The Wedding Crush

Chapter Twenty-One

Stefano

Atall, bulky guy in full camo fatigues gear and a red weathered 49ers cap steps out from behind the register.

“Richter party?” he calls out.

The group of guys waiting in front of us excitedly stand, shoving and guffawing as they approach the guy, who introduces himself fittingly, as Riker, who looks like he’s been out to the island on a few stints. He begins a safety and personal liability briefing, breaking down the rules as he outfits them with paintball markers, hoppers, air tanks, and battle masks.

I’m straining to hear what he says about the Capture the Flag game they’re playing when Jameson elbows me.

The corner of his mouth hitches up. “We’re next. Are you ready to come hard?”

“Wow, how long have you been waiting to drop that gem?”

He barks out a laugh.

In a nutshell, this is how life’s going. I’m in love with a woman who’s slowly distancing herself from me. And now, I’ve signed a waiver to play a potentially deadly game with an armed man-child who never misses an opportunity to make an ejaculatory joke.

Great.

Over his shoulder, I glare at Marco, who thought beating each other with paint-filled pellets flying at 300 feet per second was a brilliant idea for Dante’s last hurrah as a single man.

He looks deliberately at me and fist-bumps Jameson.

In total, there are eight of us. Including Dante and these two Neanderthals, we’ve got Marcello, Mike, Everett, me, and thankfully, Dylan is here to relieve me of a full day of toxic masculinity.

“Remind me to shoot below the waist,” Dylan says low enough so I’m the only one who hears.

I chuckle.

We watch as the other group is escorted out the side door to the fields.

As soon as the door closes behind them, Jameson turns to Dante. I figure he’s about to make another adolescent joke, so I’m surprised when he nudges my brother’s shoulder and says, “Two weeks until the big day, huh?”

Dante drags in a long breath, grinning. “I wish it was tomorrow.”

Jameson nods. “That’s real cool man. I’m happy for you.”

As Dante thanks him, I’m considering whether I rushed to judgment with this guy. He hurt my sister years ago. Now, they’re paired for the ceremony entrance dances, and she hasn’t complained, so maybe they’ve come to a truce. She’s dating his best friend, after all.

My shoulders relax.

Like my brother is in tune with my train of thoughts, he weaves Chiara into the conversation. “How’s your dance going with my sister?”

Jameson pulls in a breath, smiling with…is that pride?

“Let’s just say, we’re going to give these other fools a run for their money.” He chuckles. “Hands down, we’ve got the best song, and you know, if nothing else, we’ve got the moves.”

“It’s that good?” Dante rubs his hands down his jeans, seemingly impressed before he tosses him a sidelong glance. “So, is it safe to say you’ve let bygones be by—”

“Oh, hell yeah,” Jameson says, too quickly to go unnoticed.

Dante’s looking at him the same way I am.

We’ve always wondered if their friendship ever crossed the line. Since Jameson and Chiara were kids, they were tight. Riding-bikes, playing-in-the-winery, building-casks-with-his-dad tight. Until their freshman year in high school when his friend Lamar started dating her. Almost immediately after, Jameson cut ties.

Now, that Dante and I know how unbending love is, it’s hard not to wonder, if Jameson did harbor a crush, how difficult it must be—after putting so much distance, and women, between them—now, spending so much time with her.

Dante tilts his head. “So, you all are cool…”

“My dude, we let that shit go a long time ago. Her and Lamar are like this.” He crosses middle and index fingers. At Dante’s raised eyebrow, he adds, “Just the other day, we were doing our thing, mixing up, dancing, and talking about the other pairs, and I mentioned Avery.”

Wait.

Talk about whiplash. Where is he going with this?

My ears perk up like antennae.

“Yeah, she’s your biggest competition for sure,” Dante says.

At my side, Dylan chuckles, warning me to relax, and I’m prepared to do just that before Jameson scrubs his hand over his mouth and down the scruff of his neck with that self-satisfied smirk on his face.

“I asked if she was single, and Chiara said she’ll hook me up with her number.” That smug bastard. “She’s fine as fuck, man. I can’t wait to get my hands on—”

“Fortemani party?”

Riker is back with our stack of waivers in hand, ready to give us the same rules, safety, and personal liability spiel. But it’s useless at this point.

At least, for Jameson West and his grimy hands, if I have anything to say about it.

My jaw hardens.

Jameson glances back at me. The instant our eyes connect, my body locks up with rage. Fire blazes over my skin.

“Got your game face on, there, huh, big guy?” He huffs out a grating laugh.

He grabs a set of the blue paintball markers and slips a battle mask over his face.

At the patronizing edge to his tone, the tension in my mouth steels under my clenched teeth.

I feel my brow furrow.

I’m going to wipe the floor with him.

Anger and fury surge through my blood to the tips of my limbs, refuting all logic.

Do I have the right to feel anything?

Avery wanted to tell everyone about us. I’m the asshole who thought keeping us in this bubble would somehow shield us from judgment and opinions. I was worried about overshadowing the wedding and undermining what we’ve built so far. I made us a reactionary rebound because Carina moved on when I should’ve been following Avery’s lead.

She knew better.

“Oh, we’ll definitely see you on the field,” Dylan says, grabbing two sets of blue paintball markers, and handing me one.

After everyone has been outfitted with paintball markers, hoppers, air tanks, and battle masks, we’ve got two teams. The red team (Dante, our precious cargo, Marco, Dylan, and me), and the blue team (Marcello, Mike, Everett, and Jameson).

I hate to do my little brother this way, but he chose the wrong team today.

Soon, we’re escorted out to a sprawling field that looks like something straight out of a Modern Warfare video game. It’s set between the trees with rustic hay bales, tire and log stacks, and overturned giant wooden spools and spiral corrugated pipes.

It’s legit.

“So, I guess congratulations are in order.” Riker slaps Dante on the back.

The rest of us howl encouragingly in solidarity.

“We’ve got you set up on our Bachelor’s Last Stand Run, which should be a good time.” Riker takes a sec to recap the simple themed game for us.

Instead of Capture the Flag, Speedball, or a regular Elimination game. We’re playing a scenario team-elimination game. Our teams have separate objectives. My team, the red team’s, goal is to escort the groom-to-be across the field to the raised platform in the back with single staircase access and a concealed perimeter. The endpoint. However, the blue team’s sole goal is to eliminate him.

Basically, it’s football with loaded paint guns to fend off the opposition, Dante is the ball, and the platform is the end zone.

Mask on always, and no penalties for unnecessary roughness.

This is going to be fun.

A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.

“Oh, I see you’re hyped about this,” Dylan says under his breath.

Indeed.

Immediately, my mind goes to work, zeroing in on the best vantage points.

“Referees will be out there to keep it fun and safe.” Riker appropriately settles his focus on Jameson, aptly sussing out my target. “You’ve got 500 paintballs per person. Typically, reserved events last two-plus hours, but we’ve got no time limits on our private parties. So, if you’ve got paintballs, you’re free to keep the party going. Any questions?”

With that, the teams scatter around the field.

Marco stays with Dante, and Dylan and I spread out.

I’m flat on my stomach, behind a wooden spool up against a netted wall when the referee blows the whistle, signaling the start.

We’re supposed to start slow. No overdoing it until we get comfortable.

Advice that apparently went in one of Everett’s ears, and out the other.

Within seconds, this guy, who lobbied for bar hopping over paintball, so he’d have phone access to text with his wife, Sophia, rushes the stacked logs where Dante’s being guarded. Rambo-style, he’s spraying blue paint everywhere, aiming nowhere, hoping it hits.

But he’s out in the open, and it’s too easy.

All his obvious hopes of ending this game are dashed quickly when Dylan sprays him in the leg.

Red paint splats all over his pants as he crashes to the ground.

You’d think it was real blood the way he howls, “Holy shit!” as he rolls around in the dirt.

We warned him about the sting, but did he listen?

“What the hell? I’m really hurt, man,” he cries out like any of us are going to give up our position to help him.

Around the field, muffled laughs echo into the air.

Dramatically, Everett crawls toward a stack of tires, leveraging himself against it to pull himself up.

One look at him, and it’s not hard to see it’s a solid hit, which means he’s out.

But because we all know Everett couldn’t wait to get back to the lobby where his phone is tucked in his locker, Dylan shoots again, in the other leg.

Everett buckles, clinging to a tire.

“Goddammit! That’s going to leave a bruise. You got me.”

It’s a waste of ammo, I suspect as a lesson to the rest of their dwindling team. But until Everett raises his hands and the marker, then calls out loudly for the referee to acknowledge he’s been eliminated, he’s still fair game.

Showing him mercy, a referee in the middle of the field blows a whistle, the entire time laughing as he fans out a hand, allowing Everett to exit the field.

Except, I follow Everett’s line of vision as he tosses a chiding glance toward a tree. Angled behind it is none other than Jameson West.

As soon as the whistle blows to restart the game, I caw to get Dylan’s attention. Using hand signals, I point him to ten o’clock near the trees.

On his cue, we both fire.

Red paint splashes into the air as Jameson dives for the ground. “Cover me!” he yells.

Determined as I am, Dylan stands to get him. Like oil and water, the paintballs bounce off him. But not before Dylan is shot by Marcello, who I in turn take down.

“Run!” I yell to Marco, who dashes down halfway way across the field. Shielding Dante, the whole way, he ducks and dodges blue paint, before they take cover behind an overturned spiral corrugated pipe.

The aftermath is an ugly blue and red mess all over the course.

That jealous fury rages through me again as I reassign blame to Jameson, and suddenly, everything around me falls still.

We’re down an integral member of our team. Even though they’re down two, and this is meant to be a weirdly barbaric display of celebration. What’s worse is, it feels undeniably poetic.

I’m doing everything in my power to protect my brother Dante, while dodging the blues.

Breath stifles in my chest.

It’s this moment I know I’ve got to tell them about Avery. Not in hypotheticals or wine lingo. I want them to know I’m completely, irrevocably in love with her.

If I don’t want other men asking her on dates or for her number, certainly not Jameson’s hands on her, I’ve got to. How can I expect others to respect our relationship, her to feel confident in us, if I haven’t claimed what we’ve built to the people who matter?

“We’re out!”

Dylan and Marcello raise their hands and markers for the referees.

Once they exit the field, a renewed energy pulses through me. I can’t do nothing and expect to win.

I can’t stay still.

With stealthy strides, I whip past hay bales and tire stacks.

Mike is on my tail as I crawl into a spiral pipe, cawing to signal for Marco to keep going. Then I roll out, taking cover in the thick of the trees.

Behind me, a shout ricochets in the blue-spritzed wind.

“They got me, Stef.”

At first, I think it’s Dante.

But it’s Marco who lifts his arms and marker to the referee.

They’ve evened the score.

It’s Dante and me against Mike, who I could’ve sworn I hit, and Jameson.

In my periphery, red paint catches my eye. It’s not until I squint for a closer look that I realize it’s smeared on the pants covering Mike’s calf.

Smeared.

He’s wiped it off.

Though, I’d been only half-listening to Riker amidst my blinding anger for Jameson, I distinctly remember, in between always keeping our masks on and exiting the field with hands and markers raised, he’d mentioned “wiping.” Trying to wipe off the paint after being hit, isn’t just cheating. It results in a harsh scoring penalty, and an immediate discharge from the game.

Before the whistle sounds, I throw my voice to the referee. “Mike was hit, but he tried to wipe it off.”

Guilty as ever, Mike appears behind a wooden spool. “He’s lying! I never got hit. I was on the ground. It must’ve gotten on me as I was diving for cover.”

At the referee’s request, Mike approaches him to show his otherwise spotless clothing aside from the solid splatter on his calf.

“You’re out!” the referee announces.

After Mike argues with him, earning them another penalty, the whistle blows.

Five minutes pass.

It’s quiet with only the leaves rustling in the breeze.

Jameson is somewhere in the backend of the field near the platform. Dante is flat on the ground behind a hay bale, twenty feet from the staircase, and I’m waiting in the wing.

Closing my eyes, I aim my marker, waiting.

Then I hear footsteps retreating.

With everything I’ve got, I unload in that direction until, there’s the most satisfying sharp intake of air.

“Damn!”

I got him.

To my left, Dante takes off toward the stairs, mounting the platform with his arms raised in victory.

But I don’t run to him.

Instead, I weave through the trees until I locate Jameson lying on his back. There’s red paint splattered over his groin, and he’s staring up at the muted early evening light dappled through the trees.

As if on cue, the stadium lights turn on, blaring down on me, towering over him.

Like moths to a flame, the rest of the guys pour onto the field to congratulate our last bachelor standing on making it to the end zone, when they find us.

“Oof, the family jewels.” Marcello winces at Jameson.

Dante rejoins us to get a glimpse of the carnage.

Now, that we’re all here, it feels as good a time as any. I crack my neck on either side before I meet Jameson’s stare.

“Stay away from Avery,” I warn him.

“Oh, you like her?” he says in his lackadaisical tone. There’s amusement in his expression as he licks his lips.

Tugging him to his feet, I dust off his shoulders. Slowly shake my head, feeling a strange sense of calm.

“No, I’m in love with her, actually.”

A unified gasp echoes around me. But then it’s fused in with low chuckles and suppressed smiles.

Marcello scratches his head, barely holding it together. “Damn, so it’s official then.”

Scanning the group, I stretch my shoulders back, sinking into the downward pull of my muscles, and letting my arms hang loose. Lightness blooms in my chest as I scrape my fingers through my hair, taking an easy breath.

“No, but it will be,” I say confidently.

Except Jameson is all smiles as he clutches my shoulder in his grip. “That’s good to know, old man. Now, thanks to my dance partner, who devised this grade-A jealousy plan, we finally got you to admit it, too, so you can do something about it.”

Well damn.