Stefan had already fixed his trousers and offered a hand to Chris. Chris clasped Stefan’s forearm and rose on shaking legs, moving gingerly, which didn’t surprise Frank; Chris had certainly been blessed below the belt, and he was visibly aroused beneath those snug camo trousers. Frank was willing to bet money that Chris would capture someone in the next game, and whoever the lucky bastard was would be getting one hell of a fuck.
Maybe that lucky bastard would be Stefan. If Frank knew Chris, the cocky ex-pilot was already plotting how to stalk Stefan on the field, capture him, and give him the revenge fuck of his life. Frank made a mental note to keep a close eye on both of them.
The guys picked up their markers. Stefan kept an arm around Chris’s waist as they started back towards the field, and Frank followed them to the ready area, where most of the others had gathered.
One round in, and some were already comparing battle scars.
“This one’s going to bruise up nice and dark.” One of the players yanked up his sleeve and revealed a bright red welt on his forearm. “Might have to put a picture of that fucker on Facebook once it’s got some colour.”
Mike grimaced. “Fuck, mate. That looks like it hurts.”
“Of course it does.” The other guy winked. “That’s why you’re a ref, lad. Can’t handle a little bump or two.”
“Yeah, fuck you.” Mike waved a gloved hand. “I’ve got scars from worse shots than that.”
“Check this one out.” Another player pulled up his trouser leg. “Mark like this, someone’s got their gun turned up too hot.”
Geoff inspected the welt, which was even more impressive than the one the first guy had shown off. Shaking his head, Geoff looked out at the rest of the guys. “Right, then. Everybody calibrate your markers again before you go out on the field. Somebody’s running hot.”
Grumbling and mumbling rippled through the group, but everyone nodded obediently and picked up their weapons before filing towards the calibration bench. One by one, everyone fired their markers over the chronograph, adjusting them to make sure their paint wasn’t flying dangerously fast. All the while, the battle scar comparisons continued, as they likely would until well into tomorrow when welts had turned to bruises.
Geoff looked up from calibrating Chris’s marker. “I think we’re missing the most important issue here. Anyone score a capture yet?”
Chris and Stefan exchanged grins.
“There was at least one I’m aware of.” Stefan arched an eyebrow at Chris.
“It’s true.” Chris gave a resigned nod. “Motherfucking new guy snuck up on me out of nowhere.”
Mike’s jaw dropped. “Seriously?”
Chris nodded again. “Guy’s like a damned ninja out there.”
“Son of a bitch.” Geoff glanced at Frank. “All right, you win.”
“Win?” Stefan redirected that arched eyebrow to Frank. “Win what?”
Frank grinned. “A friendly little wager.”
“Oh yeah?” Stefan eyed Geoff. “What were the terms?”
“That you’d get your arse handed to you.” Mike pulled his gloves off. “Except this arsehole figured you’d capture someone.” He glared at Chris. “Thanks, Chris. You cost me twenty quid there.”
Frank lifted a finger. “Don’t forget a round of beers.”
Chris laughed. “I’d say I’m sorry, but . . .” His gaze slid towards Stefan, and they grinned at each other again.
Then Stefan tucked his marker under his arm, pulled off one glove with his teeth, and took his wallet out of the back pocket of his trousers. He freed a few bills and set them on the bench beside Chris’s marker.
“Well, as long as we’re placing bets, I’ve got one of my own.”
Geoff picked up the bills and counted them. His eyebrows jumped. “Hundred quid, eh? For what?”
Stefan stared right at Frank. “That I can capture a ref.”
A chorus of “ooh, shit” went up from the men, and the three refs exchanged glances, wide-eyed and speechless.
“Isn’t that against the rules?” Chris picked up his marker.
Geoff looked Stefan up and down, making no small gesture of taking in everything the kid had on display.
Oh, Geoff, you haven’t even seen the half of it. Frank shivered.
“Yeah, it’s against the rules.” Geoff reached for his own wallet. “But a hundred quid and a shot at that?” He laid the money on the bench beside Stefan’s. “Count me in.”
Frank’s heart pounded. There was more to his preference for refereeing than just keeping up with the younger guys. He could watch the guys who got captured, store up a few mental images for himself, and things remained simpler. Much simpler. Even when the prospective captor wasn’t one of his rentboys, which held untold potential for all kinds of trouble.
Mike smirked at Stefan. “So do I have to pony up to be eligible to be one of the captured refs?”
Stefan nodded. “Consider it preemptive consent.”
Mike damn near tore a couple of the bills in his hurry to get them out of his wallet and onto the bench.
Then all eyes were on Frank.
“Well?” Stefan squared his shoulders. “You in?”
Geoff and Mike both had the same question in their eyes, but didn’t push. They knew, and they’d back him up if he backed out.
Frank cleared his throat. “I think we’d better have at least one ref paying attention to watching the other boys instead of protecting—or not—his own arse.”
“Good idea.” Geoff added a subtle “read you loud and clear” nod.