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Recap

Hey, what in the Sam frig is goin’ on here, boys? slurred Lahey, squinting at the score sheet with bleary eyes. His flask seemed to be permanently glued to his hand, and the stench of liquor wafted around him like a cloud.

“Yeah, what’s the deal, Randy? You mess up the numbers again?” J-Roc quipped, raising an eyebrow and adjusting his baseball cap.

Randy huffed, crossing his arms defensively. “Hey, it ain’t my fault this time, boys. Blame it on that goofball goalie for the Blues. Dude bailed after the first period ’cause he couldn’t handle the heat.”

“Typical Blues move,” Lahey muttered, taking a swig from his flask. “Couldn’t even last a whole game without tappin’ out.”

“But seriously, why’d they only play one period?” Randy scratched his head, genuinely perplexed. He shuffled through the papers, trying to make sense of the chaotic stats.

“Yo, Randy, you gotta tighten up, man. Can’t be losin’ stats like that,” J-Roc chimed in, nodding his head to an imaginary beat. “You gotta stay on your hustle, keep the numbers flowin’ like a sick rhyme.”

Randy frowned, feeling the weight of the accusation. “I-I swear, boys, it wasn’t me. Maybe someone stole the stats or somethin’. You know how shady things can get around here.”

Lahey squinted at Randy, his gaze unsteady. “Yeah, Randy, always with the excuses. Can’t trust you to keep things together, can we?”

Randy’s shoulders slumped, feeling the weight of their suspicion. “But Mr. Lahey, I swear—”

“Enough with the excuses, Randy,” Lahey interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “We gotta focus on the game. Blackhawks came out on top, and that’s all that matters. Can’t change the past, right?”

Randy nodded, swallowing his pride. “Y-yeah, you’re right, Mr. Lahey. Sorry, boys.”

J-Roc just shook his head, muttering to himself in his own language of hip-hop wisdom. “Man, this game be crazier than tryna find a rhyme for orange. Gotta keep it real, no matter what goes down.”