Another reporter stood. “What do you think was the defining factor in your victory?”
My teammates looked down the table to me. The reporters clapped again. One called out my name. I shook my head and pressed my lips against the microphone.
“Everyone contributed. We won because of the team. We trained hard, harder than we had in our whole lives, and gave it our all. Some people never get this kind of opportunity. We didn’t want to spit on that.”
Spit on that? Well, that almost came out smooth. Thanks, Mom.
“Any words to your opponents, InvictUS?”
Rooke spoke up. “Thanks for making us step up our game. Without them, we wouldn’t have gone this far.”
How true were those words. We wouldn’t have trained and pushed ourselves to go further than we ever thought possible if it hadn’t been for our opponents. The fact that we’d kicked their ass was just the cherry on top.
Another reporter shouted a question. “What’s the first thing you’re going to do tonight?”
Derek waggled his eyebrows at the cameras and unleashed his million-dollar smile.
“Party.”
We all laughed. Yes, there would be parties. And probably champagne. At least this time, we’d earned it.
“But before we answer any more questions,” Derek continued, “I think we should take a minute to remember our fallen teammate.”
The constant buzz of the room cut to silence.
“Nathan was our friend,” Derek continued. “We didn’t always get along, but he was a good guy, and his skills in the battlefield were incredible. We would like to extend our sympathies to his family. It’s long overdue.”
Derek bowed his head. We mirrored him.
The room remained silent other than a few soft clicks of the cameras and people shifting in their chairs. The reporters joined us in remembering Nathan. But I knew this wasn’t just for him. It was a moment for all those who’d suffered from this sport, off camera and behind the scenes. The forgotten.
When we raised our heads, the audience clapped, a wholehearted sharp applause that conquered the room with its beat. When it finally died down and the room once again descended into an awkward silence, one reporter spoke up.
“Is it true he actually died of an overdose?”
Ah, yes. During the match, I’d forgotten how the VGL’s own announcers had joined the rebellion. Bless you, Howie and Marcus. Pick up a sword sometime. We could be the three musketeers.
I leaned forward and spoke clearly and controlled.
“Yes. He overdosed. I was there when he died. I really wish I could have helped him, but there wasn’t anything I could do. I’m sorry to his family. He was a good man and a good gamer. He just got caught up in the lifestyle.”
With those words, a weight lifted. My stomach rested calmly, not one ripple on an open lake. I no longer blamed myself for not doing more when he died. He was already gone when I woke in the morning, and he was breathing when I fell asleep. How was I to know anything was wrong? The guilt had vanished because I knew we’d done right by him.
“Why was his cause of death listed as heart failure?” someone from the audience called out.
“I think it was just a miscommunication,” Hannah answered. “Things get blurred and reversed a lot in print and media. It’s like the telephone game. It’s no one’s fault.”
I smiled inwardly. She’d caught on to my hint that I wasn’t blaming the industry for what happened. It was an accumulation of events. Team owners, sponsors, hell, even the gamers ourselves were all to blame for the issues in eSports.
Another reporter stood. “Is drug usage really that bad in virtual gaming?”
We exchanged looks with each other. Derek spoke up.
“It’s a serious problem in this sport.”
“Have any of the rest of you experienced this yourselves?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve had my own problems, especially in the beginning of the season. I had enough close calls to admit my life was in danger. I had to crash before I realized I had a problem. But I’ve been working hard ever since, and I’m stronger now than I ever was before. And not just with a sword.”
The crowd laughed.
“What got you through it? How did you recover?”
I smiled. “Through the love of a few good friends.”
Beneath the table, Rooke squeezed my hand. I squeezed back. Then he turned to his microphone.
“I did, too,” he announced. “I’ve had problems. So did someone I cared for. And several others.”
The emcee stopped calling on people at this point and just let them shout out questions as they liked.
“Why hasn’t the industry done something to regulate this?”
Lily found her voice. “I don’t think people realized how big of a problem it is. I think now we can count on the VGL to take steps in the right direction.”
Yes, now they’d have to. They’d have to address the problems with this sport, and the consequences of spending too many hours inside the virtual world. Drug addiction. Insanity. Death. This was really happening. This was history in the making, and not just because we’d won the tournament.
“Kali,” another reporter called out. I lifted my head to a woman standing in the middle of the crowd. “At twenty years old, you’ve become one of the top fighters in the world and the first female captain to lead your team to a national championship. What’s next for you?”
I blinked as I looked out at the sea of reporters and flashing cameras. The doc had asked me the same question that morning, and when I opened my mouth, I surprised even myself at the answer.
“I’m leaving.”
A stunned hush fell over the crowd. Gasps came at me from every angle. I felt the eyes of my teammates on me, digging holes into the side of my head. No one knew I was planning to drop that little bombshell. No one. I knew they’d be hurt by it, but for me, another weight had been lifted. It was the right answer. For me.
A flurry of questions followed. I gave them the standard answers, the ones we’re taught.
“I don’t know yet . . . No comment at this time . . .”
Once we were backstage, my teammates ambushed me. Hannah wrapped me in a tight hug. “Oh, Kali. You’re not really leaving us.” She pulled back to look at my face. Tears brimmed in her eyes. “You made this team what it is. We can’t do this without you.”
I shook my head. “I love you guys, but I can’t stay here. This isn’t me. I’m not going to go along with all the bullshit or sacrifice who I am to make it in this industry.”
“So, you’re leaving? Just like that?”
“No, I’m going to show people the right way.”
Derek stepped forward. “What are you saying?”
“I’m going to create my own team. A player-owned team. I’m going to change the industry from the inside out.”
“You already have a team,” Derek said, motioning around him. “We’ll go with you.”
Lily and Hannah nodded feverishly. I held up a hand. “It’ll take some time before I’m ready. I can’t ask you to put your careers on hold for that.”
Hannah’s expression fell. “But—”
“Stay in the tournaments,” I emphasized. “Make names for yourselves. When I’m ready, I’ll find you.”
“We’ll be there,” Derek said. Hannah and Lily nodded again. Behind them all, Rooke stood with his arms crossed, completely quiet. He was a blank slate. Maybe he was pissed at me, or too shocked to react. But at this point, it didn’t matter. I had another stubborn man to deal with first.
—
Inside his office, Clarence paced over the same line so many times, I thought he’d actually wear a path into that industrial-strength carpet. His blazing red skin and snorting breaths made me think of a bull from an old-fashioned cartoon.
“What the hell was that?” His eyes remained fixed on the floor as he fired the question at me. “You can’t just announce that you’re leaving.”
“Oh, you mean that wasn’t cut from broadcast?” I asked, suppressing my grin. I sat in the chair, the same one where I’d been named captain, and watched him pace. “By the way, my contract was only one season.”
“Contracts only last for one season in case the player doesn’t work out for the owner.”
“Well, that goes both ways, doesn’t it?”
Clarence stopped dead in his tracks and gaped at me. Then his face returned to the same angered expression it held before. “You don’t like me? Fine. That doesn’t mean you announce that you’re leaving on my time. No one quits these games. Not by choice.”
“I seem to be a first for a lot of things.”
He scoffed. “Like declaring all that bullshit about drugs in this game?”
“Hey, I wasn’t the one to announce it. And it’s not bullshit anymore.”
“As far as anyone knew, it was.”
I narrowed my eyes at him but kept an even and innocent tone to my voice. “You mean you’ve never had a member of your team lose their mind or dabble in drug usage?”
Clarence shook his head, but if it was from denial or overflowing rage, I wasn’t sure.
“So,” I continued, “you’re saying you’ve never falsified drug testing. Are you sure you want me looking into that?” Clarence didn’t answer, but he snorted again. I cleared my throat and remained calm. “The world knows about Nathan now, even if you’ve forgotten him.”
Even as the words left my mouth, my brain wouldn’t register the impact. The world knew the truth. About Nathan. About gamers. About the virtual world. Finally, things would begin to change. For the better. Not for the owners. Not for the sponsors.
For us. For gamers.
Speaking of the sponsors . . .
“Besides,” I continued, “who do you think the sponsors are going to be interested in now? You, or me?”
Clarence sat in his chair as if it would somehow contain his fury. He swiveled a few times, hand over his mouth as he thought to himself. “You won’t see a penny of the winnings. I don’t have to pay you anything.”
“I have a contract that says you do.” I stood from the chair. “I expect my share of the winnings or every tabloid in the world will know how you never paid the first female captain in history to win a championship.” I leaned toward him across the desk and lowered my voice into a rolling growl that would have made a tiger tremble.
“People will love it.”
Clarence’s face blanched, and his eyes darted around like cornered pray. His lower lip trembled. Barely, but enough. Then his lips twisted into a scowl, and he stood up from his desk.
“Get the hell out of my facility.”
I smiled at him, enjoying how real it felt to smile. Not a condescending smile. Just a genuine, happy smile.
Happy, because I was free.
When I turned to leave his office, I paused at the door and studied the poster of yours truly hanging next to it.
“What are you doing?” Clarence demanded.
I glanced back at him and shrugged.
“Packing.”
I pulled the poster off the wall, rolled up the screen in my hands, and walked out.
—
I walked through the hallways toward my bunk, screen under my arm, with the heavy realization that I was leaving this place just beginning to settle over me. Weeks ago, did I ever think I’d be here? No. I never thought I’d leave. Ever. But now, it felt good.
It felt right.
When I rounded the corner, Rooke stood leaning against my bunk door.
“Are you really leaving?”
“Yes.”
I entered the code on my bunk, and Rooke followed me in. He sat on my bed, and I placed the rolled-up poster next to him. He peered down at it with uncertainty but didn’t ask.
“When are you going?” he asked.
“Sooner than you’d think,” I said, wrestling a pair of metal suitcases out of a compartment. “Clarence just kicked me out.”
Rooke stood up off the bed and raised his voice. “He can’t do that.”
“Yes, he can.” I slapped the suitcases down on the bed and flipped them open.
“That’s ridiculous.”
I agreed but said nothing as I folded up training gear, red-carpet outfits, and everything in between and piled them neatly in the suitcases.
“Where are you going to go?” he asked.
“Home, to visit my parents for a while.”
He nodded. “San Diego. Right. Are you leaving right away?”
I motioned at the room. “I can’t really stay here.”
“We can get a hotel room for the night, and rent you a car tomorrow,” he offered. “You can’t leave now. We just won a national championship. I think we have some celebrating to do.”
I gave him a sly glance. “You mean, with our teammates?”
“Uh, sure, but I’d prefer if they were in another room.”
I laughed.
I reached under my bed, retrieved a stack of hardcover books, and held them out to him.
“These are yours.”
He glanced down, and pushed them back until they bumped against my stomach.
“Keep them.”
My mouth dropped. “But . . . I can’t.”
He took them from my hands and placed them inside a suitcase. “Yes, you can. I don’t know how to say this without sounding weird, but I think you’re starting on some sort of path.” He nodded down at the books. “Maybe they’ll help you along the way.” He pushed his hands in his pockets. “So, your own team? What brought that on?”
I thought for a minute and finally gave up. “I don’t know. I just decided right then. It felt like the right thing to do. Is that strange?”
He shook his head. “For a lot of people, maybe. But you know who you are now. You know what matters to you and where you want to go in life. So it just came naturally to you.”
I considered his words. “A wise man once said, ‘When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.’”
He shook his head. “I don’t remember saying that.”
We laughed together.
“So,” he began, “do you really think you’ll do this? Create a team?”
“Yeah. I don’t know how yet, but I’ll find a way.”
I would find a way. Clarence was right about one thing. Gamers never quit. At twenty years old, an entire world of possibilities stood before me. I’d won a national championship. As the first female captain to claim the title, sponsors would be throwing themselves at my feet. Everyone would want me to represent their products. I’d have my choice. Those who’d get me would bow down to my terms, not the other way around. And with their money, along with what I’d won from the championship, I could build my team. Living on our own. Playing whatever games we wanted. Creating our own images, or none at all.
Having fun the entire time.
I already had four other players ready to stand by my side, and I had a vision. Now, I just had to bring them together. Take two halves and make them whole. Luckily, I’d gotten pretty good at doing exactly that.
I finished packing and shut the last suitcase. Together, we lugged my belongings down the hall, toward the door we’d snuck pizzas through.
“I’m just going to visit my folks for a little while,” I told him. “I’ll be back in L.A. in a few weeks to find a place to live. You aren’t getting rid of me that easily.”
I playfully nudged his shoulder, and he grinned.
“I’ll call,” he offered.
“You better.”
His grin grew wider. Then, it faltered as he grew serious. He set my suitcases down and turned to
me. “With everything and anything you’re planning, you know I’ll be there, right?”
“I know.”
“And . . . I’m kinda proud of you.”
“I know that, too.”
He took me into his arms and pulled me tight against him. I didn’t protest. I melted into him. I closed my eyes and focused on the sensations. His strong arms enveloping me. The perfect way I fit into the crook of his chest. He pulled back and brushed his lips against mine once, then twice. Three times. Like hell, I’m a lady.
He picked up my suitcases, shoved the door open with his shoulder, and held it for me with his foot. I started to move forward, and paused.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
This wasn’t just about creating my own team, or figuring out my path in life. This was about something more.
I could change everything.
They say you have to know the problems, really live them, to understand how to fix them. Good thing I’m so stubborn, because there was a lot in need of repair. Gamers deserved the same rights as any athlete. Respect. Freedom.
Safety.
From the industry, the owners, and themselves. It was time to prove we’d earned it. And if no one else was going to fight for it, I would. I’d fight until the world knew our story. Not one of the glitz and glam of the red carpet. Not one of magazine covers, television interviews, and all-night parties. No. They would know one of hard work and perseverance. Of unfair treatment, sponsorship abandonment, and life inside the games. One day, everyone would know the truth, and apparently, I was the one to speak the word.
My voice would be heard, even if I had to scream louder than anyone else. I’d brought my opponents to their knees in the arena. I was sure I could do the same in any office, boardroom, or conference center, and I wouldn’t even have to wait until Saturday night to do it. The thought itself made me smile. I’d done a heck of a lot of smiling lately. Maybe that was my new standard programming.
It would take time to accomplish everything. Years, probably. I glanced down at the break between the facility’s exit and the concrete sidewalk. If a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, this was mine.
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