The countdown is on for the war wagon, and I grab the game controller from my lap. One good thing about surgery? It's forcing me to relax, even if I suck at it. This cartoon shooter game, though, is a guilty pleasure. And I'm good, like absurdly good. I tried getting into the more lifelike shooter games, but they're too dark for my taste. I like the bright colors and the non-realistic gameplay of this one. It's reminiscent of the video games of my youth.
"You deployed too early," a little voice says.
"No, I didn't," I say.
"You did."
I risk shifting my attention off-screen to see who the hell I'm talking to. Fuck me, why is there a small person in the house? A little boy, maybe seven, sits on the couch. He has short, dark brown hair and is wearing a Nirvana T-shirt.
Is this Addie's friend's son? I can't remember his name, or hers for that matter. But Mom and Dad mentioned they come over for dinner sometimes.
He points to the TV and says, "You're under attack."
I look back at my game and see the kid is right. "Motherfucker," I grumble and then wince. Oops. It's not often I'm around kids outside of signing a baseball or publicity events.
"I didn't know old people played this."
I turn, glowering at him. "Who are you calling old?"
"You're dead," he says, his tone even. "You're not very good at this game."
"I'm actually excellent when I don't have pint-sized punks distracting me. Who the hell do you belong to, anyway?"
"I bet I can beat you."
"No offense, kid, but you're what, seven?" I ask.
"No, I'm eight and two months."
I put down the controller and narrow my eyes at him. "I'll let you play if you can name a song."
He raises an eyebrow at me, and I nod to his shirt. "Name a Nirvana song, and I'll let you play."
"Aneurysm."
Is that a Nirvana song? To be honest, I'm not good with titles. I didn't think he'd come up with one, and if he did, I expected to recognize it. He rolls his eyes and picks up his phone, tapping the screen until he finds what he's looking for, then turns it, showing it to me.
Well, fuck me, I don't know who Addie's friend is, but I think I want to marry her.
He pulls a portable game system out of the backpack on the coffee table and looks at me with a sly grin.
"What do I get when you lose?" he asks, settling back on the couch.
I scrub my hand over my face to hide my grin. My bare hand. The empty one. The one that hasn't had a glove on it in weeks. It feels more naked than my bare upper half.
"Five bucks?"
"Ten."
Fucking pint-sized hustler.
Apparently, I'm not as good as I thought, because the little shit annihilates me. Not once, but twice. I scowl at him, and he shrugs.
"Pay up, Grandpa," he says.
Where's the nearest jeweler? Because as soon as this brace is off my damn leg, I'll be down on one knee for this spawn of Satan's mother.
The sliding door off the kitchen opens, and Addie pokes her head into the living room.
