CHAPTER 12
JT
I’ve been summoned.
It could be worse, I guess.I had a lab earlier today, which means I missed the team meeting at my house this afternoon, and that’s why I’m currently hauling ass across campus to meet my captains at Drip.
The coffee shop is busy as usual, but I spot Booker and Santos over by the window, so I head in that direction. There are two Green Dream smoothies in front Booker, so unless Cap’s pounding protein shakes, I can skip the line. I approach the table and sling my backpack over the back of a chair before taking a seat. Book slides a smoothie in my direction, and I take it gratefully.
“Thanks, man. What’d I miss today?”
Our games don’t start for another few weeks, but our practice schedule is in full swing. We typically hold team meetings at the athletic center, but I’m guessing these two have cooked up some team bonding idea that I’ll hate but comply with anyway.
“They want to sell our bodies,” Mickey says, sliding into the seat next to Santos.
We all blink at him. Dude’s my best friend, but I haven’t got a clue what he’s talking about. He could be spouting a conspiracy or just explaining some pyramid scheme he’s signed himself up for. With Mick, you never know.
“But the proceeds go to charity, so I’m down,” he announces, drumming his fingers on the table. “I need caffeine. BRB.”
Our heads swivel collectively as we watch him walk across the coffee shop.
“He most definitely does not need caffeine,” Santos says, putting into words what Booker and I are clearly thinking.
The line parts for him and a group of girls lets him cut in line. They’re fucking giddy at the privilege of letting Brannon Mikalski go ahead of them. Or maybe it’s the privilege of staring at his ass. Mickey’s the best person I know, but that’s not why the ladies love him. It could be the swoopy thing his hair does, or his toned physique, but it’s probably the fact that the man’s got a damn anaconda in his pants. I know this because he tends to walk around naked and has a penchant for talking about his giant schlong.
“So, back to the whole “selling our bodies” thing?” I say, not loving the way my captains’ faces both turn red.
Santos shakes his head and takes a sip of his frothy drink. “Mickey wasn’t entirely wrong, to be honest.”
“But we’re not selling anything. And it is for charity.” Book looks apologetic and scandalized all at the same time. I know his family is super religious and that the guy doesn’t swear, ever. So, whatever they’re cooking up, it’s definitely out of his comfort zone.
“It’s a bachelor auction,” Pete clarifies. “A bunch of campus organizations are involved in fundraising this year, and we’re one of the groups that got picked for this particular event. Basically, we parade around on stage and people bid on dates with us. Everything’s donated, so all we need to do is show up twice: once to strut our stuff on stage and thenagain for the actual date. It actually sounds like fun. And like Book and Mickey said, it’s for charity.”
This whole thing sounds so far from my idea of fun that I feel my smoothie sour in my stomach.
“It’s gonna be the fuckin’ tits,” Mickey says, slipping right back into his seat. “And get this. The theme is “Inside the Ocean,” or something?—“
“Under the Sea,” Booker corrects.
“Yeah,” Mickey agrees, nodding. “I was gonna dress up like that crab guy, the one who sings. Then I’d, like, do a whole striptease to the drumbeat. But some sorority is in charge, and they said we have to wear swim trunks and that we can’t actually strip. So dumb.”
He pauses just long enough to take a slurp of his Caramel Chocolate Meltdown, or whatever the hell his drink is called. It’s sugar shock waiting to happen, but Mickey laps it up daily.
“So dumb,” I agree in solidarity.
Santos and Booker look at me, then at each other. I know what they’re thinking. They’re playing a mental game of Rock, Paper, Scissors to determine which of them has to convince me to participate.
It’s not that I’m a surly bastard. Or even a difficult one. I’m a team player on the ice and in the locker room. I’m a damn good housemate, if only because I know how to use the washing machine. But signing up for something like this is not on-brand for me.
Before Booker even opens his mouth, I open mine. “Count me in.”
They go slack jawed except for Mickey. We have the same major and we live in the same house. Plus, for whatever reason, his brand of crazy doesn’t annoy the shit out of me. Put that all together and it basically means we spend the bulk of our time together.
Santos is skeptical. “You realize we’re asking you to be inthe bachelor auction, right? That means you’ve gotta wear whatever swim trunks they pick for us and shake your cake for the masses. And it means you actually have to go on a date with the lucky winner.”
“Yes, Dad,” I laugh, using the name we all call him. “I understand the concept of a bachelor auction. And yeah, I think it’s dumb as shit. But if you guys are all doing it, then I will, too.”
Santos nods before pulling out his phone and typing my name into a doc he’s pulled up. Why am I surprised this guy already has a spreadsheet started?
