Blaze’s gaze ping-pongs between us as if he has front-row tickets to Wimbledon.
We stare at each other for one beat too long.
“I don’t have time for your games, Hartwell.” I reach for Blaze’s waistband.
So does Cole.
We scramble against the fabric of Blaze’s pants when our hands smack together.
Right. Over. His. Dick.
Nobody moves.
“Bros be kicking the night off right!” Blaze proclaims.
“Shit. Sorry,” I grind out, yanking the pack left.
Cole shoves the clip right, and the wire snaps taut between us in a tiny, deeply undignified tug-of-war. Blaze lets out a rough laugh.
“Do your thing. I like to watch.”
“You’re going to break it,” I hiss.
“You’re about to pants him.”
“I am not!”
Blaze peeks down at the mic pack, then at us. “Wait. Are you two—”
“No!” we shout.
“Okay. Cool. Just checking the vibe.”
“Hands. Off,” I say, calm and lethal.
Cole’s fingers slide away first.
Scoreboard: Ivy.
I secure the pack properly, slide the clip into place, and smooth the wire up under Blaze’s lapel. The earpiece pops into his right ear, and I adjust it so it sits flush.
“Blaze.” I pin him with a look. “The speech is on the teleprompter. Read it. Exactly as written. The words scrolling in front of you are your best friends. Do not freestyle. Do not improvise about dolphins’ dating lives.”
“Hold up. But if I get, like, ocean poetry—”
“Don’t.”
“But—”
“Blaze.”
He nods. “Teleprompter. Got it, boss.”
“When you hear my voice in your ear—”
“And mine,” Cole interjects, tapping his own headset mic.
“Right. Us,” I grit out. “That’susadjusting something live. I’ll say things like ‘slow down’ or ‘go to Orson now.’ Just do it. Don’t say ‘okay, Ivy’ on camera. Don’t nod at the ceiling. Just absorb it and move on.”
