Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 96165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Ever since his MMA days, Jacob had kept himself in peak physical condition, both during the fire season and with his various off-season jobs, so he wasn’t too worried about passing the tests. He’d had the minimum requirements taped to his fridge all spring. The way more pressing concern was avoiding Linc so that he didn’t have to suffer another public argument in front of all his new teammates.
To that end, he hung back when they were dismissed to the locker room to change into workout gear, waiting to pick a locker far from Linc, but his plan backfired when the only options were the two on either side of Linc, everyone else apparently giving him a wide berth.
Linc didn’t waste any time before turning toward him, mid shirt change, scowl still in place. “Listen—”
“Save it. Not here.” Jacob kept his voice low. And his eyes away from Linc’s impressive chest, which he’d seen before, swimming and such, but still hadn’t developed an immunity to.
“If you can’t handle some criticism—”
“You really want to do this now? Thought you already had the hothead rep. It’d be a shame to make that worse.”
It was a low blow, reminding Linc that the rumor was that there had been serious talk about not bringing him back for the season. It was Wyatt, not Linc, who had usually been the loose cannon with his mouth and quick temper with his fists, but gossip about a supposed shouting match after Wyatt passed that had resulted in discipline had reached the other crews. And there had been more speculation that Linc was washed, that maybe he couldn’t hack it anymore, not without Wyatt and not after whatever had gone down out there that led to only one of them coming back. Which wasn’t his fault, and Jacob knew that, but Linc wore his guilt like a cape, twisting in the wind for all to see. Plenty of people had thought Linc would never let himself jump again, but here he was, reporting for duty.
“Fine. Later.” Linc finished dressing with anger rolling off him in toxic waves before heading out, leaving Jacob to do the same. But when he returned to the main room, Linc was deep in conversation with Alder and Sims, the woman in charge of the PT tests. Fuck. If he was advocating for Jacob’s removal, they were going to have a lot more than words later.
He warmed up with some basic stretches while waiting for his turn at the pull-up bar. The minimum was seven, and most of the line rattled theirs off without issue. The guy ahead of Jacob though, an older returning smoke jumper, struggled.
“Come on, Ray!”
“You’ve got this!”
“Work it!” Several others in the returning crowd started calling out encouragement, Linc included. Funny how he could go from riding Jacob’s ass to congenial teammate so quickly. After Ray finally got his chin over the bar for number seven, Linc was first to give him a high five.
Clipboard in hand, Sims summoned him forward. “Okay, Rookie. Let’s see what you’ve got. Don’t forget, there’s more to come, but I’m looking for a quality ten from our rookies. Show me you’ve been working.”
Ten with an audience was a little harder than the seven he’d been anticipating, especially knowing Linc wouldn’t be cheering him, but he got a good rhythm going and reached the target without issue. He stuck around to cheer on the female recruit behind him who whipped off ten like she was in superhero training.
“Nice work,” he said as she dropped down. “You were with the Winema hotshot team last season, right? Baker, is it?”
“Yup.” Baker was tall and ripped, and Jacob liked her already—he wasn’t expecting to make many friends with the old-timers like Linc’s crowd, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a few of his fellow recruits on his side as they went forward. “And you’re Hartman?”
“Yeah, but you can call me Jacob. The whole last name thing gets confusing.” He supposed he’d have to get used to it, as a lot of the firefighters he’d met went by last names or nicknames. However, to him, Hartman was still Wyatt—the name on his football jersey and letter jacket, the name on his helmet, the one known to firefighters all over the West as he’d built his rep as the best of the best.
“I bet. I prefer Kelley myself—last name makes me think of my dad. I heard about your brother. We all did. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.” He’d gotten used to the condolences, gotten used to the sucker punch of grief that hit when he least expected it. Wyatt should be here. He’d wanted to serve together, damn it. Anyone who thought he was trading on Wyatt’s death was wrong—the dream had always been to be here alongside him and Linc, proving himself as one of them, making Wyatt proud. If he’d still been around, stepping out from Wyatt’s shadow would have been a challenge, but one he would have happily embraced.