Page 1 of I Choose You

1

Mackenzie

“Mackenzie!” Luke calls out. “I know Layla hit you!” There’s a playful mischief in his voice that only comes out when we’re on the paintball field. Coincidentally, it also causes my skin to pebble in alarm, something that always happens when just one other person is left in the game.

I turn my head toward where I hear him and grin to myself, knowing that if I were a second slower, Luke would be correct about Layla disqualifying me. “Nope! My shot hit her first! It’s you and me now!” It’s a shame he can’t see my smug face because it would rile him enough to blast off a ray of paintballs, waste his count, and ultimately give me the leverage I need to win.

“You sure about that?” His deep voice fills with hopeful glee. “Pretty sure I saw a solid hit!”

Oh, I’m sure.

Pain radiates from my bicep to my shoulder from her shot, stinging and spreading like wildfire over my skin. The colors from the assault paint my gear like watercolors covering a canvas. It rubs off on the weathered bale I’m hiding behind, reminding me that I need to stay out of Luke’s sight.

“She’s right, Luke!” Layla, Luke’s girlfriend, shouts as she accepts defeat. “I’m out!”

I notice her retreating figure out of the corner of my eye as the scent from the wispy bales brings forth memories from my childhood of living in the countryside before moving. I don’t know why I always go back to being a kid when I’m out here. Focusing on the game puts things into perspective, I guess. Makes me miss the past, miss the parts of it that were good to me. Like when Luke, Mason and I first learned about our love for paintballing.

We’d drive down the back roads of my hometown until an old, abandoned barn would appear. Then, we’d set up shop to plink down rusty cans and garden tools found inside it. We could never get enough of it, which is precisely why we still make time to do it as adults.

The crunching of leaves behind the bale prompts me to be more conscious of where I’m at rather than focusing on past memories. I crouch lower and hold my gun to my chest, waiting for whatever Luke is planning. Lifting my gaze and keeping my ear on his movements, I take in the metal coverings surrounding me. Like old roofing, they’re pushed together in a way that provides reasonable coverage from all angles.

“Your luck is about to run out, Kenzie!” Luke yells out.

“Wish that was the case, don’t you?” I reply, taking a hand off my gun long enough to swipe my bangs out of my line of sight. “You’re actually going to have to try now! There’s no one else to distract us. No one else for me to disqualify!”

I observe my surroundings again, trying to locate a spot I can dart to for more coverage. This course—our favorite—sits high in Maine’s mountains with coverage from trees that make even a warm day a little cooler. The amber foliage sprinkling the ground makes it difficult to move around quietly or without slipping. Knowing Luke is on my tail, it’s unlikely I’ll get the chance to find a better spot, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to try. Again, leaves crinkle a few yards away, letting me know he’s drawing closer and using my voice as a locator.

“You really think you can make it over there without getting hit? That’s a good thirty feet, and I’m a decent shot.”

Shit.

My heartbeat kick-starts at his remark, and I take note of his puffed-up demeanor, fully aware that this confidence is part of who he is. Looking back, I don’t think there was ever a time he wasn’t sure of himself.

I hate that he knows my moves before I make them, so I keep my mouth shut as he drones on, knowing damn well he’ll continue to use my voice to position me.

There’s an array of options on this one-acre lot; wooden towers with peepholes, grungy metal trailers with one way in and out, and round burning cans you’d find out on a farm. There’s even a battered boat centering it all, tagged with the name of the place, Rainbow Battle Paintball.

However, none of it matters. At 5’4”, I know my short legs won’t get me to safer ground in time. They aren’t long enough to get me there fast enough. And it doesn’t help that my mahogany bangs keep falling out from behind my ear. I should have pinned them back, but excitement got the best of me when we got here. Every time they slide down and create a curtain over my hazel eyes and lightly freckled cheeks, I remind myself of that, of how antsy I was to get my gear on and start playing.

Anticipation thrums through my chest, turning my palms sweaty. No matter where I run, it’s a risk. My gaze is frantic as I try to figure out what I’m going to do. Quiet on my feet, so the leaves under me don’t give me away, I peek around the stack of hay bales to get an eye on Luke’s location. I see a foot in the distance and the muzzle of a gun before I whip back around for shelter.

I can hear the smile on his face when he calls out, “What’s it going to be, Kenz?” Even from a distance, I can hear him impatiently sigh. “You should just let me have it.”

Hah.

“What fun would that be?” I tiptoe to the opposite side of the bale he’s approaching and extend my gun, my finger on the trigger. When he least expects it, I jump out from behind my coverage and aim my muzzle at his side. A smug grin crosses my face, glimmering with victory. It’s so close I can taste it. “Busted!”

His shoulders tense as he tilts his head slightly in my direction, and his brow arches. His hand twitches to lift his gun slightly higher and put me in his crosshairs.

However, my finger is ready to react, ready for me to take the crown. “Easy now. One move and it’s game over for you, Lukey,” I chide, tossing in the childhood nickname I made for him before our teen years.

He rolls his deep green eyes in response, but it’s for show. As much as he says he doesn’t like it, I know otherwise and bask in the comfort when he responds using my nickname.

“Thought for sure you would make a run for it, Kenzie. Already had you out in my head.”

“Rookie mistake. Never assume,” I remind while taking in his stature. He’s over six-foot with lean muscle from playing soccer in college. I know his physique is corded for strength and dexterity, even with his arms and legs covered with protective gear. Still, it doesn’t make much difference since I have my gun aimed at him. If anything, his dimpled smirk is more distracting than his handsome, boy next door sex appeal.

“When you assume, you end up losing,” he says, repeating the one rule we’ve grown to learn over the years.

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