Centuria Books · Man Advantage 8
Man Advantage 8 — Read the First Chapter
She tried to farm simps. Two gay hockey captains farmed her instead.
Chapter 1
Pippa Ormond had dressed for an audience of ten thousand.
Seven people came.
One was Tess, who had announced herself by typing, I can hear you breathing through the cat ears. One was Pippa’s laptop on a test account. One appeared to be a bot offering discount followers. The other four watched her pastel farm game without saying a word while Pippa leaned toward the ring light and tried to look as if planting digital radishes had always made her this breathless.
“Welcome to PuckBunni,” she said in the soft voice she had practiced against her bathroom mirror. “Tonight we’re making the cutest little farm in—”
Her avatar swung a hoe into the town mayor.
The mayor made a wounded noise. A red heart vanished from his friendship meter.
The viewer count rose to eight.
Chat moved.
BlueLineBastard: elite stick control
Pippa smiled harder. She had spent forty minutes on that smile. It lifted one corner of her mouth without showing too much gum and made the black heart at her throat look accidental.
“Everybody has an off day.”
BigCenterEnergy: you have an off channel
The viewer count rose to nine.
She sat straighter. Her fitted lavender top had been chosen after three changes and a poll in the sorority group chat. It showed a clean strip of stomach above her pleated black skirt. Her purple hair fell in two high ponytails around the cat-ear headset. She had even matched her nails to the tiny paw pads printed on the ear cups.
No one had donated.
“Chat, should I buy a cow or upgrade the coop?”
BlueLineBastard: buy dignity
BigCenterEnergy: sold out
Pippa’s laugh came out real. That irritated her more than the insult.
She tried to click the feed menu. Her mouse snagged the edge of the heart-shaped desk mat. The game interpreted the movement as a command to hand the mayor a turnip. He hated turnips. Another red heart vanished.
“This man is impossible to please.”
BigCenterEnergy: finally some authentic content
The viewer count reached twelve.
Tess texted her phone.
The bullies are funny. Stop fighting it.
Pippa ignored the message. She had built a content calendar. She had studied cozy-channel thumbnails, lighting, posting windows, color balance, hooks, and the exact tilt that made her skirt look cute without getting the stream flagged. This was her senior portfolio, not a public execution.
She bought the cow.
The cow escaped before she finished naming it.
BlueLineBastard: defensive structure nonexistent
BigCenterEnergy: coach has lost the room
Three more people joined. Someone clipped the cow running through a field while Pippa lunged across frame and knocked her microphone into her water glass.
The glass tipped.
She caught it with her left hand without looking.
Her right hand kept the avatar moving. She cut the cow off near the fence, used the mayor’s body to block its turn, and trapped it against the coop.
For two seconds, chat went still.
BlueLineBastard: huh
BigCenterEnergy: do that again
Pippa released the cow at once. “Do what? Nearly drown my keyboard?”
BigCenterEnergy: the angle
“I clicked randomly.”
She had not. The cow had shown its turn before it made it. Everything showed its turn if a person knew where to watch.
She changed scenes before they could ask more. A waiting-room card filled the screen. Pippa pulled off the headset and let both ponytails drop.
Her room went quiet except for the laptop fan.
Tess opened the door without knocking. She wore her event-crew jacket over shorts and carried a clipboard thick enough to kill a rat.
“Twenty-three peak viewers,” Tess said.
“Half came to watch me assault a mayor with produce.”
“Engagement is engagement.”
“That sentence is why nobody trusts communications majors.”
“You’re a digital-media major.”
“We make the lies move.”
Tess dropped onto the edge of the bed. Her sandy curls were damp from the rain, and the cracked links of her watch clicked against the clipboard. “Blue Line and Big Center followed you.”
Pippa looked at the dashboard. They had. Neither had donated. Both had clipped three moments, including the water-glass catch.
“I hate them.”
“You laughed.”
“That was a stress leak.”
“You looked alive for the first time tonight.”
The words landed too close to bone. Pippa clicked through her analytics so she would not have to look up.
Average watch time: six minutes, twelve seconds.
Followers gained: eleven.
Revenue: zero.
Her carefully staged opening had lost viewers. The disaster had gained them.
She had built the whole channel around the idea that a pretty girl in a short skirt could make soft noises over a farm game and turn attention into rent. That idea worked for thousands of women. It had failed for her in under an hour.
“I can fix the pacing,” she said. “The intro needs a sharper hook. Maybe a chair angle that—”
“No.” Tess tapped the clipboard against Pippa’s knee. “You need material for the portfolio that doesn’t depend on your cleavage having a conversion rate.”
Pippa folded her arms over the cleavage in question. “Traitor.”
“Volunteer at the charity skate tomorrow. Run social, film sponsor clips, get proof you can handle a live event. Wolf Hall. Ten in the morning.”
Cold pressed against the inside of Pippa’s ribs.
She had not entered Wolf Hall in four years. She crossed campus by the long route to avoid its glass doors. She muted every Wolves account during hockey season and told the sorority she disliked crowds.
Tess knew most of that. Tess did not know why.
“Find someone else.”
“I did. She has the flu.”
“Then cancel the skate.”
“Sure. I will tell two hundred children and the animal shelter that your cat ears outrank them.”
Pippa stared at the purple paw print on her dark screen. Seven people had arrived. Two strangers had found the only honest thirty seconds of her entire performance and demanded more.
She hated that too.
“Ten,” she said. “I leave by three.”
Tess grinned and handed over the clipboard. “Wear shoes you can run in.”
Pippa looked down at the thigh-high socks and platform sneakers she had picked for the camera.
“I always do.”
Tess left the clipboard on Pippa’s desk.
The event plan had forty-seven line items. Pippa read them all.
Volunteer arrival at nine. Shelter animals in the east concourse. Children fitted for rental skates at stations one through four. Wolves on the ice from eleven to one. Sponsor footage due by six. Emergency contacts, equipment inventory, media releases, electrical access, and a note in red that the west retractable seats had stuck during setup.
Pippa circled the last item.
Maintenance says safe in current position. Do not operate.
She photographed the page, sent a copy to the event committee, and added the maintenance lead to the morning call list. Then she built a shot schedule that did not require anyone to cross the broken seating bank.
This was the version of digital media she understood. A camera was not merely a lens aimed at a body. It was time, access, consent forms, backup batteries, audio, location, and the quiet work that prevented one missing file from becoming public panic.
Her first stream had used none of that competence.
She opened the recording.
PuckBunni tilted her head, made her voice smaller, and asked strangers whether a cow was cute.
Pippa watched for ninety seconds before closing it.
The outfit was not the problem. She loved the lavender top. She loved her cat ears, the skirt, the black heart. She had built the persona by removing every trait that might be called difficult and leaving only the decorations.
At seventeen, a recruiter had called her difficult because she questioned an ice-time decision. A coach had called her emotional because she refused to play through a wrist injury. Her parents had not used either word. They had simply asked whether she understood how many families would trade places with theirs.
Pippa had understood.
That was why she quit.
The old hockey bag remained behind three storage bins in the sorority attic. Pippa climbed the narrow stairs with her phone flashlight and found it beneath a broken lamp.
Dust coated the zipper. The purple tape on the handle had faded gray.
Inside lay shoulder pads too small for her, one cracked elbow pad, a pair of gloves, and two sticks cut for a sixteen-year-old body. She lifted one.
Her hands settled without thought. Top hand loose. Blade flat. Weight ready to move.
The attic became quiet around the memory.
Pippa returned the stick to the bag.
She did not need it tomorrow. She would be running social media. She would wear sneakers. She would leave by three.
On the way downstairs, she brought the old roll of purple tape with her.
At eight the next morning, Pippa packed the event kit. Two battery banks. Gaffer tape. Release forms. Clip microphones. Water. Protein bars. A small first-aid pouch. She added a thick wooden doorstop after looking again at the note about the seats.
Tess found her at the front door.
“You have enough equipment to document a coup.”
“I have enough equipment to survive student volunteers.”
“Same risk profile.”
Pippa adjusted the strap on her camera bag. Her wrist felt fine. Her legs remembered the route to Wolf Hall before the rest of her did.
She stepped into the cold.
Chapter 2
Derek Kelm watched PuckBunni end her stream and said, “She played that cow into the wall.”
Heath Dulin lay along the couch with his head in Derek’s lap and one bare foot braced against the arm. “It was a farm game.”
“It was gap control.”
“It was panic.”
“Her eyes moved before the cow did.”
Heath stole a piece of popcorn from the bowl on Derek’s stomach. “You have film sickness.”
“You have no respect for defensive detail.”
“I’m a defenseman.”
“Exactly.”
Heath bit the popcorn in half and offered the rest between two fingers. Derek took his fingers too, closing his teeth softly over the first knuckle. Heath’s blue eyes changed. They always did. Four years together, and Derek could still turn that bright, amused face intent with one bite.
Their apartment was too small for either of them and absurd for both. Derek’s knees hit the coffee table. Heath’s gear bag blocked the hall. Team photographs, class schedules, and an electric bill covered the refrigerator. A silver chain Derek had given Heath after their first conference final shone at his throat.
This was known ground.
The woman on the laptop was not.
PuckBunni’s offline banner showed her in purple twin ponytails with one finger under her chin. Derek had seen a thousand women do the same pose. It had never made him feel anything except respect for the labor of holding a smile.
Then she had caught the glass.
Quick left hand. Calm eyes. No wasted motion.
He had leaned forward before he knew he was moving.
Heath clicked through the clips they had made. “This one has eighty views.”
“Already?”
“People enjoy a pretty disaster.”
“You called her pretty.”
“I have vision. Gay men are allowed to identify colors and bone structure.”
Derek slid his hand into Heath’s hair. Thick, soft, longer on top. “You identified bone structure.”
“Pointed chin. Good brows. Very committed tits.”
Derek tugged.
Heath’s mouth opened on a quiet breath.
There. Known ground again.
The laptop chimed. Tess had sent a message to their private group chat.
Tess: Leave my sister alone.
Heath: Which one?
Tess: Purple hair. PuckBunni. Pippa.
Derek read the name twice.
Pippa.
It fit better than PuckBunni did.
Derek: She knows you?
Tess: I live with her, you idiot.
Heath: Does she really hate turnips?
Tess: She hates failing where people can see.
Heath’s grin faded a little. He closed the clip window.
“We weren’t cruel,” he said.
Derek looked at the chat history. Buy dignity. Sold out. He had written worse to teammates he loved. That did not mean a stranger had agreed to the same language.
“We were funny,” he said.
“Those things overlap.”
“Not always.”
Tess sent another message.
Tess: She’ll be at the charity skate tomorrow. Behave like men with scholarships to lose.
Heath turned his head in Derek’s lap. “Now I want to go.”
“We were already going.”
“Now I want to be punctual.”
Derek put the popcorn on the floor and closed the laptop. Heath remained stretched across him, six feet six of defenseman arranged like a spoiled house cat.
“You like getting reactions,” Derek said.
“From you.”
“From everybody.”
“From you most.”
That answer had once scared Derek. Freshman year, Heath had flirted through every room because he did not believe anyone would stay once the joke ended. Derek had never been good at jokes. He had stayed through silence instead.
Heath took Derek’s wrist and pressed a kiss to the center of his palm.
“I know where home is,” he said.
Derek bent over him. The couch complained under their combined weight. “Show me.”
Heath did.
Later, while Heath made pasta in shorts and Derek answered three messages about tomorrow’s skate, Pippa’s clipped catch kept returning to him. Not the skirt. Not the purple hair.
The instant before the glass fell.
She had known.
The next morning, Derek put the PuckBunni clip out of his head for the length of practice.
He had rules about divided attention. Team time belonged to the team. Heath time belonged to Heath. Coursework went on the kitchen table after dinner. If he gave each thing a border, nothing spilled far enough to drown him.
Practice attacked the borders.
The first power-play unit missed the same entry three times. A freshman winger arrived ten minutes late and tried to hide behind the goalies. The strength coach needed two seniors to complete testing before the charity skate. One of the assistant captains had an exam conflict with film.
Derek changed the practice order, sent the freshman to skate with the goalie coach after, and moved film without asking the whole room to suffer for one schedule.
Heath watched from the blue line.
“You enjoy this,” he said when Derek joined the drill.
“Enjoy what?”
“Making eighteen men fit inside a box only you can see.”
Derek took the puck from him. “Your gap is wide.”
“My emotional insight deserves more respect.”
Derek drove around him and scored.
“My gap was bait,” Heath said.
“Your bait is in the net.”
The team laughed. Heath caught Derek by the jersey on the next pass and rubbed a glove over his helmet.
Their public affection had stopped being news after freshman year. That did not make every rink kind. Two seasons ago, an opposing student section had turned a kiss into a chant. Heath had scored twice. Derek had taken three penalties. Afterward, Heath told him victory was a better answer than blood on the glass.
Derek still preferred both.
At the end of practice, the late freshman remained seated in his stall.
“Problem?” Derek asked.
The player looked toward the empty doorway. “My lab ran over.”
“Then tell us before, not after.”
“Coach thinks I don’t care.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
Derek sat on the opposite bench. “Then make care visible. Email the schedule. Ask for a written release time. If it changes, message me. Ten minutes late without context looks like a choice.”
The freshman nodded.
“You still owe the goalie coach.”
“I know.”
Derek left him with the consequence and no humiliation. Captaincy worked better that way.
In the hall, Heath waited with both duffels.
“You did not roar,” he said.
“He had a reason.”
“Reasons used to make you roar louder.”
“Freshman year.”
Heath gave him a pleased look. Derek shoved him through the service door.
On the walk to class, Tess sent the warning about Pippa. Derek read it beside Heath under a bare maple tree.
“You think she played?” Heath asked.
“Something.”
“Could be soccer.”
“She read the middle.”
“Lacrosse.”
“She moved the cow off its forehand.”
Heath stopped. “That sentence should embarrass you.”
“It does not.”
They donated to the animal shelter before their lecture. Derek chose the medical fund because it had the largest gap. Heath added a note from the team and then deleted the team name.
“Why remove it?” Derek asked.
“Because charity does not need to become a press release every time.”
Derek kissed his temple on the crowded path.
Heath had always been better at seeing when generosity tried to perform itself.
At the lecture hall, Derek opened his notes. The professor discussed organizational decision systems. Heath drew a purple-eared rabbit in the margin and added a hockey stick.
Halfway through the lecture, their team group chat filled with photographs from Wolf Hall. The animal shelter volunteers had arrived early. One picture showed three carriers beneath the donor table, each containing a kitten with the fierce expression of a tiny prisoner. Another showed a row of rental skates and the retractable seats opened over the concrete.
Heath enlarged the kitten photograph under the desk.
“That one looks like you,” he whispered.
The smallest kitten had charcoal ears, white paws, and both forelegs wrapped around the carrier door.
“It is trying to escape.”
“Exactly.”
Derek took Heath’s phone and turned it facedown. Thirty seconds later, Heath slid a folded note onto his notebook.
If purple rabbit can actually skate, how much will you hate being wrong?
Derek wrote beneath it.
I will not be wrong.
Heath drew a box around the sentence. Captain has spoken. Reality may adjust itself.
The exchange was stupid. It also loosened something Derek had carried out of practice: the freshman’s worried face, the schedule conflict, the reflex to hold the whole team together by gripping harder. Heath had been doing that for four years—turning Derek’s worst rigidity sideways until it became something they could laugh at together.