“All’s fair in love and air hockey.”
The words slip out.
Her paddle stutters, the puck bouncing off the wall.
“Did you just—”
“Nope.” I clear my throat. “Completely normal hockey phrase. Very common.”
“Uhuh—”
I score again. “Focus, McKenzie. I’m mounting a comeback.”
She narrows her eyes—but the softness behind them makes my chest ache.
“We’ll see about that. Time for a line change, Sullivan.”
“Did you just use hockey terminology to trash-talk me?”
“Maybe I did.” She fires a backhand shot. It lands. Clean. “What are you going to doabout it?”
“Remind you that I invented trash talk.”
“Prove it.”
Next, we hit the Skee-Ball lanes. Sloane studies the target rings like she’s developing a strategic blueprint. She tests the weight of the ball, adjusts her grip. Then destroys me.
“This is embarrassing,” I mutter, watching her land another perfect 50-point shot.
“This is fun,” she says, grinning wide enough to unspool me. She does a little hip-shimmy victory dance that should be illegal in public.
When she bumps her hip against mine, the heat is instant.
“When’s the last time you lost at something?” she asks.
“Practice this morning. Daniels hit me into next week.”
“That’swork,” she says. “This is…”
“Play?”
“Yeah.” The word lands quiet. Soft. Like she’s remembering what that feels like.
“Your turn to pick,” I say.
She points to the far corner. “Duckpin bowling. I want to see if you’re as bad at that as you are at Skee-Ball.”
“Hey. I won two rounds.”
“Bycheating.”
“Strategic distraction is not cheating.”
“Kissing my neck while I’m trying to concentrate is definitely cheating.”
The memory of her sharp inhale when I brushed her skin flashes hot. I smirk. “Seemed to work.”
She bumps my shoulder. Another quick, charged contact. “Shut up and bowl.”
