The Shepherd (The Game 6)

“He’s one fucking inch taller,” Kaden groused. “His ego is ten feet!”

I chuckled and clapped his shoulder. “You’ll get there. Look at your pop and your uncles. We all turned out the same in the end.”

“I hope so. Still sucks that Ma’s so short, though. We won’t be as tall as youse.”

I rolled my eyes. To think I’d been just as dim-witted as my nephew once upon a time.

“Do you hear yourself?”

“What!” He grew defensive.

I shook my head, then jerked my chin at the row ahead of us. “Go do your job, punk. I saw someone dropping popcorn over there.”

I had more stuffed animals to win.

After I left four prizes in my truck and bought three scoops of strawberry ice cream in a cup on the way back, the sun had set on Virginia. I went straight to the shooting gallery to kill off some ducks. This carnival had two options, one cork gun alternative for kids, and an air rifle gallery for those over sixteen. The latter had prizes somewhat worthy of my older nieces and nephews too. Kaden had been eyeing a baseball bat for his kid brother earlier.

I’d had my interest piqued by the premium prizes.

Three rifles were available, all occupied, and I got in the shortest line, which of course was the slowest-moving one. It was just one guy in front of me, and he seemed to be struggling. He’d slapped a twenty-dollar bill on the counter.

“This is going to be a while,” he muttered over his shoulder. He sounded a little British.

I wasn’t in any rush.

Countless little metal ducks moved back and forth across five rows. Five shots per game. A full score brought me to the top shelf of giant teddy bears, inflatable pool toys, and board games. Two full scores, however, opened the see-through cabinet of premium prizes. A lightsaber toy? Come on. Not some cheap knock-off either. I’d be voted uncle of the year by one of my Star Wars-obsessed nephews. Sloan’s eldest was into Star Wars too.

I could also win a multi-tool for Kaden, a ring-shaped LED light for my selfie princess of a niece, a Bluetooth speaker for basically any of the kids, an allegedly indestructible iPhone case for my eldest nephew Crew who’d recently enlisted, and tickets for rides.

The guy in front of me would be lucky to get an eraser.

I stood a few feet behind him and watched him make every mistake in the book. His stance was all wrong, he acted as if there would be an actual recoil—spoiler alert, there wouldn’t be with the world’s lightest air rifle—and he sucked in a big breath before every shot.

I shook my head and scooped more ice cream into my mouth.

He was hopeless.

He had a patch on the backpack he was wearing that read “A Tad Awkward.”

Cute.

“Bollocks,” he whispered.

“Last round,” the man behind the counter announced.

Could I keep quiet?

I could never keep quiet.

“Exhale before you aim, then squeeze the trigger gently,” I said.

“Before I aim?” The guy swung around.

“Whoa.” I lowered the rifle toward the ground. “Have you never held a rifle before?”

It wasn’t until after that I got a glimpse of his face, and fuck me if he wasn’t a bit too beautiful for my comfort.

Perhaps a little young. I didn’t generally go for men under thirty.

He lifted his gaze as if he hadn’t been prepared to find someone so much taller behind him, and it was a funny sight. He could not look more clueless.

“No, I haven’t.” He tried to stand straighter. “But it seemed like a good activity to blow off steam and lose my anger.”

Oh. I nodded. “Yeah, the best marksmen always shoot with their feelings. That’s how they hit their targets every time.”

He frowned.

I stuck another spoonful of ice cream into my mouth and nodded at the duck board. “Like I said. Exhale before you aim, then gently squeeze the trigger. And relax your stance.”

His frown deepened as he turned around and lifted the rifle. “My father is a hunter. He always says you should hold your breath.”

“Is he a good hunter?”

He didn’t answer.

Technically, you did hold your breath, but you did it on the exhale. The rest depended on several factors—the type of gun, the range, and so on. This guy was no more than twelve, thirteen feet from his target. Whether he held his breath at fifty-percent exhale or seventy-five wouldn’t make much of a difference.

The next two shots missed the target too, but he was getting closer. On the third, he knocked down his first duck.

“Oh! Did you see that?!” He spun around again, remembering to keep his rifle aimed at the ground, and smiled widely.

How many girls’ hearts had he broken with that smile?

“Good job. Now you have something to teach your old man.” I finished my ice cream before waving my tiny plastic spoon at the board. “You still have two shots left.”