Do these guys not understand this ismyhouse? That I grew up here, playing this for hours daily in the summertime? I could probably beat most of them with my eyes closed.
The thought reminds me that the time is running out on me calling this home mine. But I force the negativity from my brain, focusing on the current problem at hand. Winning this game.
Mason takes the spot next to Ross, staring me down the entire time with a burning fire in his eyes. “Who starts?”
“You guys can rock, paper, scissors, best of three, since neither of our teams has played yet,” I suggest. I can’t remember the actual rules, but that’s how we always played.
Ross beats Mason two out of three times, meaning I’m tossing first against Brock.
Lining the toes of my left foot up with the front of the board, I bend my knees, position the bag in my right hand—the weight balanced across my fingers—and launch it. It smacks the board and stops sliding two inches from the hole.
Dammit. I know I could have sunk that in.
“Oh shit! Daphne’s a hustler!” Zach jumps up and down on the outskirts of the game.
Looking up, I find Mason staring at me in annoyance and shock while Ross’s jaw is on the ground.
“You’re up,” I murmur to Brock, finding him matching my stance, readying to throw.
He launches it, and it lands at the bottom of the board, right on the grass.
“Brock, come on, man! I’m going to need you,” Mason says worriedly.
I’m making this one.
Bending down, I toss it, watching it fly and drop straight into the hole.
“Woo!” I jump up and spin around, dancing.
I’m going to beat these boys in two rounds, with or without Ross’s help.
Brock and I go back and forth, taking turns, and he’s getting better, but he’s nowhere close to keeping me from dominating.
Cornhole scoring can be a bit complicated, but essentially, it works like this: A bag on the board counts as one point. A bag in the hole counts as three. But our bags also cancel each other out.
After we’re done tossing our turns, I count the score. I made three bags in the hole and one on the board. While Brock madeone on the board and missed three. So, his one bag cancels out the one I had on the board, leaving my scoring bags being the ones in the hole, making the score nine to zero, us winning.
“Daphne, we’re going to win this thing!” Ross cheers with confidence, and he tosses his first bag, making it on the board.
Mason goes, matching it with one of his own. They go shot for shot, canceling each other’s points out each time. Now it’s our turn again.
The game is played to twenty-one, but not over. If you bust, you go back down to eleven. You can play with or without this rule, but it’s far more interesting with it.
I sink all four bags, some tosses prettier than others. Brock makes two on the board, canceling out two of my points, giving us ten more points on the scoreboard. Nineteen to zero.
“It’s going to be a shutout!” someone shouts as the other two begin throwing.
Mason sinks two of the bags, totaling six points, and Ross makes all four on the board, giving Ross four points. Leaving Mason and Brock to earn two points after removing the cancellation bags.
Nineteen to two.
Since Mason scored, Brock’s up first, which is really beneficial to me since I need to play against his points this round in order to stay at twenty-one and not bust.
Brock misses the first shot, and I lightly toss mine, landing it firmly on the wood. Brock puts the next one in the hole, and I follow suit, sinking it with a little slide up the middle.
“Dammit, Daphne. Can you let me have one?” he begs, laughing.
He throws the bag a little too hard, and it goes sailing into the grass.
