Page 22 of The Romance Line
But I do my best to never think about my biggest enemy except when we’re playing those cheating fuckheads.
“Never the Foxes,” Yuki says. “Sea Dogs always.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” Wesley says.
“You chose well, Yuki,” Asher adds as she works on the drinks.
They chat with her more as I busy myself with finishing the transaction. I double the amount of the smoothies I bought for myself and my friends and set that as the tip. That’s not new. I always do that—tip well. Because I can, and because I was that kid behind the counter once upon a time, working at a quick-serve restaurant, taking orders and hoping for decent tips.
Normally, if someone recognizes me, and that happens from time to time, I say something nice andmove on, stat. I figure shit can get awkward real fast, so a simple thanks is all that’s needed. But Wesley and Asher? These guys brought her into the convo for a while. Had a real chat with her.
Do I need to do more of that to help my likeability quotient? I hate fake conversations. They didn’t seem fake though…But I don’t know that me being more outgoing with the college student who makes our post-morning-skate smoothies is enough to change my…likeability quotient.
That stupid term makes me want to kick a garbage can. Instead, I grab my drink roughly when it’s done, grunting out a thanks as Asher picks up the pineapple drink while Wes grabs his kale shake. The dude loves his greens. As we head to our regular table in the back of the shop, Asher says, “Did you guys catch up on the end ofTwisted Nights?”
That’s the domestic thriller on Webflix we’re all addicted to. “That was wild,” Wesley says, sliding into the booth. “I can’t believe they crossed the border.”
“Don’t cross the border,” Asher booms in a deep warning tone, reciting the tagline for the show. I could jump in, but I’m a little lost in thoughts of what’s next, like what exactly it means to turn my reputation around and how painful that’ll be, especially with Everly breathing down my neck. But if even the server here knows my rep, it’ll be harder than unsticking a container ship from the Suez Canal.
As I take a thirsty sip, Asher tips his drink my way, catching my attention. “What’s up with you, Lambert? You usually mock Wesley for his theories on the next season.”
“And yet, all my theories came true,” Wesley points out.
Didn’t even realize they were debating what might happen in the future. Looking up, I blink off the haze of my own thoughts. “Have you ever heard of a likeability quotient?” It’s asked with some derision.
Asher’s brow furrows. “No, but I can figure it out.”
Wesley shakes his head. “Sounds like marketing mumbo jumbo.”
I’m not always the most forthcoming guy, but I trust my friends, and hell, they already know my rep—Asher’s the guy you bring home to mom, Wesley’s the guy who helps anyone out of a jam, and I’m the guy you’d send to the door to scare off strangers on your porch. “Evidently”—I stop to sketch air quotes—“mylikeability quotientis in the toilet.”
I roll my eyes because I can’t not.
“Explain,” Asher says as he swirls his compostable straw—he picked this spot as our regular stomping grounds since everything’s compostable here.
I take a satisfying suck of peanut butter and banana, then lean back in the booth and ’fess the fuck up. “I lost my last sponsor yesterday,” I say, and hell, that’s more embarrassing to admit than I’d thought it’d be. They know that’s been happening to me ever sincethe fightagainst Los Angeles, but it still makes me feel like a fool to talk about the ramifications out loud. “And my agency’s marketing department told me to shape up. Basically, they put me on notice to make some changes, or else.”
“Ouch,” Asher says with obvious sympathy.
“Shit, man. That sucks,” Wesley says.
Trash talk is our first language, but they must sense my situation has reached code-red levels. I seriously appreciate them not giving me a hard time.
“And yes, I know it’s my fault because I don’t talk to thepress, but man, that convo still kind of made me feel like shit,” I admit honestly.
“You gotta do your own thing. Make your own choices, Lambert. That’s what I learned last season,” Wesley says.
I mull on that for a few seconds. I suppose Wesley’s proof, though, that talking openly can be a good thing. Last season, he spoke up in a big way about his life. That kind of honesty and vulnerability made a huge difference to the team and the community and to his personal life—it’s the reason his girlfriend is happily back in town, shacked up with him.
“You did, man,” I say, offering a fist for knocking. He knocks back. “You showed the fuck up in all the ways.” I heave a sigh, and it’s not so much one of resignation but maybe…acceptance that I’ve got to make some changes. “I guess I have to do a better job of that. When my agent called me into his conference room and showed me a fucking whiteboard with the likeability quotient, it was a rude awakening. But then again, it was a pretty rude awakening a year and a half ago when I walked into the home I shared with Lyra and saw Fletcher Bane from the Supernovas balls deep in her, so…”
Asher shoots me a sympathetic frown. “That’s enough to make anyone shut down.”
But that was only the start of it. That wasn’twhyI stopped talking to the press. It wasn’t why I killed my social media either. What happened a week or so later at my sister’s house was—after the fight on the ice with Bane. After the media wouldn’t leave me alone. After they hassled my sister.
“But apparently my attitude isn’t sitting well with team management, and I need to figure out how to be nicer…or else.”
“Just let ’em know you treat us to smoothies—that’s nice,” Asher says.