Chapter 9
AXEL
“I can’t believe you remembered we used to go to that place when we were at college.”
Stan had pulled into the parking lot of Lucky Strike Arcade.
It must’ve been a franchise because this arcade was identical to the one we used to frequent when we were students.
“Are you kidding me?” He killed the engine and studied his hands, the same hands that had jerked me off this morning. “You made us go there after every game. You said it helped you decompress.”
“I was stressed.”
He folded his arms. “But you crushed every team you played against.”
“Exactly, and every game was and is stressful.”
I peered through the windshield. The neon signs were identical, and the building also needed lick of paint. The pixilated spaceship was newer than the one near our college.
“Are you sure you’re up for this? Your wrist’s not fully healed.”
“I’m fine.” I unbuckled my seatbelt. “The action revolves around mashing buttons and steering wheels.”
“Okay.” But he hovered as I got out of the car, as though he was expecting me to keel over.
I’d come back to Stan, or come home as I now thought of it, for more PT. And I needed it because my shifter genes hadn’t fixed the lingering issues. But my injuries aside, for once my mind wasn’t on hockey.
Yes, I wanted to recover, and yes, battling for the puck was thrilling, but now that Stan and I were mated, I had what I’d wanted since I was eighteen. And for the first time since I laced up my skates as a kid, hockey wasn’t my first priority.
My wolf said I had him to thank for getting me and Stan together, because if he’d been paying attention, we wouldn’t have been hit by the car and we’d never have met Stan again.
Inside the arcade was exactly as I remembered the other one.
There were the same flashing lights, electronic beeps and buzzes and the smell of popcorn mingling with the harsh smell of cleaning solution.
A handful of teenagers were clustered around a game on one side while a family with two young kids were trying to grab a toy with the claw machine.
I was tempted to tell them to save their money.
“Sorry, they no longer use tokens.”
“What? Oh no.” I had fond memories of feeding tokens into the machines.
“It’s card only now. I’ll put fifty bucks on the card.”
“Make it a hundred.” We were here to celebrate, damn it.
“Okay, big spender.” He pointed to the baseball hoops. “We should have a rematch.”
I groaned at the memory of how he’d whipped my ass when we last played.
But we started with the racing games because they needed the least amount of physical effort. I slid into the seat of a motorcycle racing simulator, and Stan took the one beside me.
“Loser buys dinner.” He grinned, but maybe he’d forgotten how competitive I was.
“You’re on.”
The race started, and I concentrated on the screen. I leaned into the turns, even though it hurt, and gripped the handlebars carefully with my bad wrist. Stan was aggressive. He cut me off at every opportunity and laughed hysterically when I yelled at him.
“You can’t do that. It’s not legal.”
“This is a video game, Ax. There are no refs.”
I grumbled that there should be.
My mate won the game by half a second, and I demanded a rematch which he also won.
“I’m so out of practice.”
Stan got up and stretched and helped me up. He nudged me and giggled. “I’ll let you win at something else.”
We moved through the arcade, trying everything that didn’t require too much wrist movement. Skee-ball was safe, but Stan beat me at that too because I was mainly using my left hand. Thanks to my eye-hand coordination from playing hockey, I edged out my mate in the shooting gallery.
“Finally.” My score flashed up on the screen.
“Beginner’s luck,” my mate teased.
“But I’m a professional athlete.”
“In hockey, not arcade games.” He put his hands on his hips and gave me a look.
Despite knowing the odds were stacked against me—though I had a better chance of winning than humans did—I swiped the card at the claw machine. Most of the toys were tired-looking and dusty, but there was a small fox in the middle that I wanted to win for Stan.
“You’re not going to get it.” My mate shook his head after my third failed attempt.
“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.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
My mate held his belly as he bent over and laughed. “Maybe you’re just bad at this.”
“Or perhaps you’re a basketball prodigy and you’ve been hiding it.”
He clapped. “That must be it. I should resign my job at the hospital and forge ahead with my new career.”
My mate’s joy at winning was infectious. I wished I had a medal I could present to him that he could wear around his neck all day.
“I get to choose where we go for dinner.”
“That wasn’t part of the deal. I pay, so maybe I should choose or at least I get a say where we go.”
We cashed in our remaining credits, not that we had many, and Stan put his fox on the dashboard. He had a crooked smile and it reminded me of my mate’s. It must have been fate that we came here today and I insisted on getting the fox for Stan.
“How about you pay for takeout because with the time we have left before you leave, I don’t want to share it with diners in a restaurant.”
I agreed and suggested we could eat in bed, naked.
“But if you drop any crumbs, that’s grounds for eviction.”