Page 15 of Shots on Net

Shrugging, he walks out of the kitchen. Raising his voice, he calls back to me: “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

???

“Are you serious?” I ask, staring down at the liability waiver I was just handed. “Axe throwing?”

“Dead serious.” Carter signs his own waiver without reading it, a quick flick of the wrist, and slides it back over the counter to the girl on the other side. She looks like Christmas came early, eyes skating over his muscled arms and tattoos, an unmistakable yes please in her eyes. He doesn’t seem to notice. “It’ll be fun.”

Sighing, I sign my own and hand it back to the girl. She doesn’t even look at me. “Maybe for you, super athlete. I’m going to be terrible at this.”

“I’ve never done it before, either. You won’t be any worse than I am.”

I wonder if I should point out the presence of all those muscles in his arms, and the absence of them in mine. I feel very strongly that this activity will not be my forte. Determined to at least try, I follow behind Carter until he glances over his shoulder at me and waves me up beside him, impatiently. The hallway isn’t quite wide enough for us to walk abreast without brushing against one another, but he doesn’t seem to mind. We’re taken to a sort of alley with a large wooden bullseye on the far end, caged in by netting on the sides.

The axes they give us are smaller than I would have expected; hefting one, I test the weight. It’s not nearly as heavy as I thought it would be. Maybe I’ll be better at this than I thought. Beside me, Carter picks one up as well, flipping it in the air and catching it. Show-off.

“You first?” He asks, sweeping a hand toward the target.

“Oh no, no way. This was your idea, you go first.”

He steps forward, turning the axe in his hand a couple of times. Setting his feet, he starts to lift his arms above his head but stops and turns back around. He eyes me for a moment, before waving a hand at me.

“Back up a little bit, I don’t want to hit you.”

I retreat until my back hits the wall. I’m pretty sure the only way he could have hit me was if he accidentally let go of the axe on the backswing, but I appreciate his concern nonetheless. We had to sign a waiver to do this—clearly someone was hit with an axe at some point. Satisfied that I’m in the safe zone, Carter turns back around, sets his feet and raises his arms. He throws the axe and it hits the target with a resounding crack before dropping to the ground.

“Damn,” he says, jogging up and snatching up the axe. He joins me on the wall, putting a hand on the center of my upper back and giving me a gentle push forward. “Your turn.”

Sighing, I step to the line and try to mimic his stance from before. Lifting the axe above my head in a two-handed grip, I take a step forward and throw. It bounces off the same way Carter’s did. Before I can collect the fallen axe, Carter is next to me and holding out his own.

“Try again, you almost got it.”

I bite my lip in concentration, facing the target once more. This time, when I throw it, the axe sticks in the wood with a satisfying thunk. My jaw drops and I whirl to face Carter.

“Did you see that?” I ask, excitedly.

“I did.” He smiles.

It’s little more than a faint curl of his lips, the corners of his mouth depressing slightly. On anyone else, it wouldn’t count as a smile. But this is Carter, whose mouth only seems to turn downward. I smile back at him, wide and without restraint.

We trade turns, more axes hitting the floor than sticking in the target. Neither of us hit the bullseye, but it hardly matters. I’m having a blast; this is far more fun than I’d thought it would be. Carter too, seems to be enjoying himself. The scowl has been chased away, and though I wouldn’t call his expression happy, it’s close.

I’m a little bit sweaty and my arms are sore by the time we head toward the exit. I’m not one who’s comfortable going to the gym, so physical fitness often falls by the wayside for me. Perhaps, if working out was this much fun, I’d do it more often. Of course, Carter doesn’t appear to have sweated a drop. I try not to hold it against him.

“That was fun,” I tell him, as we climb into his car. “And thank you, for paying.”

I hadn’t realized this morning, that when Carter had said he’d made a reservation it also meant that he had paid in advance. I’d asked him if I could pay him my half and he’d looked so mad about it, I immediately dropped the subject.

“It’s fine,” he says, harshly, without looking at me.

I want to ask about Carter’s family, and his seemingly bottomless well of funds. I want to tell him that he doesn’t have to pay my way to get me to hang out with him—I’d do that no matter what. But that’s hardly a conversation I can start without admitting my own problems with money; essentially, that I have none. I table it for the moment, but it’s a conversation we’re going to have to have at some point. He’s already letting me live with him practically for free, so I need to pay my way somehow.

“How about we do the zoo next weekend?” I turn slightly in my seat so I can look at him. He doesn’t glance over at me, but keeps his eyes on the road.

“You want to hang out, again?”

“Sure do.” I keep my voice chipper to combat the disbelief in his. “So, the zoo? We’ve already established it’s something we both like.”

“As long as we don’t spend the entire time in the tree frog room.”

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