by Ney, Sara
Perturbed, I let the stuffed animal fall from my hand to the ground; Buzz bends down and scoops Babe up. Forces him back in my hand and side-stepping me, so I can’t toss the stupid stuff animal back to the ground without coming off as a total, littering jerk.
His hand clamps down on my shoulder. “Relax, bro. Lumbersexuals are so on trend right now.” He smacks me on the back. “Harding, get this gloriously rugged man a brew!”
I loathe him so hard.
“You did this on purpose.” It’s an accusation, not a question, and the asshole doesn’t even have the courtesy to deny it.
“I mean—the original plan was to wear plaid, because hello, axe throwing, but since we’re going out after this, it didn’t make sense in the long run.” He pulls his phone out of his front pocket, taps on it a few times and points it at me. “Say ‘Johnny Appleseed’!”
The flash goes off, damn near blinding me, and I shield my eyes. “Knock it off!”
“Calm down, Mom wanted pictures.” He examines the photo then does a strange little giggle. “Ha ha look, Martinez photobombed.”
Buzz holds the phone out so I can look at the screen; at my resting dick face, angry expression. “Mom and Hollis are going to love this picture.” He taps away. “I sent it to you too.”
My “thanks,” is droll, laced with sarcasm and leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I take the beer that’s being handed to me and chug half of it in a few swallows, needing the alcohol to get through this evening. Swish it around and down more.
“Can we get this over with?” I ask, still holding Babe the Blue Ox in one hand. I use him to wipe the foamy beer from my mouth, then stuff his tail in side pocket of my cargo pants.
He dangles at my side, blue and lifeless, a new toy for Sven to rip the guts out of when I get home.
The guys and I gather at the three axe throwing cages my brother reserved, high top tables set up for our beverages and snacks. The place is packed full of people; it’s loud and busy and everyone seems to be having a blast.
I scowl.
Someone hands me an axe and nudges me toward the red line on the ground where I’m supposed to stand, surrounded by chain link fencing—to keep axes that ricochet from flying into people, I supposed.
I eyeball the target on the wall, painted onto a piece of plywood board. It’s huge—at least three feet across, maybe more, with three possible marks to score. Blue circle, white circle, red center. Bull’s-eye.
How hard can this possibly be?
I’m a fucking badass and I’m dressed like a goddamn lumberjack, for fucks sake.
I stare at the red center as my idiot brother and his buddies begin chanting my name.
“Paul Bunyan, Paul Bunyan,” over and over and so what if it’s not my name, I know they’re chanting for me.
I lift the beer bottle in my left hand and chug down half the bottle, wiping my mouth on the sleeve of my flannel. Squint my left eye and raise my right hand to aim.
Throw the axe at the red dot.
It bounces off the plywood.
“Fuck!”
Goddammit, that must be some kind of fluke. I’m freakishly good at everything, including darts. This is basically the same thing.
Behind me, Buzz laughs. “You want some pointers, bro?”
“Piss off.” I glance down at Babe the Blue Ox, still dangling pitifully from my pocket. “Worst good luck charm ever.”
Another axe gets handed to me.
Once again, I zero in on my target, this time squinting no eyes shut.
I toss the hatchet straight at the red center of the board.
It bounces off.
“Fuck you, you piece of shit!” I shout at it, two of my axes laying miserably on the ground.
“I didn’t realize you swore this much.”
“Can you go away?”
My brother holds up his phone. “Don’t think so. This is my party, I’ll do what I want.” He glances down at Babe. “Loser.”
“Stop filming me.”
“I have to send this to mom. So keep the obscenities to a minimum.”
Screw you, I mouth to him, mindful of the fact that he most likely is filming me and intending to send the video clip to our mother, who most certainly would not approve of my antics. Or his for that matter since it stresses her out when we argue.
“You only have two more chances, dude,” my brothers voice won’t stop talking. “You should have gotten here earlier, so you could warm up.” He bends one leg and begins doing lunges, arms behind his head, fingers laced behind his neck.
“I don’t need warming up. I’m going to hit this bullseye.”
He scoffs. “Even if you do, you won’t have enough points to make the board—you’re terrible at this, even that groups woman over there is hitting at least something—your axe isn’t even sticking to the—”
“Please just stop talking.”
“—Board.”
I sigh loud enough to be heard three counties over.
“Are you going to take all day, it’s Jensen’s turn next.”
Oh my god.
I turn to glare.
He shoos me away, back toward the board. “Focus.”
Who can focus with him hovering, clearly waiting for my failure.
I pull back my arm, bending it at the elbow, then aim forward, releasing the wooden handle and throwing with all my might.
“There’s a trick to this,” Buzz tells me when the hatchet hits the ground. “You should have watched YouTube videos before you got here, you can’t just aim and throw.”
“Would you shut up?”
“I don’t think giving you another chance is going to yield any results—you have scored zero points. You’re off the team, go sit on the bench.”
I feel my face flush with embarrassment. “You can’t bench me, this isn’t a game.”
“This is my special night,” he informs me. “And you’re giving the Wallace name a bad reputation.”
I open my mouth to argue. “How many points have you scored?”
His chin tilts. “Three. But I also get points for not losing an axe—they’ve all at least stuck and haven’t landed on the ground.”
My ass cheeks pucker, I swear they do. “Fine.”
I stomp to the high top table the rest of the bachelor party is gathered around, most of them drinking beer and laughing, the giants among men filling the whole room because there are twenty or so of us, many of us professional athletes of some kind.
It feels like I’m at a fraternity party, not a celebration for grown men, and why I can’t enjoy myself is beyond me. Oh. Wait—that’s right, I’m dressed like a goddamn fictional lumberjack and there’s a stuffed animal hanging from my fucking pocket!
Don’t know if it’s my glower from my sour mood, but no one really talks to me. Then again, these dudes are mostly baseball players—one guy I recognize from college, a few from high school—one or two coaches, a few cousins, an uncle or three, and my brother’s sports agent.
There’s a tap on my shoulder; it feels like the tip of a fake nail and when I glace over, I discover that it is. Bright, neon yellow and attached to a tan blonde.
“You’re the other Wallace brother, aren’t you?” Well. There’s no mincing words with this broad, she gets straight to the point.
“Yes.”
“Are there any more or just the two of you?”
“Just the two of us.”
She smiles.
Then the woman gasps, noticing my lumber-outfit. “Oh my god, were you just axe throwing? This outfit is to die for! So cute. I love that you went with the theme.” She coo’s again, practically oozing desperation.
Ugh, I can’t stand cleat chasers.
At another table, one of Buzz’s groomsman shouts over the music as a pair of yellow neon nails graze my exposed forearm. I shiver and not from delight.
“I wasn’t dressing as part of the theme,” I counter, annoyed.
“Then why are you dressed like a mount
ain man?”
Dammit! “I’m not dressed like a—”
I clamp my mouth shut. It’s pointless to argue with someone half baked, literally skin baked, and hell bent on flirting. I could be wearing a garbage bag and this chick would be hitting on me. She knows I’m Tripp Wallace, knows I’m a football player, knows I’m loaded.
“You’re not very talkative,” the girl tries again when I don’t bite on her earlier nonsense about mountain men. “Are you the strong, silent type?”
I grunt, hoping she takes the hint and walks away to join her friends. They’re standing in a cluster watching us, heads bent like athletes in a football game, in the pre-game huddle about to take the playing field.
I don’t want to know what anyone is saying—whatever it is, it’s about me and this chick and it can’t be good.
“Dude, grab your shit—we’re bouncing,” Noah Harding shouts to me over the loud music and the sounds of axes hitting boards and falling to the ground. People laughing. Talking. Shouting. Singing. So much merriment my goddamn head is about to explode.
He doesn’t have to tell me twice.
I grab Babe the Blue Ox, chug the last of my beer, and make toward the nearest exit.
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About the Author
Sara Ney is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the How to Date a Douchebag series and is best known for her sexy, laugh-out-loud New Adult romances. Among her favorite vices, she includes: iced lattes, historical architecture, and well-placed sarcasm. She lives colorfully, collects vintage books, art, loves flea markets, and fancies herself British.
For more information about Sara Ney and her books, visit:
Also by Sara Ney
The Kiss & Make Up Series
Kissing in Cars
He Kissed Me First
A Kiss Like This
#ThreeLittleLies Series
Things Liars Say
Things Liars Hide
Things Liars Fake
How to Date a Douchebag Series
The Studying Hours
The Failing Hours
The Learning Hours
The Coaching Hours
The Lying Hours
The Teaching Hours
Jock Hard Series
Switch Hitter
Jock Row
Jock Rule
Switch Bidder
Jock Road
The Bachelors Club Series
Bachelor Society
Bachelor Boss
Trophy Boyfriends Series
Hard Pass
Hard Fall
Hard Love (Coming October 2020)
