Fortunately, I don’t think they’re quite that bad.
Robbie’s last dart thunks into the wall three inches left of the board. Taron howls, nearly spills his drink. Robbie spins around, points at the board like it personally offended him.
“That board is rigged! I swear!” Robbie laughs, shaking his head in mock anger.
Taron’s laughing so hard he’s clutching his stomach. “You threw it like a frisbee!”
Trask takes a long pull from his beer, eyes locked on Robbie. “Those two are trouble.”
“Understatement,” I mutter. “I told you Robbie was quite the boy. Looks like you’re seeing it for yourself now in the flesh.”
He sets his glass down with a decisive clink. “I sure am. Time to put these boys in their place. Show ‘em how Daddies play darts.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You sure you want to start something with Robbie? He’s got triple-mischief written all over him.”
Trask grins—wide, wicked. “That’s the fun part.”
We push off the table and head over. The boys spot us coming and immediately straighten up, trying and failing to look innocent.
“Well, well,” Trask drawls, crossing his arms. “Looks like amateur hour at the oche.”
Robbie plants his hands on his hips. “Oh yeah? Think you can do better, big guy?”
Taron sidles up to me, slips his hand into mine. “Careful,” I say. “They’re feeling cocky. Let’s play doubles. Littles against the Daddies. Losers buy the next round.”
Robbie’s eyes light up. “You’re on.”
We take our places. Trask goes first—his throw smooth, practiced. Triple twenty. The crowd around the board whoops.
Taron whistles. “Okay, okay. Not bad.”
Robbie steps up, tongue between his teeth, lines up. His dart wobbles—lands in the five. He spins around, fake outrage. “Wind! There was freakin’ wind!”
Trask and I roar with laughter. Although admittedly the double doors did just swing open. Still, Robbie’s excuse is total bull, and the glint in his eyes proves it too.
Taron’s turn. He throws and actually hits a double.
“I did it!” he squeals in delight, hopping from one foot to the other in joy.
I go next. Clean single twenty. Trask follows with another triple.
We’re up comfortably.
But Robbie’s not done…
“Yes!” Robbie trills, happy with his dart but evidently not about to give up without one final move…
On Trask’s final throw—the one that would seal the win—Robbie leans in close and lets out a loud, deliberate cough just as he releases.
The dart sails wide. Buries itself in the cork outside the scoring area.
The small crowd around us erupts in a combination of cheers, groans, and laughter.
Trask spins, eyes narrowed. “You little?—”
Robbie hoots with laughter, already backing away. “Oops! Must be allergies!”
Taron grabs his hand, giggling uncontrollably, and they bolt toward the bar like schoolgirls who just pulled off the prank of the century.