“No questions, McKenzie. That was the deal.”
She glances back through the window, eyes scanning the blinking facade.Classic Games! Duckpin Bowling!
Her brow furrows. Analytical. Appraising.
She turns to me, one eyebrow lifted. “This is your big plan?”
“When’s the last time you played Skee-Ball?”
“I…” She blinks. “I don’t think I ever have.”
“Well, that’s about to change.”
Inside, it’s sensory overload.
Neon lights flash in every color. 8-bit soundtracks crash over each other in chaotic harmony. The air smells like buttered popcorn and nostalgia.
“This is…” Sloane trails off, watching a kid no older than ten destroy a pinball machine.
“Loud?”
“Perfect,” she says, surprised.
We exchange twenty bucks for an obscene number of tokens. She pockets hers with the same careful precision she probably uses to organize media analytics.
Our fingers brush when I hand her the plastic cup. She doesn’t pull away right away.
“Okay,” she says, scanning the maze of games. “Where do we start?”
“Air hockey. Hope you’re ready to lose.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Fighting words, Sullivan.”
“Just setting expectations.”
Three minutes later, I’m down 3–0.
Everything I thought I knew about Sloane McKenzie? Up for review.
“What the hell was that?” I point to the goal she just slotted in with a trick shot I swear defies physics.
“Hand-eye coordination,” she says, twirling her paddle like a gunslinger. “Plus, you’re telegraphing your shots. Your tells are terrible.”
“Mytells?”
“You bite your bottom lip before you shoot left. And you do this thing with your shoulder—”She mimics a subtle twitch I didn’t even know I had.
I lean across the table, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her eyes. “You’ve been watching me that closely?”
A flush creeps up her neck. “I’m observant.”
“Uh-huh.”
I score while she’s distracted. Even the odds a little.
“Cheap shot.”
But she’s laughing—and it’s not the polite work-laugh or the nervous giggle. This one’s pure joy.
