He shimmied up. One hand. Then the other. His abs, once a Photoshopped marvel, were now just a roadmap of insect welts and despair. The Greek production assistant on the loudspeaker—a man named Dimitri with the soul of a Byzantine torturer—counted down.
His teammate, a former Olympic hurdler named Tamsin, had already slipped and landed with a splat that echoed off the cliffs. Now it was just Kieran, the pole, and the ghost of his publicist whispering, "This is good for the brand, this is good for the brand."
"DEK-ah! ENN-ee-ah! OC-toh!"
"Get me out of here," Kieran whispered.
Kieran lunged. His fingers brushed the star. Then the pole won.