Frank scoffed with mock indignation. “You think I’d hire a man who wasn’t?”
“You’ve said yourself you’ve had a few bad apples.” As he screwed the barrel back on, Mike threw another look at Stefan, who was gesturing over the gun as Geoff nodded at whatever he was saying. “This isn’t one of ’em, eh?”
“Not from what I’ve heard.” He smirked at Mike. “You’ll have to tell me how he turns out.”
Mike grinned, saluting sharply with two fingers. “I’ll have a full report to you by sundown.”
A few more cars pulled in, and within half an hour, the entire group had arrived. Fifteen today, which meant teams of six and three refs. Perfect.
Stefan, who’d been assigned to red team, had no trouble fitting in with the group. He flirted, he talked shit, and he oohed and ahhed over the impressive kit some of the boys had brought along. Most of them didn’t have markers quite as tricked out as his own, but they weren’t off-the-rack pieces of crap either.
At some point, Stefan managed to get a handful of grenades from Chris, the hot guy everybody wanted to get their hands on, but Frank didn’t know—and didn’t ask—if he’d bought them or exchanged a promise of a favour. That was the preferred means of currency out here, after all. And Chris and Stefan were on opposite teams, which meant they were both there for the other’s taking.
Frank’s mouth watered. That was a pair he’d pay good money to watch. Chris was former military himself. RAF, and without much in the way of ground combat experience, but he had the attitude and the physique. Didn’t keep his blond hair cut so short anymore, not like Stefan did, but he still had that gleam in his eye that came with the kind of hotshot ego a man needed to get into the cockpit of a fighter jet. Too bad it wasn’t a cold day; he sometimes wore his flight suit under his camouflage for a little extra warmth. Frank would have offered up a severed limb to watch Stefan pin that motherfucker down and make him come all over that.
Once everyone had their equipment together—air tanks full, hoppers loaded up with paintballs, masks in hand if not already on—Geoff called the group together.
“Most of you have been here before, so you know the rules.” He turned to look everybody in the eye. “You take a paintball? You’re out. Hold up your weapon, yell ‘out,’ and get the fuck off the field. Guy captures you with a barrel tap”—he tapped Mike’s shoulder with the barrel of his marker to demonstrate—“or you surrender?” He grinned. “Well, you’re his prisoner. Going out on this field, you’re consenting to do whatever your captor tells you to do. Universal safeword is ‘Geneva.’ Everyone’s here to have a good time, so let’s keep it as safe and sane as it can be out there. Any questions?”
Heads shook, and no one raised a hand.
Geoff went on. “And guys, I’m not fucking kidding when I say that masks stay on at all times when you’re inside the yellow tape.” He pointed a gloved hand at the yellow ribbon that marked the outermost boundary of the field. “You want to fool around without masks on? Get off the field. If the refs or myself catch you without a mask for any reason, I don’t care if you’re sucking a dick or putting your contact back in, I’m banning you from the field for the rest of the weekend.”
The teams fastened on their armbands—blue for one team, red for the other—and huddled on opposite sides of the ready area to strategise.
Frank, Mike, and Geoff put on their bright orange armbands, and similarly coloured tape on their masks, shoes, and the backs of their gloves. All the other guys kept themselves as subdued as possible, but it behooved the refs to be able to identify themselves without taking fire. Pinned behind a bunker by a shooter mistaking him for an opponent, a ref’s safest bet was to raise a hand or stick a foot out and let the orange tape correct the error.
“I’ll put a tenner on Chris getting the new guy on his back within the hour,” Mike said as he checked the laces on his boots.
Geoff nodded. “I’ll throw twenty in. Yankee’s all mouth.”
Frank suppressed a smirk as he wrapped orange tape around his ankle. “Twenty quid and a round of beers says you’re wrong.”
“How wrong we talking?” Mike asked. “Chris doesn’t get him? Or the new kid turns the tables and pins him?”
“Twenty says Chris doesn’t get his hands on Stefan.” Frank peeled off another strip of orange tape from the roll. “Twenty more and a round at the Lion says Stefan puts him on his back or his knees.”
Geoff laughed. “You really buy into this kid, don’t you?” He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. Fingers moving nimbly in spite of the plated gloves, he pulled the cash out of the fold. “All right, then. Twenty. Pony up, lads.”
They all pulled out the agreed upon money and folded it inside Mike’s toolkit along with a scrap of paper on which Frank had scribbled “round of beer @ Lion.”
“You’re going to be buying those beers, Frank.” Geoff clapped his shoulder. “Trust me.”