Page 18 of A Match Made in Error

“Poppy!” Riven’s voice is loud and charming as ever. He puts his tankard down, already half drunk, and moves away from the two girls he has either arm slung around. He whispers into their ears, sending them into a fit of giggles, before pushing off the wall and moving up to me.

His arms wrap around me, spinning me around the room and making my head feel dizzy and drunk before he sets me down with a laugh.

“Artie”—Riven puts his hand out for my match to shake—“put it there, bud.”

Arthur looks down and scowls, like Riven’s hand is dirty and covered in beetles instead of just ale foam and calluses. “It’s Arthur.”

“‘Course it is.” Riven slaps him on the shoulder and picks up a full tankard to hand to me. “You brought a date to tankard toss? Must be feeling brave. This game ruins relationships.” His girls giggle and then go sit nearby to watch. Riven winks at them, then grabs a tankard ball. He spins it skillfully on the table without looking before sliding it to me without asking.

“How do you play?” Arthur asks, brow raised skeptically.

“It’s really simple,” I explain, gesturing to the table that is set up on each side with ten tankards in a triangle shape. “When it’s your turn, you take the ball and try to get it into a cup on the other side. If it lands in, the other team has to drink what’s inside, and whichever team gets a ball in all the tankards first wins.”

“You drink the liquid the ball lands in? That was in everyone’s hands and maybe on the floor?” His face contorts in disgust. “That’s barbaric.”

Riven goes very still for a second, then drags his tongue slowly over his teeth, like he’s deciding whether to be polite. Then his mouth quirks, slow and deliberate.

He isn’t going to be.

Polite, that is.

His smile at Arthur is sickeningly sweet and so fake. “I need a quick word with Poppy.” He slings one arm lazily over my shoulders to tug me in as his shadows hover nearby to give us privacy. His gaze slides to me for just a beat before returning to the guy. A slow, crooked smile. “Barbaric?” he whispers before letting out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Sweetheart, if this concerns him, he’s going to have a very hard time surviving literally anything I enjoy.” He looks at him once more and grimaces. “Aren’t you worried that if he’s a weenie about drinking some ale with finger germs in them, how is he going to eat puss-”

I push Riven away and bat the shadows off like fog on a mirror, face flushed. “We don’t really think about that,” I reply shyly to Arthur. “The germs, I mean.”

“The alcohol kills the germs,” Riven insists. “But if you’d rather watch, I’ll be Pop’s partner. We’re reigning champs around here anyway.” I roll my eyes playfully. Winning one weekend tournament hardly counts as reigning champs.

“Why don’t you be Riven’s partner?” I offer to Arthur. “Learn how to play the game.” And get to know my best friend, which is the whole point of us being here.

“No,” he insists. “I’ll watch.”

“But—” I start, only to be interrupted.

“You heard the boy, Poppy. He’d like to watch, and you know how much I like to show off.” His wink is slightly annoying, but at least he’s being kind of nice. The last guy I dated, he threatened to light him on fire. Passive aggression is an improvement to overt hostility with threats on his life.

I settle in behind the table with him, and we move in to play without talking or thinking. We’ve done this a million times, after all. He shoots, makes it in as usual, and then shimmies over for me to center up and take my turn, holding his breath and all crude comments in until after I throw.

Next, the other team shoots and misses, causing Riven to cheer loudly. “My grandma throws better than you, and she’s blind and armless.” I’ve never met his grandmother, as he’s not close to his family, but I don’t think that’s true. He just loves to trash talk around the tankard table.

I look over at Arthur, hoping to see him laughing or talking to my other friend, Elara. Instead, I find him sitting by himself, looking annoyed at the noise and generally displeased. I laugh harder, waving at him, trying to rouse goodwill, but he only looks between Riven and me and sinks deeper into his chair.

“Your turn, Pop,” Riven whispers. “If you make this shot, we win.”

I take the ball from his hand, his warm fingers brushing mine. Why isn’t Arthur having fun? I step to the middle of the table, distracted but ready to shoot. The tavern is fun. Why isn’t he having fun?

The ball slips from between my fingers, and as soon as I let it go, I know it’s not going in. A bad shot driven by my lack of focus. A flicker of light shifts, and anyone with an untrained eye would have missed it, but I’d know Riven’s shadows anywhere. I watch, holding back a laugh as his shadows tip the ball in for me, casually sinking the winning throw.

Riven bumps my shoulder in celebration, holding my hand and lifting my arm like we’ve just won a championship.

“See? All you need in life is a proper partner.” I laugh and brush him off.

“Arthur, do you want to play next?” Please. Please engage with my friends.

“I’d rather go somewhere quieter,” Arthur replies. Okay, we can do quieter. The Foxhole is quieter, and my friends and I hang out there all the time, too! Not everyone loves taverns the way I do. That doesn’t make him wrong.

“Okay, why don’t we go to the Fox-”

Riven cuts me off. “It is rather rowdy here, isn’t it?” His voice has changed to the tone he uses when he mocks the fancy snobs who come into the Foxhole. “Perhaps a cold beverage will help ease the distaste of this hovel.”