Page 38 of Play Maker

“Nothing. Do you two want a drink?”

Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have used the same line as I did last night, and then maybe my face wouldn’t feel like it’s ten seconds from bursting into flames, but whatever. I’m not trying to go round two …

I grab three bottles from the fridge—test batch, not carbonated the way I want yet, but whatever—and slide them across the island without a word.

“This one’s new,” I say, because it feels like I have to say something. “Oenobrew batch we’re playing with.”

Skinner pops his open without hesitation. “You should give lessons.”

“I’m not giving you my playbook,” I joke.

Kolby just watches me like he does—quiet, measuring. He takes the bottle but doesn’t say anything.

I hate that I want him to.

Skinner takes a sip, makes a face like it surprises him, then nods, pleased. “Oh, this tastes like doom. You should call itImminent Threat.”

I blink. “What?”

He shrugs, gesturing toward the bottle. “It’s fruity at first, then hits like a truck. Just like the text we all got from the men in black.”

Kolby finally takes a sip, swallows. His jaw flexes once. “What aboutBlitz Protocol?”

I roll my eyes. “Absolutely not. That sounds like an energy drink you’d get at a truck stop.”

He smirks, and I look away before I do something stupid, like smirk back.

Skinner taps the bottle with his finger. “Neutral Zone Brew.OrBreak Coverage.Ooo!The Red Zone Life.”

“Okay, I’m regretting this already.”

“Code Black,” Kolby says.

I pause.

He doesn’t look at me, just takes another sip like he’s peacocking, probably doing his endzone dance.

Skinner nods thoughtfully. “That’s not bad. Strong. Ominous.” Which he pronounces wrong, and on any other night, I may correct him, but he’s been through enough. “Might make a great playoff launch name.”

Yeah, well, it was a nice thought. “Or a warning label.”

Skinner ignores me. “Ooo—Silent Snap.Like the play. Or, you know, the creeping dread that someone’s trying to dismantle the team from the inside.”

“That’s really the mood you want on a beer label?” I ask, leaning back against the counter.

“We’re not exactly living inlight and citrusytimes, Lo.”

I raise a shoulder. “Fair.”

I look down at my own bottle. It’s good, balanced, not sweet, and just sharp enough to feel real.

MaybeDome Pressure. MaybeSudden Death. Maybe something that says, yeah, we’re watching the walls and waiting for something to break through. But I’m not even sure they know the line was cut, or the server was put on a loop.

Kolby’s voice cuts in again.“Call itContainment.”

I hurry over and grab my notebook from the table behind the couch and jot it down.

“She likes it, Kolby,” Skinner jokes and immediately yawns. And, of course, I yawn in response.

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