America's Geekheart (Bro Code #2)(6)

Like today.

“That I’m home to drive maybe two months out of the year. Your parents sent a subscription to the peanut butter of the month club, and it magically gets forwarded wherever we are every month.”

Shit.

I’m bad at giving presents.

And here I thought I rocked.

Also, I like peanut butter.

“Today sucks,” I mutter.

“Serves you right for being an ass.” Ellie claps a hand to her mouth and looks around, but Tucker’s gone.

“That tweet was supposed to go to you, and it was a joke,” I tell her. “I would never seriously tell anyone to shut up and go have some babies. But you’re stealing my best friend, you know. Wyatt was mine first.”

“I’m already researching the best women’s equality foundations for a sizable donation,” Charlie says. “It won’t solve everything, but it’s a start in damage control.”

“The foundation?” I say again. “That’ll help, right?

She pins me with a look, and I realize I haven’t just fucked up. I’ve FUCKED UP. All caps. This isn’t like the time I wrongly congratulated that news anchor on being pregnant on air—I know, I know, but I was nineteen and an idiot—and almost got us banned from ever going back to Detroit.

This is way worse.

Because in about ten days, I’m supposed to announce a joint foundation with Vaughn Crawford, the hottest center in basketball, to sponsor athletic organizations for kids all over the nation.

And now I’ve put the stain of my reputation on the whole thing.

Sent the entire plan through the floor like a flaming meteorite made of cow shit.

Something tells me a video conference with my entire team isn’t going to solve this. And there won’t be a scandal hot enough in Hollywood to take precedence over me sticking my entire leg in my mouth, Twitter-style, ever.

“I shouldn’t go to your party,” I tell Ellie with a wince, because I’ll only be a distraction.

“They’ll be talking about you whether you’re there or not,” she points out.

“All friendlies,” Wyatt adds. “But if you can’t handle taking the crap…”

I don’t deserve to be around friendlies today.

And I need to get off my ass, stop feeling sorry for myself, and help my team fix this instead of once again letting Charlie set everything up for me.

It’s what she does, and what I pay her well to do, but this is my mistake.

“I need to call Vaughn,” I tell her.

She nods. “Oh, yeah, you do. And tread lightly and grovel, because no one wants your reputation bringing them down. The only thing you have going for you right now is that it’ll be hella hard for him to find another co-sponsor who can donate gear as easily as you can.”

Yeah.

She’s right.

The FLY HYGH foundation isn’t just money to fund sports complexes and equipment and administrative fees. It’s also getting donations from Vaughn’s shoe line and my athletic gear line.

All might not be lost, but Vaughn’s one of the good dudes, and he deserves a better partner in this than a dumbass who insults all of womankind on Twitter.

It’s time to start groveling.

I push myself to sitting to grab my phone, and my gaze falls on the house next door.

Probably need to go apologize to Sarah the right way too.

When Ellie met me at my building in a getaway car just as I was running up, she filled me in on what happened while I was unplugged. So I took my phone off airplane mode and checked social media.

It’s ugly.

Not only am I getting eviscerated, but in the midst of all the support for @must_love_bees, she’s also being mocked and called names by people who think her handle is stupid, that there’s no honeybee crisis, that giraffes aren’t going extinct, that the earth is flat, that atomic particles are a myth, and suggesting she go kill herself for having an ugly profile picture, which is an artistic drawing of Saturn with the rings bent into shapes of wings and a honeybee tail on the end.

She didn’t ask to be famous.

And she didn’t ask for the crazies to come out.

I did that.

And I need to make it stop.

The question, though, is how.





Four





Sarah



There’s nothing better for stress relief than complete and utter denial with a side dish of crazy.

And I have crazy in spades right now.

The Fireballs are playing tonight, which means my very best friend in the entire universe has invaded my house to watch the game.

And when I say invaded, I truly mean invaded.

Mackenzie’s set up pumpkin spice candles—even though it’s June—to inspire thoughts of fall baseball. Her Fireballs banner is hanging from my living room curtain rod. She made me change into a Fireballs jersey—which wasn’t really a hardship—because they win more often when we both wear Cooper Rock jerseys. Unless we’re at the stadium, in which case they win more often if I’m wearing a geeky science T-shirt.

She’s also playing music on her phone that’s supposed to relax us both.

It’s some sort of new age techno with a beat that our pulses are supposed to sync to, so we can be the most excited Zen people in the world watching our home team lose a game.