfect diversion, but I was ultra-aware of Jake trudging behind me with David and our extremely slow videographer, who thankfully had brought a pair of sneakers with him.
We paused every so often to give them a chance to catch up. I used that “knowing glance” trick to taunt Jake and for good measure, tapped my watch to annoy him. He just rolled his eyes and cast a meaningful gaze in Ray’s direction. And suddenly, we were communicating again. He was telling me that Ray was out of his element in every way possible—out of shape and unprepared, and damn it, I understood.
And get this, I felt a twinge of remorse that I hadn’t shared the workload. I expected the feeling to fade immediately, but it didn’t. Odd.
“What’s with the camera guy?” I asked Jake once we’d reached the campsite, tipping the ball cap Denny had given me toward the disheveled man limping into the clearing.
“He’s allergic to exercise, and mosquitoes love him,” he deadpanned. “Also, I think we have to watch out for David. He’s either not as fit as he seems or…he’s not feeling great, and he doesn’t want us to know.”
“You think he has the flu too?” I whispered, inching closer to Jake as we observed the middle-aged man chugging a Gatorade.
“Dunno.”
I couldn’t tell you which one of us shrugged first, but it was the tenuous sense of connection I really noticed. Were we bonding over our campers? Undetermined.
We kept our usual distance during the hot-dog fest and the bonfire. Between games of charades and shoveling s’mores in my mouth, I was a busy guy.
But when it was time for bed, I was ready for some shut-eye. I stretched my arms above my head, said my good nights, and wandered to the tents designated for Team Trinsky-Milligan—two two-person tents and one single tent.
“Where’s the other tent?” I set my hands on my hips and surveyed the tents arranged neatly under a giant elm.
David and his son joined me. “I didn’t know there was supposed to be a fourth tent. Whoever claimed the single is already snoring away. Michael and I will take this one. Good night, and thanks for a great day.”
“Good night, Mr. Trinsky,” Michael chimed in, flashing a sleepy smile as he followed his father.
“Just Trinsky,” I mumbled, raking my fingers through my hair. “Just…fuck.”
Look, I was no mathematical genius, but I quickly deduced that we had a big problem. One tent and two guys left…Milligan and me.
I released an exhausted sigh—the kind that originated from my toes—as I mentally sorted through my options. First come, first serve, right? One of us would have to cuddle up elsewhere. Not me.
I grabbed my backpack, ducked inside the low-slung tent, and?—
“Sorry, this one is taken,” Jake said, eyes glued to his cell, head propped on his hand as he lay on his side.
My gaze stalled on his broad shoulders and the curtain of blond hair covering his forehead. I expected a flare of rage at his hoity-toity attitude and maybe at myself for not sussing out that the sleeping arrangements were fucked.
“Yeah, I don’t think so,” I huffed. “What the hell happened here? We were supposed to split up between our people. My people got sick, and that means I get this tent to myself and you get to snuggle up with those two…over there.”
I gestured wildly, frustration growing by the second. And why couldn’t I stop gaping at his biceps? His fucking T-shirt was too snug, and I was going to tell him that as soon as he showed his ass out the door.
Jake dropped his cell next to his pillow and cast a weary look my way. “Dream on.”
“Well…you can’t stay here,” I whisper-hissed. “This is mine. Get out.”
He groaned and mumbled something that sounded like, “I wish” as he turned off the lantern.
I blinked like a newborn owl in the dark. “I’m serious, Milligan. I’m not sharing with you.”
Jake chuckled humorlessly. “Sleep by the fire. It’ll be nice and toasty. And if any bears come around, you can be our alarm.”
“This is not a joke. I mean…how do I know you don’t fart in your sleep?”