Page 92 of Delay of Game
“Do we though?” Fieste whined.
“Yep,” I answered with a level of conviction I did not believe in. “We’ve got to make the effort. And if you need something to look forward to, the ropes course looks fun as hell and the staff has assured me it’s incredibly easy. Built for lazy C-suite executives.”
He pitched back his head with a groan. “You really have to pick now to be motivating?”
“Apparently. Now catch your breath and let’s finish this thing.”
“Finishing this thing” required another three hours of punishment. By the time the staff strapped me into the ropes gear, I fully regretted not taking our chances with ax throwing.
But in a stroke of genuine team spirit, Luke White, reluctant kicker and burgeoning business mogul, not only allowed special teams to brew beer in his brewery but also closed one of his restaurants for the post-event party.
The Crown & Copper vibrated with activity as player’s friends and family filtered into the bar. House music shook the weathered rafters of the colonial-era building, and speciallycrafted beer flowed freely from the taps into handmade steins. The kitchen produced a non-stop flow of appetizers eaten almost as soon as they hit the buffet table.
Noa hooked an arm around his wife, Lena, as Fieste regaled her with the come-from-behind story of the obstacle course.
“And Rob, who I should mention,” Fieste gave me a wink before flitting his eyes around the bar and lowering his voice, “absolutely hates me, looks me in the eye and says, ‘you got this.’”
He pressed his palm to his chest, holding his other hand to the sky. “It was almost a divine experience. Energy coursed through my body, all the aches and bruises melted away, and I was healed enough to finish the course.”
Lena laughed. “Seriously? Rob, you? You were motivational?”
“We were going to lose.” I shrugged. “I just wanted the kid to keep going.”
“But then the floodgates opened,” Fieste continued bombastically. “Rob showed real leadership ability out on the course.”
“I’m turning in my captain’s patch at the end of the season,” I muttered.
“No way.” Trent Vogt interjected himself into the conversation, stein in hand. “We need you, Grant. You know, being old and all that.”
“You mean having seniority? That’s called seniority,” I countered.
“And here I called it being a crotchety old man who doesn’t know when to quit,” he grinned, ribbing me in the side.
“You lie in bed at night and pray you’ll have a career as long as me. Keep running your mouth and some rookie will lay you out during pre-season.” I gave a sidelong grin at Fieste who laughed.
“Damn over aggressive rookies, huh?” He shrugged.
Trent cocked his head, narrowing his eyes at the rookie. “Holy shit, Fieste, is that a hickey?”
His hand jumped to his throat. “What?”
Trent prized Fieste’s hand off his neck, revealing a purple mark just above his collarbone. “Man, I know you’re young, but hickeys? You can’t be doing stuff like that on our team.”
“It’s not a hickey” Fieste slipped away from Trent, cheeks burning red.
“It’s that Gracie chick, isn’t it? Rob’s friend?” Trent asked.
A chill ran down my spine, vision temporarily going black. “What?”
A panicked look flitted across Fieste’s eyes.
“That’s her name, right?” Trent asked. “Kit and I saw them downtown last week at a brewery. They were getting drinks together.”
“We weren’t getting drinks together,” Fieste insisted.
“You were at the bar. What the hell else were you doing?” Trent shrugged.
“We were there for trivia, with a group.”
