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52 Thoroughbred horses desperately need a home or they will be sent to slaughter! Donate here.

YOUR LINK APPEARS TO BE DISABLED. PLEASE LET ME KNOW HOW I CAN HELP THESE HORSES.

After the game I checked in to see more comments, and that I had actual private messages through the account. A bit overwhelmed, I went to the messages and scanned them, wondering how I could possibly respond to everyone in a timely fashion. Then I saw a message from a name I recognized.

Abby Anton - Bwat, you need hash tags, and to be following the team account. And what’s with the weirdly angled and lit picture?

I stared at the words, my heart nearly leaping from behind my ribs. She’d messaged me. She’d followed me.

THANK YOU. I WELCOME THE FEEDBACK.

I didn’t understand the feedback, but even if I got zero sleep I would figure out what hash tags were and how to take a more satisfactory picture. But that wasn’t the only message from Abby. There were four more.

And the spam comments! For God’s sake, Bwat, curate your feed!

No, Bwat, no. Do not donate to the horses. There are no horses. These people want to steal money from you. Don’t click any links. Don’t give anyone money. Don’t like or promote their page.

Stop replying to comments in all caps. You’re shouting. DO NOT SHOUT.

Warmth flowed from my midsection to my extremities. She’d read my post. She’d read my comments. She saw that I was trying to help her, and even if I’d made some mistakes, surely she could see that my efforts came from the heart.

Going over to TikTok, I saw that Abby had also followed me there.

Bwat - the first video is too personal. You’re going to be catfished left and right. Just…no.

And another message:

Your videos are too long. No one wants to sit through fifteen minutes of orcs throwing knives at a wall. Cut it to the spot where you miss the target and plant the blade in the poster right between Wayne Gretzky’s eyes. Now that’s good video content! Funny. Hockey-focused. Will inspire comments from Gretzky fans and non-fans.

And more:

No one cares about the tile in the locker room or the Holiday Express room. Pfton with two inches of sheet covering his schlong is a total thirst trap, but I think it might cross the line a bit. Does he know you posted that? Did he consent?

For the love of God don’t post another video of Ozar and Eng, or any of the other team members fighting with each other. Fighting the other team? Yes. Fighting inside the team? No.

Okay, Grung-and-steak to the waltz was damned funny. A little on the nose as far as a stereotype of orcs, but as an orc you’re allowed to post those sorts of things. It wasn’t mean spirited, and Grung looked like he was happy and really enjoying that steak, so you get a pass on that one.

Sweet baby Jesus. Bwat, everyone already thinks the team is a joke and is terrible on the ice. Please don’t add to that impression by posting videos of everyone falling all over the place like the Three Stooges. It would have only been worse if you’d had the Yakity Sacks music in the background.

Bwat. Call me. Text me. Day or night. Any time before you post a video or a picture or even think about posting something. Call me.

I stared at Abby’s phone number, everything else fading from memory. I would never forget those digits, but I still saved them into my phone with her name, assigning her a star that marked her number as a favorite.

She’d seen me. She’d messaged me. She’d given me her phone number and permission to contact her at any time, at any hour.

She’d seen me.

And that was the most important thing of all.

8

ABBY

Bwat was driving me insane. Absolutely insane.

Fueled by coffee and those gas station energy drinks, my team and I had managed to pull together enough content to create and fill five key social media accounts, build and launch a basic website with an online store, and order a shit-ton of merchandise before the team’s game in Chicago. I launched a game-day photo contest, to be primed with photos I’d begged friends and colleagues in Chicago, Nashville, and Dallas to post. I spliced arena video for TikTok content, began storyboarding for a YouTube channel, and scheduled posts from the official accounts as well as three fan accounts I’d made of my own.

Things were looking good. Then Bwat came in like a fucking wrecking ball.