Page 122 of Playing the Pucking Game
“Who pissed on his fries?” I mutter.
“He just needs to feel the rhythm. It’ll fix him right now,” Monroe says confidently.
“Have you met Handsy before?” Fletch asks. “That man doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do.”
Fletch’s words don’t deter Monroe. Our lovable puppy just smiles and states, “You mark my words, by the end of the night, he’ll be up battling with us.”
“You say that like any of us want to be a part of this,” Fletch mutters.
“Storm’s in, aren’t you?” Monroe says, looking directly at me.
“Uh…”
“See. He’s excited.”
Fletch snorts a laugh as Killer and Brit emerge from the elevator.
“Oh, fuck, yeah,” Killer shouts. “I used to fucking love doing this at the arcade when I was a kid.”
We all gawk at him.
“What?” he asks as he begins dragging my coffee table aside to leave us with a big space in front of the TV.
“My little sisters will tell you that they were the best, but little do they know, I used to let them win.”
“Dude, we’ve seen you in a club. You can’t dance for shit.”
“You wanna fucking bet, motherfucker?” Killer challenges as I set the TV on and give the remote to Monroe, assuming he knows where to find the game we need to get this disaster started.
He finds it and syncs the mats to it, making them light up and play an annoying tune.
“Marilyn, you in?” Killer asks, his eyes glittering with the same kind of excitement as when he scores a goal.
“Hell, yeah. I promised Harper that I’d film it so she can watch,” he says, referring to his sister.
“Pulling out the big guns tonight, huh, Marilyn?” Fletch mocks. “Handsy doesn’t stand a chance.”
Our goalie glares at Fletch, but we already know he’s lost this round. Give it thirty minutes and he’s going to be on his feet and showing us his moves.
"I hate you all,” Handsy sulks.
“Okay, I need to get in the zone,” Killer says, dragging his hoodie off and tossing it to the end of the couch before ripping his shoes and socks off.
“Whoa…you can put them the fuck away,” I bark. “They smell like rotting animals.”
“I’ve showered since practice.”
“I don’t give a fuck.”
“We can’t do it in socks; we’ll all be on our asses. You’re just gonna have to get over your aversion to feet.”
“We don’t have to do this,” Handsy mutters, but everyone ignores him.
“If you leave any trace of rotting corpse behind, you’re paying to have this place deep-cleaned.”
Killer rolls his eyes before he begins a series of warm-ups.
“Fuck me, he’s taking this seriously,” Brit mutters as he takes a seat beside me to watch the show.
