Page 18 of Puck You Both

"Your launch schedule doesn't allow enough lead time for sponsor approvals," Patrick says, advancing a slide.

Wall doesn't look at him. "It allows eight business days."

"We need twelve."

"Ten, tops."

"Based on what?"

"Reality."

Around the table, pens stop moving. Becker slowly closes his own laptop.

Patrick clicks to the next tab. "Your timeline is naive."

Wall looks at the projection for the first time. "Your font is."

"That’s...What?"

Mama Paws rises, collects her cookie tray, and backs toward the office without turning around.

I should probably be worried. Co-chairs at war is bad for the campaign, bad for the dogs, bad for—

"You scheduled the calendar shoot before securing the photographer," Patrick says.

"The photographer is secured."

"There's no contract."

"Verbal confirmation."

"So, unsecured."

"They've worked with us before."

"Sentimental and naive."

Wall's jaw ticks. Patrick's half-smile arrives, the exact one I've personally chased across a mattress. And then Wall leans forward and starts dismantling Patrick's transport budget line by line, and Patrick lets him.

Their bodies have turned toward each other. Neither pays attention to anyone else now. Patrick knows exactly how long to let the silence sit before prodding again, and Wall responds every fucking time.

Wait.

Wait wait wait.

I look at Patrick. I look at Wall. I look at eight years of shootout insults, the save-percentage feud, the mic'd-up fiasco, the junior final Patrick keeps on a hard drive labeled ARCHIVE.

Oh no.

Oh, no.

They're flirting.

They've been flirting. For eight years.

These two enormous, emotionally constipated disasters invented a professional rivalry as foreplay and got the entire league to buy tickets.

I press both hands over my mouth.