Page 23 of Personal Foul
She glances at him and nods, the expression on her face a mix of concern and determination. Holding the axe at her side, she squares her shoulders and takes a deep breath. Then she raises the axe, brings it back, and throws it.
It flips end over end, smacks into the target—high and off to the side—and bounces off, with a clang.
Charity lets out a disappointed, “Oh man!” before stepping forward to retrieve the hatchet.
“It over-rotated a little,” John says. “Try starting a few inches back.”
“You mean like I tried to the first time,” Charity mutters. I grin, though I seem to be the only one who can hear her from my perch on the stool right behind her. She glances around at the rest of us. “Anyone mind if I go again?”
No one objects, and I motion for her to continue.
She lines up, glancing at John for confirmation that she’s in the right spot. At his nod, she squares off and tries again.
Once more, it clangs and falls to the floor instead of sticking in. She makes another exclamation of disappointment as she goes to retrieve the axe.
Standing, I decide it’s my turn. I’ll show her how it’s done.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Charity
A smirk plastered on his face, Dylan saunters up to me and holds out his hand for the hatchet I’m holding.
Unable to contain my eye roll, I pass it to him. “You think you can do better, huh?”
He flashes his teeth at me. “Of course.”
I claim the stool he vacated across from Isabelle. She leans across the table. “Good try. I’m sure you’ll get it next time.”
“Thanks, Iz.” At least this time my forced smile is understandable.
“Let’s go, Thompson!” Andrew shouts, clapping like we’re at some kind of sporting event instead of a more redneck version of a bowling alley.
Dylan doesn’t acknowledge his friend, though, instead stepping up to the same line of tape where I started. John doesn’t make any suggestions. Of course.
Raising the hatchet, Dylan lets it fly end over end. It hits and bounces, just like it did for me.
Vindicated, I smile. So much for showing me up.
Dylan picks up the hatchet, meeting my eyes when he straightens. His eyes narrow, but he seems to be fighting a smile.
Yeah, he’s well aware I’m enjoying this.
“It sticks easier if you get one of the points to hit instead of straight on the blade,” John puts in. “You released a little late. Try letting go earlier next time.”
With a nod, Dylan lines up again. Apparently John’s tip was enough, because this time the hatchet sinks into the wood and stays there, landing in the two point circle. At least it wasn’t a bullseye.
Dylan’s obviously pleased with himself judging by the wide grin and the swagger in his walk when he retrieves the axe, yanking it out effortlessly.
He lays it back on the table with the other tools, his hand trailing over my back as he sits next to me.
“Isabelle?” Andrew prompts. “You’re up.”
She blushes as she slides off her stool, taking a moment to look everything over. Selecting the bigger axe, she steps up to the second line of tape, apparently taking John’s advice to me to heart. She decides on the two-handed grip, which makes sense because she chose the larger axe.
Holding the axe overhead, she reminds me of a badass warrior woman from one of those Viking shows that are all over the place right now. She takes a large step forward and lets it fly, landing in the four point circle, the one closest to the center, on her first try.
Andrew lets out a loud whoop as she turns and shoves her fists in the air to celebrate her victory.
