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“Feeling nervous?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“You’re mighty confident.”
“Because I already know I won.” He guides me toward the last game.
Someone slams the mallet against the plate, and the bell at the top of the high striker game rings like a death knell. This game was Julian’s favorite, so I usually passed on playing it solely because I knew I could never hit the bell like he did.
“I’m down one arm.”
“Is your good one acting up? It wasn’t an issue for the other eight games.”
My eye twitches.
“Do you want to go first?” He offers me the mallet.
“Take it away.” I motion toward the base. Despite knowing I lost, I plan on being a good sport about it and at least trying my hand.
He modifies his grip before slamming the mallet downagainst the metal base. To no one’s shock, the metal piece shoots up toward the top and smashes into the bell.
“Winner.” The game attendee offers Julian a choice from the wall of plastic toys and stuffed animals.
“Qué lástima,” I say. “It seems like they’re out of blow-up dolls for you.”
He flips me off, making a parent gasp as they walk by.
“Sorry, ma’am.” He looks away with pink-tipped ears.
“Ma’am,” I mimic in that rough, hushed voice of his.
“Shut up and lose already.” He passes me the mallet.
I step up toward the base while adjusting my grip to match Julian’s hold on the mallet. With a deep breath, I swing my arm up before slamming the mallet against the base. The metal piece climbs to the center of the strip, never reaching the bell like Julian did.
“If only I could use both arms.” I glare at the bell.
“That doesn’t matter.”
My eyes roll. “Yeah, right.”
“It’s more about science than strength.”
“Sure.”
“Nico can do it, and he doesn’t have half your power—even with a broken arm.” He passes the carnival worker a ten-dollar bill. “Let me show you.”
“Here.” I pass him the mallet, only for him to shake his head.
“It’s easier if I demonstrate with you.” He steps behind meand places his hands over mine.
Qué lástima:What a pity.
“You want an excuse to touch me.” I speak low enough for only him to hear.
His lips press against my ear as he whispers, “Only because you won’t let me otherwise.” He fixes our hands while ignoring the slight tremble in mine.
“If we smash the plate with all our might”—he swings back with me and whacks the mallet against the base, making the metal piece slide a little higher than mine—“we still won’t hit it.”
