Page 25 of Puck Your Feelings
Ace:100%
I look up to find the entire table staring at their phones.
We're all sittingright here, within arm's reach of each other.
"We can see the chat," I announce to the table.
Kane pulls out his own phone, scrolling through the messages with a frown. "This is professional discourse."
More messages pop up.
Groover:Sure it is
Wall:Upgrading my bet to $75
I shoot Wall a glare across the table. He just smirks and takes another bite of his sandwich.
Washington:Everyone focus on recovery. We have afternoon scrimmage.
"Thank you, voice of reason," I mutter, about to close the messaging app when another message appears.
Washington:Though for the record, I'm taking Ace's side on the bet.
I huff.
Becker:CAP!
Kane is reading the messages with an expression of deep confusion, like he's trying to decode a foreign language. "Why are they betting on us?"
"Because they're bored and terrible," I explain. "Also, we apparently provide entertainment."
"By existing?"
"By bickering. They think it's..." I gesture vaguely. "A thing."
"It's not a thing."
"I know it's not a thing."
Across the table, Groover and Mateo exchange a look that clearly communicates they think we're both idiots.
I finish eating and upload the clip as a short—just a clip of Kane and me going back and forth. I title it "Day 2: The Golden Boy Learns Banter" and post it without overthinking.
My phone immediately starts buzzing.
The view count climbs: 10K. 20K. 35K.
"Jesus," I mutter, watching the numbers.
"What?" Kane asks.
"People really like watching us argue."
He leans over to look at my phone, and suddenly he's close enough that I can smell his deodorant. His eyebrows shoot up to his forehead as he watches the view count go up in real time.
I shrug. "Apparently we're fascinating."
He pulls back. "Or people have too much free time."
