By the time the game ended, the sharp, competitive edge that usually defined our interactions had dulled into something far easier—something that felt dangerously like domesticity.
We claimed a small table near the back, tucked away from the crashing chaos of the lanes. Our shoes were kicked off in a messy pile beneath the table, and the condensation from our drinks was already sweating against the cheap plastic surface, leaving ring marks that mirrored the circles my thoughts were running in.
Sophie leaned back in her chair, a smug, satisfied grin plastered on her face. She looked exactly the way she always did after successfully orchestrating a moment she'd declared a success.
"That," she announced, stretching her arms high over her head until her spine popped, "was a very good decision. Admit it."
"You mean a decision you bullied us into with the grace of a sledgehammer." I said, looking at her over the rim of my cup.
