Page 46 of Carrick
I looked at Bellamy, still in the doorway, book in hand and expression somewhere between amused and horrified.
She caught my eye and said, “You gonna warn me if there’s a hazing ritual?”
“Thisisthe hazing ritual.”
She smiled—just a flicker—but it landed hard. “I guess I don’t have anything better to do while we’re waiting to hear from Quinn.”
Sully clapped. “It’s settled. Tonight, eight p.m. Basement. Be there, or be... civilized.”
“Someone please sedate him,” Maddy muttered.
“Already tried,” Deacon said. “Didn’t take.”
The basement didn’t always looklike a nerdy war room. On most days, it passed as a gym, or a strategy hub, or the occasional blueprint zone for some questionably legal shooting range Sully swore was “fully hypothetical.” But on Game Night? It transformed.
Bellamy stood at the foot of the stairs like she’d just stepped through a portal. Her eyes swept the room, taking in the folding tables lined with snacks arranged with suspicious precision, the whiteboard that dominated the back wall—yes, a real whiteboard—still scrawled with last month’s score tallies and a chaotic list of inside jokes that read like a code-breaker’s fever dream.
Notes like “Sully gets no trade after Sheep-ageddon,” “Carrick owes Jax a beer for that dirty Monopoly card,” and “Deacon is a menace and should be studied” glared back in different colors. And in the center of the game table, displayed with pride and reverence, sat the crown—cardboard, duct tape, and enough glitter to trigger a cleanup protocol.
Bellamy pointed, blinking. “What the hell is that?”
“The Catan Crown,” I said, aiming for maximum boredom.
“You say that like it means something.”
“It does,” Sully declared, appearing behind her like a deranged crow and spreading his arms with theatrical flair. “It is the sacred symbol of victory, bestowed upon the one who dominates the board and crushes their enemies with economic superiority.”
Bellamy turned to me, one brow arched. “He wrote that down ahead of time, didn’t he?”
“Printed copies,” I said. “There’s a binder.”
Sully waved a laminated page over his head. “Color-coded, baby.”
Deacon already sat at the table, arms crossed, beer in hand—his version of excitement. Maddy hovered by the snack table, scooping popcorn with one hand and pretending not to eavesdrop while clearly watching everything, especially the way Bellamy kept looking at me like she hadn’t decided if this was ridiculous or intriguing.
I moved to the shelf and pulled down the game box. Bellamy tracked every movement, arms crossed, scanning the room like she was assessing threat levels. “You take this seriously.”
“It’s a blood sport in this house.”
She grinned. “And you want me on your team?”
I gave her the most casual shrug I could manage. “Jax lies. Sully cheats. Deacon hoards. Maddy plays favorites. I need someone I can trust.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Flattering. But you’re just trying to get back in my pants.”
“Absolutely.”
She laughed—an open, unguarded sound that hit like a punch to the chest. God, it was easy with her. Not just the scenes. Not just the quiet aftermath. This. The banter. The wild,magnetic way she looked at me like she saw every dangerous edge and still wasn’t even slightly impressed.
I handed her the green pieces without asking.
She took them. “Green, huh?”
“Color of quiet confidence.”
“Or swamp goblins.”
“Same thing.”
