Stefan laughed. “What do I have to do to get you out onto the field? A bet? Taunting? Challenge you?”
Please God, change the topic. I’m trying to drive. “Check out the other guys first before you commit to entertaining gramps, all right?”
Stefan fell silent next to him while Frank negotiated a roundabout and got the car onto the narrow access road that would lead them to the playing field. It was tucked away between two wooded hills, and Frank was always a little surprised how rural Kent got once you turned your back to London and kept moving for a few miles. Farms, fields, and enough space to evade prying eyes. About five minutes later, he pulled into the cleared area they used as a parking lot. “I’ll leave you to Geoff,” Frank said as he selected a parking spot. “He’s one of the owners.”
Stefan didn’t say anything.
I think I managed to put him off with the self-pity. And I’m still his boss.
He killed the engine. A couple of the other guys were already there. Geoff and Mike sat in their open car, Mike stuffing a McSomething into his face. One of those god-awful things that smelled intensely like no food smelled naturally.
Geoff finished a bottle of Mountain Dew, crushed it in his hand, and tossed it into a plastic bag. They were decked out, faces already painted. Not that it was necessary thanks to the protective masks everyone wore, but Mike liked it. Considering those two were a well-to-do couple—one owner of a paintball business, the other a techie entrepreneur—with a house that featured three Russian blue cats and lace doilies on the loos, their martial appearance never failed to amuse Frank.
“Hey guys.” He waved as he got out of the car. “How you doing?”
Mike waved around a few fries, looking sheepish. “Don’t mind me. Haven’t managed to fucking eat anything. Had a release for a client at midnight and then shit went wrong.”
“Same shit, different day, right?”
“Mm-hmm,” Mike hummed around a mouthful of his McArteryDeath.
Geoff eyed Stefan. “And who is this?”
“This is Stefan, our American friend. The guy I mentioned in my email.” Frank lifted an eyebrow. “He’s promised he’s going to kick our pensioner arses. He’s done the real thing, apparently.” Set them up nicely—the result should be fun.
“Correction, mi amigo.” Stefan put a hand on Frank’s shoulder. “I promised to kick your pensioner ass.”
“Hey!” Mike gestured at him and Geoff. “What are we? Chopped liver?”
Stefan shrugged. “Collateral damage?”
Mike huffed sharply. Crumpling the wrapper from his sandwich, he eyed Stefan. “Only collateral damage out there is going to be your Yank ego.”
Stefan puffed out his chest. “Bring it, Brit.”
Geoff laughed. “I like this guy already, and I ain’t even shot him yet.” His affected American drawl sounded pretty convincing, too.
Mike and Frank laughed.
“Yet?” Stefan snorted. “Keep dreaming.”
“Uh-huh.” Geoff reached into his car. When he straightened again, he was holding a small box. “Here, Stefan. You’ll need these.” He tossed it to Stefan.
Stefan caught it. “What the—” He glared at Geoff. “Band-Aids? Really?”
Frank smothered a laugh. Oh, yes, this was exactly the kind of crowd to introduce to Stefan.
Stefan held up the package of plasters. “I’ll hang on to it. Might be good to have around when I come to help your ass off the field.”
The guys laughed, and Frank and Stefan pulled their equipment out of the boot of the car. Stefan had an impressive gun—paintball gun—that almost immediately gave Geoff a gear boner. All the shit-talking was forgotten as Geoff drooled over the tricked-out piece. Stefan had gone all out on the thing, with added toys and gizmos Frank didn’t even recognise, but apparently Geoff did.
“You mind if I try her out?” Geoff extended a hand.
Stefan shrugged and let him have it. “Sure.”
Geoff’s face lit up. They grabbed their masks, some paint, and an air tank, and headed over to the calibration area.
Mike watched them go. “Now that’s quite the pair.”
“Figured they’d get along.” Frank opened his bag and started getting kitted up. “No idea how good this kid is on the field, but I figure he at least knows which end the paint comes out of.”
“I’m not too concerned about his paintball savvy, mate.” Mike unzipped his case and pulled out his own marker. As he unscrewed the barrel, he watched the other two. They were behind the protective netting, backs turned and masks on as Geoff aimed Stefan’s gun into the paint-splattered trees.
Frank chuckled. “Didn’t figure you would be.”
“Where’d you find this one?” Mike turned to him. “He’s not one of your boys, is he?”
Frank nodded. “New guy.”
“Oh yeah?” Mike ran a squeegee through his barrel, tugging it free before glancing over towards Geoff again. “He good at his job?”