Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Asher’s mouth falls open, as if he’s aghast. “Blasphemy.”
“Yep, and don’t you forget my blasphemy, Callahan,” Wesley says, then as he tucks his phone into his jeans pocket, he turns to Yuki as she begins making the drinks. “Really appreciate you rooting for our team instead of the Golden State Foxes.”
That’s the other hockey team in the city and one of our fiercest rivals. Though I hate the Los Angeles Supernovas more. Especially their starting forward, Fletcher Bane, who’d serve Earth better if he were shot in a spaceship to Mars and left to rot there forever.
But I do my best to never think about my biggest enemy except when we’re playing those cheating fuckheads.
“Never the Foxes,” Yuki says. “Sea Dogs always.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” Wesley says.
“You chose well, Yuki,” Asher adds as she works on the drinks.
They chat with her more as I busy myself with finishing the transaction. I double the amount of the smoothies I bought for myself and my friends and set that as the tip. That’s not new. I always do that—tip well. Because I can, and because I was that kid behind the counter once upon a time, working at a quick-serve restaurant, taking orders and hoping for decent tips.
Normally, if someone recognizes me, and that happens from time to time, I say something nice and move on, stat. I figure shit can get awkward real fast, so a simple thanks is all that’s needed. But Wesley and Asher? These guys brought her into the convo for a while. Had a real chat with her.
Do I need to do more of that to help my likeability quotient? I hate fake conversations. They didn’t seem fake though…But I don’t know that me being more outgoing with the college student who makes our post-morning-skate smoothies is enough to change my…likeability quotient.
That stupid term makes me want to kick a garbage can. Instead, I grab my drink roughly when it’s done, grunting out a thanks as Asher picks up the pineapple drink while Wes grabs his kale shake. The dude loves his greens. As we head to our regular table in the back of the shop, Asher says, “Did you guys catch up on the end of Twisted Nights?”
That’s the domestic thriller on Webflix we’re all addicted to. “That was wild,” Wesley says, sliding into the booth. “I can’t believe they crossed the border.”
“Don’t cross the border,” Asher booms in a deep warning tone, reciting the tagline for the show. I could jump in, but I’m a little lost in thoughts of what’s next, like what exactly it means to turn my reputation around and how painful that’ll be, especially with Everly breathing down my neck. But if even the server here knows my rep, it’ll be harder than unsticking a container ship from the Suez Canal.
As I take a thirsty sip, Asher tips his drink my way, catching my attention. “What’s up with you, Lambert? You usually mock Wesley for his theories on the next season.”
“And yet, all my theories came true,” Wesley points out.
Didn’t even realize they were debating what might happen in the future. Looking up, I blink off the haze of my own thoughts. “Have you ever heard of a likeability quotient?” It’s asked with some derision.
Asher’s brow furrows. “No, but I can figure it out.”
Wesley shakes his head. “Sounds like marketing mumbo jumbo.”
I’m not always the most forthcoming guy, but I trust my friends, and hell, they already know my rep—Asher’s the guy you bring home to mom, Wesley’s the guy who helps anyone out of a jam, and I’m the guy you’d send to the door to scare off strangers on your porch. “Evidently”—I stop to sketch air quotes—“my likeability quotient is in the toilet.”
I roll my eyes because I can’t not.
“Explain,” Asher says as he swirls his compostable straw—he picked this spot as our regular stomping grounds since everything’s compostable here.
I take a satisfying suck of peanut butter and banana, then lean back in the booth and ’fess the fuck up. “I lost my last sponsor yesterday,” I say, and hell, that’s more embarrassing to admit than I’d thought it’d be. They know that’s been happening to me ever since the fight against Los Angeles, but it still makes me feel like a fool to talk about the ramifications out loud. “And my agency’s marketing department told me to shape up. Basically, they put me on notice to make some changes, or else.”
“Ouch,” Asher says with obvious sympathy.
“Shit, man. That sucks,” Wesley says.
Trash talk is our first language, but they must sense my situation has reached code-red levels. I seriously appreciate them not giving me a hard time.
“And yes, I know it’s my fault because I don’t talk to the press, but man, that convo still kind of made me feel like shit,” I admit honestly.