Page 26 of Puck You Both

"Thirty says I hit whatever part of the board you pick."

"Blindfolded."

"Did I fucking stutter?"

Money comes out all over the bar. Mama Paws, radiant in a campaign shirt and a necklace with a tiny silver paw print, makes one brief attempt to stop the wagering before Frank hands her an empty jar. She considers it, then walks the room collecting bets.

The woman learns fast.

Beside me, Lindqvist watches Theo knot a black bar towel over his eyes. "Should we intervene?"

"I'm evaluating."

"He's holding a sharp object in a crowded room."

"That's part of the evaluation."

With great ceremony, Theo squares up to the dartboard. Or to where he believes the dartboard is. He's facing the jukebox.

Half the Wolves immediately cheer him on. Our bench screams corrections over them, which only makes Theo rotate in place until the dart is aimed at the photographer, who ducks.

I set down my drink.

Before I've taken three steps, Theo whips the dart backward over his shoulder. Past Becker's ear. Dead center of the board.

How? Fucking how?

Applause detonates. Off comes the blindfold, and for half a second pure surprise lives on Theo's face. Then confidence floods back in to bury the evidence. "See? Easy."

Becker checks behind him, then under the nearest table, hunting for an accomplice. "Do it again."

"Double or nothing."

Before tragedy strikes, I grab Theo's wrist and haul him off the furniture. Still arguing with Becker, he slides down against me, one full beat of his body pressed to mine. Then looks up, grinning, curls already staging their escape from whatever product he used on them.

My hand stays around his wrist.

There are cameras six feet away.

I let go.

He doesn't so much as blink, just pivots back to Becker to negotiate a rematch involving a lime and several coasters under rules known to no one. Entirely, unapologetically himself.

I envy him enough to dislike the feeling.

Theo's out because he never decided there was a reason not to be. He doesn't announce who he takes home, but he's also never once calculated the distance between his hand and another man's wrist because a lens was nearby. He crosses a room without seeing tripwires.

I see all of them.

In a contract year, playing for a front office that says expiring asset in meetings about human beings, I'm already a story every time I let in a bad goal. Becoming a different kind of story wouldn't erase the first one. It would just stack a second headline on top.

Nothing has happened. I'm a man standing in a bar, watching my teammate cheat at darts.

Still, my hand goes into my pocket, where nobody can photograph what it wants.

"Patrick!"

The campaign photographer waves me toward the sponsor backdrop, where Wall already stands beneath the team logos. His hair has faded from fire-engine to a deep, uneven crimson, roots pushing through. Under professional lighting it looks even more ridiculous.