Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends #3) - Sara Ney Page 0,3
in a few swallows, needing the alcohol to get through this evening. Swish it around and down more.
“Can we get this over with?” I ask, still holding Babe the Blue Ox in one hand. I use him to wipe the foamy beer from my mouth then stuff his tail in a side pocket of my cargo pants.
He dangles at my side, blue and lifeless, a new toy for Chewy to rip the guts out of when I get home.
The guys and I gather at the three axe throwing cages my brother reserved, high-top tables set up for our beverages and snacks. The place is packed full of people; it’s loud and busy and everyone seems to be having a blast.
I scowl.
Someone hands me an axe and nudges me toward the red line on the ground where I’m supposed to stand, surrounded by chain link fencing—to keep axes that ricochet from flying into people, I supposed.
I eyeball the target on the wall, painted onto a piece of plywood. It’s huge—at least three feet across, maybe more, with three possible marks to score. Blue circle, white circle, red center. Bullseye.
How hard can this possibly be?
I’m a fucking badass, and I’m dressed like a goddamn lumberjack, for fuck’s sake.
I stare at the red center as my idiot brother and his buddies begin chanting my name.
“Paul Bunyan! Paul Bunyan!” over and over, and so what if it’s not my name? I know they’re chanting for me.
I lift the beer in my left hand and chug down half the bottle, wiping my mouth on the sleeve of my flannel. Squint my left eye and raise my right hand to aim.
Throw the axe at the red dot.
It bounces off the board.
“Fuck!”
Goddammit, that must be some kind of fluke. I’m freakishly good at everything, including darts. This is basically the same thing.
Behind me, Buzz laughs. “You want some pointers, bro?”
“Piss off.” I glance down at Babe the Blue Ox, still dangling pitifully from my pocket. “Worst good luck charm ever.”
Another axe gets handed to me.
Once again, I zero in on my target, this time squinting with no eyes shut.
I toss the hatchet straight at the red center of the board.
It bounces off.
“Fuck you, you piece of shit!” I shout at it, two of my axes lying miserably on the ground.
“I didn’t realize you swore this much.”
“Can you go away?”
My brother holds up his phone. “Don’t think so. This is my party—I’ll do what I want.” He glances down at Babe. “Loser.”
“Stop filming me.”
“I have to send this to Mom, so keep the obscenities to a minimum.”
Screw you, I mouth to him, mindful of the fact that he most likely is filming me and intends to send the video clip to our mother, who most certainly would not approve of my antics. Or his, for that matter, since it stresses her out when we argue.
“You only have two more chances, dude.” My brother won’t stop talking. “You should have gotten here earlier so you could warm up.” He bends one leg and begins doing lunges, arms behind his head, fingers laced behind his neck.
“I don’t need warming up. I’m going to hit this bullseye.”
He scoffs. “Even if you do, you won’t have enough points to make the board—you’re terrible at this. Even those women over there are at least hitting something. Your axe isn’t even sticking to the—”
“Please just stop talking.”
“—board.”
I sigh loud enough to be heard three counties over.
“Are you going to take all day? It’s Jensen’s turn next.”
Oh my god.
I turn to glare.
He shoos me away, back toward the board. “Focus.”
Who can focus with him hovering, clearly waiting for me to fail?
I pull back my arm, bending it at the elbow, then aim forward, releasing the wooden handle and throwing with all my might.
“There’s a trick to this,” Buzz tells me when the hatchet hits the ground. “You should have watched YouTube videos before you got here. You can’t just aim and throw.”
“Would you shut up?”
“I don’t think giving you another chance is going to yield any results since you have scored zero points. You’re off the team—go sit on the bench.”
I feel my face flush with embarrassment. “You can’t bench me. This isn’t a game.”
“This is my special night,” he informs me. “And you’re giving the Wallace name a bad reputation.”
I open my mouth to argue. “How many points have you scored?”
His chin lifts. “Three. But I also get points for not losing an axe—they’ve all at least stuck and haven’t landed on the ground.”