“No.” His expression was impossible to read—distant eyes but soft mouth and gentle hand as he patted my knee. “But right now, let’s get the store visit over with so we can get you those blintzes.”
“Okay.” There really wasn’t much to do other than agree and collect our stuff—my deck bag, the laptop bag, and the box of books and swag. Easily the biggest game store we’d stopped at on the trip, the place occupied a one-story corner building with giant curved front widows displaying costumes and toys. The whole top floor was a kids’ paradise—aisles and aisles of toys, costumes, games, and books. The finished basement level was a more adult space with tabletop games, cards, and space for playing. It felt a bit like venturing to an underground club as the clerk waved us downstairs, where an older man in an expensive-looking gray suit waited for us.
At least it wasn’t cosplay, but his officious attitude was still unsettling, a feeling that intensified as he introduced his equally slick adult sons, both of whom were larger than Conrad even. Their crisp white shirts and smarmy smiles seemed more suited to a used-car lot than a game store. They were each older than Conrad and me, probably late twenties. We did some video with the owner showing us around, but my anxiety kept rising.
You’re being ridiculous, I lectured myself. This is not a bad seventies movie. No one is out to get you, and you’re not leaving here wearing cement shoes.
My unease wasn’t helped when the suit-clad owner announced, “Bart is my best player. Regional champion at the Denver con this year.” The look of parental pride he bestowed upon his mammoth son would have been heartwarming if Bart hadn’t looked ready to sell me a lemon. There was something untrustworthy about his eyes—like this was a guy who would have no problem running an odometer back.
“The competition was for shit.” Bart made a dismissive gesture.
“He could go pro, but…we need him here.” The owner looked over Conrad and me the way my mom inspected roasts for Sunday dinner. “Who wants to play him for your little show?”
I was about as reluctant to play Bart as I’d been with the cosplaying wizard, but I didn’t want to look like I had a complex. Or like I was afraid. Which I wasn’t. Okay. Maybe a little. I trusted my decks and myself as a player, but I didn’t trust Bart to play clean. However, I also wasn’t going to make Conrad bail me out of an uncomfortable situation again.
“I will,” I said at the same time that Conrad said, “Alden’s our better player.”
That should have made me preen, but instead, the praise settled like a mantle of heavy expectation on my shoulders. I couldn’t help but feel I’d be letting him down—as well as myself—if I lost. The owner drifted away to take care of something business-related, leaving Conrad and I alone with the sons in the back of the downstairs room.
We sat down at a long folding table to play, Conrad filming, me trying to tune him out to focus on my game. I wanted to put headphones on, the way some pro players did to further get in their zone, but Bart was already being rude enough for both of us, turned around, talking to his brother about a “seriously smoking” woman while shuffling, completely ignoring me. His play mat featured one of Odyssey’s most expensive cards—an underworld chariot so powerful and rare that it was on several ban lists. Bart also had the highly annoying habit of snapping his cards. Terrible for card value and awful for my concentration too.
He got out to an early lead, attacking my life total with the sort of methodical precision one might expect from a player who scowled as though he was busy thinking of ways to dismember me for real and lose the body. His underworld-themed deck was full of reapers and dark spirits—creatures that fed off other things’ demise. Including scrolls. His first card out was a scroll eater, and I had to work to control my inner flinch. I didn’t like to play cards that attacked the other player’s collection of scrolls as there was something unsportsmanlike to me about robbing the other player of the ability to put anything out. But Bart had no such issues, making me fall further behind because I couldn’t play the cards in my hand.
If you’re falling behind, play smaller cards more strategically. I flashed back to my conversation that morning with the kid. I’d been thinking about Conrad at the time and how he always seemed to eke value out of every single play, playing cards that didn’t cost that many scrolls in deceptively skillful ways. Interacting with the kid had felt good. Fun. I liked being the expert, and I’d liked watching his eyes light up when he’d understood what I was trying to show him. Conrad was right—I was good at teaching people the game. I still wasn’t sure what that meant for my future, and certainly didn’t have time for that sort of soul-searching midgame.