After the announcement of the prizes for the other couples, two large drums were placed in the center of the field. They were massive and, from the looks of it, filled with ice. My stomach twisted in a knot as I was asked to step aside, joining the other cheerleaders. I had no idea what was coming next, I glanced over at Diarmid, worry bubbling inside me.

Chelsea stepped forward, her energy as high as ever, with a mischievous smile on her face. "Alright, settle down everyone. Now, here's the exciting part. This is where our guys will have to work really hard for our girl." She threw a playful glance toward me and continued, "So, Clayton, you'll be competing with Diarmid here. But—there's a catch. You both need to agree on the challenges. If either of you backs out or refuses, then Arwen won't date either of you."

The crowd erupted into cheers again, the energy palpable. Clayton and Diarmid exchanged glances, and for a brief moment, it felt like time slowed. There was an intensity in the air as they nodded, agreeing to the challenge. I could see Clayton's cocky smile falter slightly as he eyed Diarmid, but he tried to keep his composure.

"Great!" Chelsea exclaimed, clearly enjoying the tension. "Here's the deal. First, you two will race a 500-meter dash. But don't relax after that—you'll both have to immerse yourselves in the drum filled with ice water right after. There's no time limit. Whoever comes out of the ice first is out, and the cold temperature will be monitored for both of you. It's all about endurance and who can last the longest."

The crowd buzzed with excitement, while my heart pounded in my chest. Chelsea continued, her voice firm and teasing at the same time. "Whoever wins this challenge gets the prize—whether it's you, Clayton, or Diarmid."

I looked back at Diarmid, who stood there, completely calm, like nothing could faze him. He didn't even look at the drum filled with ice, his focus entirely on the challenge ahead. Clayton, on the other hand, seemed to be trying to psych himself up, but I could tell there was a flicker of nervousness in his eyes.

The tension between the two of them was undeniable, and I knew this was more than just a game to them—it felt like a showdown, and I was right in the middle of it.

The crowd's energy was electric as the whistle blew, signaling the start of the 500-meter dash. Clayton bolted forward with confidence, but Diarmid—oh, Diarmid—moved like the wind itself. His strides were effortless, his body cutting through the air with such precision that it was almost mesmerizing. It was as if he wasn't even running, but gliding across the field. In just a few moments, he was yards ahead of Clayton, leaving him behind by what felt like an eternity.

I watched in awe as Diarmid crossed the finish line without breaking a sweat, while Clayton struggled to keep up, his breathing labored. Diarmid didn't even look back; his eyes were fixed forward, focused and determined. The crowd roared in approval, but for a second, everything around me felt like it disappeared. All I could see was Diarmid, standing there in front of me, victorious.

He walked up to me, his breathing steady, and without a word, he started to remove his shirt. My breath hitched in my throat as the fabric lifted over his head, revealing his chiseled chest and toned abs. His skin glistened slightly under the lights, and I felt my pulse quicken.

Diarmid's gaze met mine as he held out his shirt. "Can you hold this for me?" His voice was low, almost intimate, as if the crowd around us didn't exist.

I swallowed hard and nodded, barely trusting my voice to speak. I took the shirt from him, my fingers brushing against his as I did. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and I swear my heart skipped a beat.

With that smile still lingering on his face, he bent down to remove his shoes, each movement calm and deliberate. There was no hesitation in his actions, no second-guessing, and as he stood back up, I could feel the tension radiating from the crowd, all eyes on him.

Without a word, Diarmid walked toward the large drum filled with ice. He didn't flinch, didn't hesitate. In one smooth motion, he climbed into the freezing water, submerging himself up to his chest. The cold would have been unbearable for most, but Diarmid barely reacted. His muscles tensed briefly, but then he relaxed, as if the ice was nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

The crowd was silent for a moment, stunned by his composure. Then a wave of whispers and gasps spread through the audience. I stood there, holding his shirt, my heart racing, as I watched him sit in that drum like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Diarmid's eyes flicked back up to meet mine, and for a brief second, it felt like the world stopped.

Clayton finally arrived at the finish line, his face flushed and his breathing heavy. He bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath, clearly exhausted from the race. The crowd's applause was more subdued now, a sharp contrast to the energy that had surrounded Diarmid's flawless performance. I glanced over at Clayton, feeling a mixture of sympathy and unease.

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He straightened up after a few moments, wiping the sweat from his forehead. His chest was heaving as he unbuttoned his shirt, struggling to keep a calm front. The tension was palpable—Clayton's eyes flickered toward Diarmid, who was already sitting in the ice-filled drum, calm and composed. It was a stark difference. Clayton's jaw clenched as if determined not to be outdone, even if it was clear the race had already taken a toll on him.

Clayton removed his shoes with shaky hands, hesitating for just a second as he approached the drum. The cold from the ice was already seeping into the air, making the area around us feel ten degrees colder. I could almost see the hesitation in his eyes before he lowered himself into the icy water.

As Clayton submerged into the drum, a visible shiver ran through his body. His reaction was immediate—his face contorted in discomfort as the freezing cold enveloped him. His arms tensed, and I could hear his sharp, controlled breathing as he tried to adapt to the shock.

The crowd's murmurs grew louder, but all I could focus on was Diarmid. Even in that freezing drum, his eyes were steady, calm, and unwavering. Every few moments, his gaze would flick over to me, as if to check on me, sending my pulse racing all over again. Meanwhile, Clayton struggled to stay composed, his body clearly battling the cold far more than Diarmid's had.

The contrast between them couldn't have been more apparent. Where Diarmid exuded strength and control, Clayton seemed on the verge of giving up, but his pride kept him there.

Time stretched on, the air thick with tension as both men remained submerged in the icy water. I could feel my heart thudding in my chest as I watched, unsure of how much longer either of them could stay in the ice. But one thing was clear—Diarmid wasn't going to back down. Not today.

Less than ten minutes after Clayton submerged himself into the ice-filled drum, the inevitable happened. His body couldn't handle the cold any longer. With a sharp intake of breath and a shudder, Clayton abruptly jumped out of the drum, the icy water splashing everywhere as he flailed, trying to shake off the biting cold.

"That's it!" he gasped, his breath coming out in rapid bursts. His teeth chattered uncontrollably, and he wrapped his arms around himself, shivering violently. "I'm done! I can't—" he stammered, clearly struggling to speak through the cold.

The crowd erupted into cheers, some laughing and others clapping, but all eyes shifted toward Diarmid, who still sat in the drum, calm and collected, as if the freezing cold had no effect on him. His body remained submerged in the ice, his powerful frame motionless, while his gaze flicked toward me. The faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

Chelsea, ever the show-woman, immediately took to the microphone. "Well, folks! We have our winner!" she announced, her voice booming over the cheers. "Diarmid has won the contest!"

Diarmid, ever the picture of control, slowly stood up from the icy water, his movements deliberate and steady. Water droplets glistened on his toned chest and shoulders, catching the fading light as the crowd went wild. He didn't rush, didn't show any sign of discomfort—just that same composed confidence that made my breath hitch all over again.

Without a word, Diarmid grabbed the towel Chelsea handed him but barely used it, his focus on me instead. He stepped toward me, his bare feet making soft thuds on the grass, and as he approached, his dark eyes never left mine.

"Hold this for me, again?" he said, a soft edge of amusement in his voice as he handed me the towel to go along with the shirt I already held for him. I nodded, my heart pounding, not trusting myself to speak.

The game might have been over, but the tension between us was just beginning.

Diarmid took the shirt I was holding for him and slipped it back on with ease. His muscles flexed slightly as he adjusted it, and then he reached out for the towel, gently taking it from my hands. He used it to dry his dripping hair, his eyes still lingering on me with an unreadable expression. I felt the air between us tighten, but before I could say anything, Chelsea's voice pierced through the moment.

She walked over, a smirk playing on her lips, completely oblivious to the tension. "Arwen, darling, I think you should go tend to Clayton," she said, pointing over to where he sat, looking miserable and shivering from the cold. "He looks like he could use some help."

I glanced in Clayton's direction, my heart sinking a little. But before I could move, Chelsea leaned in toward Diarmid and said, with an almost mischievous tone, "Oh, and if you'd rather not, I can always be your substitute for the date with Diarmid. Just saying." She flashed me a playful smile and then, without waiting for my response, linked her arm with Diarmid's and tugged him toward the center stage. Diarmid didn't resist, but his gaze remained on me for a second longer before he let Chelsea pull him away.

I swallowed hard, torn between the frustration bubbling inside and the awkward situation I was about to face. I sighed, turning reluctantly and making my way to where Clayton was sitting on the far side of the field, still pale and shaking from the icy plunge.

As I approached, I could see how drained he looked, his body trembling uncontrollably. "You really shouldn't have done this, Clayton," I said quietly, my voice a mix of concern and frustration.

He looked up at me, his breath still uneven, but his eyes were full of that familiar longing. "I just wanted to be close to you again, Arwen," he said, his voice shaky but sincere.

I felt a pang of guilt for a second, but it was quickly overshadowed by the memories of everything that had gone wrong between us. I shook my head, unable to muster any sympathy for him. "I've told you before, Clayton. That's never going to happen. You need to stop trying." My voice was firmer than I expected, but I had to say it.

His face fell, a flicker of hurt crossing his expression, but I didn't waver. "And after this stunt," I added coldly, "don't even think of talking to me again."

Without waiting for his reply, I turned away, my mind already drifting back to the center stage, where Diarmid was. My heart raced, knowing that no matter how complicated things were, Clayton was part of the past—and Diarmid, whether I was ready for it or not, was quickly becoming my future.