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“Hey, Callahan.” Tanner Bogart slid into the empty seat next to me. “I was looking at this new biometrics app, and Ports said you had some thoughts I should hear.”

I most certainly fucking did.

I’d just pulled Mikey into my room last night when my dad texted a link to the press release Benson Wilder’s team had issued, advising me to have Donovan look into something similar for me. I’d tossed my phone onto the desk, going off on a tangent about pretty-boy hockey players who needed to spend more time working on their skills than trying to become influencers, only shutting up when Mikey cupped my dick and walked me toward the bed.

I hadn’t had much to say about it—or anything else—after that.

“Sounds like lots of guys in the league are switching over,” Bogart mused, thumbing through an Instagram feed showing a bunch of players who’d posted either screenshots of their profiles or pictures of them with Wilder, voicing their support.

“That’s because they’re a bunch of kiss asses,” I said, belatedly realizing I probably should have kept that opinion to myself.

Everyone in the league seemed to love the fucking guy, and I had no clue why. He was kind of a dick, and he wasn’t even that good at hockey.

“Wow. Someone sounds jealous.”

I scoffed. “I’m really not.” I spun to face Bogart more fully, holding out my hand, palm up. “Give me your phone.”

He passed it my way, and I clicked on the icon, scrolling through the menu.

“It looks good. No denying that. Nice, slick UI.” I clicked the icon for recovery and sleep, bringing up a colorful bar chart. “But it’s literally the same information you already have on your Apple Watch. It’s just taking those reports and making them prettier while charging you a fuck ton of money for them.”

I shut down the app and gave his phone back to him. “I wouldn’t have attached my name to it, but Wilder’s never met an endorsement he doesn’t like, so.” I shrugged.

“Wow, did he piss in your Cheerios or something?” Bogart asked, sliding his phone into his front pocket.

I shot him an annoyed look. “I don’t eat Cheerios.”

He huffed out a bewildered-sounding laugh. “You are so fucking weird, man.” He braced his hands on the seat back in front of him and pulled himself up. “But thanks for the insight,” he said, turning down the aisle to head back to his seat.

“Yeah, no problem,” I muttered, though I wasn’t sure he’d heard me.

Before anyone else could talk to me about stupid shit, I dug out my headphones. I’d done enough socializing for one day.

I’d only just gotten one earbud in when Mikey dropped into the vacated seat next to me. “Did you give Bogart your dissertation on Wilder’s shitty app?”

I pulled the earbud out, slipped it back into the case, and tucked it back into my bag. So much for zoning out. “That wasn’t funny,” I told him.

Mikey grinned. “It was kind of funny.”

“Yeah, well. Now he thinks I hate Wilder.”

“You kinda do, Cal.”

I huffed. “I don’t hate him personally. I hate, like, the concept of him. Either you’re a model or you’re a hockey player. You can’t be both.”

Mikey popped up onto his knees and turned toward the back of the bus. I twisted, resting my arm on my seat back and following his gaze.

“Yo, Bell!” he called out, smirking down at me.

Shit. I’d walked right into that one.

Bell held up a finger, finished whatever he was saying to Morrison, then turned his attention to Mikey. “Yeah?”

“How many runways did you walk this summer?”

“Two,” he answered. “Why?”

“And how many ad campaigns are you currently featured in?”