Page 82 of Sliding into Love
"Kenneth?" Royce's voice pulls me from my thoughts.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For being here. For being patient with me. For—" they gesture vaguely "—all of this. I was worried this handoff would be hard. Partly because I’m not a sports buff, but also because of our history. You being you,the real you,put me at ease.”
I cross to their desk, spinning their chair so they're facing me, and crouch down so we're eye level. "Your Majesty, I'm exactly where I want to be. Where I'm supposed to be. With you."
They lean forward, pressing their forehead to mine. "With you," they echo.
"I can't believe you're taking me to an arcade," Royce says as we pull into the parking lot of Fun Zone, a massive entertainment complex on the edge of town. "Are we twelve?"
"We're adults who deserve to have fun," I counter, putting the car in park. "Plus, you said you wanted to do something different this weekend. This is different."
"I was thinking maybe a museum. Or a shopping trip to update your wardrobe.”
“What’s wrong with my wardrobe?”
“Nothing, Kenny baby. You look great.” Their tone is teasing, as if they want to egg me on. I ignore it to stay on subject.
"We can do those things too. But today, we're going to play games, race go-karts, and I'm going to absolutely destroy you at the batting cages."
They raise an eyebrow at the challenge in my voice. "Is that so?"
"That's so. Unless you're scared?"
"Oh, you're going to regret that, Little Menace."
Inside, the arcade is a chaotic symphony of beeping games, excited shouts, and the smell of popcorn and pizza. It's been years since I've been to a place like this, and the nostalgia hits me immediately.
"Where to first?" Royce asks, looking around with what I think might be curiosity mixed with amusement.
"Go-karts. I need to prove I'm still athletic before you crush me at everything else today."
The go-kart track is outdoors, a winding course with sharp turns and straightaways. We get fitted with helmets and climb into our respective karts. Royce chooses a sleek black one while I opt for red.
"Loser buys lunch," I call over to them.
"You're on."
The race is closer than I expected. Royce is aggressive, taking corners tight and not hesitating to cut me off when they have the chance. I manage to pull ahead on the straightaways, using my longer reach to my advantage, but they're relentless.
In the end, I win by maybe half a second.
"That was luck," Royce says as we climb out of the karts, but they're grinning.
"That was skill," I correct. "But we can go again if you want a rematch."
"Later. I want to see you back up your trash talk at the batting cages first."
The cages are less crowded, just a few parents with kids occupying the slower speed areas. Royce and I head for the fast-pitch zone, and I can feel them watching me as I step up to the plate. I told them to stand outside while I get warmed up.
I’d never forgive myself if a ball went foul and hit them.
The first pitch comes in at eighty miles per hour, and I connect with it solidly, sending it into the back net. Muscle memory takes over—feet positioned, weight balanced, eyes on the ball. I hit nine out of ten pitches, and the one I miss is because I'm showing off, trying for a home-run swing.
