Instagram it was.
I opened the app and started scrolling. The feed was the usual mix: teammates posting workout videos, brands pushing products, and fans tagging me in posts I’d never see.
Nothing interesting.
Nothing that required actual engagement.
Scroll. Double-tap. Scroll. Ignore. Scroll.
My thumb moved on autopilot, my brain barely registering the images flashing past.
A sunset.
Someone’s dog.
Someone’s dog in their lap.
Someone’s dog licking their face.
Someone licking their dog’s face.
Okay, ew.
Then a familiar logo caught my eye.
Barbacks.
My thumb froze.
It was a photo of some elaborate cocktail withlightning bolts drawn into the foam, captioned, “Game day specials! Come watch the boys bring home a W!”
I clicked on the account to find it had maybe a few thousand followers, nothing huge, but Instagram’s algorithm had decided I needed to see it, probably because I’d looked at their page once or twice before.
Or maybe more than once or twice.
I couldn’t remember.
I stared at the photo for longer than was normal.
The drink looked ridiculous in the best way, Benji’s work, almost certainly. That guy had a flair for the dramatic and an undeniable skill with a tasty libation.
Without thinking about it, I tapped the search bar and typed: Jackson Armstrong.
The results populated.
There were a lot of Jackson Armstrongs.
I shrugged at the common name. Of course, there were a lot of them, idiot.
Some guy with a podcast.
A real estate agent in Ohio.
A kid who looked about twelve.
I added Tampa to the search.
There were still too many results.
