"I'm not the one who isn't walking a straight line," Puck growled. Maybe he couldn't toss him out the window, but Puck could still throw the bottle at his head. He was a football player, after all. He was willing to bet that he could still aim accurately, even while tipsy. Maybe if he was lucky the idiot would end up getting knocked out in the process. Was hoping for a coma mean?
"No, I'm not the father type," Puck agreed, rubbing at his jaw with a hand. Quinn had been terribly convinced of that. Puck had tried to argue it, of course; he had, after all, wanted to be a part of the baby's life....but it didn't pan out. He supposed he had no one but HER to blame for that. Not himself. Totally not his fault. "Still shouldn't have to worry 'bout this crap when I don't even know her."