Page 108 of The Wedding Crush

She knew better.

“Oh, we’ll definitely see you on the field,” Dylan says, grabbing two sets of blue paintball markers, and handing me one.

After everyone has been outfitted with paintball markers, hoppers, air tanks, and battle masks, we’ve got two teams. The red team (Dante, our precious cargo, Marco, Dylan, and me), and the blue team (Marcello, Mike, Everett, and Jameson).

I hate to do my little brother this way, but he chose the wrong team today.

Soon, we’re escorted out to a sprawling field that looks like something straight out of aModern Warfarevideo game. It’s set between the trees with rustic hay bales, tire and log stacks, and overturned giant wooden spools and spiral corrugated pipes.

It’s legit.

“So, I guess congratulations are in order.” Riker slaps Dante on the back.

The rest of us howl encouragingly in solidarity.

“We’ve got you set up on our Bachelor’s Last Stand Run, which should be a good time.” Riker takes a sec to recap the simple themed game for us.

Instead of Capture the Flag, Speedball, or a regular Elimination game. We’re playing a scenario team-elimination game. Our teams have separate objectives. My team, the red team’s, goal is to escort the groom-to-be across the field to the raised platform in the back with single staircase access and a concealed perimeter. The endpoint. However, the blue team’s sole goal is to eliminate him.

Basically, it’s football with loaded paint guns to fend off the opposition, Dante is the ball, and the platform is the end zone.

Mask on always, and no penalties for unnecessary roughness.

This is going to be fun.

A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.

“Oh, I see you’re hyped about this,” Dylan says under his breath.

Indeed.

Immediately, my mind goes to work, zeroing in on the best vantage points.

“Referees will be out there to keep it fun and safe.” Riker appropriately settles his focus on Jameson, aptly sussing out my target. “You’ve got 500 paintballs per person. Typically, reserved events last two-plus hours, but we’ve got no time limits on our private parties. So, if you’ve got paintballs, you’re free to keep the party going. Any questions?”

With that, the teams scatter around the field.

Marco stays with Dante, and Dylan and I spread out.

I’m flat on my stomach, behind a wooden spool up against a netted wall when the referee blows the whistle, signaling the start.

We’re supposed to start slow. No overdoing it until we get comfortable.

Advice that apparently went in one of Everett’s ears, and out the other.

Within seconds, this guy, who lobbied for bar hopping over paintball, so he’d have phone access to text with his wife, Sophia, rushes the stacked logs where Dante’s being guarded. Rambo-style, he’s spraying blue paint everywhere, aiming nowhere, hoping it hits.

But he’s out in the open, and it’s too easy.

All his obvious hopes of ending this game are dashed quickly when Dylan sprays him in the leg.

Red paint splats all over his pants as he crashes to the ground.

You’d think it was real blood the way he howls, “Holy shit!” as he rolls around in the dirt.

We warned him about the sting, but did he listen?

“What the hell? I’m really hurt, man,” he cries out like any of us are going to give up our position to help him.

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