by Kelsie Rae
Pinching the bridge of my nose in hopes of relieving the throbbing in my head, I turn on my PC and log in. As I wait for the game to load, I grab a couple Advil and pop them into my mouth then take a sip of water from my bottle, swallowing down the chalky pills.
I type in my username and password. The online platform puts me into a game after I sync up Gateway Guardians and Flinch, allowing my subscribers to see my screen. I scramble for my signature black beanie, covering my messy red hair before my camera feed goes live.
“Hey, people! Sorry I’ve been AFK for the past couple of days. I haven’t been feeling super hot, but let’s do this, shall we?” As soon as the words super hot slip from my lips, I know the chatroom will explode with innuendos. Subscribers are allowed to make comments on the platform, and anyone who’s watching my channel is able to see what everyone else writes.
I just roll my eyes, ignoring the jerks who like to make sexist comments on a daily basis. For some reason, the majority of gamers believe that having a vagina means I’m not allowed to be good at video games. It’s an absolute joke, and I’ve spent my entire career setting those douchebags straight.
I’ve been a gamer for as long as I can remember. I graduated from high school almost two years ago but never had many friends. I’m a total introvert who would prefer to connect with people through the internet instead of face-to-face. I’ve never been on a date. I’ve never been kissed. I’ve never even held hands with a guy... other than my dad.
Maybe it’s because I lost my mom at such a young age. My dad never remarried, so I haven’t really had a female figure to look up to. I’ve never even worn mascara before. The only time I seem to come out of my shell is when I’m yelling at an opponent or taking the lead during a game and leading my team to victory. Other than that, I’m as quiet as a baby mouse.
You might think that my career choice is bonkers, considering how I willingly allow thousands of people to watch me game on a weekly basis. Instead, it’s the one thing that gives me an ounce of confidence. I’m not going to deny I’m a little screwed up in the head, but I’ll take an ego boost however I can get it. Some girls dress up in tight clothes and make-out with random strangers to stroke their egos. I simply search for those little pick-me-ups in different outlets.
Don’t get me wrong, I know I’m pretty. Or at least somewhat decent. I get more sexual propositions thrown my way than a freaking porn star. I think it has something to do with the fact that the majority of guys I play with haven’t ever been on a date, either. The only reason they’re drawn to me is because of our common interest in gaming. And the lack of female variety in the gaming community.
I have three hours until I need to leave for my first team meeting with Team AFK. AFK means Away From Keyboard. The irony being that if we are on the team, we are rarely AFK. By some miracle, they’re meeting in Vegas, which is only two hours from where I live. I have plenty of time to fit in a game before making the long drive to the hotel where we’ll be meeting.
There are five players per team, and they’ve been set for months. I got the call three weeks ago informing me that one of the players for Team AFK had a death in the family and needed to withdraw from the team. I was the lucky winner to replace him. This could be my breakout moment… as long as I don’t screw it up. The anxiety has been eating at me, telling me I’m not good enough. That I don’t have what it takes. That I’m going to fail in front of twenty thousand people, and there’s nothing I can do about it. No matter how many hours I play, I still won’t be able to compete in the big leagues.
Releasing a deep breath, I shake off my pessimistic thoughts and focus on the game at hand. Maybe I can squeeze two in before I need to leave. Gotta keep those subscribers happy. Gotta keep my playing sharp. Gotta work on those minute skills that can make or break my career before it even gets a chance to begin.
I pinch the bridge of my nose again, shaking my head while trying to focus.
I need to avoid having a mental breakdown while streaming to 3500 subscribers.
“Let’s do this, peeps.”
I’m late.
Dang it.
I shouldn’t have played that third game, but the second one was a total bust, and I needed to end on a good note. I never end a gaming session on a loss. I refuse to. There’s no way I’m going to allow myself to be remembered as a failure. Some might say I’m a perfectionist, and they’re not wrong. There’s just something about letting a loss marinate in your soul for an extended amount of time instead of getting past it and winning. It’s a blessing and a curse of mine. I’ve spent endless hours playing, racking up loss after loss, but refusing to throw in the towel until I finally win a single game. Those nights are always exhausting, but the elation I feel after finally winning is indescribable.
Fellow gamers will call me a lot of things, but quitter isn’t one of them.
My ‘99 Volkswagen Jetta squeaks into the parking lot after a long, two-hour drive. The clock on the dashboard tells me I’m twenty minutes late, and I’m pissed that I’ll be walking in alone after everyone is already seated. I didn’t even have time to shower, which means I’m still in a black hoodie and ripped jeans, with my black beanie firmly in place on my messy curls.
Swallowing thickly, I feign confidence even while I’m shaking in my proverbial boots. I make my way through the parking lot, keeping my pace steady. My hands are resting in the giant pocket on the front of my hoodie, playing with my cell and keys anxiously. I hate meeting new people, and being the noob in a room full of experts is sure to be a fun experience. Cue eye roll.
I slip past the valet guy, nodding at him while he holds the heavy door open for me. I received a text message from Jett, our team manager, while I was driving. He informed me that our meeting is being held on the third floor in one of the conference rooms. I make my way to the elevator, slipping in and pressing the number three button before leaning against the mirrored walls. As soon as the doors slide open on the third floor, I make a left and am greeted with a view of the conference room surrounded by glass.
I take a deep breath in through my nose and make sure my self-assured mask is firmly in place. Grasping the stainless-steel handle, I swing the door open with as much confidence as I can muster.
My worn sneakers squeak against the tile as I step closer to the buffet table set up in the center of the room. The selection of food varies from hot wings to pizza, along with a variety of energy drinks and bottled waters.
Grabbing a Dasani and twisting off the cap, I take a few deep pulls. I wipe my mouth on my thick cotton sleeve as I scan my surroundings. The first thing I notice is that, once again, I’m the only girl in the room.
Surprise, surprise.
The second thing I notice is that all eyes are on me.
I can’t decide if it’s because I’m a girl, because I’m late, or because I’m the only rookie on the team. Most of these guys are experienced gamers. The fact that I’m here is insane. Part of me wonders if the only reason I was offered the spot was for publicity, and I have no doubt it definitely played a part in the selection process. I shake off my pessimism and remind myself that even if that is the reason I’m here, it gives me the opportunity to prove them all wrong. To show them that I’m more than a pair of boobs. I’ve been given a chance to show them what I can do, and I’m not going to squander it.
“Hey, Quincy! Glad you could make it!” Jett greets me from across the room. I haven’t officially met the guy yet, but we’ve FaceTimed once or twice, so he’s easy to recognize. He’s from Japan, though his accent is practically nonexistent. He’s about thirty years old, with long, dark hair that reminds me of an anime character, and he’s wearing a dark purple shirt paired with black Rockstar jeans.
Jett’s actually a really nice guy and seems to be genuine. I really hope he doesn’t prove me wrong.
“Hey. Sorry I’m late… One of my games went longer than planned.” I do my signature head nod in his direction before scanning the other people in the room,
finally noticing my new team members.
Marcus Calloway, 27 years old, long blonde hair in a messy man-bun, and scruffy beard. Team Lead. What he says goes, no questions asked. He’s pretty much the team captain in and out of the game.
Jonah Jacobs, 22 years old, 300 pounds, and lives in his mom’s basement. Tank. He’s the muscle for Gateway Guardians and can take out any opponent in one hit. The only problem? He’s ridiculously slow and takes forever to reload.
Ronny Smith, 24 years old, pockmarked face, and long, stringy brown hair. Operator. This guy’s the only player given access to maps, ammo locations, and enemy positions. He’s our eyes in the sky, even though his avatar isn’t technically in the game.
Trevon Matthews, 25 years old, mocha skin, and short, black hair. Sniper. He gets to sit on a roof and take out our opponents, one by one, with no one being the wiser.
Which leaves me, the final player. Quincy Phillips, 19 years old. Rookie, and Sneak. I’m the player who’s weak as heck but has to get past the opponent’s barriers to grab the gemstone, thus ending the game. I have to think fast, know where everyone is at any given moment, and manipulate the game board without being able to see it.
Everyone will argue that their position is the most important one, but no one will disagree that without a proper Sneak, your team is screwed.
My confident mask slips for a split second when I recognize the guy casually sitting on a leather sofa in the corner.
We’ve never met, yet I know him like the back of my hand. I’d never admit that to anyone, let alone him. He was practically a celebrity in the gaming world until he fell off the face of the planet three years ago.
Jude Williams has always been a drool-worthy legend on screen, but seeing him in person is practically an out-of-body experience. My breathing is shallow, my palms are sweaty, and I have to fight a full-on meltdown as his piercing gaze scans me from head to toe, taking in my disheveled appearance.
He’s wearing dark gray jeans, a light blue button-up shirt, and black-framed glasses. His dark, curly hair is a little longer on top with the sides cut short, framing his sharp jaw and straight nose perfectly. His chocolate brown eyes are staring at me with a mixture of awe, hesitation, and flat-out mystery.
I’m not sure why I’ve captured his attention, but I don’t think I like it. Instead of basking in his presence like any normal girl would do, I swallow thickly, wishing I could melt into the wall and disappear from his penetrating gaze. I step away from the buffet table and closer to the exit cautiously, like I’m being hunted by a superior beast. My fight-or-flight instinct is taking over, and I’m about to make a run for it. I shouldn’t feel threatened just because I’m staring at the guy I’ve been dreaming about for the past seven years, but I do.
He must see the fear painted on my face because the next step I take causes Jude to raise his hands in mock surrender. A comforting smile is plastered on his face as if he’s trying to calm my frazzled nerves from across the room.
“Let me introduce you to your new teammates,” Jett states casually. My head swings back to him as he distracts me from my escape. He’s completely oblivious to my silent interaction with Jude only moments before.
Jett and I both know the introductions aren’t necessary since these guys are practically famous in the gaming industry, but I play along anyway.
Nodding my head at each guy as they lounge in the corner of the room, I ignore the tingles shooting down my spine. Jude’s eyes are soaking in my every move. I know I’m wearing a thick hoodie and dark jeans, but his gaze makes me feel practically naked in a room full of men. Yet, he just casually sits on the black sofa, his arm resting on the back, and he acts like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
Why is he here?
Jett’s introductions slide over me like tepid water on a hot summer day, barely making a dent in my concentration.
“And this,” Jett gestures to Jude, “is Jude Williams. You might be a little young to remember him, but he actually won Worlds a few years back before retiring.”
Jude stands, casually making his way over to us. He’s taller than I would’ve pegged him for. His lean frame reminds me of a black panther instead of a burly bear. He’s still insanely ripped, though. I can tell by the way his button-up shirt pulls across his shoulders. His sleeves are also rolled up to his elbows, giving me a glimpse of his tan, muscular forearms.
Crap. The guy is hot with a capital “H.”
And he’s walking over to me.
I don’t talk to guys. Not ones I like, anyway. The moment I try to, I freeze up like an icicle during a snowstorm.
This is not going to be pretty.
“Hello, Quincy.” Jude’s British accent hits me like a tidal wave.
I merely smile awkwardly in return, my teeth hidden behind my closed lips. My gaze bounces between his eyes, his mouth, and the buffet table. My inner girl is beating the crap out of my insides, begging me to say something. Anything! But my voice is nowhere to be found.
Thankfully, Jude must find my silence endearing because his friendly smile pulls into a full-on grin. “Well, aren’t you a chatterbox.”
I shrug my shoulders in response while firmly biting my lips between my teeth and praying my cheeks aren’t as red as they feel.
He chuckles warmly, extending his palm for a handshake. Hesitantly, I grasp it.
Obviously, it would be rude not to.
His skin is warm as his large palm practically engulfs my own. He rhythmically rubs his calloused thumb across the sensitive skin on the back of my hand. The motion causes goosebumps to break out along my arms. I’m suddenly very grateful for my clothing choice and the fact that it hides my physical response to the guy in front of me.
Hallelujah for small miracles.
Jett clears his throat, and I immediately pull my hand away from Jude’s. I rub my palm on the sleeve of my hoodie, hoping to make the tingling sensation disappear.
It doesn’t work.
“So, now that you’ve met everyone….” Jett begins, conversationally.
My eyes fly to Jett, and I interrupt. “I’m sorry. But why is he here?” I ask him, my head nodding in Jude’s direction while trying to ignore his penetrating stare.
“His company is sponsoring our team. And because he’s practically a legend, we’ve also offered him the position of assistant coach. He’s going to help with strategy for the game and get you guys all in tip-top shape for the championship.”
I nearly swallow my tongue at Jett’s response.
I’m going to have to work with this guy on a regular basis?
Instead of chewing out Jett for not letting me know beforehand, I simply nod in approval. I’ve never been a fan of confrontation.
In reality, I’m freaking out on the inside. How do they expect me to concentrate when he’s in the room? It’s not possible. Seriously. What if Megan Foxx was in the room with these guys? Would management expect the guys to perform to their usual standards?
Doubtful, my friends. Very doubtful.
“Is that going to be a problem, love?” Jude asks, interrupting my inner dialogue.
“Don’t call me ‘love,’” I reply without thinking. As soon as the words slip past my lips, my eyes bug out of my head. I cannot believe I just said that. I don’t stand up for myself. Ever. My dad always told me to “be a duck” when I was growing up. This means that I need to let the little things slide off my back, like water off a duck. And trust me, I’ve let a lot of things slide. I don’t know what came over me to correct a complete stranger about a simple pet name. I’ve been called a heck of a lot worse, and it’s never bothered me before.
Thankfully, Jude takes my little outburst in stride. “Sorry about that, Kitten. Didn’t know it would offend you.”
Now that I’ve already opened the can of worms, I can’t stop myself from asking, “I’m sorry, why did you just call me kitten?”
“Because I can tell you’ve got claws hidden beneath that soft little temperament.” He s
cans me up and down. “And I have a feeling you’d be a tiger in the bedroom.”
My jaw practically hits the floor before scoffing at his horrible pick-up line. “Aaand, you just lost your chance of ever finding out.”
Jude’s comment bums me out. I had hoped he’d be different. That he wouldn’t treat me like all the other douchebags who think I’m just a vagina instead of being part of the team.
Jerkface.
I turn on my heel, leaving Jude standing there with his mouth hanging open at my abrupt departure. I sure as heck hope he feels stupid for whatever that was.
I debate on leaving the team meeting altogether before remembering how important the Championships are to me. Pretty sure they’re one of the only things getting me out of bed in the mornings on most days. Steeling my resolve, I take a deep breath then cautiously approach my new teammates who are still lounging in the corner of the room. I don’t say more than five words, but I’m still here, and that has to count for something. Especially when every fiber in my body is begging me to make an escape as quickly as possible.
But I fight my initial instinct, placing an indifferent mask on my face and covering the anxiety pulsing through me. Just like every other day in my life.
Chapter 3
Jude
I still can’t believe I made such an arsehole of myself last night. It was like I had forgotten every single rule in the dating handbook as soon as I laid eyes on her. I’ve always been a smooth bloke, but my first encounter with Quincy was worse than stepping in dog shite.
The girl screams innocence, and I have no doubt she’d be quite a handful in bed. However, I did not need to voice my assumption to her. To anyone, actually.
I need to apologize. I thought she felt the same connection I did, but I think she might have reconsidered after the word vomit that spewed from my mouth.