After Jamie’s brief tactical plan explanation comes to an end, we split off, first Jamie and Bea deeper into the small gathering of trees to look for the catapult. We’ve deduced from our collective surveillance of the field, that’s the one area none of us has covered and is thus likely hiding it.
Toni and Margo split off next, army crawling toward the large boulder that we can see from here is now empty, ever since Jamie and Margo nailed two of the goons hiding there.
Now it’s only Christopher and me, sneaking toward the high ground, where four out of the remaining six creeps are stationed.
The plan is Margo and Toni will wait for Jamie’s whistle signal that they’ve found the catapult and are in good position for an attack, or a different whistle if they haven’t found it but they’re in close enough range to use slingshots. Then Margo and Toni will draw the douchebags’ attention from their place of protection behind the boulder, Jamie and Bea will catch them from the front, with the woods offering them coverage, and then Christopher and I will ambush them from behind.
The nerve-wracking part is we have no idea where the other two guys are.
“Nothing like a little wildly stressful paintball combat with a bunch of wannabe GI Joes to round out your week, huh?”
I’m nervous-blabbing, and I know it. Since his brief explanation before we walked out onto the field, Christopher hasn’t spoken to me, hasn’t acknowledged me but for that offering of warmth while we strategized. For my pride’s sake, I wish I could stop talking to him.
Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t answer me, just creeps ahead, surveying the area as we sneak toward the high ground.
I don’t want to blab and beg for his attention. I know I shouldn’t be blabbing if we don’t want to give ourselves away. But it needles me that I’m once again in that old familiar territory of being ignored.
Would it be so hard to just say something to me already?
From behind, I flick his ear. Christopher glares over his shoulder at me and sets a finger to his mouth. I stick out my tongue.
His gaze flicks to my mouth and darkens.
And that’s when all hell breaks loose.
Jamie’s first whistle, an owl hoot, sounds in the distance. I silently fist pump, because that means they found the catapult. Next, Toni and Sula start the diversion, making the bros in black glance their way. The first deluge of paintballs from the catapult rains through the air from the woods and catches them off guard, nailing three out of the four guys before they even know what hit them.
Christopher’s ahead of me as I reach for a paintball, nailing the last man standing square between the shoulder blades. All four of them whip around and give us death glares.
“Aw, guys. Did we hurt your feelings?” I say, throwing their ringleader’s words back in their faces. “You look so glum. It’s just a game. Cheer up.”
Their jaws twitch in anger. Christopher stands beside me, silent, glaring at them stonily. I let myself appreciate the view as they have some kind of unspoken stare-down.
The green coveralls are tight on Christopher, strained against his thick biceps, chest, and thighs. I haven’t let myself even glance at the backdoor view—I’d rather not trip and face-plant in the middle of paintball war because I’m too distracted with ogling his ass, and I would definitely ogle it. Ever since I noticed it at game night, it takes Wonder Woman–level strength not to let my gaze wander there.
“Run along,” he tells the guys finally, jerking his head toward the sidelines.
Grumbling under their breath, they stomp past us.
I’d bet my best camera that if big, glaring Christopher weren’t there, they’d have some real choice words for me. In spite of my pride, my fury that I have to deal with men like this at all, I’m grateful Christopher’s here so I don’t have to find out.
I grin as I watch them join the other guys from their team who already stand off the field, legs wide, arms folded, looking pissed. Even though it’s a small victory, it’s a victory, nonetheless.
And that victory is short-lived.
I hear them in quick succession, Toni’s and Margo’s yelps. Christopher and I scramble up to the high ground the douche canoes had and peer over the ledge. “Shit,” Christopher mutters.
Toni and Margo are splattered in paint, walking gingerly away from their boulder toward the sideline.
By some kind of silent agreement, the two of us stay in our spot for the moment, Christopher focused on the direction we came from for our ambush, me scanning the outlook for signs of the two remaining assholes.