McCoy moves to the throwing line, positioning himself like he’s on the pitcher’s mound. His back is straight and when he winds up, lifting his front leg, I have to admit his form is better than Reid’s.
Yeah, because he’s probably an actual pitcher.
He releases the ball and his follow through is on point. The ball hurtles toward the target and I give silent thanks I’m not on the receiving end of that throw. It slams into the bullseye with a resoundingcrackand a cheer goes up from the baseball players.
Their cheers are short-lived.
Coop is still on the bench, a shit-eating grin on his face.
How is that even possible?
I shoot a glance at Noah. Did he rig the tank so Coop wouldn’t mess up his perfect hair? I wouldn’t put it past him.
But, no. He looks as perplexed as the rest of us.
“The fuck?” McCoy shouts, glaring at Coop. “This thing is clearly broken. That ball was easily going eighty-five miles per hour.”
Now it’s the football players’ turn to laugh.
“Don’t be salty,” Coop calls. “You didn’t stand a chance, McCoy. Not when I’ve got my lucky lady at my side.”
He points to the top of the tank where he’s wedged a sparkly pink stuffed animal—a freaking unicorn—into the chain-link fence that protects him from getting hit with a stray ball.
Carter snorts and rolls her eyes. “I told you they deserved each other.”
“Excuse me?” I ask. Because how can I not?
She turns to me, a wide grin transforming her pretty face. “I won the unicorn at one of the game booths, but I gave it to Coop because only a guy who preens as much as he does could appreciate such a glorious creature, right?”
I snicker. “I think I love you.”
“Her name,” Coop shouts indignantly, “is Starlight Twinkle.”
That sends everyone into a fit of laughter, and when I recover, I move to collect the balls from around the tank. I toss one after another into my bucket as the others wait their turns. I’m moving fast, doing my best not to flash them my ass every time I bend over to grab a ball, but I’m already flustered when Coop whispers, “What? No kiss hello today?”
I glance up, heat flooding my cheeks, and my foot tangles in one of the extension cords used to light the booth. I stumble forward, hands out to brace my fall, and crash into the bullseye, the full weight of my body pressing into the lever.
Oops.
There’s a metallic screech, and Coop’s eyes go wide as the bench drops out from under him. He hovers in midair for an impossibly long second, gaze locked on mine, before dropping into the icy water with a splash.
23
COOPER
The water iscold as hell. Did the Sigs fill this thing with ice cubes or what? I wouldn’t put it past the pricks. My muscles lock up in protest and I sputter to the surface, spitting a stream of frigid water from God knows where.
I never should’ve let Noah talk me into this. I’ll bet Coach would’ve written me an excuse note. Something about protecting his star receiver from injury.
A cool breeze blows through the booth, raising a fresh wave of goosebumps on my arms.
I haul myself back up on the tiny ass bench, doing my best to ignore the hysterical laughter coming from the watching crowd.
It could’ve been worse. McCoy could’ve dunked your ass.
I never would’ve lived that shit down.
Back in position, I glare up at Starlight Twinkle and rake a hand through my hair, pushing the damp strands back from my forehead.
