Page 124 of Puck Your Feelings
I'm about to defend our honor when I notice something that makes my eye twitch.
Money.
Money is changing hands.
Again.
A twenty slides from Coby to Snooze. Ace grudgingly hands Groover what looks like a fifty. Even Coach Martin—Et tu, Brute?—is pulling out his wallet, passing bills to Washington with the expression of a man who's deeply disappointed in his own judgment.
"How many bets do you guys have on us?" I ask, my voice climbing an octave into territory that could shatter glass.
Petrov doesn't even look up from counting his winnings. "All of them."
"ALL OF THEM?" I repeat. "What does that even mean?"
Wall specifies, "When you'd get back together, how long you'd stay broken up, who'd apologize first—"
"Whether you'd have angry makeup sex," Ace adds.
Kane makes a choking sound beside me.
"—what Kane's dad would do," Wall continues the list like he's reading off a grocery receipt.
"If Becker would cry," Cap chimes in.
"I did not cry," I snap.
"You were one sad country song away from it," Groover says, which—rude, but fair.
I throw my hands up. "You people have a gambling problem! This is an intervention-level situation. There are hotlines for this!"
"For the record," Wall announces, standing up like he's about to give a TED talk, "I'm taking full credit for this reunion. My strategic roommate reassignments—"
"You kicked me out," I remind him.
"Exactly." Wall looks deeply satisfied with himself. "You're welcome."
I'm about to tell Wall exactly where he can shove his credit when I catch Kane's eye. He gives me this tiny nod—the kind that saysgo ahead.
Right. Okay. We're doing this.
I step onto the nearest chair, which happens to be the one Petrov just vacated. It wobbles under my weight, but I'm committed now.
"Listen up, y'all," I shout, and the room goes quiet again. "We need your help."
There's a beat of silence.
Someone calls out, "With what?"
A grin tugs at my lips. “Creating chaos.”
And suddenly, I’m a conductor and the entire dining hall is my orchestra and everyone calls out in perfect unison, “I’m in!”
***
I'M ABOUT TO throw up. Or pass out. Or possibly both, which would be embarrassing as hell considering I'm about to skate in front of what our analytics are predicting will be 800,000 live viewers.
Eight. Hundred. Thousand.
