“I am.”
“You said yourself that the claw machines are rigged.”
I didn’t care. I wasn’t giving up and was getting my mate that fox.
It took seven tries and a chunk of our money on the card, but I finally snagged it. It tumbled down the chute, and I cheered as if I’d just scored a goal in overtime.
“For you, my love.”
“Thank you.” He brushed off the dust from the fox’s ears, one of which was tattered. “You spent twenty dollars on this, which judging by the smell has been nibbled on by insects.”
“It was so worth it.”
He laughed. “Of course. Paying twenty for an old toy worth maybe fifty cents.”
“It’s priceless.” I leaned against the machine, aware of how long I’d been on my feet.
We sat on a bench near the prize counter. Stan held the fox and worried its mangled ear.
“I love him. He might be old and dusty and may have been a nest for insects, but I’ll fix him and put him in a prominent place at home.”
“Never say I’m not generous.”
Stan kissed my cheek. “We’re supposed to be focused on your recovery and yet we’re here playing games.”
I told him I was right where I wanted to be. But Stan was focused on me and my return to the team.
“Are you worried?”
Every day I wondered if I’d be the player I used to be. It was possible the accident and subsequent injury had stolen something from me. But right now, sitting in the arcade with Stan beside me, I was thinking positively.
“Yeah, but not this second.”
A kid ran past with a giant inflatable hammer and almost took out another child.
“Remember when you convinced me to try out that dance game?”
Stan slapped his brow and groaned. “You had no rhythm.”
How could he say that? “I was coordinated.”
“You fell off the platform.”
“It was slippery.”
My mate took my hand and told me to admit I was crap. My wolf agreed, saying he’d put his paws over his eyes because he couldn’t bear to see me make a fool of myself.
Wow. Two against one.
Stan got up.“One more game before we go.”
My mate led me to the back of the arcade where the basketball hoops were set up.
“My injuries,” I protested. Stan used to beat me at this game every time we played.
“It’s underhand tosses, not full-court shots. You can handle it.” He loaded the credits. The basket balls rolled down and the timer began. I started shooting and beside me my mate was doing the same.
The timer buzzed and the scores flashed up. What? No. He’d beaten me again by two points.
