Game On(35)

“Pick your poison,” he said, gesturing towards the machines around us.

This time I was the one who smiled as I pointed towards the skee-ball machine.

***

I was used to taking my time with the game. Having been left in arcades for a good portion of my childhood, just me and a bag of quarters, kept me from rushing each turn. There was nothing worse than reaching the end of my bag and realizing that my mother would probably still be at the bar for another several hours. I had learned to stretch out my fun, which in the end, had made me better at the game.

“Two out of three?” Nathan asked as he filled my hands with quarters.

“Whatever you want,” I told him as we headed to the machine. I was eager to get my interview, but I was also looking forward to winning. Somewhere between the handshake and the quarter machine, I had already determined my victory. I had already begun thinking about the kind of suitcase I would make him buy me.

He raised his eyebrows at me, clearly picking up on my newfound confidence. “Would you prefer three out of five?”

“If that will make you feel more comfortable.” I gave him a cheeky smile.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said. “Kicking your butt is going to make me feel very, very comfortable.”

I just shrugged. Better to let your opponent psyche himself out. Focus on the game, Hall, I told myself as he began feeding quarters into the machine.

“Ladies first.” He stepped aside to let me go.

“Thank you.” I gave him a little bow and grabbed the first ball in the shoot. It had been a few years since I had played, but with my fingers wrapped around the wooden sphere, it was all coming back to me. I considered my options. I could start by playing badly, give him a false sense of security and then kick his butt just when he was starting to get sloppy with confidence, or I could just play the way I always played and win that way.

I tossed the ball lightly up and caught it. I always preferred to play my best. Especially when it came to skee-ball. So I took my shot.

Nathan let out a low whistle as the ball jumped smoothly into the twenty-point hoop.

“You’ve done this before,” he said.

“Don’t worry,” I glanced back at him. “I’ll be gentle.” I made another shot and watched thirty more points get added to my score. But when I reached for the next ball, he got there first. As he handed it to me, he caught my gaze.

“Who said I had any interest in you being gentle?” he asked, his voice low and sexy.

Feeling a blush rise in my cheeks, I turned away from him, flustered, my mind filling with all the non-gentle things I would and could do to him. In my haste and state of distraction, I neglected to aim and immediately found my ball bounce embarrassingly onto the board without scoring any points. I whirled to face him.

“That’s cheating,” I said. “Not fair!”

But he just shook his head at me. “All’s fair in bets and skee-ball,” he countered with a wicked grin.

***

He was going to regret making a bet with me in about three, two, one, I thought as I neatly sunk my last ball in the fifty-point pocket. Even if I hadn’t made it, I still would have crushed him, but there was something satisfying about making that difficult shot on my last turn. Especially since Nathan had done his best to distract me during the entire game.

I had to hand it to him. He was competitive but not a dick about it. I had known enough guys who, once they realized they were going to lose, started playing dirty. And Nathan had been playing dirty, but in a way I had a hard time having a problem with.

He hadn’t said much more after that first sexually charged comment; instead he focused his attention on distracting me in other ways. Each time it was my turn, he made the point of grabbing the ball first so he could hand it over, his fingers dragging against mine in a way that was anything but innocent. Each touch gave me a thrill, from the gentle brush of his hand against the small of my back, to the unnecessary, yet completely intoxicating bump of his shoulders against mine as he stood closer than he should as I made each shot. By the time I scored my last points, I was a bundle of tension, waiting for our next not-so-innocent interaction.

I looked back at him and he was staring, mouth open, eyes open, in astonishment. When he finally seemed to realize he had officially lost, he blinked and looked over at me.

“You’re a hustler!” he accused with a smile. He put his hands on his hips.

I rolled my eyes, trying to ignore how much I wanted those same hands on my hips. I could hardly breathe I wanted to touch him so much. “How can I be a hustler if you’re the one who suggested the bet?”

“You’re a really good hustler,” he retorted, looking back at the skee-ball machine as if he could figure out my secrets by staring at it.

“Well, it better be a really good suitcase.” I stepped back, putting some much-needed distance between us. I would also have welcomed a cold bucket of water at that moment. Everything about him was making me hot.

He, on the other hand, seemed completely calm. “Of course.”

I thought about the email I had gotten that morning from my editor with the request to send a first draft of an interview I still hadn’t done. That put a damper on my desires. Nothing like the fear of failing your first big assignment to keep your hormones in check.

“Besides,” I said. “You’re the one who claimed that everything’s fair in bets and skee-ball.”