Don't Hate the Player

by Alexis Nedd

  “The zone. Yup. I should probably head to a green room or something.” Something about that B minus emboldened Jake beyond anything he felt capable of before, even though failing the charisma check he was about to attempt would have catastrophic emotional consequences:

  “I’ll see you Monday at school, though. We shouldn’t, like, spy on each other, but maybe we can get lunch and talk about the tournament?”

  “That’s not a good idea.” Just like that, Emilia disappeared and in her place was KNOX. Jake, ever perceptive to the exact moment anything went south, felt his chest bees drop dead and hit whichever part of his body was the floor.

  “Cool. That’s fine too, very cool. I’m gonna . . .” He would have moved around her and booked it down the hallway to save face, but his feet suddenly weighed three tons each. He was also by his own estimation two inches tall, which meant it would take him an hour just to jog around Emilia’s titanic figure.

  “No, this is your spot. I’ll go. Just don’t . . .” Emilia trailed off and checked behind her again. It was the second time she’d done that. This time Jake was sure she didn’t want to be seen with him and reaffirmed his assumption that he was a humiliating conversation partner at both the arena and at school.

  “Don’t tell anyone you saw me here. Not even Todd. And if you could also not tell your team that you know me, that would be great.”

  All of that buildup wondering if Emilia remembered him, and Jake finally had his answer. It was a terrible answer, and he got it because he was an idiot, but it was still an answer and a lesson. Just because Jake thought about someone didn’t mean they were thinking about him too. In fact, they probably never were.

  “Yeah. Of course. Lips sealed.”

  That seemed to satisfy her, at least. She waved a quick goodbye and turned around the corridor. Despite his crumbling, dead-bee insides, Jake admired the way she walked away from him. Emilia Romero had never second-guessed a walk away once in her entire life. He could just tell.

  When Emilia was out of sight, Jake suddenly remembered that he had a body that felt things. He was painfully tense in his shoulders, which he would have to roll out before the match, and the back of his neck felt boiling hot. His pants were even buzzing a little, which was crazy but not surpr—No. Phone. Someone was calling him.

  He didn’t expect his palms to be as sweaty as they were and nearly dropped his phone when he whipped it out of his pocket, but in a feat of coordination he would surely never repeat, he managed to get it out, unlocked, and close to his ear before the call went to voice mail. Two voices yelled his name in near unison.

  “Jake!”

  It was Ki and Penelope. The Ladies of Unity.

  “Hey, sorry I dipped. I’m coming back to the players’ box now.”

  “It’s okay!” “It’s totally okay. Are you okay?” Ki and P were weirdly in sync because they knew each other before they started playing GLO, and after two months Jake still had trouble telling them apart on Discord and, by extension, the phone.

  “Fine, yeah. Just sat alone for a bit back here. Had to clear my head.”

  “Come to the green room!” “We’re in the green room!” “We still have the fries.”

  “Yup, see you in a few.” Those fries were definitely cold by now, but the idea of putting something in his mouth that used to be delicious and was now extremely sad felt right. Jake ended the call before the girls asked any more questions and picked up his marginally less heavy feet to begin moving down the hallway.

  It was too late for Jake to un-confess to Unity that he knew Emilia, but the silly sense of loyalty he still felt for her meant he would keep his promise. There was no way he was telling anyone what just happened.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Emilia, Saturday

  THERE’S NO WAY I’m telling anyone what just happened. I’m a master of planning ahead, but my long-lost arcade friend from fourth grade showing up at my top secret GLO tournament and telling me he goes to my school is not something anyone could have predicted, much less covered in a contingency plan. God, I bombed that whole conversation. If Jake didn’t rat me out to every gamer at Hillford West the second he saw me onstage, he’s definitely spite ratting now after the way I just treated him.

  Would he do that, though? I remember Jake Hooper being a lot of things—a giant nerd, a serial apologizer, the only guy who didn’t think I was weird for liking games—but he was never mean. I haven’t had time to think about him much in the past few years, but when I did, I always remembered him being sweet. Not nice, like some people are just “nice,” and that’s barely a personality, but genuinely sweet. He tried to give me a whole roll of arcade tokens once when he messed up my game because he’s the kind of guy who would do anything to make things right. Or at least he used to be.

  Then again, he used to be short too, and those days are clearly over. People change all the time, and it’s terrible. Even if he has told a gamer or two, I can probably still contain it. Containing means I can plan, and planning means I still have control over the situation. Well, over half of the situation. The other half is standing on the other side of the door to Team Fury’s green room, which I have somehow reached without thinking too hard about where exactly I was going. Nice job backtracking, feet. I’m glad you know what to do in these trying times.

  I can hear Byunki talking through the door. He doesn’t sound as mad as he did when I left, but he has the kind of voice where he always sounds a little mad, even when he’s not. At the beginning of the day, I thought that made him authoritative, but now I’m starting to consider that he does it on purpose to intimidate people. I’ll admit I let it get to me after our match, but talking to Jake reminded me of something. I am on Team Fury, and I earned my spot here.

  Byunki may have been the one to bring me into the fold, but he can’t argue with a checkmate in my first competition or the fact that Fury wouldn’t be coming back next week without me. Fury is about winning, and if I win, then Byunki being mad at me is 100 percent his problem. Also, I look really good today, and my shoes are cool.

  That’s right. Positive self-talk. Penny would be so proud of me right now. I almost wish she was here or that it was even remotely possible for her to be. Jake did a pretty good job taking over in the pep talk department, though. I don’t think he meant to, which kind of makes it better.

  Now might be a good time to stop thinking about Jake. He’s a problem, not a solution.

  Team Unity is probably starting their match, and they’re the last round of the day, so all I have to do is survive the Fury regroup and drive back to Hillford in time to maintain my alibi back home. Under these circumstances, I pull the same move I do every morning before school and shove everything Byunki said earlier (and everything relating to Jake) to the back of my mind. Poof. It’s gone. I have bigger things to focus on.

  Ivan, Erik, and Han-Jun are all sitting on the couch when I pull the door to the green room open, and Byunki looks like he was in the middle of lecturing them but lost his train of thought. They’re all staring at one of the TVs mounted on the wall, where the Unity match is playing out in real time. It’s nuts that one of the little figures zipping around up there is Jake, but I’m not close enough to read any of the comp names, and Byunki has the volume too low to hear the commentary.

  “KNOX, you’re back,” Byunki says without turning away from the screen. He was absolutely waiting for the door to open just to pull off that supervillain move. All he needs is a swivel chair, a fluffy cat, and more flattering lighting to complete the picture. “Have you calmed down after your little outburst?”

  I can’t tell if he genuinely thinks that me leaving the room after he yelled at me for no reason is classifiable as a “little outburst” or if he’s rewriting history on purpose, but either way I’m not taking the bait.

  “I was hungry, but I couldn’t find craft services,” I half lie. I’m actually very hungry.

  Byunki finally turns toward me and rolls his eyes. If he expects me to
react to that, he’s dead wrong. I am a tree undisturbed by the wind. My thoughts are the surface of a placid mountain lake. I am absolutely not visualizing what Byunki’s lower half would look like sticking out of the drywall after I physically pick him up and yeet him across the room.

  “Fine, sit down.” Byunki steps aside to let me walk past him to the couch. “Those Unity noobs are ripping Team Herald a new one, so we need to re-strategize for next week.”

  It looks like Jake’s mystery team is better than I expected. Team Herald has an amazing roster, and Unity was seeded so low they weren’t expected to beat them. I do a very good job of hiding my smile while Ivan scooches over to make a spot for me on the cushions. Thank you for treating me like I’m supposed to be here, Mr. VANE.

  “Even if they win this one they’re up against Beast Mode or Tempest,” Erik says, waving at the Unity match on-screen. “Either of them will crush Unity in Round Two.”

  “That would put us up against Beast in the finals,” Han-Jun adds.

  I realize that I completely missed the match after us while I was talking to Jake. It was Chronic versus Solar, one of which we’re going up against next weekend. If Chronic won, I have my work cut out for me since they have an excellent Pharaoh, but if Solar won, we’re gold. Their healers have no rhythm and couldn’t time a cooldown if their lives depended on it—and they do.

  As much as it sucks to admit I wasn’t fully checked in for the last round of competition, I have to ask. “Who are we playing next week? The signal by . . . ​craft was garbage, so I didn’t see.”

  Byunki gives me a look that says I ought to be ashamed of myself, but whatever, I’m already lying to him. I can only feel shame about so many things at once. “Chronic, obviously. You thought Solar was going to beat them?”

  That strikes me as cocky coming from the tank who didn’t have his Special Attack ready when it mattered, and considering he just said we’re here to regroup in case an underdog takes down a team that should be one of our closest competitors. It ticks me off that Byunki learned nothing from today when I spend every second calculating what might happen next. His algorithm for life blows, and if I keep allowing him to think he knows better than me, we’re not going to make it past the next round.

  “Byunki, I don’t think we should count anyone out. We’re front runners, and we would have lost today if it wasn’t for me.” Sing it with me: it’s true, and I should say it. Unfortunately, no one else seems to think so. Ivan and Erik are frozen next to me, with only their eyes moving between my traitorous face and Byunki’s increasingly red one.

  Before our fearless leader can blow up at me, Han-Jun shouts from the other end of the couch. I look over, and he’s scrambling with the remote, turning up the volume so we can hear the commentators.

  “They did it! Unity just beat Herald with a payload win.”

  “Not even a checkmate?” That’s Ivan, suddenly interested in the match wrapping up on-screen as opposed to the one going down in front of him.

  “Payload. They didn’t lose anyone the whole match.”

  Holy crap. Unity getting a payload win is huge. Who knew that Jake’s little team actually kicks ass? I know he’s my competition and the number one threat to my personal and professional equilibrium, but I still have room to be impressed. I’m vast like that and also worried about what it means for the next round.

  “Shit,” Byunki mutters under his breath, then repeats it louder. “Shit!” The arena TV zooms in on Unity onstage, where Jake and four other people I don’t recognize are jumping around and hugging each other. Aside from Jake, there’s a tall bald guy who must be their tank because everyone’s crowding him like a bunch of kids trying to tackle their favorite uncle. Unity also has two girls—were they the ones cheering me on before?—one of whom has a truly remarkable afro and the other clearly stans LOONA from the Vivi Pink shade of her hair. The only one not going in for hugs is the other white guy who isn’t Jake. He’s more interested in mugging for the cameras, angling for a sponsorship that just might come considering he’s one of this competition’s better-looking players. Get your paper, man.

  For a second I get lost seeing Jake celebrate his win, but Byunki brings me back to the green room when he picks up a water bottle from the coffee table and chucks it across the room, not unlike what I imagined doing to him earlier.

  “God damn it! Fucking Bob.”

  The bottle is sadly closed and bounces off the wall without the big climactic splash I’m assuming he wanted. I look over at Ivan, then Erik, and they both shake their heads at me. Got it, not asking.

  “Just go,” Byunki finally says after the world’s most awkward silence. He’s still glaring at the TV like it’s his next target for an anticlimactic Dasani assault.

  Don’t need to tell me twice. I’d say goodbye to the rest of Fury, but Byunki’s deep in his drama, and as much as I don’t love his behavior today, I respect his commitment to brooding. Everyone else seems content to slip out quietly as well.

  My first order of business is to take out the hoodie I stuffed in my tote bag and zip it up over my Fury uniform. The second order is to get out of here unnoticed.

  I put my hood up before I leave the green room in case the back halls are flooded with people, and it turns out to have been a good choice. Now that the last match of the day is over, players from every team have their phones out, and the last thing I need is to show up in the background of a Vulcan streamer’s Instagram live. I always thought it was silly how the characters in Assassin’s Creed could blend into crowds when they’re the only people walking around Victorian London or wherever wearing a big-ass hood, but my sweatshirt gambit actually seems to be working. Nobody would expect me to avoid the spotlight after my grand entrance onstage this afternoon, so moving through the crowd is as easy as looking like I’m someone who doesn’t want anyone paying attention to her. I think this is what Penny calls method acting.

  Once I’m away from the hallway that leads to most of the team green rooms, I’m pretty much in the clear. Following the exit signs takes me past a bunch of craft tables stripped of everything that isn’t mini bottles of water and a sad veggie spread sans ranch (the dressing bowl looks so clean I suspect a streamer licked up its contents for content), and in the name of hydration I grab a water and shove a few extra in my sweatshirt pockets. Full-time gamers might be able to survive on a diet of Monster and Doritos, but I have to be a well-hydrated athlete for field hockey tomorrow. From craft it’s just a short hallway to one of the arena’s many confusing back doors, which I quietly push open to find it’s pouring outside. Like, zero visibility, sheets and sheets of freezing rain pouring. And I parked my car as far from the arena doors as I possibly could to avoid anyone catching my license plate in a backdoor selfie.

  Some would call that paranoid. I say prepared. Both parties would agree in this moment that it was a mistake.

  I cram my tote bag under my arm to avoid getting my phone wet and start sprinting across the parking lot. Most of the cars back here are team vans or arena staff, so there isn’t a huge risk that I get hit by a rogue Honda, but if I did I’d be more concerned about someone telling my parents I died outside an esports tournament than I would about sustaining any grievous bodily harm. In the interest of not having my mother resurrect my ghost just to ground my spirit for eternity, I run to the right along a median that leads past a shiny new Wizzard-branded bus stop. One of the posters on the side shows Pharaoh in his original skin (I have his Platinum-tier robes on because his launch costume looked dumb as hell), and as I get closer, I see the other side has a character I don’t recognize. Some sad-looking tall guy in a blue jersey. In the rain, it almost looks like he’s shivering.

  Upon closer inspection, he is shivering. I’m not seeing another character through the rain; I’m seeing someone standing in front of where the other poster should be. It’s Jake Hooper, standing at the bus stop in a T-shirt, looking sixteen seconds from hypothermic collapse. God, he looks awful. I don’t know
the bus schedule here, but the tournament still has at least forty-five minutes of wind-down time to get through. He could be stuck out here in the freezing rain for an hour if not more.

  Welp, sucks to suck. I’m sure Jake can’t hear me over the rain, so I jog past the back of the bus stop and keep on moving toward my car. It’s another few minutes before I reach it, and by the time I do, my entire sweatshirt is soaked through. Once I’m in, I crank the heat up, check my bag to make sure I didn’t forget anything, and see my phone screen glowing through the wet fabric. Two missed calls from Connor. One voicemail from Connor. Seven unread texts, all of which are some variation of “What’s up” from, I just guessed it, Connor.

  The phrase “Why are boys?” runs through my mind as I tap through to listen to—ugh—the voicemail he’s left me. I have a few minutes before my car heats up anyway.

  “Hey, Lia, it’s me. Connor D. I was going to ask if you wanted to hang out tonight and Penny told me you were busy.” Yikes. I need to come up with something else to tell Penny about today since she’ll know I wasn’t with Connor. Also, is it just me or is it weird of him to ask my friends if I’m free? Penny’s not my assistant, bro. If anything, I’m hers. Or I will be once I start being a better VP.

  “So whatever you’re doing, I definitely think you should ditch it so we can have another date. Just kidding. Kind of.” He is not kidding at all. The audacity of this—“Seriously, let’s hang out soon. Some of the guys are coming over to play Madden tomorrow if you want to watch or something, I think Ben’s new girlfriend will be there so you won’t be the only one. Let me know. Bye.”