Page 38 of The Stud

“For?”

“The new graphic on the ice washer thingy.”

My head tilts to the side in undeniable confusion. “What?”

“The thingy…that like…makes the ice…not…gross or whatever.”

“You mean the Zam?”

“I said or whatever,” she brushes off at the same time she rearranges her frame to be directly beside mine. “In the past, it’s just been very boring, very basic, very retro no one asked for, so our company decided to make it shine, make it shimmer, make it diamond glimmer.”

Sneering unconsciously occurs. “Please, tell me you are not going to bedazzle it or some shite.” Disapproval strongly deepens during an adjustment of my gear bag. “We cannot afford to be the laughingstock of the league again.”

“Ew,” she dramatically retches, “who bedazzlesshiteanymore? That’s so…uncouth.”

Nope.

Not using that word correctly.

“We had a world-famous graffiti artist design these two options,” Audrey announces prior to pulling them up. “And we’ve been having fans vote on which they would like to see this season. And since it’s technicallyyourcottage-”

“You mean barn?”

“-you’re all supposed to get a vote.And,” her trouble-filled gaze glides up to mine, “I’m posting selfies of the voting experience.”

“Because of course you are.”

“Mmhm,” she hums while jamming the device at me. “Click whatever but don’t look at the camera.” Her cell, which I didn’t realize had been hiding underneath the tablet, immediately gets lifted upward. “Really concentrate on the screen. Look…thinky.”

“Pensive.”

“What does your retirement check have to do with this?”

“At least you have your looks, I suppose,” I mutter under my breath yet redirect my attention downward to the options.

To my surprise, both are actually quite remarkable.

The one on the left is clean and crisp and reminds me of the cultural tribute murals I’ve seen in places like New York andMaryland that have been specifically tailored to showcase the rich essence and roots of a particular sport or era within it.

It’s well put together.

Refined.

Polished.

A lot like the woman who is now threading her arm around mine to curl in closer.

“Must you?” I grumble without bothering to make eye contact.

“I must,” she coos on a dramatic push of her body against mine, desperate to capture her signature over the shoulder look she posts every day, at least once a day.

While option one resembles Audrey, option two, most certainly mirrors Arden.

It’s messy.

Vibrant.

Alive.

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