"You are a foul drunk and an igit." Robin smacked him him and took a big swallow of beer. "Alright old man, come at me. I will win."
John cracked his fingers and wiggled them before setting up again. Their hands met, and Robin started the countdown. "1, 2, 3," Already his hand snapped back and he felt his arm shaking but he did his best to hold it up. When it seemed like John was about to snap his arm to the table, through gritted teeth Robin spoke. "You have always been my best, mate." Rub it in a little, John wouldn't be able to resist, he was a big softy.
Just as Robin had planned, John eased up but he made it look like that stringbean had actually put on a tough game. He'd blame it on a pulled muscle, but just like the bear he was, Robin knew how to poke those soft spots. "You bloody bastard."