Chapter 1: Secret Sparks
Maplewood smelled like woodsmoke and rain, even in memory.
Alex and Taylor grew up in that tight-knit Pacific Northwest town, tucked between pine ridges and cloud-heavy hills. Their families ran competing outdoor gear shops on opposite corners of Main Street—Walker’s Outfitter Supply and Reed’s Range Ready.
It started friendly.
Alex remembered Taylor’s laugh before she remembered her own.
They were kids who built forts from old tent poles and scouted fire-starting kits like they were ancient relics. Taylor brought blueprints and over-complicated diagrams. Alex brought snacks and a Leatherman she wasn’t technically allowed to own yet.
They’d been eight when they built their first fort out behind Taylor’s parents’ shop. Argued whether it should be a “hideout” or a “base.” Spent the night in sleeping bags, telling ghost stories under chin-held flashlights, and pretending they weren’t scared of owls or raccoons or the crunch of leaves that sounded too human.
By nine, they were inseparable.
By ten, they were the team to beat at the Maplewood Wilderness Fest.
The festival was the highlight of every summer. Competitions in fire-building, orienteering, axe skills, gear repair, and a brutal obstacle course that left half the contestants covered in nettle rash and humiliation.
Alex and Taylor signed up separately—every time.
Taylor always showed up early with laminated route maps.
Alex winged it with instinct and sheer force of will.
Their rivalry wasn’t official at first. But by twelve, it was legend.
Alex could still remember the under-13 fire-starting challenge. The sky had been overcast, and Taylor’s pile of birch shavings was picture-perfect. Alex struck her flint too hard and sent sparks flying like shotgun scatter. Somehow, her tinder caught first.
Taylor smiled like it didn’t bother her.
Alex had never forgotten that smile.
They were twelve when they started keeping score.
Taylor was faster on the obstacle course.
Alex had better aim with a slingshot.
Taylor tied a bowline one-handed while blindfolded.
Alex could build a stable fire tower in the rain.
Every win came with a smug grin and a subtle jab. Neither could walk away without tossing one last insult over their shoulder.
But before the rivalry, there had been something else.
Something closer.
Alex could still feel it—like a warmth she’d only now begun to name.
It started slipping around thirteen.
There were hormones. Ego. Sudden sharp edges on once-soft feelings.
And there was Jared.
Jared wasn’t even that interesting—except he was tall for his age, had dimples that made girls stupid, and helped out at the Maplewood gear tent that summer. Alex thought he was okay. Taylor claimed he was annoying.
Still, both of them seemed to talk to him more when the other was nearby.
When Taylor laughed too loudly at his jokes, Alex burned.
When Jared complimented Alex’s trail timing, Taylor rolled her eyes so hard it could’ve reset the compass.
One afternoon after a gear build demo, Taylor pulled Alex aside. Said something about Jared. About showing off. About not thinking.
Alex snapped.
They shouted, not just about Jared—but about who forgot the rope, who took credit for the tarp shelter design, who used to care more.
Taylor said, “You think everything’s a goddamn contest.”
Alex fired back, “Maybe that’s the only thing we ever had in common.”
That night, Alex ripped a page from her sketchbook with Taylor’s handwriting on it.
They didn’t speak again that summer.
Not as friends.
Not really ever again.
But looking back, Alex could see it now.
It wasn’t about Jared.
It was about each other.
About how Taylor’s fingers lingered too long when she passed her a flashlight. About how Alex’s stomach twisted when Taylor tied her hair back during a hike. About the way they held eye contact a beat too long, then looked away like they’d been burned.
At fourteen, during a sudden thunderstorm on a training hike, they took shelter in a shallow cave near the ridge trail.
Alex had slipped, scraped her knee on wet granite.
Taylor had mumbled something—too soft to be smug—and dropped to her knees, unpacking her first aid kit like it was war.
Her fingers cleaned the wound. Bandaged it. Lingered.
Raindrops echoed off the stone, thunder like a heartbeat overhead.
Alex sat very still.
Taylor looked up. “You okay?”
Alex nodded. Didn’t say a word. Couldn’t.
The air between them felt loaded. Fragile.
Taylor looked like she wanted to say something else. Her lips parted. Then closed.
The rain let up an hour later.
They left the cave in silence.
After that, something between them was different. Guarded. Off.
They never talked about that day.
Not then.
Not ever.
Years later, Alex kept the compass from that summer on her nightstand.
It still smelled faintly of cedar and rust.
She told herself it was about her dad—that it was about tradition, about survival.
It wasn’t.
Taylor was in every muscle memory in her body. Every callused palm. Every perfected knot and ridge pole.
That rivalry had shaped them. But the ghost of their friendship still haunted the edges.
Sometimes it felt like grief.
Other times, like fire.
Even now, walking through the polished halls of Wildfire Outfitters HQ, Alex would catch herself wondering—does she remember?
The cave.
The look.
The tension.
That weird electric pause in the dark.
They’d both ended up here, somehow, at the company that had once sponsored their Wilderness Fest competitions. Wildfire wasn’t just a gear company anymore—it was an empire. Global, lean, tech-heavy.
Cutthroat.
Here, office rivalries were branded as “competitive spirit.” The climbing wall in the lobby tracked team wins and solo speed scores.
Taylor and Alex were both on the board.
Of course.
Their desks sat in view of each other—divided by glass and resentment.
Alex paused in the lobby on her way to the elevators.
There it was: an old Maplewood axe mounted in a backlit glass case.
Same model Taylor had used to beat her in the under-14 log chop.
Alex smirked.
She hated how fast the memory made her heart race.
How familiar it still felt—like pine smoke in the lungs.
She squared her shoulders and moved toward the elevator.
She had meetings. A product launch. An image to uphold.
Whatever teenage ghosts were clinging to her spine, they’d have to keep up.
Because if Taylor fucking Reed thought she could outwork, out-climb, or outlast her again?
She had another thing coming.
And if she still smelled like pine and storm clouds when she got too close in the lab?
Well.
That was no one’s business but Alex’s.
