The Hating Game: A Novel

I’ll talk to you in a bit,” Danny promises me and boards the bus. I don’t blame him. Joshua has his arms crossed like a nightclub bouncer.

“What the hell was that about?” I ask Joshua. He shakes his head.

Helene and Mr. Bexley swerve out in their respective Porsche and Rolls to meet us there. Of course, they’re not going to participate in the team building. They’re going to sit on the balcony overlooking the paintball park and drink coffee and hate each other’s guts.

“Let’s go,” Joshua says and pushes me onto the bus. There are only two seats left, and they’re right up front. Joshua has reserved them with stacks of clipboards. Danny leans into the aisle and shrugs regretfully.

Joshua sent the branch an email instructing us to change into old casual clothes at lunch. Things we won’t mind ruining. I’m wearing skintight jeans and a stretched-out vintage Elvis T-shirt. It used to belong to my dad. Fat, jumpsuit Elvis, microphone raised to his lips. It slides loosely off my shoulder. The look I was trying to emulate was Kate Moss at a music festival. Judging by Joshua’s face when he saw me, I’m a tragic loser. He did, however, look at the emerald-green strap of my sports bra. I know that for a fact.

Joshua also got changed into casual clothes. While he folded his black business shirt neatly on his desk like a retail assistant, I caught my reflection on the wall diagonal to him; a slack-jawed mask of idiotic lust. Firstly, Joshua is wearing jeans. They’re all beaten-up and worn, with ice-blue paint flecks, and they pull taut across his thighs as he sits. I can’t fault those jeans.

Next, he’s wearing a T-shirt. The soft, threadbare cotton melts all over his torso as he slouches. The shapes going on under that T-shirt are . . . The sleeves are cutting gently into biceps that are making me . . . But it’s his flat stomach that I’m . . . The skin is all gold like—

“May I help you with something?” He smoothes down the T-shirt. My eyes slither along behind his hand. I want to scrunch up that T-shirt into a bowl and eat it with a dessert spoon.

“I never thought you’d wear . . .” I gesture vaguely at his fabulous torso.

“You thought I’d be paintballing in Hugo Boss?”

“Hugo Boss, eh? Didn’t they design the Nazi uniforms?”

“Lucinda, I swear.” He closes his eyes for nearly a full minute. He pinches the bridge of his nose. I’d swear he’s trying to not laugh, or scream.

I cross my eyes at him, poke my tongue out, and say, “Derrrr.” He doesn’t crack. Defeated, I twist up and look over the seats until I see Danny’s ruffled hair. We wave to each other and pull identical faces to indicate how unhappy we are with our seatmates. Then it occurs to me my boobs are probably a couple of inches from Joshua’s head and I slide back down.

“You and him? It’s getting a little pathetic.” Joshua is testy.

The word cuts me deep. Pathetic. He’s called me that before. We’ve circuited back neatly to the same place we’re most comfortable. I had wondered how things would play out after the kiss, after the tears, the wounded sadness in his eyes. The apology. The silence that has stretched through each day since.

According to Joshua, we’re back to hate, and I can’t do it much longer. I can’t keep it going. It’s taking too much out of me. What was once as easy as breathing is now an uphill battle. I’m so tired I’m aching.

“Sure. I’m pathetic.” I watch the road ahead, and the Staring Game is going on, one-sided. I ignore him. No one can see us except the driver, if she chose to look, but she’s got traffic to contend with.

“Shortcake.”

I ignore him.

“Shortcake.”

“I do not know anyone by that name.”

“Play with me for a minute,” he says it softly, right in my ear. I turn my face to his and try to regulate my breathing.

“HR,” I manage. His face is so close to mine I can taste his breath, hot mint sweetness. I can see the tiny stripes in his irises, tiny unexpected sparks of yellow and green. There are so many blues I think of galaxies. Little stars.

“Are your roses still alive?”

Is there anything this man does not know? I try to not notice that our elbows are touching a little. Elbows are not erogenous. At least, I didn’t think they were.

“Who’d you hear about them from?”

“Well, everyone knows Danny Fletcher is your dream man. Roses and whatnot. Candlelit lunches for two in the work kitchen.” He looks at my lips, and I lick them. He looks at my bra strap, and my knees press together.

“Who’s your source?”

His eyes are getting darker. The pupil is eating the blue, and I think of his elevator eyes. Murderous eyes. Passionate eyes. Crazy-person eyes.

“Inside source? Like magazines have for celebrities? Are you a celebrity, Lucinda?”

“I don’t know how you know so much.”

“I’m perceptive. I know everything.”

“You know I have roses in my bedroom because of what, body language? Mind reading? You’re so full of shit. You probably look through my window with a long-range telescope.”

“Maybe I have the apartment opposite yours.”

“You wish you did, you creep.” I’m beginning to feel the first prickles of sweat on my spine. If he did, I’d probably be the one sitting in the dark with binoculars.

“Well? Are they?”

“They wilted. I had to toss them out this morning.”

His hand slides down my arm, slowly, softly, pressing the goose bumps flat. His hand is so cold I glance up at his face. His face is set to a default frown.

“You’re pretty hot.”

“Yeah, but that’s common knowledge.” I’m sarcastic as I pull away. The bus jolts around a corner and a little wave of dizziness blurs my vision and nausea turns my stomach over. I’m not getting sick. My body is probably reacting to the stress of the job application process, the kiss, and the murder-glint in Joshua’s eyes.

“Looking forward to being annihilated?”

I manage the best retort I can.

“I’m going to destroy you. The Hating Game. You versus me. It’s the only way this can possibly end.”

“Right,” Joshua barks abruptly, standing up and kneeling in his seat to address our colleagues. They all reluctantly stop talking, and I sense mutiny is afoot.

I kneel up too, and wave at everyone. They all smile. Good little cop, universally despised cop. I notice the Gamins are sitting to the left, the Bexleys to the right.

“There will be a total of six challenges today,” Joshua begins.

“Seven if you include him,” I add and get some cheap laughs. He scowls sideways at me.

“Six teams of four. Each challenge you’ll be in a different group. The aim is to get to know your colleagues in an outdoor, active environment. As teams you’ll come up with strategies to get the flag first.”

There are blank faces, and he sighs heavily. “Seriously? No one here has ever done paintball? You will be trying to get the flag before the opposing team. Main rule is no paintballing the flag marshals. Or each other’s faces, or groins.”

Darn it, that’s all I’ve been dreaming about.

“Marion, Tim, Fiona, Carey, you are flag marshals. You are assessing the team participation from the vantage point beside the flag. Scoring people, if you will.”

I’m slightly impressed. I was a bit concerned imagining those four heaving their heavy, pain-riddled, aging bodies across a paintball course. Carey and Marion nod to each other self-importantly as Joshua passes back four clipboards. I wish he’d discussed all of this with me. He’s in complete control and I don’t like it.

“After we finish, we will convene up on the deck for coffee and to discuss what we’ve learned about each other today.” He slithers back down into his seat.

“Any questions?” I look around and a few hands are raised.

“Do we get overalls?”

Joshua says something under his breath that sounds like fucking morons. I’ll field this one.

“You’ll each get a protective suit and a helmet to protect your eyes and face.” I feel Joshua’s sigh at my hip sink through my T-shirt.

“Yes.” I point, and Andy lowers his hand.

“How much do paintballs hurt?”

“A lot,” Joshua says from his seat.

“Remember, folks, the aim isn’t to hurt each other.” I glance down at Joshua. “No matter how bad you want to!”

“Are you two on opposing sides?” someone at the back calls, causing laughter.

Our reputation for hatred has gotten a little out of hand, and most of it is my fault. I have to quit with the hating-Joshua jokes.

“This is designed to bring us all together. We’ll all be on each other’s team at some point, like in a work situation. Even Joshua and I will find some common ground today. Anyway. The grand prize!” Everyone sits up straight.

“The prize,” Joshua interrupts loudly from his seat, “is an extra leave day credited to you. That’s right—a free day off. But you have to earn it displaying outstanding commitment to your team.”

There’s a buzz among the group. A free day off. A day release from jail. It dangles above them all like a brass ring.

Paintball Shootout is located in a small pine plantation. The ground is dusty and stark. The trees ache for death. A crow circles overhead, making ominous creaking noises. Everyone straggles into a lumpy circle near the gates.

A guy in a camouflage Paintball Shootout coveralls poses like an army sergeant beside Joshua. They both have the same tall, muscled, marine body types. Maybe Joshua spends his every spare moment here. They’re brothers in arms. Comrades who’ve seen some seriously painty shit go down in this barren wasteland. When they both stare expectantly at me, I realize I’m supposed to be standing up front too.

Joshua demonstrates how to put the suit and protective gear on and everyone watches with keen interest. Sergeant Paintball fields the slew of stupid questions with practiced patience. We all receive our suits, helmets, kneepads. Then we’re armed.

We are adults undertaking a team-building activity in a professional capacity, so naturally we spend several minutes horsing around, striking poses with our paintball guns and making sound effects. Joshua and Sergeant Paintball watch us like orderlies at a mental facility. Alan, recent Birthday Boy, pretends to mow us all down. “Pew, pew, pew,” he intones in his grave baritone. “Pew, pew.”

I scramble out of the path of one fake skirmish and start to feel undersized and feeble. I look at all the long legs and eyes lit with paint-lust. Maybe tensions will boil over. They’ll all go rogue, Gamins versus Bexleys, swapping paintball guns for AK-47s.

Sweat is starting to bead on my brow and upper lip and whatever is going on with my stomach, it’s bad. My lipstick is a faded pink Popsicle stain and my hair is stuffed into a heavy helmet. The smallest suit they had is still so big that people laugh when they see me. Such elegance. Such grace. I am going to need to concentrate really hard on getting through this afternoon.

Helene waves to me. She is standing on an observation deck, wearing a white visor, cream linen shirt, and white cigarette pants, sipping Diet Coke through a straw. Only Helene would wear white to a paintball park. Mr. Bexley is sulking about something and remains seated, arms crossed, a bullfrog in khaki.

“Have fun, everyone,” Helene calls. “And remember, we can see you!” With that eerie Big Brother comment ringing in our ears we begin.

Joshua reads out the first teams and I’m on his. We stride out with our teammates, Andy and Annabelle. Two Gamins, two Bexleys. Our opposing team files out, a similar ratio. He must have sorted each team like this.

I should have opened my mouth this last week to ask him about the arrangements, but the awkwardness between us has been insurmountable. Plus, since my corporate retreat idea was completely destroyed I’ve felt lackluster and sulky about everything. He hijacked it, he can damn well organize it.

But as I realize the air is filled with palpable excitement, I realize my grand idea has now become his achievement. I’m such an idiot.

I spot Marion with the flag. She waves merrily with a pen gripped between her teeth, clipboard in hand, and binoculars hanging on her chest. She is taking her faux-important job seriously.

“What’s the plan, team?” I can’t see our opposition.

“Stick together or spread out?” Annabelle is unsure.

“Hmm, I’d say probably stick together, given this is a team-building challenge.” I prop myself up on some slender pine branches and wish I could wipe my face. In this suit I’m so hot I feel faint.

“We should pick one person who’ll be going for the flag, and protect them,” Andy says, which is a good idea.

“I like it. Who’s going to do it?”

They both peep furtively at Joshua, clearly fearful of him. Somehow, the helmet doesn’t look stupid on him. His gloved hand looks big enough to punch through a brick wall. He should be miniaturized and sold in toy stores for violent little boys.

“Annabelle,” Joshua decides. “And if she gets shot, we’ll go for the flag in alphabetical order, first names.”

Great. Meaning Andy, Joshua, and then Lucy. Basically, no one is protecting me at all. I’m cannon fodder. We file out and take cover. Andy sees my rising panic and smiles kindly. “We’ll all look after you Luce, don’t worry.”

I knew somehow Joshua would find a way to screw with me. I am coming out of this bruised, battered, and paint-splattered. And I can’t even shoot him until I’m rotated onto another team.

There’s a horn blast, and I’m crawling on hands and knees up an incline awkwardly, the loose dirt making me slide. I am moving first. It makes sense, given our strategy. I’ll scout the way forward. I’m the most expendable.

My arms won’t seem to hold me up properly and I collapse onto my stomach. Annabelle runs ahead of me with windmill limbs and zero strategy or stealth. I kneel up and try to call her back. A hand clamps on my calf and I’m dragged backward until Joshua flops down next to me, gun in hand. He motions at me to lie down.

“Don’t,” I hiss at him.

“You’ll get shot in the face if you pop up like that.”

“Why didn’t you let me then?”

His hand spreads across my lower back, pinning me firmly to the ground. In the privacy of my mind I can admit the weight of his hand is delicious. The slivers of fabric between our skin begins to glow.

“What’s wrong with you, anyway?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” I try to squirm away.

“You look terrible.”

“Thanks. We have to cover Annabelle.” I edge up to see her tottering awkwardly among slender tree trunks, completely exposed. Andy is gallantly leaping after her. The flag is an orange scrap in the distance.

I’m up and running, Joshua behind me. I fall behind a boulder and spot Marnie on the opposing team. Raising my gun, I fire off a couple of rounds, clipping her in the shoulder. She says a disappointed, “Aw,” and walks off.

When I look at Joshua he looks mildly impressed. “Badass.”

Annabelle is out of sight. The air is filled with cracks, pops, and cries of pain. After a few short runs, I find Andy kneeling on the ground trying to tie his boot lace with a big splat of paint on his chest.

“Oh, Andy!”

He looks up at me with the weary eyes of a Vietnam vet who knows he’s about to die, blood geysering from a pulpy stomach wound. He grasps at my knee. “Go save her.”

He has been watching too many action movies, but so have I judging by the swell of responsibility and protectiveness inside me. I will save Annabelle.

“I’m going to get a Coke,” Andy tells me, ruining the moment.

I keep running. My breath feels short and I’m fogging my goggles a little. I hear a crack and jump behind a pyramid of barrels, which drum with the sound of shots. I look down. Nothing on me so far. I assume I’d feel it. I check the backs of my legs.

“You’re clear,” Joshua calls. I look over at him, crouched nearby behind a big tree stump. He’s holding his paintball gun in a cool way, pointed straight at the sky. I try to copy him and begin to drop it.

“Dork,” he comments unnecessarily. He must have strong wrists.

“Shut up.”

Annabelle is crouched behind a miserable, suicidal sapling. I watch her raise her gun and take out Matt from the opposition. I let out a yelp of delight and she turns and gives me the thumbs-up, grinning widely as she waves me forward. The flag is fluttering about thirty yards away. She is abruptly shot in the center of her back and yips in pain. I don’t need to even look at Joshua to know that he is shaking his head at me.

“Off you go then. I’ll protect you. Just you and me now, buddy. Age before beauty.”

“Great. I’m a dead man.” He makes the short run to my barrel hideout and checks his ammo, glancing over his shoulder.

“Were your parents in the military?” It would explain a lot. The rigid behaviors, the brisk, impersonal manner. Addiction to rules and sequences. His neatness and economy in everything he does. He’s now got a lack of friends and the inability to connect. I bet his parents had frequent foreign postings. He bounces a quarter off his perfectly made bed.

“No,” he tells me, checking my gun for me. “They’re doctors. Surgeons. Well, they were.”

“Are they dead? You’re an . . . orphan?”

“Am I what? They’re retired. Alive and well.”

“Huh. Are you from here?” The tip of my gun is resting in the dirt. I’m too tired. I hope I get shot. I need a rest.

“Only me and my brother live in the city.” He frowns at me and taps my gun with his. “Hold your gun up.”

“There’s two of you? Heaven help us.” I try to obey but my arms are watery.

“You’ll be pleased to know we’re nothing alike.”

“Do you see him much?”

“No.” He assesses the course in front of us.

“Why not?”

“None of your business.” Sheesh.

I can see Danny in the distance stalking through the trees in the skirmish happening on the next rotation over, a dividing rope between us. I give him a wave and he lifts a hand in response, a smile spreading. Joshua raises his gun and shoots him twice on the back of the thigh with sharpshooter accuracy, then sniffs derisively.

“What gives? I’m not against you,” Danny shouts. He calls out to his flag marshal and resumes, this time with a slight limp.

“That was unnecessary, Joshua. Very bad sportsmanship.”

We begin to move forward, and he’s bent low at the waist, surprisingly light on his feet as he sidesteps a volley of shots, bumping me backward behind a tree. The flag is dangling close by, but there are still two of our opponents out there.

“Quiet,” we hiss to each other in unison and look at each other. The worst place to play the Staring Game is in the middle of a live paintball session.

I have to lean my helmet back against the tree to look up at him properly. His eyes are a color I’ve never seen. The thrill of live action combat electrifies him. He looks away to check behind us, a scowl darkening his face. How do I ever manage to keep my composure under those fierce eyes?

We’re pressed together. My skin instantly sensitizes, and when I glance sideways I get a peripheral glimpse of his curved, heavy bicep. My heart stutters when I remember how it felt to have his hand on my jaw, cradling it, tilting me up to meet his mouth. Tasting me like something sweet. He is looking at my mouth and I know he is remembering the exact same thing.