American Gauntlet

AMERICAN GAUNTLET by Allie Lewis Copyright © 2023 by Allie Lewis All rights reserved. Visit my website at www.authorallielewis.com. Cover Design & Interior Formatting: Allie Lewis Editor: Carleigh Foutch No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. ISBN: 979-8-9863796-2-3 (paperback), 979-8-9863796-3-0 (ebook) TO MY SIBLINGS To Brooke, who has Joss’s warmth and sunshiney optimism. To Asher, who has Naji’s love of laughter and spark for fun. And to Jake, who has Dani’s drive, determination, and dauntless vision. This one’s for you. PROLOGUE ONE question. It had all come down to one question. Everything I had worked for over the last seven months. Everything I planned to do with the prize money. Everything I had endured in this grueling competition, this excruciating Gauntlet. The physical strain. The mental toll. The pain and the struggle and the perseverance. I never imagined it would come down to seven words with a question mark at the end. One, simple question. And the worst part is I’m not the one answering it. ONE [Six Months Out] MY MUSCLES are howling at me in misery. They’re well past the phase of gentle pleading, the dance of deft negotiation. They’ve officially moved on to undignified begging, and yet, I still force them to lower the bar to my chest for one more rep, even as they begin to shake in one final act of rebellion. Of course, when I say my muscles are howling at me, I really mean my brain is. In fact, my muscles will perform until they literally collapse from exhaustion, but far before I reach that point, my brain will try to convince me they’re on the cusp of failure. That if I do one more rep, they’ll surely give out. That I simply have nothing left to give, not a single drop of energy left in the tank. Liar, I say as I press the bar up and heave it back onto the rack. I sit up on the bench a little too quickly and dizziness hits me in a wave—a sign of fatigue, no doubt—but it subsides as I blink the black spots away from my vision. I snatch my water bottle off the gym floor and take a graceless gulp, relishing the way I can feel the ice-cold liquid running down my throat. Wiping a stray drop of water from the corners of my mouth, I snap the cap back on and steal a glance at myself in the condensation-ridden gym mirror, fogged up from excessive body heat and the stifling Houston humidity. Strands of my straight brown hair have begun escaping from the elastics holding the high space buns I always wear when I work out. The sweat from my chest has seeped through my charcoal gray crop, a dark, T-shaped sweat blot growing by the second. The excess sticky moisture on my face has smeared my mascara to where it’s running a little from both eyes. I look like a mess. I absolutely love it. That feeling when you finish a workout and reek of sweat and hard work and sheer force of will—I crave it. I savor it. To think I avoided exercise at all costs only a few years ago seems so wild to me, considering now my love affair with the gym is dangerously bordering on an addiction. I lie back down on the bench to tackle my last set, my gym playlist blasting at an ungodly level through my headphones. But just as I go to grab the bar, my music cuts off abruptly, replaced instead by my ringtone that comes exploding through my headphones so loud I jump up and nearly smack my head on the barbell, my pulse skyrocketing in the process. I’m on the receiving end of a few concerned looks from the two guys on the bench press next to mine, but I toss them a clipped smile to let them know I’m fine and promptly seat myself back down. Before I grab the barbell, though, I pause. I’m inclined to ignore whoever is calling me—I almost never check my phone when I’m at the gym—but every time my phone rings, my heart beats a little faster of its own volition, waiting for a call I know will probably never come. I fight the hope and anxious desire that flutters through my stomach, but in the back of my mind, I admit it’s kind of nice to hope for something, even if it’s probably not going to happen. I haven’t had anything to really hope for in a long time, and it feels…invigorating. Like that feeling when you were listening to the radio as a kid and you beg for your mom’s phone to call into the station, desperately hoping you’ll be caller number seven, so you can win whatever it is they’re giving away. Concert tickets or backstage passes or tickets to see Disney on Ice. In the very back of your mind, you know you probably won’t be caller number seven, but it feels so exhilarating to try in the moment. It feels like you’ve never wanted something more in your life. Giving into the hope-fueled desire, I seize my phone from where I’ve haphazardly tossed it next to my bench and quickly glance at the caller ID. It’s a number I don’t recognize, and as I catch a glimpse of the location below the number, I freeze. Burbank, CA. My arms, already wobbly from my upper body session, start trembling more, even as that little seed of hope begins putting down roots in the pit of my