Page 32 of The Play

They all wait expectantly.

A slow grin stretches my mouth. On the other hand, Conor gets so much action his ego could probably use some coitus interruptus. “But I won’t. Go ahead. Do it.”

Foster and Alec sprint up the narrow staircase. A moment later their heavy footsteps thud on the ceiling. Incessant pounding reverberates through the house as their fists attack Conor’s bedroom door. It sounds like a SWAT team breaking into a crack den.

“Pablo’s hungry!” Foster shouts.

“Feed me,” Alec hollers.

On the other end of the sofa, Matt is shuddering from laughter.

An even louder commotion ensues. Angry cursing rings in the air, followed by the frantic footsteps of two huge hockey players racing down the stairs. Conor is on their tail, bare-chested, barefoot, with a pair of plaid boxers haphazardly sagging off one hip. His blond hair sticks up and his lips are a bit swollen.

“You fucking assholes,” he growls.

“What?” Foster blinks innocently. He gestures to the coffee table. “Our pig needs his lunch. We have apet, bro. Pet comes before pussy.”

“Pet before pussy,” Matt echoes.

Gavin tears his eyes off the video game and nods gravely. “The wise words of Thomas Jefferson.”

“I fed him this morning,” Conor protests.

Foster glares. “He eats three meals a day, you selfish jackass. Look at him—he’s starving.”

I glance at the egg and his stupid face, then bury my own face in my hands and quiver in silent laughter.

“Davenport!” Conor barks. “You’re team captain. I’m filing a complaint against them.”

I lift my head, lips still twitching. “What’s the complaint?”

He jabs the air with his index finger. “I was fucking.”

“That’s not a complaint. It’s a statement of fact.”

Foster crosses his arms over his bulky chest. “Don’t forget—you gotta take five whole minutes to make sure he eats all his food.”

A vein throbs in Con’s forehead as he snatches Pablo off the table. It looks like he’s about to whip the egg against the wall, but at the last second he curses under his breath and spins around. Low mumbling comes from the kitchen.

I gape at Matt. “He’s not going to prepare actual food, is he?”

“Nah, it’s not in the rules.”

“What exactlyarethe rules?”

“They’re whatever we make them,” Foster replies with a grin. “But basically, five minutes are required whenever Pablo is in play.”

“But you can’t abuse the system,” Matt says.

“What system?” I sputter. “It’s all nonsense.”

“He eats three times a day, shits twice a day, and requires attention whenever one of us is bored and wants to harass whoever has him.”

“But you can’t play the attention card more than a few times a day,” Foster adds. “With that said, texting between the hours of one and five a.m. is highly encouraged.”

“This is all very reasonable,” Alec tells me. “What aren’t you getting?”

“Are you gonna do this to me when I have him?” I shudder. My turn is on Friday.

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