"Thank god!" he exclaims, loud with relief. If it weren't for how long his strides are, he'd be skipping over to his ball. The motion's the same. "For a moment, I feared you would trap us in a loop, forever hitting my ball around the field!"

The notion of being trapped in an eternal loop is familiar to him, after all. Kind of an ongoing preoccupation.

"Ahem..." The servant of unspecified and nonobvious gender coughs very politely into a hand. When Papyrus looks over, they offer a reassurance. "The rules only permit one, perhaps two extra strokes. The turn would be yours again after that."

"Well! That's good." Papyrus considers each of the balls on the field, then Foster. And his cheekbones crease as he smiles, takes aim, and hits directly at Foster's ball. "Nyeh heh heh heh! See how you like that!"