Page 25 of Personal Foul

I’ve tried the knife once so far and it was even more of a shambles than when Andrew first tried. The hatchets have gotten easier, and I’ve mastered both the one-handed and two-handed throws. John checks in with us now and then to see how we’re doing as he makes the rounds through the various lanes, giving tips when he stops by.

Dylan, of course, has mastered everything. He got the knife to stick quicker than Andrew—though he’s had several misses even after getting it right a few times—the axes stick every time, and we can all get the throwing star pretty consistently.

The game is dragging on, though. Because any time any of us get close to twenty-one, the next throw goes over. The guys have better aim than Isabelle or me, but even they can’t throw as accurately as they’d like. Which is evidenced by the fact that they get annoyed when they don’t score the amount of points they’re meaning to.

Finally, Andrew just starts aiming deliberately wide so he can go up one point at a time in the biggest outer circle. He starts doing it at fifteen, which seems a little risky considering Dylan’s at eighteen and could win if he scores a three on his next turn or a two and a one on his next two turns. Isabelle and I both busted down to ten on our last turns, so we’re unlikely to win at this juncture.

While I like winning as much as the next person, this has been going on long enough that I’m getting bored and just want the game to be over so I can try throwing the knife again without worrying about the score.

Dylan hits a two on his next turn.

“Ohhh … you’re super close, Dylan,” Isabelle says as she slides off her stool and moves to take her place. “Careful you don’t bust again.”

He smirks. “I got it. It’s in the bag.”

She lands in the one point circle, and Andrew gives her a high five as he moves to take his place. “Deciding to give my strategy a try?”

“Oh, for sure. Definitely,” she answers, making me grin. “That was one hundred percent intentional and not at all just me throwing it and hoping for the best.”

We all laugh, then quiet down as we wait for Andrew to take his turn. He once again hits a one, and gives himself a celebratory fist pump before retrieving his hatchet.

At this point I decide it doesn’t really matter, because either Dylan’s going to win on his next turn, or Andrew will in a few more turns. Either way, the odds of me winning are low, so I may as well do what I want.

When I select the knife, Dylan hisses, eyebrows raised. “You sure you wanna do that?”

“I’m always sure.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “If you say so, babe.”

He’s been calling me babe most of the night, and the longer this goes on, the more used to it I get. Not that I’m all the way used to it. It’s just less jarring each time. Sorta.

It’s weird, more than anything. Because he’s the last person in the universe I would’ve expected to find myself on a date with. Even if it’s not really a real date, he’s doing his best to make it feel like one, and it’s messing with my head.

While we wait our turns, he finds excuses to touch me. He hugs me when I do well. He wants hugs when he does well. When I busted down to a ten, he pulled me close with an, “Awww,” of disappointment.

And it sounds and feels like he means it each time, which is what’s really throwing me off.

He’s an asshole, I remind myself sternly.He’s blackmailing you. He’s forcing you to clean his apartment in a stupid French maid’s uniform. This is all a show. The most popular guy in your year in high school is not now falling for you, nor will he ever. Get your head on straight.

Even if it feels good each time he hugs me, makes my breath hitch when he pretends to kiss me, wondering if this time he might do it for real.

Pulling in a deep breath, I expel it as I step into the throw, releasing the knife at the perfect moment. It flips end over end, and the point sticks in the wood in the two point circle.

“Oh my god!” I squeal, jumping in my excitement. “I did it!”

“Hell, yeah!” crows Dylan, wrapping his arms around me from behind and picking me up. When he puts me back on my feet, he spins me around to face him. “You’re on fire!” He hugs me again, and I half expect him to kiss me—at least a cheek or corner of my mouth kiss like he did earlier—but he doesn’t.

Thank god. Right?

Right.

Still grinning at my accomplishment, I retrieve the knife and set it back on the table.

Dylan selects the smaller hatchet, carefully taking aim. But it goes wide, hitting the wood outside the painted on target.

“Awww,” I give him a sad face. “You’re not out of the running yet, though. There’s still next turn.”

“Thanks, babe,” he murmurs, stepping next to my stool and slinging an arm around my shoulders from behind, pulling me back against his chest and dropping a kiss on top of my head. And I find myself leaning into him, surprisingly comfortable with the gesture.

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