Page 33 of Fake Game

EIGHT

DEER

“What the fuck, Deer?”

I grin, my cheeks splitting wide. “What?”

“You’re screen peeking,” Aleks huffs.

“I am not.”

I definitely am.

“Oh, yeah? Then explain how I just died?”

“Because you’re a lousy player, Blade.”

“Bullshit.”

“Sometimes even the king must admit defeat,” I croon, cocking my rifle as I run my character across the map.

“I thought you hated shooters.”

“I do. I get performance anxiety; I’m sure you know what that is.”

Stevie lets out a cackle, and I let my attention slip as I turn to give her a conspiratorial smile. Her long legs are strewn over Aleks’ lap from the other side of the couch as she sketches in her notepad.

The elevator pings open, but Aleks and I don’t move, locked in a stalemate, our eyes focused on the TV screen.

He isn’t wrong. I do typically suck at first-person shooter games, and I wouldn’t attempt to playFrozeLineorKill Strikeif my life depended on it. ButFrontline Doom? I’m notthatawful at it—I’m actually kinda decent. I just hate playing online ‘causethe male population gets weird and judgy which makes me nervous and ends in my own performance anxiety. I don’t know how Lee does it as a career, streaming these every day.

But it doesn’t matter how passable I am at the game, Aleks is a million times better.

So, yes, I am screen peeking to get an advantage.

Sue me for wanting to win.

My eyes flick from my half of the TV over to Aleks’, and I let out a curse as I watch his character headshot me with a pistol.

“Mother fucker.”

“For someone so tiny, you have the vocabulary of a sailor.”

“Blame my da.”

I focus my gaze on the map to find a way from the respawn point back to where Aleks just killed me. This is exactly what I needed tonight—a total distraction from reality. I might be a solo gamer ninety percent of the time, but there really is nothing better than finding a game to play with friends.

“Hi, Jackson.” Stevie’s lilt pulls me from my focus, and I turn to follow her gaze.

Jackson grumbles a response as he tosses his keys into the bowl by the elevator and kicks off his sneakers. I trace the lines of his arms as he reaches behind his head to tie his black hair in a knot at the base of his neck.

“Bad date?” She pushes, pausing to look at a fake watch on her wrist. “You weren’t gone long.”

Jackson remains silent, meandering into the kitchen and opening the fridge to take out a beer.

“Grab me one,” Aleks calls out.

Jackson sighs, pulling a second beer from the fridge.

---