“Do I have a choice not to be broadcast?” I’d been filmed hundreds of times but not with so much on the line.
“The release you signed gives us permission to stream any of the rounds.” Her voice stayed polite, but she frowned at me. “If you’re worried about distraction, the headphones can help. And you’re an Odyssey celebrity, it’s natural they’d want you on one of the streams.”
“Okay, I’ll try the headphones. And I’m not that well known.”
“Sure you are.” She was back to smiling now. “My son’s been a fan of your online play for years and then Gamer Grandpa too. Maybe I can get an autograph for him?”
“Uh. Sure.” I’d never been asked for an autograph before, and pride warred with embarrassment, shoulder muscles not knowing whether to lift or hunch in. “What do I sign?”
“Got a spare token? I’m collecting them for him. He was in a car accident a few weeks back, or he’d be here now.”
Painfully aware that I was holding up the line, I fished out the first token card I could find in my bag, one of the new ones I’d opened with Conrad. It was of no real use to me, but I’d stuck it my bag because it reminded me of how he’d looked sitting on the bed that morning, all giddy and happy. Distracted by the return of thoughts about whether I knew the real Conrad or not, I signed the card and handed it over.
I wanted to believe the little-kid happiness Conrad had exuded that morning had been real and that the way he’d used me as a pillow all night long had been real too. I wanted so badly to believe that I could make him happy, that I could be enough for him, that he wouldn’t eventually get bored and ditch me to go party with Payton—find someone more fun, more his speed.
The volunteer walked me over to one the streaming stations. Unlike the rows and rows of tables on the main tournament floor, a few tables were set up on raised daises for streaming, with camera equipment in place, and a commenting crew in its own little booth as well. I felt far more exposed than I had earlier, and I gratefully put on the headphones she gave me. She wished me luck, but I was already too deep in my own head to do much more than nod.
My opponent was a crafty player, a young woman with elfin features offset by the large headphones and a killer instinct that led to her attacking almost every turn, relentless even when her attacks were ill-advised. It took all my wits to hold my own, and I had a brief moment where I wished I’d claimed the rare card that Conrad had opened. The ability to generate more scrolls would have greatly helped in this game, but while not nearly as cash-strapped as Conrad, I still couldn’t go out and drop that kind of money to pump up my decks, even if it might help with this tougher competition.
I’d heard the rumors—with this many entrants, players would need to be close to perfect to make the cut for the elimination rounds. I couldn’t afford to drop this match, couldn’t afford—
Wait. Afford. I needed to make her pay more scrolls for her moves, make it more expensive and odious for her to attack. I shifted my strategy, playing a series of cards that effectively taxed her for making certain moves, and narrowly pulled out the win.
My adrenaline surged like the last mile of a long run, heart rate speeding up, lungs burning, and there was only one person I wanted to talk to.
Those tax cards of mine you hate? The ones you call the vise? They won me this round. Stay on your toes and stay aggressive if you meet another aggro deck. This one didn’t stop attacking.
I didn’t expect a response as he was probably midround himself, and indeed, it was two more games before I got a chance to check my phone again.
Whatever wins you the game. Almost lost to a reaper deck, but remembered how we stomped Bart and Danny. Still think we make a great team. Few more rounds, and then I can show you ;)
The memory made me smile too. Get *that* out of your head, I lectured via text.
Sex, Alden. Sex. You can type the word. And too bad. It’s always on my brain, especially when I think about you.
Overwhelmed by good feelings from nothing more than a text, I melted like an ice cream sundae on the Fourth of July, a useless bowl of soupy contents. I couldn’t even manage a reply, only grinning at my phone like an idiot, rereading the message until it was time to play again.
I was still feeling good after another win, still feeling like maybe I mattered to Conrad, even if for purely physical reasons. As I packed away my stuff, I actually spotted him, setting up at one of the filming tables, frowning at a pair of headphones. My heart did this little dance, looking forward to later when he’d be mine again. But right then he was the property of the tournament and his opponent—