“Stop it, now!” I marched up to Young Jack and Forrest, getting in their space. “I have too few days off for me to be wasting it like this.”
Forrest—easily cowed as a young werewolf if he was presented with enough force—lowered his eyes and listened carefully.
Young Jack, having known me since he was just out of kindergarten, was less impressed. He stood next to Forrest and hip checked him, knocking him off balance.
“Jack.” Death was in my voice as I slammed my hands on his shoulders and gripped them. “Do you want this match to be against me?”
Young Jack tucked his chin and guiltily looked away.
I narrowed my eyes, then stepped back. “All of you are being silly,” I snarled.
“They started it,” Amelia began.
“Ah!” I held up a finger. “I don’t care. All of you know better than to fight this close to Timber Ridge.”
I waited for several seconds to make sure none of them were going to argue.
When no one met my eyes except for Teresa, who gave me a cherubic smile she’d inherited from Ember, I started walking to the paved road that led the way to the Pack land. “Come on,” I called when no one but Teresa moved to follow me. “We’re going to settle this back at the lodge.”
They trailed behind me, dragging their feet. But that was fine—I knew how to best motivate opinionated packmates.
“What happened?” I asked Teresa, making my voice loud enough so Young Jack and Amelia could hear, too.
“I think Forrest said that because Jack doesn’t want to try changing and becoming a werewolf, he’s a wimp.”
“I didn’t say that!” Forrest objected. He kicked his snail pace into a lope so he could catch up with me.
Naturally, Young Jack, Amelia, and Remy hurried along behind him.
“Yes, you did,” Young Jack snarled. “Because you’re so muscle-bound in the head you can’t imagine anyone wanting something besides what you’ve chosen—did you ever stop to think it’s idiots like you that make me not want to be a werewolf?”
“What did you say?” Forrest growled.
“Enough,” I said in my firm, retribution-promising voice.
They fell blessedly silent as we trudged along, barely noticing when I took a turn off of the paved road that would take us to the lodge.
“You two are going to settle this with pickleball,” I announced when we finally entered the meadow that contained the lodge.
“But pickleball is the worst!” Young Jack groaned.
Forrest was silent, but when I glanced back at him his forehead had a worried pinch to it.
Good.
I led the way to the lone pickleball court I’d personally fundraised to build—money aside, it hadn’t taken much pleading with Hudson, the Alpha at the time, to make it happen as Lynn—his daughter and my best friend—had been very keen on the game as well.
Studying the court brought a stabbing sensation to my heart as it reminded me of all the time Lynn and I had spent playing on it, before she’d left with Hudson when Pre-Dominant Harka made Greyson the new Alpha.
Don’t dwell on it. Lynn is gone, and I learned my lesson about getting close to wolves—and wolf politics.
I shook my head and swiveled to face Forrest and Young Jack. “Get the gear.”
Young Jack grumbled as he slumped his way over to the garden shed that held most of the sports equipment the wolves kept and dug out the necessary paddles and whiffle ball while Forrest wrestled the net into place.
When they finished, they stood across from each other and peered at me.
“You know the rules—have at it. But if either of you cheat I’ll use you as an obstacle in my target practice session tonight.” I looked meaningfully at the part of the forest I put my paper targets up in for shooting practice. I purposely avoided practicing in public because I didn’t want the werewolves figuring out what level my skills were at.
While the wolves only made me train with them about three times a week, I voluntarily practiced hunter skills on at least two other days per week—it was the only way I’d have a hope of surviving the sessions, much less ever win anything.
When I’d been young the Quillons had sent trainers to train with me so I could pass the accreditation test. My old teachers still showed up every now and then to make sure I was progressing—hunters are supposed to be the sharp shooters of the supernatural world. I was okay—no slouch, but I was no genius either.
The back-and-forth tap of the whiffle ball sped up, then cracked when Forrest hit it too hard. Young Jack dove to avoid it, and when the whiffle ball smacked the ground it careened past him, hitting the non-regulation walls the werewolves had built directly behind each player space so they wouldn’t have to run all the way out to the forest to find their wayward balls.