This time, he’d given up the role of game master. Now he was the one in danger of getting in over his head. He needed to be careful. If he let himself get carried away and somehow messed up the sim, he risked more than a bloody nose or sprained wrist. He risked his future.

Luke rubbed the back of his neck, tamping down the worry creeping up inside. “I think it’s probably okay,” he finally said. “As long as we remember this is all just pretend.”

“Right.” Julia smiled weakly. “Pretend.”

Except there was nothing pretend about the way she made him feel.

“You know what’s not pretend?” Andie asked, bouncing on the balls of her feet like a boxer warming up for a fight. “The way I’m going to litter that field with red uniforms.”

By this point, the room had split into two groups, red and blue congregating on opposite ends of the lobby. Kat finally emerged from the bathroom and joined them, just as Andie cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled, “Red is dead!”

Someone on the other side shouted back, “Oh, yeah?”

Luke recognized that voice. And that phrase.

Apparently, Andie did too, because she immediately moved to the edge of the blue group and hollered, “Eat dirt, Curt!”

Football jersey guy cut through the sea of red. “Make me!”

Zach joined Curt at the front of the red group, eyes fixed on Kat as he replied, “But what if we want to make love, not war?” He reached for her hand, pressing a cartoonishly gallant kiss to her knuckles amid a wave of coos, catcalls, and whistles.

Luke shook his head with a mix of disgust and admiration at the man’s confidence and audacity.

“Hey, eighties boy.” Andie elbowed Luke in the ribs. “What do they say about love?”

Before he could figure out what she was referring to, she’d already turned back to face her opponent.

“Oh, yeah.” The feisty woman mimicked Curt’s catchphrase and lifted her chin. “Love is a battlefield.”

“Bring it on, baby.” Full of bluster, Curt was clearly relishing the combative exchange.

From the gleam in her dark eyes, it was apparent that Andie was enjoying it too. She stepped closer, until she was toe-to-toe with her nemesis. In a low growl she warned, “You’re going to regret that.”

Forty-five minutes later, out of breath and crouched behind a bunker, Luke was the one feeling regret. Itchy, sweaty regret. Who in their right mind considered this fun? He slumped down, back pressed against his refuge of hay, sucking in giant gulps of air. He should have let the red team have him. He was not a runner. He did not run. They’d been playing for a solid thirty minutes now and he was exhausted.