by Alexis Nedd
“We need you onstage now.”
I look over at Ivan, next to me on the couch. He was right in the middle of ripping open his first pack of hand warmers and is now frozen, mid-tear.
“Now?” Ivan asks.
“We’re not up for another hour,” Erik says skeptically. He peeks up at Byunki, whose smile matches the handler’s tooth for tooth. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile before. Can’t say I love it.
“Doesn’t matter. Up. Everybody up!” Byunki herds us off the couch and toward the door. Something is going on here. If I were more paranoid and self-centered, I’d think this has something to do with Jake and Team Unity, but there’s no way Byunki’s sense of drama extends to faking me out all morning just to humiliate me onstage . . . right?
Han-Jun, Erik, and I follow the handler backstage and up through the maze of ramps and hallways that lead up to the Wizzard-Claricom Arena’s main stage. I try to catch Ivan’s eye while we’re walking, but he looks as worried as I do. I’m not going to get any answers from him, and hell if I’m asking Byunki what’s going on and wind up looking stupid right after I crushed our pregame meeting.
Even more worrying is the small crowd of people waiting for us in the wings. There’s not a ton of space back here to funnel more than one team through at a time, but the other three teams are crammed in here as well.
In front of us are the five boys from Beast Mode whose black-and-silver jerseys have their names printed across the back in some death metal font that makes them impossible to read. One of them might be named Dave? Or Damien? I never much liked Beast Mode. We haven’t played them, but their reputation out of competition is kind of smurfy. They get off on having power over other players, no matter how mismatched the game.
I’m assuming Chronic is between them, but the Beast Mode boys are tall, and I can’t see much over their heads. All I can tell is that Bob is way up front with the rest of Team Unity. Jake must be with him too. I get the truly dumb notion that I should wriggle through the other teams and tap him on the shoulder just to let him know I’m here and I’m sorry, but that’s literally the worst idea I’ve ever had, and I’m the one who told Penny it was a good idea to tap Connor for VP.
It’s better if I just leave him alone forever like he offered after Round 1. Maybe when this is all over, I can hit restart with him if he wants anything to do with me, but not if it gets him into more trouble.
“And now . . . Wizzard Games invites all of our Diamond-tier semifinalists to the stage for a special announcement from Guardians League Online’s creative director . . . Thibault Adige!”
I’m not the only one in the wings who gasps. Thibault Adige is a god. He cofounded Wizzard with Brian Juno when they were still at Drexel and single-handedly came up with the idea for GLO. Every mechanic, map, and new character comes through him, and he’s been the public face of the game since its inception. I’m suddenly glad to be crammed offstage with my gaming peers, because I can’t imagine anyone else in my life understanding the wave of hype that washes over me.
I feel a hand grasp my shoulder and shake me in excitement; color me surprised when I turn and see it’s Byunki.
“Are you ready?” he asks, still grinning from before.
“Ready for what?” I squeak.
“He’s about to change our lives.”
From the amplified roar of the crowd, I know Thibault has taken the stage. Ivan and Erik are craning their necks to try to see over the people in front of us, while Han-Jun, always the smart one, taps my arm and points to my left—there’s a monitor by the mic station behind us. I’ve watched every GLO upfront since the game’s inception, so seeing Thibault on a tiny screen isn’t new, but knowing he’s there on that screen and also a few short yards away from me is almost too much to handle. What did Byunki just say? Thibault is going to change my life? I have no idea why he would want to do that, or what I’m supposed to do with that information. My mouth is suddenly wetter than usual. And saltier. I have just enough presence of mind to find that particular anxiety response incredibly revolting before I swallow it out a few times.
“Welcome, everyone, to Round Two of the Wizzard-Claricom Arena’s inaugural Guardians League Online championship!” Thibault’s French-Canadian accent makes every single word sound so much cooler than it does when the regular announcer says them. Weezard Clah-ree-com Arenah. Shamp-ee-on-sheep. My sugared-up heart can’t handle this.
“Brian and I have a special announcement to make. But first, let’s welcome our semifinalist teams to the stage!”
Each team walks out when he calls us (Unité, Chronique, Biest Mode, and Fyu-ree), and I am absurdly proud of my absurd, sweating body for remembering how to walk. Fury and I move as if controlled by a hive mind, keeping in step with one another behind Byunki as he leads us up to some predetermined spot on the stage. His Cheshire cat grin in the green room and unholy amount of energy are beginning to make sense. He got here early and rehearsed this without us. Byunki knows what’s coming.
Thibault is standing between the pairs of teams, so Bob and Chronic’s captain must have also known to walk past him and hit their marks. I’d look ridiculous leaning over to get a look at how Jake is reacting to this, so I default to looking straight ahead and trying not to wildly dissociate.
“As you all know, Philadelphia is a city very close to our hearts at Wizzard. It is our home, our foundation. When we first sought a partnership to build America’s first esports arena, we knew we had to start here.”
Pause for applause, pause for applause . . .
“That is why we invited local teams to this first tournament, to celebrate the Guardians who rose in this city . . . who can and will defend it!”
I can’t not look anymore. I lean out of line for a moment and peek over at the other side of the stage, where Jake is standing with the rest of Unity. He’s staring straight ahead as well, but he must feel my eyes on him because his gaze slides left for the briefest of seconds. I snap back into position like I’m pulling away from a hot stove. Jake doesn’t know what’s going on either. He would have told me if he knew something was happening today.
I mean, he told me he witnessed the inciting sexual incident of his parents’ divorce; he would definitely have told me if there was something I should look out for at the tournament. Unless he’s better at keeping his barriers up. He could like me enough as Emilia and not be so attached as to reveal any information that might knock me off my game.
“This tournament has been the culmination of years of planning, with Claricom and with my team at Wizzard. One of these four teams will be victorious in two weeks’ time, but that was never meant to be the end of this journey. There is a second prize for the winners of this tournament, a”—he pauses for effect—“secret coronation. One we kept from you all before meeting our final four. After seeing the turnout from last week’s matches, the ink on our contract is dry! Get a good look at them now, guys, gals, nonbinary pals, and ask yourselves, what good is a championship that does not crown a champion?”
The stage lights go dark, maintaining a spotlight on Thibault. Thank god. I’m not sure I want the audience to see how I react to wherever this announcement is going.
“We will find our champions, and they will lead us into the next phase of Guardians League Online as the first team to join . . .”
Next to me, I hear Erik whisper, “No way,” as the screens behind us light up with something. Every team turns around to look up at the logo projected thirty feet high. It’s similar enough to the GLO main title, but in gold instead of gray medieval script. And there’s no “Online” at the end. The logo animates to flash a series of cities—New York, Orlando, San Francisco, Chicago, Omaha for some reason, San Antonio, and a few more that whiz by too quickly—before zooming out to rearrange the letters into . . . Oh no. Oh hell no.
“. . . the Guardians League! The first professional esports league sponsored by Wizzard Games, coming next year!”
This is bad.
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“The winners of this tournament will not only win the $200,000 pot, but a one-year, million-dollar contract to represent Philadelphia as the only esports team in America to have a home arena! Who will it be? Will it be Unity?”
Thibault speaks Unity’s name, and a series of blue spotlights rotate in the catwalk above to settle on and highlight Jake’s team on the far side of the stage. The spotlight snaps off quickly as Thibault moves on to tease the next potential Guardians League champion. From where I’m standing, I can only see the lights of ten thousand phone cameras flashing in the dark and Byunki’s gleeful face shining in the strobe they create.
“Will it be Beast Mode?”
Green lights shine down on Beast Mode next to me. I need to get off this stage. Winning a tournament is one thing, an easy thing. Show up, kick ass, and be home before curfew. A yearlong contract as a professional player, though? That’s a full-time job.
“Will it be . . . Chronic?” Team colors: electric yellow. The Chronic boys look jaundiced in their spotlight. Gross. Focus.
Going pro means travel, interviews, getting paid to play GLO as a representative of the company. It’s the most incredible life I could possibly imagine for myself, doing what I love and want while being recognized as one of the best players in the country, if not the world. If Fury wins this, my real life and my GLO life would morph into an enormous, intractable fame monster with no room for secrets or partitions. Emilia would play for the Guardians League, not KNOX. Amazing. Impossible.
“How about . . . the Philadelphia Fury?”
The red lights hit us so abruptly I sneeze. In the five quick seconds we’re lit, I get a blood-tinted view of the audience on their feet, shouting and cheering at the possibility of the five of us representing Philly on a national circuit. They’re nowhere near loud enough to drown out the intrusive realization that’s forced every other thought out of my mind: I really can’t win, can I?
I can’t sign a contract to go pro in the Guardians League. I have to finish my junior year, keep my grades perfect, and spend the summer before twelfth grade preparing all of my college applications. I have field hockey in the fall, Model UN in the winter, mock trial in the spring, quiz bowl in between all of those, and the hundred million other things my parents told me were the keys to manifesting the future they dreamed up for me. I’m supposed to go to college and major in business, then the Wharton thing, and grow up to be busy and successful and adult. I was born to build on the legacy my family worked so hard to give me, not tear it down and rebrand it as—what? A GLO legend? That’s not a success anyone in my family would understand.
My mouth is salty again, and I don’t know what to do with myself. Luckily, the rest of Team Fury takes over for me now that the announcement is over. Thibault has more to say about the league and how it will work, so Byunki nudges me as a cue to leave the stage. That’s fine. I fall in line behind him like a good, albeit robotic, little duckling. Now he wants me to wave to our fans while we walk out. Thank you for being here today. Before we can disappear into the wings, Ivan wants to hold my arm up for a second to show Fury’s DPS squad is ready to win. My arm is his noodle to do with as he wants.
Once we get backstage, I assume Ivan, Han-Jun, and Erik are making some noise, but my thoughts are too loud and consuming to follow their conversation or contribute in any way. Thank god the expression of shock I’m sure is on my face is easy to mistake for a natural response to receiving the most life-changing news any of us have ever heard, so I don’t look too out of place as we parade back down the ramp. I’d never noticed before how narrow these hallways are. Or maybe they’re not and the walls just feel like they’re closing in around me because every cliché about impending panic attacks is 100 percent true.
No one here knows me well enough to assume that my silence comes from anything other than being overwhelmed. I mean they’d be half right; I’m very overwhelmed right now, because I trapped myself in a tournament that I thought would give me a taste of glory only to find out it’s actually trying to shove a massive slurry of it down my throat like that mean thing people do to geese.
I want to play. I want to find out if I’m good and stand tall in front of crowds like the one that just screamed my team’s name and see where being a founding player in a national league takes me. If I had anything resembling a choice, that would be what I choose. I don’t have a choice, though. Thibault’s announcement took that choice away from me. I really, really can’t win.
And there’s my answer. That’s how I get out of this: I have to lose.
The clarity I was looking for early snaps back into focus. Planning mode: activated. It would be easier if we had reserve players because I could just quit now, but we don’t and I still owe it to Fury to give them their best shot at winning without me. That means I have to play today.
I’ll mess something up, something bad enough to lose but not quite, and Byunki will be mad enough to let me resign once the match is over.
If there isn’t a contractual obligation for the teams to remain intact through the finals—mental note to check the fine print on the tournament documents we signed on entry—that gives them two weeks to find a new DPS. It will be difficult, but not as impossible as it would be if I ditched them today, or with only one week to go before Round 3. Once I’m out, I disappear. I junk my GLO account, say goodbye to all the sweet cosmetics I earned on this one, and . . .
. . . probably never make a new one. This has gone on long enough. I should have stopped playing the first time, when those guys made it very clear that I didn’t have a place in gaming. It doesn’t make them right, but once I give this up, there’s nowhere else for me to go. I’ll be good. I’ll go to school; I’ll do the things. I’ll even have time to do the readings during the semester.
Jake will have to find another ride to Round 3 if he makes it.
Doesn’t matter. I’m done. It makes sense to be done.
“KNOX, you’re quiet!” Ivan nudges me with his elbow exactly when I don’t expect it, and I stumble a half step to the side.
“I’m good,” I lie, about the stumble and the holistic state of my identity. “It’s just sinking in. I think I need to clear my head or something.”
“I knew something was up. Byunki was so weird this morning? I’ve never seen him so . . .”
“Happy?”
Ivan looks sideways at me and smirks. “I was going to say stoked. He knows we got this on lock. You and me, I mean.”
“Oh,” I say. Please don’t let this be a whole thing about how well Ivan and I work as a team. My heart is at capacity. Any additional feels would constitute a fire code violation.
“Like I honestly—and I’m not being shady or anything—but I didn’t think it would work, when Byunki brought you up this summer.”
“Oh.” The less I say, the more room Ivan has to monologue. I don’t even need to tell him that is barely an appropriate use of the word “shady.”
“Not because you’re a girl or anything. I have a sister, and she . . . well, she doesn’t game, but, like, females are strong as hell, you know? Just because I’d been partnered with Arjun for so long and after Byunki kicked him, I was like ‘Yo, now what?’ but you”—he punctuates his speech with a playful poke at my shoulder; Ivan is certainly the touchy-feeliest out of all the Fury players—“came out swinging. After Round One, and don’t tell B this, but that checkmate? I was like, ‘Is KNOX our secret weapon?’ And then I checked with Han and Erik, and they were like, ‘Yo, KNOX is our secret weapon.’ If we win, nah, when we win, you and me are going to be, like, GLO GOATs.”
What sucks is I know Ivan is right. GOATs and all. On any other day and under other circumstances, this speech would be the highlight of my entire year. Today it’s just a reminder of everything I’m giving up and everyone I’m letting down. Rick Astley would be so disappointed in me.
“Hey, Ivan?” I interrupt him before he can keep going. “I was kind of serious about needing that minute. Can yo
u tell Byunki and the rest that I’ll be back in, like, ten minutes?”
“Oh? Yeah, sure. Don’t take too long. You okay?” I can tell he’s a little hurt that I’m trying to ditch him after he’s said such nice things about me.
“Yeah. Crack a hand warmer open for me?”
“Uh, it’s better if you do it yourself. Slower heat.”
“Then don’t.” It’s better if he thinks I’m bitchy today. It’ll make it easier to write me off later.
I like Ivan, I really do. As much as I wanted to impress Byunki going into this, I’ll feel worse making VANE look bad when I whiff this match. In an alternate universe, we could be GOATs. Forever and ever.
The crowd from the ramp has thinned out by now, with the rest of the teams splitting off to head to their respective green rooms. I’ve been so single-minded both days of the competition that I haven’t poked around to see where everyone else is holed up, and the only other place I know besides the Fury green room is that weird spot by the craft kitchen.
Thibault’s announcement will for sure delay the day’s matches as the press catches up to the reality of the Guardians League, so I’ll have just enough time to sneak away and kick craft’s unused mountain of stackable chairs until they collapse and bury me forever. Kudos to whoever finds my skeleton many years from today.
Picking my way through the hallways toward somewhere I’m only halfway sure I know the location of feels like navigating a basement level of a game I’ve played before but don’t really remember how to win. I definitely take a few wrong turns and wind up somewhere even more unfamiliar, hallways I’m sure lead to empty rooms that are lying in wait for when the arena plays host to bigger competitions than this, full-on Guardians League tournaments that pull in hundreds of players on teams from all across the world. The relative emptiness of having only four teams left in this round is great for me because I’m not running into a million people back here, but it also means that the signage leaves a lot to be desired.