Page 73 of The One Month Boyfriend (Wildwood Society)

“Everyone does this.”

“Then why are we hiding?”

She glances up, like she hadn’t realized she dragged me into shadows.

“We’re not hiding, we’re out of the way.”

“Sure.”

My thumb’s moving over her waist, and I force it still while she flicks through video after video, the phone screen making her glow blue in the semi-darkness. I step in closer to look over her shoulder and this time she doesn’t tense at all. If anything, she sinks a fraction of an inch back into me before she finally selects one.

“Here,” she says, and holds up my phone.

* * *

“You have to lob,”Kat says, voice low and tight. She makes an extremely unhelpful underhanded throwing motion that does nothing to help me get this damn ball in this damn basket.

“You’re more than welcome to take over,” I tell her, offering the softball.

“I’m not the one who made the All-State Baseball team.”

“That was in high school,” I say, sizing up the basket once more.

“Is that why you brought it up twice?”

I brought it up twice because as we watched videos on how to win midway games, she leaned her head back against my shoulder and let my hand slide further around her waist. I didn’t even mean to bring it up once, but here we are.

“You ready for this?’” I ask, running my thumb over the stitches on the softball, staring down the basket. “I’m about to lob.”

I swear she holds her breath as I pull my arm back and gently release the ball toward the basket, then makes a noise when it barely clears the lip.

Then it stays, and Kat exhales, a smile creeping across her face.

“Told you,” I say, picking up the last softball.

“You’ve still got one more, hotshot,” she teases, her gaze flicking to the Jigglypuff suspended from the ceiling of the tent.

The lone Jigglypuff, bobbing and swaying gently, like it’s taunting me. There’s only one left, and I’m not the only one gunning for it.

There are three stations set up at this game. Two are in use: one by us, the other by a guy fifteen years my junior who’s wearing a baseball hat even though it’s dark out. We’ve been exchanging tense looks for the better part of ten minutes as we keep throwing balls and they keep bouncing out of these goddamn baskets.

I’ve already spent at least four times what the Jigglypuff is worth trying to win it, but we all know that having the prize isn’t the point. It’s how you get the prize: preferably through a stunning display of athleticism and physical prowess.

The other guy throws a ball and to my dismay, it stays in the basket. My fingers tighten around my final softball.

“Silas,” hisses Kat, who’s no longer smiling, just glaring at this other man who wants the prize. Her prize.

Our prize.

“Don’t worry, babe,” I murmur, tossing the ball once in my hand, trying to clear my mind. “I’ve got this.”

I’m vaguely aware that the other man and I are winding up at the same time, but this is my element. I’ve got the perfect, crystal clarity that comes with adrenaline and competition.

The softball leaves my hand. It arcs across the space, past the bored man running the game, and into the basket.

It bounces once, then stays as the other man’s ball bounces out and he swears.

“YES!” shrieks Kat. She launches herself at me before I’m expecting it, both arms going around my neck as she whoops and laughs. I’m almost caught off balance and take a step back, already laughing, my arms going around her waist.