Page 110 of The Wedding Crush

But it’s Marco who lifts his arms and marker to the referee.

They’ve evened the score.

It’s Dante and me against Mike, who I could’ve sworn I hit, and Jameson.

In my periphery, red paint catches my eye. It’s not until I squint for a closer look that I realize it’s smeared on the pants covering Mike’s calf.

Smeared.

He’s wiped it off.

Though, I’d been only half-listening to Riker amidst my blinding anger for Jameson, I distinctly remember, in between always keeping our masks on and exiting the field with hands and markers raised, he’d mentioned “wiping.” Trying to wipe off the paint after being hit, isn’t just cheating. It results in a harsh scoring penalty, and an immediate discharge from the game.

Before the whistle sounds, I throw my voice to the referee. “Mike was hit, but he tried to wipe it off.”

Guilty as ever, Mike appears behind a wooden spool. “He’s lying! I never got hit. I was on the ground. It must’ve gotten on me as I was diving for cover.”

At the referee’s request, Mike approaches him to show his otherwise spotless clothing aside from the solid splatter on his calf.

“You’re out!” the referee announces.

After Mike argues with him, earning them another penalty, the whistle blows.

Five minutes pass.

It’s quiet with only the leaves rustling in the breeze.

Jameson is somewhere in the backend of the field near the platform. Dante is flat on the ground behind a hay bale, twenty feet from the staircase, and I’m waiting in the wing.

Closing my eyes, I aim my marker, waiting.

Then I hear footsteps retreating.

With everything I’ve got, I unload in that direction until, there’s the most satisfying sharp intake of air.

“Damn!”

I got him.

To my left, Dante takes off toward the stairs, mounting the platform with his arms raised in victory.

But I don’t run to him.

Instead, I weave through the trees until I locate Jameson lying on his back. There’s red paint splattered over his groin, and he’s staring up at the muted early evening light dappled through the trees.

As if on cue, the stadium lights turn on, blaring down on me, towering over him.

Like moths to a flame, the rest of the guys pour onto the field to congratulate our last bachelor standing on making it to the end zone, when they find us.

“Oof, the family jewels.” Marcello winces at Jameson.

Dante rejoins us to get a glimpse of the carnage.

Now, that we’re all here, it feels as good a time as any. I crack my neck on either side before I meet Jameson’s stare.

“Stay away from Avery,” I warn him.

“Oh, you like her?” he says in his lackadaisical tone. There’s amusement in his expression as he licks his lips.

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