It always ensured I had a worthy opponent.
The girl’s stance was flawless, and I watched with envy as she practiced her nimble switch from ready to the firing position. She repeated the action several times, like a dancer walking through her routine, moving with an efficiency and grace that had undoubtably taken years to master.
There wasn’t a sound from any of my guests as Ms. Alby prepared. Not even the birds in the trees nearby dared sing. The entirety of Cape Hill went silent when her shoulders relaxed, her gun resting in front of her like she’d been born that way.
Her voice was strong and clear. “Pull.”
She moved so quickly, it was inhuman. I’d seen great shooters before, but the precision she displayed was on a different level. One explosion of orange was immediately followed by another.
Her reload and reset were as fluid and methodical as everything else she’d done.
“Pull.”
In less than two seconds, she misted the sky in the same shade as the tulips growing on the west side of my gardens.
A second game of skeet played out inside me, a series of shots launching simultaneously. Concern I was going to lose volleyed against my interest at discovering her enormous talent. Perhaps interest wasn’t the right word. It felt more like . . .
Desire, a dark voice whispered.
No. Absolutely not.
For one thing, she wasn’t Marist, and another was my commitment to myself. I was no longer infallible—any hint of impropriety would further damage my reputation and possibly push it beyond repair.
It was undeniable the way my blood burned through my veins, but it was merely my sex-starved body yearning for what it couldn’t have. All cravings left unsatisfied went away eventually.
My shotgun seemed unbalanced as I carried it toward the second station, weighed down with the unfamiliar feeling of playing from behind, and the scrutiny of the board of HBHC. The men were solemn, perhaps not wanting to break my concentration. They were aware I had to focus now. On the ride down, I’d worried about embarrassing her, and now I was in danger of looking like a fool.
Or perhaps the men were in awe of her, as I was, and were enjoying the show.
The second station repeated the same pattern as the first, only in a new location, and this time I hit each of the four targets.
As did Ms. Alby, and despite the cool weather, sweat clung to my temples.
We moved around the stations, laid out in the shape of a half-moon, shooting efficiently and not speaking during the transitions. Neither of us missed. Anxiety grew in my center as the number of shots we had left dwindled. I needed her to make a mistake if I had any hope of winning.
“You’re quite good,” I remarked as she squared her shoulders to the field and began her process. The shotgun moved from her ready position swiftly to her shoulder, and she spotted the places in the sky where she anticipated her targets would be.
It was absolutely a routine meant to clear her mind, like how baseball pitchers often groomed the mound and took a deep breath before delivering a pitch. Consistency was key, so I did my best to derail her concentration . . . but it was wasted. The girl had shut the world out, including me, as determination burned in her eyes behind the yellow-tinted glasses.
Once she finished filling the air with orange powder, she turned and delivered a glowing smile in response to my compliment. “Thank you.”
Two golf carts rolled down the path, one carrying the Powells and the other Royce and Marist. The two pairs climbed out and made their way toward the party watching from the couches.
“What’s the score?” Royce asked.
“Macalister missed L two,” Mitch said.
If that surprised my son, he didn’t show it. “And Sophia?”
“She hasn’t missed any.”
Marist’s expression skewed and while the volume of her voice was normal, she might as well have announced it loudly for all to hear. “Macalister’s losing?”
“At the moment,” I growled and stomped toward the seventh station beside the low house.
There were six shots left for me, and the game was more mental than it was physical. All I had to do was stay steady and focused, and I would be fine. Ms. Alby would miss; I was sure of it. Things had a way of working out for me, and if they didn’t, I found a way to ensure they did.
“Pull,” I called.
The shotgun was reassuring when it was firm against my shoulder, and I squeezed the trigger, enjoying the kick of the weapon when it fired. Overhead, the target split in two. I swung the barrel to the left, sighted the next bird and fired.
There was a sharp intake of breath from behind me. As she’d already demonstrated, Ms. Alby’s reaction time was faster than mine. It meant she knew what had happened a fraction of a second earlier than I did.