How many times had Toni yelled at Bash about that damn nickname? She could distinctly remember more than a few.
Age eight. Sledding on Wolf Pack Hill. The time when she challenged Bash to a sled race and he hit a stretch of extra-slippery ice. “Ant! Ant! Get out of the way! I can’t stop this thing!”
Age eight. She’d had to veer into a snowbank, from where she’d spluttered, “Don’t call me Ant!”
Age ten. At the hockey rink, where her quickness and smaller size meant she could occasionally slip past the bigger boys. “Ant! Head’s up!”
Age ten.She’d fielded the puck from Bash, then turned and slammed it into the net. “Don’t call me that,” she’d yelled at him instead of celebrating the goal.
Age twelve. Her own backyard, where she and Tristan and Bash dared each other to see who could climb
