Page 46 of Ink Me Three Times
Karl gasps. "That’s hurtful and possibly true."
The ref blows his whistle and the crowd shuffles in, quieting into a tense hum. It’s the final match. CornHub versus the Ranch Hands. Apparently it all comes down to this.
Jesse hands me a fresh beanbag and gives me a look like we’re storming Normandy. "Just… do what you did last time. But better."
"What I did last time was hit a kid with the bag."
"She was in the way. And she’s fine. It builds character."
I shoot him a look, then step up to the board.
Boone throws first. Of course, he nails the center like he’s done it in his sleep since 1989. His team claps in unison, like they rehearsed it. Jesse mutters something unprintable.
Then Silas steps up.
His form is perfect. Relaxed shoulders, slow exhale, focused eyes. His bag sails through the air and lands dead center, a smoothswishthrough the hole. The crowd loses it. His mom fist pumps. His dad waves the foam finger like it’s a saber.
"I hate him," Jesse mutters under his breath.
"Which one?"
"Yes," Jesse replies.
The round rolls on. Jesse and Leo hold their own, Karl miraculously scores despite holding his Popsicle the whole time, and somehow we’re still neck and neck with the Ranch Hands.
Then it’s me again.
And it’s down to the last shot.
The sun is burning directly into my corneas. The crowd is buzzing, someone’s dog is howling in rhythm with the Bluetooth speaker, and Penny is chanting, "Ivy!Ivy!" from the sidelines like an overenthusiastic cheerleader.
One throw.
One shot.
Everything smells like beer and sunscreen and impending doom.
Jesse nudges me forward. "If you make this, I’ll buy you a gallon of whatever overpriced cold brew you want for the rest of the summer."
"Tempting," I mutter, stepping up to the board.
I stare down the lane.
The bag in my hand feels heavier than before. My fingers are sweating. Boone stares at me like I’m wasting his daylight.
I inhale.
Exhale.
Flick.
The bag sails through the air in what feels like slow motion. I swear I see a child drop their ice cream in anticipation. My boots feel glued to the grass.
Then…
Thwack.
It hits the board, slides…
