* * *
Bryn: But did you see me working the strings?
* * *
Teagan: I did. Right along with Fitz. You two, I swear.
* * *
Bryn: Fine. What can I say? We can both see what’s RIGHT IN FRONT OF US!!
* * *
Teagan: What’s in front of you is a dreamscape. You live in some friendship fantasia.
* * *
Bryn: Stop ruining my cupid dreams.
* * *
Teagan: My dream is for all of us to have brunch on Sunday, no weirdness on the menu.
* * *
Bryn: Fine. Fine. We’ll do brunch.
* * *
Teagan: And to keep doing brunch. I like brunch. I like our crew. I like the status quo.
* * *
Bryn: Message received—don’t rock the boat. Sourpuss.
* * *
Teagan: Aww, I love you too.
* * *
Bryn: Love you more.
* * *
I pour some coffee, take a sip, and check my Tinder profile. Scroll, scroll, scroll.
Nobody catches my interest.
Nobody looks like someone I’d want to commit to grabbing a latte with, let alone spend an evening with.
Leaving the phone on the counter, I take my mug and move to the living room window, gazing out at the tree-lined block on the Upper East Side.
My home. My parents’ home before it was mine.
And outside of this home are all my friends that make this city, this life, these times work for me.
Bryn, Ransom, Logan, Fitz, Dean, Summer, Oliver. The whole crew.
An auction is an auction is an auction.
That is all.
And everything will be fine.
4
Ransom
My friends are competitive assholes.
That’s a fact I accept. Embrace, really, since I’m one of them.
We compete over everything.
And fine, maybe I need to extend my definition of “friends” past my paintball-karaoke-darts-playing group. Maybe my competitors on the Yankees are friends.
But I need to keep them mentally in the frenemy zone so I can win the big prize—their money.
Plus bragging rights, of course.
That Saturday, after I get dressed and button up my tuxedo shirt, I text the dickheads on the Yankees, starting with Martinez, the closer.
* * *
Ransom: Marty Boy, did you convince your sister to bid on you yet?
* * *
Martinez: No, I convinced your sister. Last night.
* * *
I stare, narrow-eyed, at the text. Yeah, I walked into that. But there is no way he could ever score with Tempest. I toss a glance behind me at my younger sister—electric-blue glasses, hair twisted into a bun and held with a pencil as she chews the corner of her lip and taps away on her laptop in my living room. She’s been hanging here for the last couple of hours, since it’s a Saturday and she works both Hamilton shows.
“Temp, you don’t think Martinez is hot, do you?”
She crinkles her nose and scrunches her brow, her face doing a hula dance of confusion. “Who’s that? One of those one-name actors? Is he on Scrubs?”
“Scrubs has been off the air for years. Good job, Ms. Anti Pop Culture.”
“I know Broadway.”
“That does not count as pop culture.”
“Millions of Hamilton fans would beg to differ.”
“Fine,” I concede. “Hamilton is pop culture.”
“Is he one of your teammates? Because Martinez isn’t ringing a bell.”
I snort. “Marty Boy wishes he were talented enough to play hockey.”
“Now I’m curious about this guy. Marty Boy, you say?”
“That’s only what I call him because it drives him bananas.”
“What’s his first name?”
“Adrian. Adrian Martinez.”
Something shifts in her expression, like her brain unlocked with a click. “Wait. The guy you’ve been calling Marty Boy is really Adrian Martinez? As in Adrian Martinez of the Yankees?”
“So you do know him?”
“He’s definitely not on Scrubs. But let me just make sure he’s who I’m thinking of.”
She cracks her knuckles above the keys before she taps away, mouthing, Who is Adrian Martinez?
I groan. Why did I say his name? Now she’ll look him up, and I know what she’ll see—the guy who’s numero uno on a bunch of lists of hottest single athletes in New York.
Yes, I follow that sort of shit. The Dating Pool, BuzzFeed, City Post. Because then I can give my asshole friends a hard time.
Grabbing my bow tie, I return to the text thread, since the smack talk force is strong in me.
* * *
Ransom: I see you’re still taking hallucinogenic drugs. Keep it up, Martinez. I cannot wait to beat your sorry ass tonight when I take home the grand prize as the top fundraising athlete.
* * *
Martinez: Understandable. You couldn’t nab top honors on the City Post list, so you gotta try for them where you can.
* * *
He sends a photo of his face, so naturally I have to respond like this.
* * *
Ransom: Awesome. Gonna go put this on a mug now, along with a cartoon bubble caption that says “Ransom North is my idol.”
* * *
Martinez: You do that. Then let me know how it feels to constantly come in third place to Carnale and me. Want me to send some tissues for your tears? Or should I make it some towels because you’re probably drowning in a pool?
