Page 25 of Daddy's Pride

My heart is thumping as I grasp the rope attached to the wall. I lean back, using the tension to walk up the wall.

“You’re doing great,” Miles calls as I clamber onto the top of the wall.

I lean onto my knees, breathing deeply as I size up the next obstacle. Monkey bars. I haven’t done those since I was a kid. My arms are already sore from hauling myself up the wall, and I wasn’t bearing all my weight. The ground, which is at least seven feet below, is churned up and muddy.

“That’s a long way for kids to fall,” I say. It’s a long way for me to fall.

“I’d put crash mats down if children and teenagers were on the course.”

“Ah, so only grown-ups get the muddy fall?”

He chuckles. “I figure they can handle it.”

“Except, it won’t always be muddy, will it?”

He shakes his head.

“It could be. You could keep it muddy for a softer—if squelchy—landing.”

“You’d rather fall into mud?”

“Damn right, I would. People pay and get sponsored to do muddy assault courses.”

He scratches his neck. “I suppose they do. Now, are you going to stand there chatting all day, boy? Or are you going to finish this course?”

I rub my hands and grasp the first bar. I swing across to the next, grimacing during the delay where I’ve let go of one bar but haven’t caught hold of the next. By the time I reach the middle rung, my arms are shaking. My palms are sweaty. I swear I’m going to fall. I tighten my grip and grit my teeth. I’m not going to fall. I won’t let myself.

“Don’t give up. You’re halfway there. Take it one rung at a time,” Miles says.

One rung at a time. I can do that. I narrow my eyes, focusing on the next rung, and swing my body.

“Wonderful. Now swing to the next. And the next. You’re almost there.”

When I reach the platform on the other side, Miles applauds me.

I grin, excitement flushing through me.

The zip line is next. I grip it tightly and launch myself off the platform, lifting my legs so I’m in a pike position. I could put my feet on the ground, but I hold on until I land on my arse at the far end. Mud splatters over my joggers, soaking my arse and the undersides of my legs.

“Get up and keep going,” Miles roars.

I scramble to my feet and sprint to one of six zig-zag balance beams. I spread my arms and walk up the ramp. The beams are four feet off the ground and textured, allowing my trainers to grip the surface.

“Take your time. It’s not a race,” Miles says.

I concentrate on placing one foot in front of the other and not falling. I have to jump off the far end, where I come face to face with a cargo net. I climb it, even though my arms are jelly, thanks to the wall climb and the monkey bars. My legs aren’t faring much better. I grossly underestimated how exhausting the course would be.

At the top of the cargo net, I take a moment to size up the climbing wall on the other side. It’s just high enough that I wouldn’t want to jump, but a tall man like Miles could hang off the edge and drop without any difficulty or danger of hurting himself. I take the safe route, picking out foot and handholds until I’m on solid ground.

The last obstacle is another cargo net, but this one lies on the ground. The sign beside it tells me I need to army crawl under the net.

“You can skip it if you’re claustrophobic,” Miles says.

“I’m not, but that’s good to know.”

I lie flat on the ground and push the netting up. The ground is soggy and muddy beneath it. Here goes nothing.

I use my elbows and knees to crawl beneath the net. Mud squelches, soaking me. It’s fucking cold.