Gauntlet

by Holly Jennings

  “Just listen. You don’t even have to agree with my opinions, but a little respect goes a long way.”

  “Okay,” I said slowly. “Then what’s your opinion?”

  “You need to stop caring so much about image.”

  I sighed. “This is the biggest tournament in the world. Look at the all-star dinner. Look at K-Rig—”

  He stood up from the bed. “They didn’t become all-stars because of the color of their eyes, Kali.” He was yelling, but not really at me. More like he was just trying to drive the point home. “They became the best because they worked and ground for every fucking inch. I used to know a woman who was like that, too.”

  I pulled back. Used to know?

  “Image is a part of this sport, I get that,” he said, much calmer this time. “It’s a part of life, too, as stupid as it is. People will care more about what you look like than what kind of person you are or what you’re capable of.”

  “I agree, but you just said it. Image is a part of this sport. I can’t ignore that.”

  “You don’t have to ignore it. You can even have fun with it. But do you really want image as a priority? Over the game? Over your teammates?”

  Had I really gotten that caught up in everything? For a second, it felt like someone had hit the PAUSE button on everything in my life except for me, so I was able to step back and look at the situation from a neutral standpoint. I was trying to do what was best for the team, especially him. I’d been trying to make us look whole. Instead, I’d asked Hannah to pretend her relationship with Lily was fine for the cameras. I’d dressed them up like little dolls. Then there were Rooke’s problems, and how I’d focused on the media’s opinion of him. I’d cut out our nightly practices together just to stick him in front of the cameras. I took away the thing he probably needed the most and gave him what he needed the least.

  I’d worked for months to take over this team, to give them a place where they’d be safe. All that, just to do a pretty shitty job of taking care of them? I don’t think so.

  No. That ended tonight. Right now.

  “How’s this for starters?” I began. “We’ve got fifteen minutes until the press conference. If you can’t make it, we’ll cover for you. I won’t give a shit what the press thinks. If you need time, take it.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll be there.” He stared at the floor again, his new best friend, apparently. He shifted his weight a few times, rubbed the back of his neck, and moved in a way I could only describe as fidgety. It seemed like he had something to say, but the words wouldn’t pass through the lump in his throat.

  “It started on New Year’s Eve,” he finally said, chewing through the words like they were stuck in his teeth.

  I froze. This was it. The moment I’d been hoping for. He was really going to open up now.

  “What started?”

  “That’s when I first slipped.” He paused again, but not for as long this time. “I went to a party. I know I shouldn’t have, but the team was going out, and I didn’t want to be alone. So, I went. That’s when I started hitting HP again. When I sobered up and realized what I’d done, I was so ashamed of what had happened, I left and didn’t tell anyone. I tried to hide. You don’t deserve that.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you did. I’m here for you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because what happens to my team, happens to me. Derek, Hannah, any of you. Whatever you guys go through, I’m going through it with you. No matter what. Because you’re my team, and that’s what we do.” I took a step toward him, and that was when I noticed how much I was trembling, partly from hope that I was finally getting through to him and partly from the thousand other emotions bubbling up inside me. Emotions over my own addiction the previous year. Everything over his breakdown and how much he was struggling.

  The team. Especially the team, and how much I loved them all.

  “Where you are right now,” I said, “I’ve been there, too. You know that. So why was it so hard for you to tell me?”

  He looked down at the floor again, much longer this time.

  “It’s embarrassing.”

  I reeled.

  “You’re embarrassed?” I scoffed. “Last year, when I was detoxing, do you know how many times I nearly threw up on you? When we used to sneak out of those clubs to train together and the withdrawals would hit me, and you’d sit beside me all sweaty and shirtless, all I could think was ‘Please don’t vomit all over his perfect abs.’ Okay? That was embarrassing for me, but did you care?”

  He was quiet for a minute before he finally said, “No.”

  “Then why is this any different?”

  “I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

  “Disappoint me? Why would you think I’d be anything other than supportive?”

  “Because you’re Kali Ling.”

  Well, that stung.

  I frowned. “So, being Kali Ling means I’m not there for my friends.”

  “No, no,” he said, shaking his head. A smile flashed across his lips, and for a split second, he was himself. It wrenched my heart a little. “It means you’re the Kali Ling. First female captain of RAGE. Youngest team owner in history. You set your mind to something, and you just do it. No matter what. So, how could I come to you with a fuckup as big as this?”

  He sat on the edge of his bed again. I knelt in front of him, pressing my forehead against his.

  “Because you’ve seen the parts of me no one else has. You’ve seen my scars. My darkness. You know I’m not invincible, and neither are you. Stop expecting to be.” I took a breath, and my voice was shaky. For once, I didn’t try to force it to sound strong. I didn’t try to hide from him. Because, sometimes, showing weakness is the biggest strength of all.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I told him. “But you have to let me in.”

  Being this close to him, I noticed everything that seemed a bit off when he first showed up at the house. The paleness of his skin. The bags under his eyes. It had context now. He was tired.

  No, he wasn’t just tired. He was shattered. In that moment, my heart felt about the same.

  “Whatever is going on between us,” I whispered, “whether we’re in a relationship or not, doesn’t matter. I’m here for you. We’ll get you through this.”

  He swallowed thick and pushed the words out of his mouth.

  “I almost got high again.”

  My chest went tight. “When?”

  “Earlier this week.”

  I thought back to the morning when he looked like he’d been hit by a bus. “Because of the reports that I was with Jae?”

  He slowly nodded. “I just didn’t think it would bother me so much. I mean, you and I aren’t together, and you can be with whoever you want. But even if it wasn’t true, it made me realize that you had moved on, and I was barely holding it together.”

  “You got through that day, though.”

  “That day,” he repeated, and shook his head. “Every day. It’s every fucking day. I feel like I can’t stop.”

  Despite how he felt, he was in more control than he thought. He hadn’t done a single hit since he’d failed his first drug test. But I knew what he meant. The temptation wouldn’t stop. To him, that was as bad as hitting up. Maybe worse. Because, for Rooke, self-discipline was everything, and craving the drugs meant he didn’t have control over his impulses and had failed at his most highly regarded virtue.

  “You have,” I assured him. “You’ve already stopped. You’re so much stronger than this. And we’re all here for you.” I rested a hand on either side of his face. “You’re home.”

  His eyes fell shut, and his face relaxed. He looked relieved. Strangely, the words were as much of a realization for me as they were for him. This wasn’t just my home. It was the team’s, and I hadn’t exactly been treating them as such.

&nb
sp; “Kali.” He gripped my hands where they rested against his face, pulled them down to his lap, and squeezed. Just once. But it told me something that was so clear, he might as well have spoken the words.

  He was ready to make amends. He was ready to atone for his sins.

  I cleared my throat. “Can we practice together in the garden again? I miss that.”

  Slowly, he nodded, and the joy I felt instantly spread across my lips.

  “We have to go,” he said.

  What? Oh, yeah. The press conference. Right. I blinked a few times, and my cheeks felt wet. I wiped away tears. Funny. I hadn’t even felt them fall.

  We stood from the bed and headed for the door, but Rooke paused halfway across the room.

  “What about after the press conference?”

  I smiled and gave him the same advice he’d given me when I’d been in his place.

  “You need to take a shower. Stay in there until the water turns cold.”

  He smiled back, and it was the first genuine, lasting smile I’d seen from him since he’d rejoined the team.

  “And what about you?”

  “Me?” I paused, knowing exactly what was coming next. “I have changes to make.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Nathan’s picture.

  I stood directly in front of the life-size, digital poster of him hanging in my office. He was the reason I’d started this. His death had brought me down this path. After he’d overdosed, and our former owner didn’t give a shit, I was determined to take the team from him and give them a better place to live and play.

  A better place.

  Instead, I’d turned into another version of Clarence. Caring more about image, photo shoots, and what the media thought than the team itself. I’d taken away their phones. I’d asked Lily and Hannah to fake their relationship in front of the cameras.

  What the hell had I become?

  I gathered the team in the living room. The four of them sat on the couch while I talked. I also gave everyone their phones back.

  “If I pushed too hard, it’s because I know how talented you all are. I got too caught up in everything. If you have problems with the things I’ve been doing, I want you to come to me. I’m here to listen. But—” I emphasized. “You’ll have to put up with my demanding schedule for one more night.”

  They all sighed.

  “More photo shoots?” Lily guessed.

  “Interviews?”

  Hannah held up a hand. “Club appearances?”

  “No,” I said simply. “It’s game night.”

  They erupted with hoots and cheers.

  Soon, the living room was filled with laughter. Popcorn overflowed bowls and littered the coffee table. We took turns playing, tossing the controller around the room. We teased each other, blocking eyes or parts of the screen.

  Classic video game night was something I’d started when we first became a team, for many reasons. It gave us appreciation for the classics. It brought us together as a team for fun outside of the competition. Most of all, it reminded us that this was all just a game.

  As I looked around the living room, watching my teammates battle through Halo 3 on four-player co-op mode, I knew this was what it was all about. Playing games. Having fun.

  A good time with friends.

  In that moment, there was no tournament. No sponsors or VGL. No corruption. Just me and my team. And really, that’s what mattered.

  While the rest of the team dominated the couch, I sat on the floor in front of Hannah and Lily. I leaned back toward them and asked, “What classic video game scared you the most?”

  “Resident Evil 4,” Hannah said.

  “Silent Hill 2,” Lily chimed.

  I thought about my answer for a minute.

  “Japan’s The Grudge.”

  They both shuddered.

  “Good one,” Hannah said.

  Across the couch, Derek spoke up.

  “Super Mario 64.”

  Did he just say what I think he said?

  “You mean, the first 3-D Mario?” I asked. “Like, the little kid’s game?”

  He paused the game and turned to us.

  “The underwater level,” he emphasized, making a snake motion with his arm. “That eel thing!”

  I traded glances with the girls and wondered if my face looked the same as theirs. Staring, dumbfounded, blinking.

  Derek waved us off. “Whatever. I was traumatized.”

  During her time-out from playing, Lily found a stuffed-animal version of the eel from Super Mario on her tablet and ordered it. It was delivered to the house by drone within the hour. At 4:00 a.m., long after Derek had gone to bed, we overrode the lock on his door—strictly for admin purposes. When his high-pitched shriek echoed through the house the next morning, we knew he’d woken to his new bedmate.

  After that, Unagi the Eel became a staple in the house, often woven through the stair’s banister or sitting atop the couch’s headrest. On the better days, he’d find his way into Derek’s virtual pod or pop out from a cabinet upon opening, like a snake in a can.

  In the early evenings, I practiced in the garden with Rooke, every night without fail. No matter what was going on, I put everything else aside for those few hours of the day. No excuses. It was good for him.

  It was good for me, too.

  We were working with the knives now. They were shaped like two crescent moons facing toward each other, overlapping about two inches in from the corners, with a small gap in the middle. Your fingers fit through the gap in the center and wrapped around one of the blades, protected by a leather grip. Holding one in each hand turned your fists into double-bladed, four-cornered weapons of death.

  With the sun setting around us, we’d pivot and twist in unison. Slow moving, fast moving, sudden bursts of energy, like flags flapping in a restless wind. I watched him more than our virtual instructor. He was focused. Controlled. His eyes were narrowed, and the movement in his muscles was both fluid and strong.

  He caught my eye and realized I was watching him.

  “Maybe one day we could spar with these,” he said, nodding at the knives in his hands.

  “Technically, I don’t think they’re meant for sparring. Besides, I’d slice you up like a sushi chef.”

  “Could you cut off my ears first? Then I wouldn’t have to listen to you talk before I died.”

  If I weren’t so relaxed, I might have tomahawked one of my blades into his eye right then. Speaking of relaxed, the mood in the entire house was different. There was constant laughter, whether from the corners of the training room or gathered in front of the television for another classic video game binge.

  Online was a different story. The death threats continued. Whether because of my supposed hookup with Kim Jae, Hannah’s secret sex life, or everything else the media had claimed about us over the last few weeks, we were hated around the world. People were posting videos of us, montages of our RAGE tournament days, including every fight where we were either gutted, stabbed, or had our throats slit. They looked like horror movies with all the gore and none of the story line. We were laughing about that, too. No one was going to stop us now. Either we could bow down to the people who had nothing better to do but spend their days slamming us online, or we could keep going in the face of adversity and achieve our goals anyway. That sounded like Defiance to me.

  Even the tabloid gossip settled down to a low simmer. Without our going out every night, there were no new pictures to flood the market.

  Soon, the sponsors noticed our absence from the media.

  “We’ve been working hard,” I insisted with my cell pressed to my ear. I sat in my office, straining against my fist not to break something. “We can’t be out every night and still be rested enough for the tournament.”

  “The other teams are out every night,”
said Suzanne Lockhart, the CEO of Digital Revolution Apparel. The same one who’d threatened to sue me for entering the all-star tournament was now upset that I wasn’t promoting it enough.

  Derek walked into the room. I glanced at him and returned to the call.

  “If you’re so impressed by the other teams, why don’t you go sponsor them?”

  She hung up on me.

  I groaned and slapped my cell down on the desk.

  “Sponsors?” he asked, sitting down across from me.

  I nodded. “They’re giving us grief for staying in.” I rested my arms on the desk and sighed. “I don’t know what to do. We stay in to rest and have some fun, and they scream. We go out, tire ourselves, and don’t perform as well, and they scream.”

  He studied me for a minute. “Look, you said we could come talk to you about problems with the way you manage the team.”

  I did, didn’t I? But I wasn’t someone who was super open to criticism. I pushed my emotions aside. Handling criticism was the only way to get better.

  “Okay,” I said slowly. “Go ahead.”

  He slid his tablet across the table. I glanced at it. A virtual money order was on the screen.

  “What is this?”

  “One million. It’s my winnings from the RAGE tournament last year. Think of it as an investment in the team.”

  I balked. “I can’t accept this.”

  “You can.”

  I shoved it across the table. “Absolutely not. I can’t let you do that.”

  He sighed and leaned forward in the chair. “Maybe I’m not saying this right. I want to buy part of the team.”

  My brow furrowed. “You want to be . . . co-owner?”

  “You need the help,” he said frankly.

  I glanced between him and the tablet and bit my lip. “Is that a polite way of saying I’m a bad team owner?”

  “No, no. You’re fighting for the right thing. You’ve stuck by your convictions even when things got rough. But there are some things about being team owner that just aren’t your strong suit.”

  “. . . like?”