We’ve made it, folks. To the halfway point of 2026.
Incredible, right? It feels like just yesterday I was ringing in the New Year — watching drunk Anderson Cooper on my TV and sipping champagne with my dog.
The dog wasn’t sipping champagne, of course, but you know what I mean.
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And now we’re in the last day of June. It’s hotter than the devil’s buttcrack outside, the air smells like campfires and bug spray, and some of you are enjoying your last few days with all 10 of your fingers.
That’s right, it’s Fourth of July week, baby. America 250. Physically, I’m writing Nightcaps at my dining room table. Mentally, I’m four Miller Lites deep and sucking on a glizzy with my rear end firmly planted in an inner tube.
A glizzy is a hot dog, by the way. Don’t be a pervert. Although “sucking on” is an appalling way to refer to consuming a hot dog. Don’t blame me. Blame John Mellencamp.
It’s been one hell of a week for me.
If you recall, this time last week I was on my way to New York City to visit Fox HQ. I don’t have any wild stories for you from the Big Apple because I spent most of my time doing super duper important work stuff. But it was really rad to meet many of the faces I see in Zoom boxes in actual human form. Good people there at the New York office.
And I did have a couple hours of free time. So, naturally, I went to the Top of the Rock.
Touristy, sure. But I’m a sucker for a view.
Immediately when I got home from New York, I dumped out my suitcase and re-packed it to go to Athens, Tennessee.
What the hell is in Athens, Tennessee?
I’m so glad you asked. See, I’m a member of a book club here in my humble Nashville suburb. We read a lot of novels, and we meet at a brewery every two weeks to talk about them. This past weekend, 15 of us went on a retreat to a gorgeous house with a saltwater pool and a water slide. In Athens, Tennessee!
Let me tell you something. I am feeling refreshed as heck — despite all the charcuterie and booze I inhaled over those three days. Sometimes — after a stressful week of work travel — you just need a little girl power.
So log off and grab a margarita slushie. Let’s do some Nightcaps.
Speaking of girl power, did you see what Brooke Fletcher did last week?
Brooke is a White Sox reporter for CHSN. When regular color analyst Steve Stone fell ill, she had to take over. And she became the first female TV analyst in White Sox history.
If you’re unfamiliar with Brooke’s work, she is incredibly talented and deserving of this opportunity. Don’t you go throwing any DEI accusations around because I will pull receipts faster than Dianna Russini pulled up her text messages to get out of that speeding ticket.
But Brooke also happens to be the daughter of former White Sox shortstop Scott Fletcher. And over the weekend, her dad surprised her with a souvenir from her night in the booth.
Brooke’s crying. Scott’s crying. I’m crying. You’re crying. What a moment!
And now onto something significantly less heartwarming.
I know, you’re tired of hearing (reading?) me gripe about it. And since the wedding is (allegedly) on Friday, there’s an end in sight.
But I simply refuse to believe Taylor Swift is actually choosing to have her wedding at Madison Square Garden.
Yuck. Ew. Blech.
The tackiness, the sticky folding chairs, the ugly basketball arena aesthetic. There’s no way this billionaire pop star — who has endless options and an unlimited budget — is really getting married at MSG, right?
You have to be kidding me. I refuse to believe they are actually getting married at MSG. This has to be a red herring to send the paparazzi elsewhere so that they can have their actual wedding somewhere majestic and private and beautiful.
And then. As if things couldn’t get any worse. I see this.
They’re building a CASTLE.
Taylor, my sister in Christ. You have the money to go to Europe and rent out an actual castle. Please tell me this is just some sort of elaborate setup for a fan club party.
Look, I know it’s not my wedding. My wedding was perfect (minus the weather and the chemical burns). So I shouldn’t be so invested in what Taylor Swift and dopey Travis Kelce are doing about their wedding venue. But something about this circus just offends me on a spiritual level.
Let’s open the mailbag.
📩 Email: amber.harding@outkick.com (Send your thoughts, stories, tips, rants and photos of your dog.)
🐦 Twitter/X: @TheAmberHarding
📸 Instagram: @amberharding
Folks, I s— you not.
One of the more annoying things about being a reporter is that your inbox is constantly flooded with PR pitches. Some of them are relevant. Most of them are not. A good majority of the emails I get are just people who want me to shill some sort of random household item you can order on Amazon.
But this… this was a first.
Yes, friends, that is an official PR pitch from an agency that solely represents OnlyFans models and other “adult” creators. Complete with quotes and a Google Drive folder full of approved photos. Unbelievable stuff.
I have, of course, redacted the model’s name. No free promotions from me, young lady! But — out of curiosity — I did go to her Instagram profile and saw that a guy I briefly dated back in 2019 follows her. Probably just for her expert insight on soccer fans. Definitely not for her enormous fake boobs.
What a world we live in.
I love it when y’all email me or comment on my social media. I really do. Even if you’re (respectfully) giving me a hard time about something I wrote, it’s fun to hear from you.
But every once in a while, someone goes above and beyond to tell me just what a jackass they think I am. Like this sweet 72-year-old lady Jeri, for example, who landed in my Instagram DM requests yesterday — fuming over an article I wrote about Caitlin Clark.
Jeri Wrote: “Typical Faux News story dissing Caitlin Clark. God, you people are amazing. Lost souls who hate America. All you need is blonde hair to complete the clueless ensemble.”
That is certainly …a take.
I cannot fathom how a person can look at Fox News or OutKick and think to themselves, “Wow, these people really hate America and Caitlin Clark.” CAITLIN CLARK. We post stories singing Caitlin’s praises every single day of the week and twice on Sunday. Jeri, what do you mean?!
And so I asked her exactly that. Turns out, it was an article I wrote yesterday about click-me artist Emmanuel Acho claiming that the WNBA would be “better off” without Caitlin. That really got Jeri’s knickers in a twist. I, obviously, reported what Acho said and then explained why what he said was complete buffoonery.
It was a pro-Caitlin Clark article. Hence my confusion.
Jeri Elaborated: “I think your article was a very mixed message. On purpose? Who knows. Most of it was spent giving credit to the dissers, with a few sentences at the end in support. Faux news distorts everything it touches. I am a middle of the road person. I honestly hate the crap that comes from faux news.”
Why Jeri spends so much time scanning a website she hates, I do not know. I wonder if she’s seeing this column, too. But methinks we can chalk this one up to a reading comprehension problem on her part.
Also, there’s nothing wrong with blondes.
Caitlin R. Writes: OK, last one on this, but did you see what Luke posted??? 😂
Amber:
Last month, Luke Bryan released one of the most embarrassing songs in country music history. Golf. Fish. Hunt. Drink. Do the hokey pokey. Turn yourself around.
I don’t know, it’s a blur to me.
But I pointed out in Nightcaps how God awful terrible this song was. I was certainly not the only one to point it out. His comments were full of people just absolutely s—ing on this song. And, at first, Luke got defensive. I was adamant that this was absolutely the wrong way to handle things. His only recourse was to completely lean in.
Make jokes about the absurdity of this song. Sell camo T-Shirts with “CLIMB TREE” in big, bold letters. Own it.
Glad to see he’s finally taking my advice. I’m so much smarter than Jeri gives me credit for.
OutKick Nightcaps is a daily column set to run Monday through Friday at 4 p.m.
