Not with fists. With tiny plastic sticks and a rattling metal puck.
Game on, mofos. Game on.
Marcus yanked the goalie rod so hard it flew out of the slot, hit the ceiling fan, and ricocheted into a bowl of chips. Jen pointed, laughing so hard she snorted. Marcus retrieved the rod, now dusted in nacho cheese, and declared, “New rule: cheese on the ice is playable.” table hockey hijinks mofos
Marcus scored on his own net trying to do a “fake slap shot.” Jen froze mid-celebration. “Did you… did you just own-goal yourself?” Marcus shrugged. “Psychological warfare, mofo.” Not with fists
The lights were low. The beer was cheap. And on a wobbly table in the corner of Dave’s basement, two so-called legends were about to throw down. Game on
“Please,” Jen shot back, spinning her yellow center forward in a 360-degree taunt. “I’ve seen your defense. It’s like a screen door on a submarine.”
Silence.