Page 152 of Snap Shot

Fletch shakes his head next to me with a disapprovingmm-mm-mm.

“Negative fifty out of ten. Get the fuck outta my face.” Wade's meaty prosthetic hands jiggle as they swat Masterson to the side. His loud clap rings in my ears. “Okay, who else we have here?” He skims over Olsen and Szecze. “Thor and Hulk. How predictable. Five out of ten. Combined.” Narrowed eyes study our center, tugging at a fin. “What's this, Fletch?”

Fletch peers through the mouth of a massive whale costume. “I'm Moby Dick.” Stifled laughter in the background eggs him on. “He's a giant sperm whale.”

Hand slapping his forehead and pulling down his face, Wade groans. “Fucking hell, Donovan. Even your cock is a literary character. Seven out of ten for pun potential, though.”

I'm next. He grimaces at my near-naked get-up. “Not sure you can call it 'He-Man' if your prick can fit in those tighty whities. Eight out of ten, though. Very realistic. Nice wig.” One of those hefty silicone hands fluffs the blond, pageboy bob.

“Hands off. You'll mess it up.”

I smack his hand away with my sword. He smacks my chest plate in return. Our hands flap at one another, a full-blown slapping fight breaking out after I drop the plastic sword.

“For fuck's sake. Will you two grow up?” Jaeg rumbles midway through a burp, half-sitting atop the edge of the sectional.

I slap Wade one more time. He elbows me in the gut and stomps over to where our captain is. Skylar cuddles protectively around him, head-to-toe in a glowy green. “You call his dick ‘Superman?’”

Sky giggles and presses her nose into Derrick's cheek. “Man of Steel.”

“I expected something more original.” Wade growls out a disgusted noise. “Why aren't you Lois Lane?”

Skylar nuzzles further as Jaeg brings a beer to his mouth, then drops a kiss onto his neck.

“I'm his Kryptonite.”

He lets the trace of a smile slip.

A chorus ofawwsechoes. Wade glares back before gagging. “Fine. Seven out of ten.”

Fletch intones a swoony sigh, lifting his tailfin to plop down beside them. “Should've been eleven. You guys are so cute, it makes me wanna sleep on the highway tonight.”

“What are you supposed to be, Boehner?” Olsen grunts and crushes a beer can in a fist.

Wade's eyebrows knit together. “You live under a rock or something?” He shows off his costume: an orange, plaid Henley, torn overalls, fake oversized hands and feet, and hair styled in a messy mop. “I'm Wreck-It Ralph.” He flexes his arms above his head, puffing out his chest. “I'm six-foot-four, I weigh two-hundred-and-ten pounds. I wreck pussy, professionally. I'm very good at what I do. Probably the best—”

Groans of disbelief and boos reply to his macho display. “Ah, fuck off. No shots for you losers. Stick to the keg beer over there.”

We call out his bullshit. Wade can't help but entertain. This year we've got a lineup of vampire shots made of whiskey and vermouth, werewolf shots of Jägermeister and chocolate liqueur, and these spicy Fireball shots he calls Dragon's Breath. Within half an hour, we've all had two rounds of each. Or was it three? The Rocky Horror Picture Show plays from a projector against the bare wall on the far side of the top floor. A DJ starts his set in one corner as women enter from the front door.

“Who are these girls?” I mumble to Wade. Groups of three to five of them keep joining the party.

“Friends,” Wade says through a greedy smile, rubbing his hands together. “Everyone on your worst behavior. Except you, Olsen.” He points to the defender, who throws his velvet cape over his shoulder and swings Mjölnir around. “Don't harass the nice ladies.”

The women descend like lemmings upon the team, all touchy-feely and encouraging us to take shots from various naked body parts. I wasn't against partaking in the past, but now? Indi takes up every spot in my heart and mind.

When a Playboy bunny gropes my ass, I let out a girlish shriek. She titters out awhoopsand I backpedal with a stern wag of my index finger. “No, thank you!” My body is Indi’s and no one else's.

Fletch whines and cradles a few beers in his arms, backing into the spot I'd been eying behind the DJ booth. Hiding in the washroom is the next-best option. I scratch my calf under the furry lining of my boots, then pull out my phone from the pocket built into the chest plate. My most recent message displays the headless mirror selfie Indi sent earlier that evening, showing off her fitted Beyoncé-style black bodysuit and fishnet leggings in the mirror.

Me:How's the party at Giachetti's?

Gym Girl:Boring. Bea got way too drunk, and I took her home.

Gym Girl:I was gonna ask how the team party is going, but you're texting me so it can't be that great.

Me:It's nuts! Wade knows how to throw them, but the puck bunnies are out for blood tonight.

Gym Girl:Aww. How sad for you.

---