Page 124 of Playing the Pucking Game
“Holy shit, this is tense,” Handsy says, now fully invested in the proceedings.
Neither Monroe nor Killer says anything; they’re too focused.
And then it’s over.
“Yes, yes, motherfucking yes,” Monroe cheers, his hands in the air as if he’s expecting to accept praise from the crowd. “That was for you, Harps,” he says, blowing a kiss toward his cell before he slugs Killer in the arm and then walks over to stop the recording.
“Nah, fuck that. I did not just lose to a rookie.”
“The scores don’t lie, loser,” Monroe mocks.
“We need a rematch,” Killer insists.
“Oh, don’t worry, we will,” Monroe says smugly. “But I think we need to see the others in action first.”
They look at each of us, waiting for volunteers.
“Fine, if you’re gonna be pussies, we’ll pick.”
“Linc and Fletch, let’s go,” Killer says, clapping his hands to build up the excitement.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter as I shift to the edge of the couch.
I look at Fletch on the opposite couch, and his eyes narrow.
Oh, it’s on.
“What level do you want?” Monroe asks.
“Is there anything lower than beginner?” Fletch asks.
“Nope. But if little girls can do it, I’m sure you’ll be able to handle it.” Monroe laughs.
Monroe lowers the setting before he and Killer take a seat and press start.
“Ready for this?” Fletch asks as the countdown appears.
“Absolutely fucking not. You?”
“Nope. Go,” he cries.
The first step lights up on the screen before us, but despite it being in front of me, I don’t know where it is, and I have to look. But by the time my eyes drop and my head tells my leg to move, the light has already gone out, and it’s time for the next move.
“Holy fuck, this is hard.”
“We always knew you were uncoordinated, Storm, but come on, at least try.” Killer laughs.
“Fuck you. I’ve got this.”
Taking a moment to gather myself, I look at all the points I need to hit around me before focusing on the screen.
My next attempt is better; I actually manage to score a few points. I even get into some kind of flow, but it all comes crashing down—literally—when Fletch loses his footing and collides with me, sending me tumbling toward Handsy on the couch.
“Ugh, you assholes,” he grunts, shoving us both from his lap, letting us fall to the floor.
Laughter bounces off my walls, and as I roll onto my back, I can’t help but join in.
Fuck, this feels good.
