I spin around so fast I nearly brain myself with the broom. Ryder's standing at the property line, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, expression carefully neutral except for the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth that might be amusement.
"I've got it under control," I say, turning back to Morris who's now casually licking my side mirror. "See? Totally managed."
"Mm-hmm." Ryder doesn't move closer. "That's why you're threatening a moose with cleaning supplies."
"It's called assertive negotiation."
"It's called a good way to get trampled."
Morris chooses that moment to start nibbling the mirror's edge, and I make a sound that's half growl, half whine. "That's it. This is war."
I toss the broom aside and scoop up a handful of snow, pack it into a ball, and throw it at Morris.
It sails wide by at least three feet. Athletics is not my thing, apparently.
Morris doesn't even blink.
"Okay, new plan." I make another snowball, this one slightly more aerodynamic. "I'm going to annoy him into leaving."
"By pelting him with snow?"
"Do you have a better idea?"
"Yeah. Wait until he gets bored and leaves on his own. Which is what he'll do."
"That's not what you did last time." I throw another snowball. This one actually hits Morris's flank. He turns his massive head to look at me with such profound disappointment I almost apologize to him.
Then he snorts, turns, and ambles toward the woods with the dignity of someone who's made his point.
"Ha! See?" I pump my fist in victory. "Assertive negotiation wins again."
"You got lucky," Ryder says, but he's smiling now. An actual smile that does dangerous things to my resolve to stay mad at him.
"I prefer to think of it as strategic wildlife management." I dust snow off my mittens. "Thanks for the backup. Even though I didn't need it."
"Obviously." He's still standing at the property line like there's an invisible fence. "Listen, about the other day?—"
"You said four games." I keep my voice light, casual. "I'm giving you four games. Focus on hockey. Prove you're NHL material. I'll be here taking aesthetically pleasing photos of trees."
His eyebrow lifts. "Trees?"
"They're very photogenic. And they don't pitch mutually beneficial arrangements."
"Piper—"
A snowball hits him square in the chest.
I don't know who's more surprised—me for throwing it, or him for getting hit. My hand is still in throwing position, my mouth hanging open in shock at my own audacity.
"Did you just—" he starts.
"That was an accident."
"You looked me in the eye while throwing it."
"Muscle memory?" I'm already backing up because his expression has shifted to something playful and dangerous. "From the Morris negotiation. My arm was still in snowball mode."
He bends down, scoops up snow, and starts packing.
