We bring in our haul for the day on the truck. All the lumber is bound tightly together as we dump it into the loading bay at the mill.

I spot Jake Ornsley talking to the foreman. Ornsley owns a big furniture store chain with a bunch of stores all over Oregon and Washington. As soon as me and the other lumberjacks get out of the truck, he locks his eyes on us.

He nods to the foreman and steps away from him, approaching us with a big smile on his face. I don’t think the guy has ever even spared a glance toward us once in his life, but now he looks like he’s ready to be our best friend.

“Good evening,” he says, grinning widely as he reaches us.

Me, Hutch, and Sawyer give each other confused looks, our brows furrowed. Then we turn in tandem to stare stone-faced at Jake Ornsley.

“Yeah?” I ask, speaking for the other two.

“Any of you ever done competitive lumberjacking?”

“Competitive?” Hutch scoffs. “We ain’t some Disneyland performers, we’re professionals.”

I nod staunchly in agreement.

“Professional…” Ornsley says, stroking his chin. “That means that you like to make money, right?”

“Damn right we do,” Sawyer says. “Good money for honest work. No need to turn our trade into a performance.”

“Well,” Ornsley says, “I’m sponsoring this tournament to promote my store. A free trip to Seattle--”

I laugh. “None of us wanna go to Seattle. You keep making furniture, and we keep chopping wood. That’s how it works.”

“It’s $10,000 for second prize,” Ornsley says, and then he grins wide, building the anticipation. “And $30,000 for first.”

We all start licking our lips, our objections slowly melting away.

“And $5,000 for each of us to participate,” I say, without thinking.

Hutch and Sawyer’s eyes bulge.

“$2,500,” Ornsley says.

“Five,” I say, crossing my arms.

“Fine,” he says. “You got a month to get ready.”

* * *

One month later, the three of us are in Seattle. We’ve trained hard together. If the competition was just about who could chop trees down the fastest, I’d win for sure. But it’s not so simple. A lumberjack tournament includes a bunch of other bullshit that no real lumberjack ever has to do. You’ve got axe throwing, log rolling, underhand chops, all kinds of other shit none of us has ever done in a real forest. Hutch, Sawyer, and I have jokingly been calling it the “Big Lumberjackoff.”

But we trained hard in the month we had. We figured if we trained together, we maximized our chances of one of us hitting that $30,000 jackpot.

We drive together from our hotels up to where the tournament is being held. I made Ornsley get us each our own room, a nice swanky place with a full kitchen and living room area. I didn’t come all the way to Seattle to shack up with smelly-ass Hutch and Sawyer. I get my own place, but I’m not planning to sleep alone.

We reach the tournament grounds, which is right near the woods on the outskirts of the city. There’s a bunch of shit all set-up for each cut, and there’s women in low-cut Bavarian-style dresses with frilly white aprons. They’re all carrying huge mugs of beer by the half-dozen to thirsty spectators. There’s hundreds of people here to watch. It’s way more than I’d expected.

There’s a big banner that reads Choptoberfest.

“Chop-fucking-toberfest,” Sawyer says, laughing. “Can you believe we’re really doing this?”

I grin. I’m fucking ready to do this. I’m here to win.

My first event is speed climbing. I’m up against two guys from Canada--so I had better not fucking lose--who stare me down as we hook our belts around the trunk.

The trunk goes up 60 feet, and we have to climb as fast as we can with nothing but a simple belt and boots. I tighten my belt and plant my boots into the trunk to get a feel for it. I pull on the belt and leverage myself up a few steps, then slide back down. It’s the same kind of wood I practiced on, and it feels just right.

The three of us plant one foot on the ground--per the rules--and wait for the whistle. The whistle sounds, and I tear up the trunk like a fucking animal.

I don’t even look over to see if I’m winning, I focus everything on climbing as fast as I can. The muscles in my arms bulge, but I’m strong enough that I don’t even feel the strain. It feels mostly like I’m just running up the fucking tree. One step after another, I race up, and up, and up.

I reach the top of the tree after what feels like only a few seconds, and I ring the bell to signal I reached the top.

And now for the last part: the descent. I grip the belt so there is just enough friction to slow me so that I don’t break my back. You’re not allowed to free-fall, so I kick off the tree every few feet as I slide down. I spare a second to look over at my two competitors. The fucking Canadians are just now ringing their bells, and I’m nearly on the ground.

My boots slam into the ground, and I let out a loud roar.

“Yeah!”

I fist pump as the Canadians hit the ground. First place on my first event. The $30,000 is as good as mine.

The crowd is roaring, and the announcer is screaming that it’s my first competition and I nearly broke the record for the 60-foot speed climb.

I grin wide as the crowd cheers for me, and through the hundreds of people watching, I see one woman who really catches my eye.

Her long, wavy hair is dirty blonde, and she has sharp features. She’s standing near the front row, and her green eyes cut right into me. But I don’t look too long at her eyes, it’s the rest of her body that calls out to me. Sings for me.

She’s all curves, and as I scan every inch of her body with my eyes, I imagine my big, rough hands on her skin, squeezing her. I lick my lips as I feel my cock harden. I don’t even hear the crowd or the announcer anymore. I just see her.

And she sees me, too. I see her smile. Those full lips part for me, revealing perfect teeth and deep dimples in her cheeks.

I’m tempted to go and talk to her right now--more than talk to her--but the Canadians are walking over toward me.

“Nice showing, buddy,” one says, smiling.

“You, too, bud,” I say, grinning. We shake hands, competing to see which one of us has the firmer grip. Our forearms bulge, and our veins pop out. We lock eyes, both trying as hard as possible not to look strained, even as we threaten to crush each other’s hands.

When it becomes clear that my grip is just that much stronger, the Canadian loosens his grip and nods. “Eh, buddy.”

“Bud.”

We let go.

I look back over to find the woman, but she’s gone. Fuck, Canadian cockblock.

* * *

I tear through the next few events, but I don’t see the woman anywhere. How could she leave after seeing my speed climbing performance? She must still be here somewhere.

Before I can go look for her, I’m called to my next event, and the next, and the next. I conquer all of them, getting first place in each new event.

I’m ex-military, so my strengths are well-rounded. A lot of these guys have just chopped wood all their lives, but I’ve done much more than that. I was fucking born for this.

The axe throwing competition is the next one to come up. I used to be real good with throwing knives in the military, but until a month ago, I’d never fucking thrown an axe. Not surprisingly, a lumberjack rarely has a need to throw his axe into a damn tree. I don’t even know why it’s part of the competition--it must be for show--but I’m fucking good at it, so I won’t complain.

I’m up against an Alaskan this time. American--technically--but he might as well be Canadian to me.

He leans into me and whispers, “You’re gonna get buried, bro.”

Before I can respond, he whips an axe out of his jacket and throws it without hesitation. It thunks right into the bullseye marked on the side of the tree.

At least he didn’t say ‘buddy.’

I smile at him.

“That all you got?” he asks.

Fuck if I’m going to show him how good I can throw before the competition even starts. Let him think I’m just some rookie.

The judge steps up and turns toward me. “Will you be taking your practice throw?”

I shake my head.

“Contestants!” he shouts. “To the foul line!”

The foul line is 20 feet from the target. If we step over the foul line during a throw, it’s a foul. Two fouls and we are disqualified from the event. There are a few schools of thought on the foul line. Some people like to practice throwing as close to the line as possible, risking the foul. Others like to back up so they can drive the throw as much as they can with a big step.

I take big steps. I won’t lose out on $30,000 because of a fucking foul.

The tradeoff is that 20 feet is already far away. Each inch past that, and it gets exponentially more difficult to throw accurately.

Chase, my Alaskan opponent, is first.

He takes his jacket off and showboats a bit to the crowd, flipping the axe up in his hand and catching the handle.

The judge glares at him. “Foul line!”

Chase grins and steps back up to the line. His axe is in hand and his flannel shirt is fully exposed. He steps up toward the line, stopping with his toe right on the line. He backs up slightly. He takes in a breath, cocks his arm, and throws. His foot drives forward, and his toe just touches the line.

The axe bites into the tree, hitting the third ring. Only three points--a bullseye is five.

There is some polite clapping, but I can see Chase grinding his jaw.

“Guess you used up all your juice on that practice throw,” I say.

He doesn’t even look at me.

“Jack,” the judge says, pointing toward me. “Foul line, take your throw!”

I grasp the handle of my axe and step up about a foot away from the foul line. The crowd quiets, and I take another huge step back; I’m almost three feet from the line now. I hear the announcer going crazy.

“Jack the lumberjack!” he shouts. “It’s this guy’s first competition, and he was born for this! He was born for it! HIs parents knew he would take the competitive lumberjacking scene by storm when they named him! And look at this, a completely unorthodox strategy! He’s at least three feet from the foul line, I’ve never seen--”

I cut him off by cocking my arm and taking another step back.

Then I run. It’s a quick burst of speed, and just before I reach the foul line, I throw the axe. With my extra speed, the axe races forward with that much more force and speed. It slams right into the bullseye. Five points.

The crowd explodes, and as I look over toward the applause, she catches my eye again.

She’s slid up to the front row now, and where everyone else is clapping, she’s just staring right at me. She blows me a kiss.

My cock goes rock-hard.

Now I have to win.

Chase takes his next throw, and it’s a bullseye.

He’s at eight points now, with one throw left.

I wind up and throw, but only hit the second ring. Four points.

Nine to eight.

Chase winds up for his third and last throw, and slams his axe into the bullseye. Thirteen points. That first throw is really hurting him, but I need at least a second-ring hit to avoid a tie. And if I really want to impress my mystery woman in the crowd, I need a fucking bullseye.

I force everything from my mind, even her. It’s an old trick I learned in Iraq, before going into battle. All that matters for the next 10 seconds is this one shot, and it’s all that my mind is allowed to focus on. I don’t even hear the crowd as I sprint toward the line. My arm explodes forward, and every muscle in my body helps to propel the axe forward. It spins and cuts through the air, and it thwacks dead-center into the bullseye.

Chase shouts. “Fuck!”

The judge grabs his arm and hisses into his ear, and he stalks off.

The judge grabs my hand and holds it up. The announcer goes crazy, shouting that I will be going into the grand finals against Paul Bunyan.

I look over to see my woman, but she’s gone. Again.

I know what kind of game she’s playing now, though. She’ll be back to see me in the grand finals. I have no fear that she’s going to disappear on me. I haven’t even said a word to her yet, but my bed is waiting for her tonight. First I need to win the $30,000.

The final event is one that Ornsley invented himself for his tournament. It’s the 10-log standing block chop. Paul Bunyan and I will both have 10 thick logs in front of us, all lined up. We have to cut through all of them as fast as we can, using any chopping method we’d like. Whoever cuts through all 10 logs first will win the $30,000. The loser will walk away with a meager $10,000.

Paul Bunyan. What kind of jackass lumberjack names himself that? I Google him on my phone to see what he’s all about. His real name is apparently Clarence Vandermolen. Paul Bunyan, my ass.

He’s one of the top competitive lumberjacks in North America, and he’s won dozens of tournaments. Stupid fucking name or not, I’ve got my work cut out for me.

There’s a two-hour break until the grand finals. Since the 10-block chop is an endurance competition, they want us to have as much time to rest up as we can get. More importantly, the big furniture sale happens now, which is Ornsley’s real reason for holding the competition. In the two hours leading up to the grand finals, beer is priced two-for-one, as drunk people are more likely to make impulse purchases.

As tempted as I am to have a beer, I need to stay clear-headed. I sit down on one of the wooden benches to give my body a rest. I close my eyes and run my fingers along my ring. I wear it on my neck. It’s a thick, gold ring, and wearing it on my finger gets in the way of my job. But my father gave it to me before I went off to war, and it’s all I have left of my family. It’s been in our family for over six generations. My father was murdered, and the ring is all I have left of him. I like to keep it close to me, even if I don’t wear it on my finger.