Frank pulled up in front of Brandon’s flat. “Before you go, the guys want to get together for paintball again this Saturday. You game?”
And there it was: that Cheshire cat grin, which melted all the ice along Frank’s spine.
“I wouldn’t miss it.” Brandon leaned across the console and kissed Frank. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Right. See you tonight.”
He waited until Brandon had disappeared through the door, and then he drove off. With his coffee half gone, the throbbing in his temples relieved, and his eyes adjusted to the morning light, Frank felt like an idiot for being so hung up on a damned dream. He vaguely remembered some paratroopers landing in the garden at some point during the dream, probably a throwback to watching Red Dawn a week or two ago, and he hadn’t been eyeballing the overcast sky for parachutes. Because it was only a dream. Just like seeing Brandon coming out of Andrew’s room had been.
It was only a dream.
“You have any more of those grenades?” Frank overheard Brandon asking Chris as everyone geared up for the first game of the afternoon.
Chris grinned. “I have a few. You going to throw them at me this time?”
Brandon returned the grin. “Don’t want to get hit? Don’t let your enemies get so close.”
“That how that works?” Chuckling, Chris pulled a couple of paint grenades out of his bag.
“How much do I owe you?”
Chris shrugged. “Take them. We’ll call it a prize for killing me last time.”
Brandon laughed and took the grenades. “So what’s my prize if I kill you this time?”
Chris stiffened. He gave Brandon a weird look, one that struck Frank as cold and maybe even mildly disgusted, but without a word, he picked up his gear and headed into the crowded ready area.
Brandon rolled his eyes and clipped a grenade to his belt beside one of his extra hoppers.
Frank eyed Chris, then Brandon. “You two back on speaking terms?”
“Just had to sort out a misunderstanding or two.” Brandon fixed the second and third grenades into place. “We didn’t have the same expectations that first time, and . . .” He trailed off with a half-shrug.
“And now you do?”
Brandon smirked. “You’re not getting jealous, are you?”
Frank laughed. “No, of course not.”
“Sure you’re not.” Brandon winked. “But yeah, I think he thought since I went home with him that night, I was game for something a bit more serious. And I guess I didn’t make it clear enough I wasn’t. So now we’ve cleared the air. It’s all good.”
“Good. Wouldn’t want the two of you shooting each other for spite.”
Brandon sniggered. “Competitive as the two of us are? That might happen anyway.”
Frank put his hands over his ears. “The ref didn’t just hear that.”
They both laughed and continued getting their equipment together. Once they were ready—Brandon with his gun and paint, Frank with his orange tape and a whistle—they joined the others.
Geoff gave the usual pregame speech. Rules, safewords, scenario, and all of that.
The teams went out on the field, each gathering at one end. Frank watched Brandon huddled with his own team. All the team members looked down at the ground, where Brandon seemed to be drawing something with his finger. Then he gestured sharply in the air, reminding Frank of SWAT and military movies.
The team broke apart and jogged in pairs towards different sides of their end of the field. Brandon used his boot to erase whatever he’d drawn in the dirt, and then he trotted off too, keeping his head down and moving almost silently across the ground.
The siren sounded, and the players were in motion. Frank watched the middle of the field, keeping an eye on any players he could see. He glanced in the direction Brandon had gone.
Surprise, surprise: Brandon had vanished.
Even though it was completely impossible short of inventing teleportation, Frank glanced behind himself. The skin on his neck prickled from being unable to see Brandon. The man’s skill for moving on the battlefield made him paranoid, and he was glad for the ref job, even if Geoff as field owner was more than happy to bet his arse, too, as amply proven. However, a player had to deal with a great many more factors. Opponents. Paint left. Moving through the territory. The objective of capturing the flag or a player from the opposing camp. Whereas he only kept an eye on the players. The ones he could see.
Far to the left, the first heated exchange started, pretty close to the red team’s base. Frank immediately peered right, assuming it might be a distraction from what was really going on. In any case, it seemed the reds were going for all-out assault on the blue team’s position, rolling right over them before Chris could lead his team out into the field. Chris wasn’t much of a leader anyway—too keen to score his own point; people followed him not out of loyalty but because he was a very good player and some people moved in his wake, like weak players often rallied around strong ones. Not an example of the spirit of a small combat unit, but it worked for a while.