Page 159 of What We Burn

“Keep it on the ground. We can’t explain a headshot away as a slip of the fingers.”

Knox grunts and walks onto the mat.

“He really hates dabbing,” I say, and Micah nods.

Knox draws his arm back and releases. The bowl flies down the rink with the mechanical efficiency of launched ordnance. It hits Headband’s bowl with a crack that draws attention from three neighboring rinks.

Headband’s bowl shoots into the ditch.

Knox’s slows, tips, and settles beside the jack.

The Pen-15 Club goes silent.

Knox walks back, sits down, and picks up his water.

I tap my phone screen, adding a bold asterisk to my notes. “I’m putting a tally mark under ‘Psychological Warfare’ for you, Knox. Truly inspiring work.”

Knox doesn’t blink. He simply unscrews the cap of his water bottle.

Across the green, Headband looks like someone kicked his puppy. He points a trembling finger at the ditch, opens his mouth to complain to the universe about the sheer violence of the shot, then catches Knox staring at him. Knox’s expression is the dead-eyed, absolute calm of a man who knows exactly how to make a body disappear in twelve different terrains. Headband swallows whatever he was going to say and aggressively adjusts his wristband instead.

“Kitten,” I say, gesturing to the mat like a game show host. “You’re up. Bring the pain. Avenge the dignity of the English language.”

She shuffles forward, the oversized white club shoes squeaking pathetically on the manicured grass. It completely undermines her intimidating aura, but the icy glare she shoots the Pen-15 guys makes up for it. She’s holding her pink bowl like she wishes it were a hand grenade. And honestly, given what we stared at on that screen in the club yesterday, I think we all wish it was.

“Remember the travel mug,” Holden murmurs from his chair, his voice pitched for her ears alone.

Sage doesn’t look at him, but her shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. She settles her stance, compensating for the clown shoes, her eyes locking onto the jack.

She draws back and releases.

The pink bowl glides. It doesn’t have Knox’s orbital-strike velocity or Holden’s robotic precision, but it rides the bias perfectly. It curves, slows, and nudges Headband’s remaining guard bowl just enough to bump it out of the way before settling intimately next to Knox’s.

“That,” I say, furiously typing on my phone, “is a textbook metric booster. Five stars. Flawless trajectory. Kitten, you’re carrying this franchise.”

Micah clinks his beer against the edge of my phone. “Told you this was a good idea.”

“Hmm. I still prefer arson. But okay.”

Sage shuffles back to our designated bench, the oversized shoes slapping the grass in a rhythm that screams I will murder you all. I hold up a hand. She slaps it with enough force to leave a red, stinging mark across my palm.

“Aggressive,” I say, rubbing my hand. “I love it. Your metrics are off the charts, kitten.”

“I wanted his throat,” she mutters, glaring at Headband.

“The bowl is too heavy for a clean throat strike,” Holden corrects her, not missing a beat. “You’d want to aim for the knee. Shatter the patella. The throat requires a lighter projectile.”

Micah sighs, taking a long drink of his beer. “Please do not discuss shattering patellas on the green. The groundskeeper is looking at us.”

I glance over at the groundskeeper, who is indeed pausing beside the roses to squint suspiciously in our direction. I give him a cheerful two-finger salute. He shakes his head and goes back to his manure.

“All right, Eli,” I say, clapping my hands together. “Your turn. Bring it home for the Balls of Fury. Defy the historic grading of this rink.”

Eli steps onto the mat. He’s holding the black bowl with a white-knuckled grip, his eyes fixed on the jack. The tension radiating off him is so thick you could carve it with the knife Sage likes to keep in her boot.

“Imagine the jack is Stephen, buddy,” I suggest brightly.

Eli freezes. The air around our team drops by about ten degrees. Holden goes absolutely still, his ice-blue eyes snapping to Eli. Knox puts down his water bottle. Even Micah’s relaxed posture evaporates.