Around the field, muffled laughs echo into the air.
Dramatically, Everett crawls toward a stack of tires, leveraging himself against it to pull himself up.
One look at him, and it’s not hard to see it’s a solid hit, which means he’s out.
But because we all know Everett couldn’t wait to get back to the lobby where his phone is tucked in his locker, Dylan shoots again, in the other leg.
Everett buckles, clinging to a tire.
“Goddammit! That’s going to leave a bruise. You got me.”
It’s a waste of ammo, I suspect as a lesson to the rest of their dwindling team. But until Everett raises his hands and the marker, then calls out loudly for the referee to acknowledge he’s been eliminated, he’s still fair game.
Showing him mercy, a referee in the middle of the field blows a whistle, the entire time laughing as he fans out a hand, allowing Everett to exit the field.
Except, I follow Everett’s line of vision as he tosses a chiding glance toward a tree. Angled behind it is none other than Jameson West.
As soon as the whistle blows to restart the game, I caw to get Dylan’s attention. Using hand signals, I point him to ten o’clock near the trees.
On his cue, we both fire.
Red paint splashes into the air as Jameson dives for the ground. “Cover me!” he yells.
Determined as I am, Dylan stands to get him. Like oil and water, the paintballs bounce off him. But not before Dylan is shot by Marcello, who I in turn take down.
“Run!” I yell to Marco, who dashes down halfway way across the field. Shielding Dante, the whole way, he ducks and dodges blue paint, before they take cover behind an overturned spiral corrugated pipe.
The aftermath is an ugly blue and red mess all over the course.
That jealous fury rages through me again as I reassign blame to Jameson, and suddenly, everything around me falls still.
We’re down an integral member of our team. Even though they’re down two, and this is meant to be a weirdly barbaric display of celebration. What’s worse is, it feels undeniably poetic.
I’m doing everything in my power to protect my brother Dante, while dodging the blues.
Breath stifles in my chest.
It’s this moment I know I’ve got to tell them about Avery. Not in hypotheticals or wine lingo. I want them to know I’m completely, irrevocably in love with her.
If I don’t want other men asking her on dates or for her number, certainly not Jameson’s hands on her, I’ve got to. How can I expect others to respect our relationship,herto feel confident in us, if I haven’t claimed what we’ve built to the people who matter?
“We’re out!”
Dylan and Marcello raise their hands and markers for the referees.
Once they exit the field, a renewed energy pulses through me. I can’t do nothing and expect to win.
I can’t stay still.
With stealthy strides, I whip past hay bales and tire stacks.
Mike is on my tail as I crawl into a spiral pipe, cawing to signal for Marco to keep going. Then I roll out, taking cover in the thick of the trees.
Behind me, a shout ricochets in the blue-spritzed wind.
“They got me, Stef.”
At first, I think it’s Dante.
