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“We start at opposite ends. June says go. First one to the table and first to get paint on the other wins,” Dallas says, and I nod.
“You’re on.”
We make our way to the edges of the room, and I stare at him. I crack my neck from side to side and stretch my arms, preparing myself like I’m about to do a grueling workout.
This isn’t a soccer field and I’m not playing in one of the biggest games of my career, but I feel that fire in me. The determination that settles at the base of my spine, and it’s a shame he doesn’t know what’s coming his way.
“Wait,” he calls out from across the room. “What about your knee?”
“What about it?”
“I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
“Oh, no. You don’t get to start with the nice guy act now. My knee is fine. It’s thirty feet away, and I’m not fragile. I’ll be okay.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, and it’s genuine. Considerate and kind with sweetness lacing the question, and it’s embarrassing how easily I almost melt.
“Yes,” I say, but my voice wavers.
“Good. Then I won’t feel so bad when I kick your ass.”
“Kick ass,” June repeats, and it echoes around us.
“Way to go, Dallas,” I say, and he rubs his forehead.
Even from here, I can see a streak of green he smudges just below his hairline. It trails down his temple to his cheek, and he has no idea he’s getting paint all over his face. It’s fun to watch him be clueless for half a second, because he’s usually so meticulous about everything else.
“No, sweetie. That’s a bad word, and Daddy shouldn’t have said it. I take it back,” he says. “No cursing allowed.”
“Are we doing this or not, Lansfield?” I ask.
He rolls his shoulders back and crouches down. It looks like he’s about to snap a football. His eyes stay trained on me, and his wicked smile makes heat pool deep in my belly. “June, can you count down from three for us? Then say go.”
“Okay, Daddy.” June holds her arm above her head. “Three, two, one, go,” she yells, and I take off.
Dallas’s legs are lightyears longer than mine, and I know the only way I stand a chance of winning this silly game is if I’m quicker. I move as fast as I can. My arms pump the air and my feet turn over the concrete floor like my life depends on it. I reach the paint a half second before he does. I grab a brush just as he runs full steam into the table.
It's chaos.
The table flips over. Dallas goes tumbling with it, somersaulting in the air. Cans go flying. Brushes fall from the sky like rain. I’m knocked on my back, and there’s a rainbow of color in my vision.
“Oof,” I get out. Something heavy rests on my chest, and when I open my eyes, all I can see is green. “Am I blind?”
“Holy shit,” Dallas wheezes. “That did not go as planned.”
“I can see why we signed waivers beforehand.”
“Are you okay?”
I pull the goggles off and realize the weight I’m feeling is him.
On top of me.
Paint drips from his cheek and his hair. His hips press into mine, and his hands are on either side of my head, holding himself up so he doesn’t squash me.
“What the hell happened?” I ask.
“I might have run into the table,” he admits sheepishly. “In my defense, I thought it was sturdier than that.”
