“Ooo, didn’t think it was gonna be that kind of shot,” Gallagher said, nudging Alvarez and chuckling.
“No.” I shot him a cold look, which only made him and the others laugh harder.
“Pantsarerequired. I just don’t care which ones you’re wearing.” Kodi chewed at her lip and looked around at everyone. She huffed again, then grabbed her laptop. “Everyone meet down in the lobby in twenty minutes in your jerseys or someother team gear. And think about communities, charities, and the kind of organizations you wanna support.”
“Yes, ma’am,” we all called out, then the rest of the team dispersed. Once everyone was gone and the door closed, I went over and hugged Kodi.
“If this goes poorly, I’m kicking your ass.”
“It won’t. You’ve been brainstorming these kinds of campaigns for a while. You’ve got this.”
“I know I do,” she grumbled. “It’s just scary after fucking up so much.”
“You didn’t really fuck up before. It was just a … complicated situation.”
“Shut up.” She pinched my side. “Let me pout for a bit before I get to work. And for the record, we’re not going to start with the calendar, it’s fucking August.”
“Okay then … whatarewe gonna do?”
A Community Focus
A clip from the Daunted Dastards 2026 summer campaign
The screen opens on the captain of the Daunted Dastards, Niall Christenson, an athletic built, white man in his team jersey.
“You might have heard that the Dastards are looking for new ownership. It’s true. Our current owners are … moving on to a different career path. And since we’re at an early point in this transition, we wanted to take a moment to redefine the Dastards, from theteam’sperspective.”
The clip cuts to footage of the July 2026 Whipper Snapper Cup, where Dastards players joined the kids’ league in a tournament of beach soccer. On-screen texts report that the2026 ticket sales broke the league’s previous record by 150 and they raised $25,000 for the children.
“We want to solidify and expand our community in Destin and the greater Walton County area. And each of our players have a different approach to this,” Christenson says over the clips before it cuts to the team’s goalkeeper, Olli Kean, a white man with a bushy, brown beard.
“Of the charity events I’ve done in the past, I enjoy the ones where we play with kids the most.”
“Phrasing!” a male voice yells off screen and Kean’s eyes narrow. He takes a slow breath before continuing.
“I like showing kids what’s special about this sport, inspiring them to continue to play, to get better. So, pending support from the new owner, I want to expand our support of youth leagues in Destin. Including having a section of the stadium dedicated to young players, so they can get free tickets to any home game.”
The camera moves to Kree Taylor, a Black Dominican man with short-cut hair, as he loops an arm around Kean’s shoulders.
“And to expand on Kean’s youth movement, I want to focus on expanding opportunities for Black girls in the area, whatever sport they’re playing. I’ve seen what my older sisters have gone through as Black women playing volleyball and it’s shitty. But they won’t let their little brother help them out, so I figure helping the next generation is the next best thing.”
“You’re a good brother,” Kean tells Taylor and the other man throws his head back and laughs.
“Tell them that next time they come to a game.”
The camera then moves to Paulo Ricci and Casey Gallagher, two white men, and Carmen Jimenez, an Ecuadorian man, all sitting on the edge of a fountain.
“So an Ecuadorian, an Italian, and an Irishman walk into a bar and —” Gallagher starts before Ricci slaps his knee. “What? I can’t say that?”
“What Gallagher means to say,” Jimenez says with a sigh, “is that what we all have in common is that we’re all in the US on working visas.”
“And we’reveryaware of how complicated the legal process is to move to the United States,” Ricci adds.
“And that’swithrich sponsors,” Gallagher cuts in.
Jimenez sighs, but continues, “And since most of the team speaks English as a second language —”
“And Brooker’s … trying,” Ricci says, with a cringe.
