Zhenya rode the Pens charter plane with the rest of the media crew: Michelle and Sam and the ROOT team. He went to bed too late and woke up way too fucking early. “Good thing you’re behind the camera instead of in front of it,” Michelle said one morning. She had a donut from the continental breakfast. Zhenya had two. “You look like me, too, if you don’t have all that makeup,” Zhenya told her crankily.

They met by accident, fate, Geno always says, three years ago.

Jordie is a totally supportive brother, which is why he's hiring Jamie a stripper.

Nolan flips to his messages, but as expected, it’s mostly just unoriginal openers—who’s going to respond to sup, honestly—and unflattering dick pics. He rolls his eyes and goes back to the profiles. He comes across one guy, just a scant two miles away, who actually has his face in his profile picture, which is a refreshing change. He’s cute, longish dark hair with a sneaky smile, and his name is Travis. Nolan has never started a conversation with anyone before, but again: antsy and horny. He debates for an embarrassingly long time over what to say and finally settles on something simple. And dumb, probably, but the magic of anonymity is that he doesn’t really give a shit. And at least it’s miles better than a dick pic of a soft dick, which Nolan didn’t know was actually a thing until he got more than one. The bar is low, is what he’s saying here.