Page 26 of Down My Chimney

And it wasn’t just our training that was regimented. Our meals were too. At the beginning of the week, we got our blood drawn, and two days later, we got results that purported to indicate what kinds of diets we were supposed to be eating.

Dev almost cried when Coach told him he was supposed to be eating even fewer carbs. I wasn’t sure I bought that. A life without carbs wasn’t a life worth living, in my book, but from then on, our food was strictly monitored and portioned out.

Even things that should have been relaxing weren’t. Our sleeping hours were regulated, and Coach confiscated our phones at the beginning of the week so that their blue light wouldn’t disrupt our circadian rhythms. I would gladly have bathed in blue light if it let me see more of Henry’s ass, but I didn’t get a vote.

Coach had scheduled sports massages for each of us, and rounds in the sauna and plunge pool, but with assistants timing us with stopwatches and blowing whistles every five seconds, it took all the fun out of it. By the time we limped to our cars that final Sunday, I was convinced that if I ever saw another steam room or salmon filet, I’d scream.

Training ate up every minute of our week off, which meant I hadn’t made any progress on the papers I should have been working on. I honestly wanted to cry when I contemplated the pile of work waiting for me back at school.

I plugged my phone into the car charger as we drove back towards civilization. Matty was riding with me this time, and when he suggested stopping at Renegade Rick’s again, I was happy to oblige. My phone was exploding with notifications from every app I had, and I wanted to sort through those as much as I wanted to eat something fried.

The diner was packed, and we grabbed the last table against a wall of windows in the back. The place was decked out in vintage, fifties decor—chrome chairs with red leather seats, sparkling Formica tables, and a linoleum floor with blue and cream tiles.

The menus were huge, laminated things. Between all the options, the still-updating stream of notifications on my phone, and the face of a curious goat peeking in the window, I was completely overwhelmed.

Someone stepped over to our table, and I looked up, expecting to see the waitress who’d been rollerskating around the restaurant. Instead, it was an older guy with a scraggly, mountain-man beard, steel-toed boots, and a biker vest under an apron covered in lavender turtles. He was clutching a spatula and had knuckle tats that saidLolaandJean.

“BasicallyBlake13?” he said, looking at me with a frown.

I blinked. That was my Instagram handle, but how the hell did this guy know it?

“Um, yeah?” I smiled uncertainly. “Sorry, did I do—”

“Rick,” the guy interrupted, sticking his spatula-free hand out for me to shake. He smiled, and I caught the glint of a gold tooth.

I shook his hand, my brow furrowing. “Rick of…Renegade Rick’s?” I asked slowly.

“That’s the one!” he beamed. “You have no idea how long I’ve been trying to track you down. You’re a hard man to get a hold of. I was just about to give up, and then here you come, waltzing back into my restaurant.”

“I’m…sorry?” A thread of worry snaked through my stomach.

“We’ve been up in the mountains,” Matty offered. “No internet or cell reception.”

“That’ll do it.” Rick nodded sagely. “We’re about the last outpost of civilization around here. And I’m not exactly sure you can call us civilized, what with the company.”

He nodded to the window, and I saw that a second goat had joined the first one. They both had their front hooves up on the glass and were watching us avidly. A donkey had joined the party too and was chewing something green, flecking the glass with little bits of spittle.

“I’m sorry,” I said again, my brain soupy. “I’m not sure I understand why you want to talk to me. Did I forget to pay the bill the last time I was here?” I dug my wallet out of my jeans. “Just tell me what I owe you, and I can settle up.”

“Oh, no, son, you don’t owe me anything.” Rick grinned. “It’s the other way around. I want to talk about whatIoweyou.”

I felt like I was dreaming, and I pinched myself surreptitiously. It hurt, but nothing changed. Rick was still smiling down at me, the goats and donkey were still leering, and the soft sound of heavy metal music—if metal could ever be called soft—was still wafting through the air.

“What you owe me?” I repeated.

Rick gestured around the restaurant. “See all these people? You brought them in with that post of yours. We’ve made more money this past week than we did in the past eight months.”

“What post?” I asked. “I didn’t—”

But then I remembered the picture I’d taken outside, with the Santa sign. I’d put it on Instagram, but the only person I’d been thinking of was Henry. The fact that I’d tagged Renegade Rick’s was almost incidental.

“You sure did,” Rick said. “And I don’t know too much about social media, but my kids have been talking my ear off this past week about influencers, ads, and sponsored…sponsored something-or-other.”

“Sponsored content,” I said faintly.

“That’s it.” Rick jabbed the spatula in my direction. “Apparently, I’m supposed to find out your rates for another post.”

My eyebrows rose. Sure, I had a lot of followers, but my account was mostly just me making an ass of myself. That, and cheap validation. It had never occurred to me to monetize it. And besides, what brand would want me?

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