Page 8 of A Trident Christmas Baby

Ace squinted, concern tugging at him. Irish was usually unshakable—calm, confident, and steady. Today, he looked like a man who had just gone ten rounds with a bull.

“He’s walking like he’s trying to navigate a minefield blindfolded but secretly hoping one might go off just to end the misery,” Diego stated, earning a few chuckles from the team.

“I don’t know. The dude looks like he has a stick up his ass,” Potter chimed in, and Ace almost burst out laughing.

As Irish approached the group, Ace called out. “What the hell’s up with you? You get into a fight with a bear on your way here?”

Irish waved him off but winced as he adjusted his duffle bag over his shoulder. “I don’t want to talk about it,” Irish muttered, not meeting Ace’s eyes.

Ace raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think you have a choice. You’re walking so carefully I half-expect you to pull out fucking tutu as if you were auditioning for ‘Ballet with the SEALs.’ What’s going on, man?”

“Only if I could get my balls in a fucking tutu,” Irish muttered under his breath. But Ace heard him, and so did the others.

The rest of the team—Potter, Frost, Dino, Diego, Skittles, and Stitch—had gathered around, sensing the promise of entertainment. Irish shifted uncomfortably, his face reddening under the weight of their collective stares.

“It’s stupid,” Irish muttered, shaking his head.

“That’s what makes it worth hearing,” Frost chimed in, grinning. “Spill it, man.”

Irish exhaled loudly like a man preparing to confess to a crime. He set his rifle case down and raked his fingers through his hair. “It’s the damn cat.”

“The cat?” Potter echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“Mr. Whiskers,” Irish clarified bitterly, as if the name alone carried a curse.

The team collectively perked up. Everyone knew about Irish’s ongoing feud with his daughter’s cat. Mr. Whiskers was a massive, orange tabby with the temperament of a land shark and a weird obsession with humping clothes.

Ace crossed his arms as he tried like hell to hide his smile. “Alright, start from the beginning. What did Mr. Whiskers do this time?”

Irish sighed, dragging a hand over his face. “Bailey and I were watching TV earlier. I was just sitting there, minding my own business. The next thing I know, Mr. Whiskers starts doing these zoomies like he was possessed. The little psycho tore around the living room like a bat out of hell. I swear to God, he was bouncing off walls.”

Skittles snorted. “Zoomies? Big bad sniper taken down by zoomies? Please tell me this gets worse.”

“Oh, it gets worse,” Irish said darkly. “The furry menace suddenly stops, looks right at me—right at me, like he’s been planning this—and he leaps onto the couch. Specifically, ontome.”

Dino started laughing. “Wait, wait. You’re saying the cat who hates you decided to jump on your lap out of nowhere?”

Irish nodded grimly. “Exactly. And not just jump on me. He sprawls out like some kind of furry emperor, pinning me to the couch. Bailey’s staring like she’s seen a ghost, and I’m sitting there, too stunned to move. We’re both thinking, ‘What fresh hell is this?’”

By now, the guys were grinning, and Frost was already wiping his eyes. “What’d you do?”

“I tried to move him,” Irish said, his voice lowering like he was revealing a deep, personal tragedy. “Because, you know, I had to take a piss. So, I gently—gently—pick him up, and he justsnarlsat me. Next thing I know, he digs his claws into my…uh…”

Potter’s eyes widened. “Oh, no.”

“Yep,” Irish confirmed, looking solemn. “Right through my pajama bottoms. Thin as tissue paper, and he got me. Clawed me right in the fucking balls.”

The group exploded into laughter, Stitch almost doubling over as tears streamed down his face.

“You’re telling me,” Diego said between wheezing breaths, “that acat—a Garfield reject took out the team’s number-one sniper? Gotcha where it hurts most?”

“Sniper to sniper,” Frost added, “that’s a precision strike if I’ve ever heard one.”

“Shut up,” Irish groaned, rubbing his forehead.

Potter wasn’t letting it go. “This is the guy who can take out a target from a mile away, and he gets outsmarted by a house cat.Outstanding.”

“I mean, really,” Dino chimed in, grinning. “What are you gonna do next time we’re under fire? Call Bailey to send in Mr. Whiskers as backup?”

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