He wrinkles his nose like he’s about to deny it. It’s cliché, it’s trite, it’s even a little pathetic—us college students are all the fucking same at our core. But he can’t turn down an offer like that.
“We have money,” he says, bitter. “So much fucking money and still, no one wants to party with us long term. I don’t get it, we’re attractive!”
“You are,” I agree. “But you have the swagger of a turnip. We—on the other hand—have swagger for days, and it’s yours if you help us fundraise.”
I did a bit of research. They’ve been able to put together some kind of crowdfunding-style thing, and they’ve clearly made bank, but it’s not going as viral as I’d bet they’d like it to.
He studies me. “If you hadn’t approached us, we were going to approach you. We know the longevity of the hockey team is at stake, and as much as we’ve had our beef with your fraternity, we don’t want to lose the team. We weren’t good enough to make it on the team, but we love the game.”
“So, you’ll help us?”
“Not so fast, McKinnon. Give me the details of your offer.”
“A full alliance. VIP party passes for life, and one of the box seats in the arena.” I haven’t exactly talked to Coach about that yet, but I’m sure he’ll be down. He will, right? “Tell me how your crowdfunding scheme works.”
He smirks because it is a scheme. “It’s … a little morally gray. Maybe even dark gray. But no one’s getting hurt. Our platformbegan as a cross between Benduovr Fans and FundMePlease. Thirst traps and fantasy content. People eat that shit up.”
A rock sinks in my gut. I can’t do any of that. Luke didn’t want me on a hockey calendar; I can’t be a thirst trap. Some of the guys might be willing, but probably not enough to make what we need.
“But,” Damien adds, “you know what people love even more than those things?”
“What?”
“Experiences. Personality. Brotherhood.Chaos.So we … we monetized chaos. We started showing people what it’s like to be us—behind-the-scenes stuff, pledge week madness, wild dares. It’s become a content machine.”
“Holy fucking shit,” I say, hope rising again as a tidal wave of potential floods my mind.
Damien reads me. “Yeah, if we did the same thing for the hockey team, it would go wild. Did you know they call going to a hockey game, going to the boy aquarium? Imagine what we could do with full access to your team. Content. Highlights. Locker room shenanigans. All we need is your permission and your faces.”
“A frat-built content empire,” I murmur.
“Exactly.”
“So, I give you our stories and our content, and you can build it and make it look good?”
He nods. “Yep. What we would pull in would be more than enough to keep our frats goingandthe hockey team.”
“How long?”
“It’ll take us time to warm up the accounts and get things going. Maybe a month or two? Faster if you guys are willing to create some content. Thirst trap optional.”
“If it helps move things along faster, I volunteer myself for thirst-trap content,” Bender says.
“No, he fucking doesn’t,” Shep says, glaring. They still aren’t touching each other.
“It would speed things up if some of the hockey players were willing to do some, um, door leans and stuff, shirtless,” Damien stresses. “Content with masks is especially fruitful right now.”
Lars would be all over that—especially the last one—and his tattoos would make everyone salivate.
“I’ll ask who’s available and willing.”
“Bender’s not on that fucking list,” Shep says in case we didn’t get it the first time.
“I’m not letting him on the list,” I promise.
“I’m right here,” Bender says. “And I can decide for myself, thanks.”
Shep glares.
