Page 27 of Tossing the Caber

Hallie’s question startles Laurel, drawing his attention from Senta’s throw. “Am I what?”

Boisterous and carefree, she laughs. “It was arranged, right?” Hallie waits until Laurel nods before continuing to expound on whatever it is they both know. “Not all unions pan out, even on the best o’ days, and there are plenty elves who can’t stand the person they’ve married. Especially if it wasn’t their choice.”

Understatement. Laurel’s thoughts briefly drift toward his ex-betrothed, who made him miserable, suffering in the smithy—hot from both the forge and his criticism.

“You don’t seem that way, though.”

Laurel blinks. “I don’t?”

With a giggle, Hallie comments, “You look damn taken with him, and if you say you didn’t notice yourself, well.” Then she tips her forehead in the direction of the field. “He’s up.”

Laurel whips around so fast his hair hits him in the face. He hardly notices because his breath has caught, throat so tight he can’t swallow or speak.

Because there Beacon is, the muscles in his arms bulging as he lifts the caber until it’s perfectly vertical, looming high above his sun-kissed copper head. The caber is the same for everyone, regardless of height, and some of the other athletes tower over Beacon. He doesn’t seem fazed, though, merelyfocused. He considers the length from one painted line to the other across the field, calculations flickering in his hazel eyes.

Beacon blinks—once, slowly—before his attention flicks from his target to the sidelines. It lands on Laurel, their gazes colliding with such a brutal impact, it might have felt less powerful if Beacon threw the caber directly at his chest. The connection lasts less than half a second.

Beacon breaks into a run.

He carries the upright caber several paces, arms leveling in preparation for the throw. Then, with a mighty, oh-so-manly grunt of exertion, he sends the pole flying. It soars through the air, topside shuttling toward the ground. Laurel holds an entire continent’s worth of tension in his body, waiting to see if the caber will turn over. Finally, it penetrates the well-beaten earth, tapered end smoothly cutting through the air in a majestic arc.

The crowd cheers to see the caber land with a puff of dust. Laurel almost cheers with the crowd, save for the way Beacon’s face twists to see the angle it’s fallen at.

Hallie sucks her teeth. Laurel grabs her sleeve, tugging it frantically without looking away from Beacon’s troubled expression. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

Not troubled by Laurel’s invasion of her space, Hallie explains, “T’was a good toss, but your Beacon won’t be happy with anything less than an eleven or a one, at most.”

“Awhat?”

Hallie chuckles. “He didn’t bother explaining the rules to you, love?”

Laurel grimaces, mostly at the implication—not an unfair one, even—that Beacon had neglected him in some fashion. “We just haven’t had the time,” he says, trying not to sound defensive.

With a comforting pat to his hand, Hallie says, “No worries. Once the caber turns over, the success of the toss isdetermined like a clockface. A perfect toss is at twelve o’clock, totally straight from the tosser.” She grins. “Sure-of-Foot is picky. He’s got high standards for himself, and the audience’s standards are even higher. That was a nine o’clock fall, which might win today’s event,” she allows, “but it’s not much of a thrill. They know he’s gonna flip it; that’s not exciting by itself.”

“Ah,” is all Laurel can say.

Beacon stomps off the playing field, making room for the Gearkwickians. A couple make comments that appear to be friendly; Beacon nods at one and shakes hands with the other before clearing the space. His kilt swings around his knees with every long stride.

Hallie fans herself. “I do love a strong elf in a kilt, and Sure-of-Foot makes a great specimen.” Noticing Laurel’s venomous look—he doesn’t intend it, but it overtakes his face before he can mind himself—Hallie cackles. “Don’t worry yourself none. My girl would behead him before I could think about straying, and she’s got a good fistful of inches over him. I just like to appreciate a nice physique. Do you know if he goes regimented? Me and a few of the others have a running bet, but no one’s ever gotten close enough to tell.”

Squinting after Beacon, Laurel admits, “I have no idea what that means.”

“Does he wear anything under his kilt,” Hallie says like an explanation, not a question.

Laurel squawks in offense. “You’re asking if my husband is wearing undergarments?”

Hallie shrugs. “Some athletes believe it’s bad luck! For the gals, it is what it is, but I always get a chuckle at the thought of those massive muscle-bound fellows out on the field, bollocks sticking to one leg on account of the sweat.”

First, Laurel has to cover his mouth to smother a laugh. Then he has to use it to stop himself from speaking becausethe first thing he almost says is, ‘Beacon doesn’thavetesticles.’ Instead, he chokes out, “I have no idea.” He clears his throat, then adds, “And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. That’s invasive.”

He expects Hallie to laugh at that, but she raises her brows instead. Tangling his fingers together, still-overheated tail wrapping weakly around his calf, Laurel worries he’s just offended the first person to try to befriend him. He doesn’t want to make any enemies.

But Hallie only nods, expression thoughtful. “Sure-of-Foot is damn private about that stuff, anyway.”

If only she knew why.

Laurel bites his lip, suddenly understanding why Beacon is so physically closed off. Of course he would be if his natural body is a secret. Doanyof his fellow athletes know? Laurel can’t see why they’d give him grief over it—obviously he can pull his weight, and it’s not like female elves can’t hold their own.