by Mariah Dietz
“In conclusion,” Professor Krayzer says, catching my attention. “Tournament Theory—is there a place for it in society, and should we continue to allow it?” She looks across the class.
“Yes,” a boy with dark, curly hair and a scraggly mustache answers from where he sits near the back of the class.
“Why?” the professor asks.
“Because winners should be compensated. They work hard to be the best, and we should reward them for it. Plus, it only helps encourage others to work harder.”
I scoff, drawing the attention of Professor Krayzer, whose lips are tipped with an amused grin. “What are your thoughts, Miss…?”
“Cartwright,” I tell her. “The movie Wonder Woman made over eight-hundred million dollars, and Gal Gadot, Wonder Woman herself, made a measly three-hundred grand. Compare that to movies in the same genre that have been far less successful, with actors earning millions more. Not to mention you’re completely discounting chance and skill from your consensus and how to prevent people from cheating to earn those top spots.”
Professor Krayzer turns her attention from me to the guy who needs to be introduced to a razor. “Any response?”
He sits taller in his seat, his dark eyes flashing in my direction for a second with a challenging sneer. Maybe a rusted razor is what he deserves. “It’s incentivizing and reduces shock in markets. I think the only ones who are going to complain about it are those who want to try and twist it to find disadvantages.”
“Twist it?” I ask, my mouth puckering like the words are sour. “The facts are simple. If you create a model where the winners benefit most, you will never have employees share valuable and efficient processes or knowledge. In addition, you’re going to increase your chances of unethical behavior, cheating, and division among employees, which in total will not help most business models grow or even survive. The simple way of looking at this would be gladiators: the winner won his life, and the loser lost his. How we can call that barbaric and not this when it’s the same concept but with monetary gifts only proves how slow some are on the evolutionary path.” I give scraggly-beard a sideways glance.
“But if I’m in the NFL and driving ticket sales up, and television stations are getting increased viewers and therefore making more money with advertisers, shouldn’t I receive a piece of that pie?” The deep voice has me turning to look at Ian. This far away, I can’t clearly see his eyes and the different hues of blue that are fringed with sooty lashes, but I note the shadow of a beard that deserves an applause, and his wide shoulders make my heart race defiantly.
“That depends. Why are you driving viewership? Is it because you’re the best player or because you’re throwing tantrums and people find it entertaining?”
Amusement twists his lips, but rather than revealing the smile I’m expecting, he turns his attention to Professor Krayzer and kicks his feet out, and folds one ankle over the other. “Would it matter?”
“If you were the best player, it would matter,” I tell him. “If someone is gaining attention and therefore driving costs for being theatrical, those who are working tirelessly to be the best would certainly be annoyed. Look at Hollywood and those who create the most drama. Many of them are driving costs up because people are constantly shocked at what is being said or done rather than caring a bit about their music or acting performance. Not to negate that women purchase eighty percent of products, thereby giving a massive advantage to guys with a pretty face and a tight ass.”
His grin widens into a smile, one that isn’t for me but the entire class. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
He should, though I’m not about to admit that because the very last thing someone as attractive and confident as Ian needs is either a compliment or assurance. The class laughs, and so do I as I shake my head. In reality, he’s not entirely wrong, which is what keeps me from saying anything more, that and the fact class is over, and I need to get to the yoga studio for an aerial yoga class.
“I like the dialogue, class,” Professor Krayzer says. “Don’t forget to check your reading schedule. Next week, we’ll be discussing job security, which should segue nicely after today’s discussion.” She glances across the room again, her light brown hair tied back in a bun that is giving me new inspiration. “I’ll see you next week.”
I close my laptop and kick myself for glancing toward Ian a final time. He slips out of the door, making my chest and hopes fall.
“Keep challenging them,” Professor Krayzer says from her desk behind me.
I right my bookbag and turn to face her. “I’m not entirely opposed to Tournament Theory,” I admit. “Smugness just irritates me.”
Professor Krayzer laughs. “Are you majoring in economics for law school?”
Ishake my head. “No,” I say still because the idea needs to be brandished and denied verbally as well. “I’m going to start an empire and become the fortieth female CEO of fortune five-hundreds.”
“Fortieth? I’m pretty sure there are less than that now.”
I nod. “I’m hoping a couple more are elected before I hit mainstream.”
My explanation makes Professor Krayzer smile again, but unlike the tired grin that is always accompanied by an eye roll when I tell this to my dad or older sister, Anna, hers seems genuine and intrigued.
“You should consider law school. It could help your ventures in starting a business.”
“Empire,” I correct her.
“Empire,” she repeats with a nod. “Few can see the other side, much less argue it.” She gives me a knowing look. “I’ll see you next week.”
Her words ring in my thoughts as I make my way down the long, mostly bare hall, trying to leave the traces of disappointment that often follow conversations about my future and leaving my family’s history of law and politics behind.
I reach for my bag to call Olivia. Sometimes my thoughts are too loud and too consuming, and Olivia often manages to silence them, or at the very least, soothe them. When we met, I had pegged Olivia as a loner. She avoided parties and afterschool functions and was seemingly allergic to all extracurriculars where I thrived. During our senior year after months of my navigating unexpected circumstance after unexpected circumstance, I found more comfort and refuge with Olivia than I did with the same friends who had once voted me as homecoming queen.
I went through a transformation of sorts that began with me feeling the most alive and happy while around others—their energy, laughter, and excitement feeding and nourishing me. I liked being the center of attention, needed it—wanted it— to suddenly feeling isolated and alone when surrounded by the very same crowds. Our conversations about fashion and drama that filled the hallways of Pinehurst High made me feel like a stranger.
Maybe I was more of an introvert than I’d realized. Perhaps tragedy reveals who your real friends are, or maybe I just was tired of the principles and trying to live up to expectations of being perfect, which were never necessary around Olivia. She became the yin to my yang, the salt to my pepper, the jelly to my peanut butter.
After moving in together, we developed a routine made with care and patience. Our friendship grew into a sisterhood that extended beyond binge-watching our favorite shows while ordering Pad Thai from every takeout restaurant in the city to find the very best. I dragged her to yoga dates with me and to my dad’s for brunch once a month. In turn, she made me go to her family dinners with her dad, stepmom, Whitney, and two devil-spawns she calls stepbrothers, and to used bookstores around the city because the only thing my best friend loves more than a good Netflix binge is a great romance book—our one great difference. While I love reading, my enjoyment for romance novels ended when my mom got sick. Olivia believes in happily ever after’s, while I believe in happily and ever after’s—note they’re not co-dependent.
We were two peas in a pod. A happy pod, and then Olivia met Arlo, and everything changed.
Arlo brought out sides of Olivia I didn’t know were dormant—smiles, enthusiasm tow
ard simple things, a love for Seattle, and overall happiness. My friend had never been dull, but it was hard not to see how he brought the rest of her to life.
Our duo became a trio.
This is where many expect me to say my friendship with Olivia changed. I grew jealous. She grew distant. Arlo became her priority.
That wasn’t what happened.
Not even close.
Instead, Arlo’s presence added humor and variety to our routine. And seeing them together has had me reconsidering what I thought I knew and wanted. Because before watching my best friend fall in love and witnessing what a healthy relationship consists of and how both people work to bring the other up as well as themselves, I had no interest in being in a relationship.
Less than none.
But now…?
“Hey!” Olivia greets me on the second ring.
“Is it June yet?” I ask her.
She laughs in return. “I hear we’re going to look back and miss these days.”
I release a long sigh. “People also claim to miss the seventies, and that decade was filled with terrible fashion and economic struggle. They have to say it.”
She laughs again like she always does when I turn too many shades of negative. “I have two classes and then work, but I should be home around six. Do you want to go grab something to eat or try that new series on Netflix?”
“Take out and Netflix?”
“I’m in. Also, we were invited to a party on Saturday after the game. We totally don’t have to go, though.”
“No. We should go. It will be good for us to get out and have fun. I’m beginning to resemble an old spinster.”
“It’s at Ian’s,” she tells me.
Hearing his name makes me flinch. It’s like the shadow of him is following me everywhere this week.
“That’s okay,” I say, nearly choking on the words. “Totally fine.” My voice is clearer this time, more confident. “He throws great parties. We should go.”
“We don’t have to.” Hesitation lingers in her voice.
“It’s okay. We said we were going to be friends.”
“I know you said he acted kind of weird the other day. Maybe you should talk to him?”
“I don’t really think that’s a good idea. He was with Isla.”
“Isla? Do I know Isla?” Olivia asks.
“Probably not. But he does.”
“I’m sorry,” her voice is sincere and sorrowful. We’ve discussed Ian more than we should. “I still think you should talk to him. Maybe tell him you got scared and were worried about him being gone so long.”
I shake my head and pull in a deep breath through my nose. “No. It’s good. I’m good. You know me, I’m not the dating type.”
“Rule one, I know,” she says.
“Actually, rule one is always have coffee within ten minutes of waking up.”
Her laughter tickles my ears and my lips, lightening the weight in my chest that arrived with the mention of Ian’s name. “Maybe we make a backup plan for Saturday? Just in case it’s lame,” she suggests.
“That isn’t the worst idea you’ve ever had.”
Olivia laughs. “Where are you?”
The sun shines down on me, warm and inviting against my bare arms. “Heading to yoga. I’m teaching an aerial class this afternoon.”
“Is that the one with the hammocks where you twist your legs in the fabric and hang upside down?”
A smile breaks across my face. “That’s one way to describe it.”
Then, just as quickly as my smile and calmness had appeared, they both abandon me as Anthony makes a beeline toward me, his eyes bright and his smile cruel. A warning bell sounds in my ears, a premonition of sorts that tells me I’m not going to want to hear what he has to say.
“Your story for Monday just got more interesting,” Anthony tells me.
“I’m on the phone,” I tell him.
He shakes his head and continues, his voice louder. “Not anymore. Trust me—you need to see this. It’s going to make headline news and help our sales.”
“I’m only listening if you tell me I can run with food security article.” I’d pitched it to him yesterday, offering to write both pieces.
Olivia chuckles in my ear. “Call me when you’re done with baby T-rex.”
I keep my phone to my ear for a moment, refusing to let go of the escape route.
Anthony shakes his head. “No one cares about that, Rose.”
“I know, but we can change that. We should change that.”
He sighs heavily. “Then you’re going to sound preachy. No one wants to hear about starving people in foreign countries. They want to hear things that make them happy. And do you know what else they want?”
“I realize people like happy news. I like happy news. But people also want to be informed, and as a society, we like to help each other. That’s why you see people giving up their Thanksgivings to volunteer at a soup kitchen. Come on, I will make the story relatable, edgy, and give information on how everyone can help. One in nine people are going hungry in the world, and as journalists, it’s our responsibility to inform people—”
“Are you out of excuses yet?” He gives a pointed look at my chest, where I have my cell phone pressed after waving it around because I’m nothing if not slightly theatrical.
“No! And, I was talking to someone, and not an imaginary someone. They let me go because they heard you being an ankle biter.” I release another sigh. “I’m already doing one assignment that I don’t want. I’m not doing another.”
I consider myself a pretty good judge of character, but Anthony’s Grinch-like smile reminds me that generalities can leave large enough gaps to allow for massive regrets.
“Well, consider yourself hitting a two-in-one.” He holds up his phone, revealing a picture of Hoyt naked, his groin barely covered with a couple of heart emojis.
I blink back my surprise. “Why are you showing me this? Why do you even have it?”
“Someone sent it to me anonymously.”
“Anonymously or anonymously?” There’s a massive difference between someone asking not to be named and a truly anonymous source.
“Anonymously.” His grin widens. “They said they have more pictures from everyone on the team, and they plan to start sharing them every single day. This one is going out Saturday.”
He flashes another picture of Hoyt fully naked except for a small caption covering his penis.
“Unless what?”
Anthony stops, his brow furrowing. “What are you talking about?”
“What’s stopping them from releasing them all at once? Why prolong the process unless they’re trying to get something?”
“Maybe they’re trying to build their audience?”
I shake my head. “I call bullshit. This person probably photoshopped the picture.”
“They sent me proof with more pictures they plan to share.” He shrugs. “They look legit, and if I think they look legit as the editor of a newspaper, you damn well know others will too.” He offers his phone.
I take it and scroll to see a picture of Lincoln and Raegan making out at a party, his hand creeping up her shirt. Another of Paxton Lawson appearing drunk as he poses with two beers in his hands. I stop on a picture of Ian, shirtless, his hands palming a faceless girl’s ass. “Did they say what they want? Aside from Hoyt’s picture, these aren’t very provocative,” I point out to him.
Anthony smiles, and it’s purely evil. “They said they have secrets.”
“Secrets? What kind of secrets?”
“They didn’t share.”
I shake my head. “I don’t like this. Why would someone go to the work of going after the football team?”
He gives a quick shake of his head. “That’s what you’re going to find out.”
“We’re a college paper. There’s no way they’re going to allow us to publish about the site.”
“I’m the editor. I’ll worry about what we publish, y
ou stick to the facts.”
5
Ian
“Fuck me, it’s cold out tonight,” Luis says as we jog to the sideline to start warmups. It’s Saturday, our first home game of the season, and everyone is excited. “Look at this—you can see my nipples.” He looks down at them. “And they look a lot nicer than Hoyt’s, am I right?”
Beside us, Hoyt flips him off. “Don’t be jealous of my titties.”
I shouldn’t laugh, but I’ve got the pre-game adrenaline coursing through my veins, and the memes I’ve seen of Hoyt with nearly everything covering and not covering his manhood has been the highlight of my day. And Hoyt has been in good spirits about it, sharing the damn link to the website that had his nude photo on every social media platform he has.
I turn to Luis. “I tried to get you to come work shoulders and chest yesterday, get your moobs down.”
“Moobs.” Luis’s voice is flat, then he lifts a hand and flips me off. “I could flatten a fucking beer can between my pecs.” He pounds on his chest.
“I’ll give you a thousand bucks to do it.”
His stoic expression fades, replaced with a smile. “You know I can’t crush a can with my pecs. Could you imagine? My pecs would have to stick out like four inches to have any grip.” He starts to move his hands like he’s placing an imaginary can to his chest when Assistant Coach Foley and Coach Danielson start heading toward us. Luis stops joking around, knowing that our coaches don’t feel the same rush of energy before a game that makes them find humor and fun in the mundane process of warming up. Instead, they become so uptight that they could crush cans with their asses.
