Barbara doesn't pull her hand back at the last minute. Doesn't even consider it. Though there is some consideration of him coming closer to retrieve it—and the one he replaces it with. A memento to the fact he has to have been here a while before she nearly flew right into him rounding that earlier platform. The cards don't just appear from thin air, sitting at the farthest thing down the prize list, at an enormous leap from the next highest. Which is, at the very least, the litany of logic she would like to say she was paying any attention to when she first looked at the replacement card.

Dick Grayson, and his carelessly perfect smile.
Stopping clenching hard right behind her breastbone.

Even as she pushed through to give the small piece of compound paper a wave, like it was inconsequential (and there wasn't the hard, precise pressure between the pad of her thumb and the side of her pointer finger, to make sure it couldn't go flying). "And cover this face? How would anyone have any clue it was you, then? I wouldn't trade all my earlier GP for a giant Chocobo head."