“Paul Bunyan! Paul Bunyan!” over and over, and so what if it’s not my name? I know they’re chanting for me.
I lift the beer in my left hand and chug down half the bottle, wiping my mouth on the sleeve of my flannel. Squint my left eye and raise my right hand to aim.
Throw the axe at the red dot.
It bounces off the board.
“Fuck!”
Goddammit, that must be some kind of fluke. I’m freakishly good at everything, including darts. This is basically the same thing.
Behind me, Buzz laughs. “You want some pointers, bro?”
“Piss off.” I glance down at Babe the Blue Ox, still dangling pitifully from my pocket. “Worst good luck charm ever.”
Another axe gets handed to me.
Once again, I zero in on my target, this time squinting with no eyes shut.
I toss the hatchet straight at the red center of the board.
It bounces off.
“Fuck you, you piece of shit!” I shout at it, two of my axes lying miserably on the ground.
“I didn’t realize you swore this much.”
“Can you go away?”
My brother holds up his phone. “Don’t think so. This is my party—I’ll do what I want.” He glances down at Babe. “Loser.”
“Stop filming me.”
“I have to send this to Mom, so keep the obscenities to a minimum.”
Screw you, I mouth to him, mindful of the fact that he most likely is filming me and intends to send the video clip to our mother, who most certainly would not approve of my antics. Or his, for that matter, since it stresses her out when we argue.
“You only have two more chances, dude.” My brother won’t stop talking. “You should have gotten here earlier so you could warm up.” He bends one leg and begins doing lunges, arms behind his head, fingers laced behind his neck.
“I don’t need warming up. I’m going to hit this bullseye.”
He scoffs. “Even if you do, you won’t have enough points to make the board—you’re terrible at this. Even those women over there are at least hitting something. Your axe isn’t even sticking to the—”
“Please just stop talking.”
“—board.”
I sigh loud enough to be heard three counties over.
“Are you going to take all day? It’s Jensen’s turn next.”
Oh my god.
I turn to glare.
He shoos me away, back toward the board. “Focus.”
Who can focus with him hovering, clearly waiting for me to fail?
I pull back my arm, bending it at the elbow, then aim forward, releasing the wooden handle and throwing with all my might.
“There’s a trick to this,” Buzz tells me when the hatchet hits the ground. “You should have watched YouTube videos before you got here. You can’t just aim and throw.”
“Would you shut up?”
“I don’t think giving you another chance is going to yield any results since you have scored zero points. You’re off the team—go sit on the bench.”
I feel my face flush with embarrassment. “You can’t bench me. This isn’t a game.”
“This is my special night,” he informs me. “And you’re giving the Wallace name a bad reputation.”
I open my mouth to argue. “How many points have you scored?”
His chin lifts. “Three. But I also get points for not losing an axe—they’ve all at least stuck and haven’t landed on the ground.”
My ass cheeks pucker, I swear they do. “Fine.”
I stomp to the high-top table the rest of the bachelor party is gathered around, most of them drinking beer and laughing, the giants among men filling the whole room because there are twenty or so of us, many of us professional athletes of some kind.
It feels like I’m at a fraternity party, not a celebration for grown men, and why I can’t enjoy myself is beyond me. Oh. Wait—that’s right, I’m dressed like a goddamn fictional lumberjack and there’s a stuffed animal hanging from my fucking pocket!
Don’t know if it’s my glower from my sour mood, but no one really talks to me. Then again, these dudes are mostly baseball players. There’s one guy I recognize from college, a few from high school, plus one or two coaches, a few cousins, an uncle or three, and my brother’s agent.
There’s a tap on my shoulder; it feels like the tip of a fake nail, and when I glance over, I discover that it is. Bright, neon yellow, and attached to a tan blonde.
“You’re the other Wallace brother, aren’t you?” Well. There’s no mincing words with this broad; she gets straight to the point.
“Yes.”
“Are there any more or just the two of you?”
“Just the two of us.”
She smiles.
Then the woman gasps, noticing my lumber-outfit. “Oh my god, were you just axe throwing? This outfit is to die for! So cute. I love that you went with the theme.” She coos again, practically oozing desperation.
Ugh, I can’t stand cleat chasers.
At another table, one of Buzz’s groomsmen shouts over the music as a pair of highlighter yellow nails graze my exposed forearm. I shiver, and not from delight.
“I wasn’t dressing as part of the theme,” I counter, annoyed.
“Then why are you dressed like a mountain man?”
Dammit! “I’m not dressed like a—”
I clamp my mouth shut. It’s pointless to argue with someone who’s half baked, skin literally baked, and hell-bent on flirting. I could be wearing a garbage bag and this chick would be hitting on me. She knows I’m Tripp Wallace, knows I’m a football player, knows I’m loaded.
“You’re not very talkative.” The girl tries again when I don’t bite on her earlier nonsense about mountain men. “Are you the strong silent type?”
I grunt, hoping she takes the hint and walks away to join her friends. They’re standing in a cluster watching us, heads bent like players in the pre-game huddle, about to take the field.
I don’t want to know what anyone is saying—whatever it is, it’s about me and this chick, and it can’t be good.
After several moments of awkward silence—and me ignoring her—she finally gives up and leaves me alone, going back to her group of friends.
Thank god.
“Dude, come join us again for one last game—we’re bouncing afterwards,” Noah Harding shouts to me over the loud music and the sounds of axes hitting boards and falling to the ground. People laughing. Talking. Shouting. Singing. So much merriment my goddamn head is about to explode.
The last thing I want to do is join my brother and his friends for another humiliating round of axe throwing, but if it means I can hopefully ditch this place quicker, then Noah doesn’t have to tell me twice.
I chug the last of my beer and begrudgingly head over to the cages—Babe the Blue Ox still hanging at my side.
Two
Chandler
My cousin is getting married.
Not just my cousin—my favorite cousin, and I’m so happy for her.
It’s not easy being a part of the illustrious Westbrooke family; always in the spotlight, always putting on a show, always on your best behavior. Which is the reason I learned to smile. To say all the right things, do all the things I’ve been brought up to do.