The Game: First Down by Nora Nix Page A

divorce. This was
about the big screen and the surround sound and little Sandra’s
huge tits spilling out of her frilly blouse every time she leaned
over to pour them another drink. Compared to his place, Mark lived
at the goddamn Taj Mahal. How much could he really blame the
guys for bailing on him, especially when fate had given them the
perfect excuse to do so?
    “Well, uh – ain’t that nice of ‘em?” Vince
said slowly, forcing another smile. “That’s good. Mark won’t be
alone and… and you and I will have to place to ourselves.” He
looked over the boxes of pizza and cringed. What the hell was he
going to do with all the leftovers?
    Paul took note of his line of sight and
opened one of the boxes, pulling out a slice. Steam was still
rising from it, and when he took a bite, he hummed with
appreciation, closing his bright blue eyes and nodding slowly.
    “Mmhm. Now this is the stuff,” he said
approvingly, stuffing his face with another huge bite. “This ain’t
th’ usual takeout. Where’d ya get it?”
    “Little place around here, Mama Cannoli’s,”
Vince answered absently, still fazed by the huge letdown. “They got
the best pizza this side’a the Hudson. Ain’t cheap, neither. But
hey – special occasion, right?”
    Paul picked a pepperoni off his slide and
popped it into his mouth, licking the grease from his fingertips
after, and said: “Fuck ‘em, Vince. I mean, really. Mark ain’t got
nothin’ but some warehouse-club wings and a fancy TV. Today was
about havin’ some nice company, wasn’t it?” He finished his slice
and reached for another. From the look of Paul’s lean, muscular
physique – not bulky like Vince or the others – he could probably
pack away two of those boxes all by himself. “We’ll have a good
time. Promise. And we’ll be better off without ‘em.”
    Vince blinked. He hadn’t ever heard Paul
curse before. The image of the mild-mannered former farmhand washed
away, replaced by someone Vince could no longer quite peg. Although
he still hadn’t recovered from the rest of his friends’
abandonment, he grabbed himself a slice of pizza from the same box
as Paul and took a monstrous bite, letting the hot cheese sizzle in
his mouth.
    “Go ahead’n put yer beer in the fridge and
grab yerself a cold one,” he instructed, turning up the volume on
the TV just as the pregame show began. “I got nachos on the coffee
table. Better get ‘em before they get cold.”

An hour later, Vince’s mood had most
definitely not improved. Not only was he stuck with the quiet, laid
back Paul while all his other so-called friends were surely jumping
on Mark’s leather sofas by now, but his team was losing.
    He cracked open yet another beer, having lost
count of how many he had drank already, and partially engulfed the
frosty rim with his cracked lips. The more he drank, the less he
thought about the betrayal of the guys he had felt so close to only
hours beforehand. Yet the more he drank, the more angry he became
when he did think about it, too.
    Beside him on the couch, Paul noticed him
discard another bottle cap and said: “Damn, Vince. Y’gonna drink
that whole twelve-pack by yourself?”
    Vince shrugged sourly. “Don’t want it to go
to waste,” he muttered. Paul smiled.
    “That’s all right. We can bring some to the
site on Monday and surprise ‘em. Tell ‘em what a great time we had
and show ‘em there’s no hard feelin’s. Ain’t that right?”
    “And why would I wanna do that ?” Vince
snarled, glowering at Paul over the lip of his beer. “If those guys
would’a been here, they could’a had all the beer they wanted. You
said it yerself: fuck ‘em.”
    “Just thought we might try killin’ ‘em with
kindness,” Paul said, holding up his hands disarmingly. “That’s
all.”
    Vince snorted. “Who taught you that shit?
Your ma?”
    “My Grammy,” Paul corrected, his smile softer
now. “Momma didn’t have a whole lot t’ say on the matter. She