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"Bob, get in," one friend begged.
"Nah," Bob muttered, leaning forward as the puck zipped across the ice.
In truth, Bob had a ritual. Mid-game intermission, he’d waddle to the bathroom, arms clenched on the seat like he was holding on for dear life. It was a fortress of solitude, a place where rank didn’t matter, only the game on his phone.
His friends raged in Discord. "Dude, you just sit there!"
Bob smirked. "And?" The game-winning goal sounded from his TV. He’d made the wrong call.
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