Page 21 of Don't Hate the Player
“Fine, sit down.” Byunki steps aside to let me walk past him to the couch. “Those Unity noobs are ripping Team Herald a new one, so we need to re-strategize for next week.”
It looks like Jake’s mystery team is better than I expected. Team Herald has an amazing roster, and Unity was seeded so low they weren’t expected to beat them. I do a very good job of hiding my smile while Ivan scooches over to make a spot for me on the cushions. Thank you for treating me like I’m supposed to be here, Mr. VANE.
“Even if they win this one they’re up against Beast Mode or Tempest,” Erik says, waving at the Unity match on-screen. “Either of them will crush Unity in Round Two.”
“That would put us up against Beast in the finals,” Han-Jun adds.
I realize that I completely missed the match after us while I was talking to Jake. It was Chronic versus Solar, one of which we’re going up against next weekend. If Chronic won, I have my work cut out for me since they have an excellent Pharaoh, but if Solar won, we’re gold. Their healers have no rhythm and couldn’t time a cooldown if their lives depended on it—and they do.
As much as it sucks to admit I wasn’t fully checked in for the last round of competition, I have to ask. “Who are we playing next week? The signal by . . . ?craft was garbage, so I didn’t see.”
Byunki gives me a look that says I ought to be ashamed of myself, but whatever, I’m already lying to him. I can only feel shame about so many things at once. “Chronic, obviously. You thought Solar was going to beat them?”
That strikes me as cocky coming from the tank who didn’t have his Special Attack ready when it mattered, and considering hejustsaid we’re here to regroup in case an underdog takes down a team that should be one of our closest competitors. It ticks me off that Byunki learned nothing from today when I spend every second calculating what might happen next. His algorithm for life blows, and if I keep allowing him to think he knows better than me, we’re not going to make it past the next round.
“Byunki, I don’t think we should count anyone out. We’re front runners, and we would have lost today if it wasn’t for me.” Sing it with me: it’s true, and I should say it. Unfortunately, no one else seems to think so. Ivan and Erik are frozen next to me, with only their eyes moving between my traitorous face and Byunki’s increasingly red one.
Before our fearless leader can blow up at me, Han-Jun shouts from the other end of the couch. I look over, and he’s scrambling with the remote, turning up the volume so we can hear the commentators.
“They did it! Unity just beat Herald with a payload win.”
“Not even a checkmate?” That’s Ivan, suddenly interested in the match wrapping up on-screen as opposed to the one going down in front of him.
“Payload. They didn’t lose anyone the whole match.”
Holy crap. Unity getting a payload win is huge. Who knew that Jake’s little team actually kicks ass? I know he’s my competition and the number one threat to my personal and professional equilibrium, but I still have room to be impressed. I’m vast like that and also worried about what it means for the next round.
“Shit,” Byunki mutters under his breath, then repeats it louder. “Shit!” The arena TV zooms in on Unity onstage, where Jake and four other people I don’t recognize are jumping around and hugging each other. Aside from Jake, there’s a tall bald guy who must be their tank because everyone’s crowding him like a bunch of kids trying to tackle their favorite uncle. Unity also has two girls—were they the ones cheering me on before?—one of whom has a truly remarkable afro and the other clearly stans LOONA from the Vivi Pink shade of her hair. The only one not going in for hugs is the other white guy who isn’t Jake. He’s more interested in mugging for the cameras, angling for a sponsorship that just might come considering he’s one of this competition’s better-looking players. Get your paper, man.
For a second I get lost seeing Jake celebrate his win, but Byunki brings me back to the green room when he picks up a water bottle from the coffee table and chucks it across the room, not unlike what I imagined doing to him earlier.
“God damn it! FuckingBob.”
The bottle is sadly closed and bounces off the wall without the big climactic splash I’m assuming he wanted. I look over at Ivan, then Erik, and they both shake their heads at me. Got it, not asking.
“Just go,” Byunki finally says after the world’s most awkward silence. He’s still glaring at the TV like it’s his next target for an anticlimactic Dasani assault.
Don’t need to tell me twice. I’d say goodbye to the rest of Fury, but Byunki’s deep in his drama, and as much as I don’t love his behavior today, I respect his commitment to brooding. Everyone else seems content to slip out quietly as well.
My first order of business is to take out the hoodie I stuffed in my tote bag and zip it up over my Fury uniform. The second order is to get out of here unnoticed.
I put my hood up before I leave the green room in case the back halls are flooded with people, and it turns out to have been a good choice. Now that the last match of the day is over, players from every team have their phones out, and the last thing I need is to show up in the background of a Vulcan streamer’s Instagram live. I always thought it was silly how the characters inAssassin’s Creedcould blend into crowds when they’re the only people walking around Victorian London or wherever wearing a big-ass hood, but my sweatshirt gambit actually seems to be working. Nobody would expect me to avoid the spotlight after my grand entrance onstage this afternoon, so moving through the crowd is as easy as looking like I’m someone who doesn’t want anyone paying attention to her. I think this is what Penny calls method acting.
Once I’m away from the hallway that leads to most of the team green rooms, I’m pretty much in the clear. Following the exit signs takes me past a bunch of craft tables stripped of everything that isn’t mini bottles of water and a sad veggie spread sans ranch (the dressing bowl looks so clean I suspect a streamer licked up its contents for content), and in the name of hydration I grab a water and shove a few extra in my sweatshirt pockets. Full-time gamers might be able to survive on a diet of Monster and Doritos, but I have to be a well-hydrated athlete for field hockey tomorrow. From craft it’s just a short hallway to one of the arena’s many confusing back doors, which I quietly push open to find it’s pouring outside. Like, zero visibility, sheets and sheets of freezing rain pouring. And I parked my car as far from the arena doors as I possibly could to avoid anyone catching my license plate in a backdoor selfie.
Some would call that paranoid. I say prepared. Both parties would agree in this moment that it was a mistake.
I cram my tote bag under my arm to avoid getting my phone wet and start sprinting across the parking lot. Most of the cars back here are team vans or arena staff, so there isn’t a huge risk that I get hit by a rogue Honda, but if I did I’d be more concerned about someone telling my parents I died outside an esports tournament than I would about sustaining any grievous bodily harm. In the interest of not having my mother resurrect my ghost just to ground my spirit for eternity, I run to the right along a median that leads past a shiny new Wizzard-branded bus stop. One of the posters on the side shows Pharaoh in his original skin (I have his Platinum-tier robes on because his launch costume looked dumb as hell), and as I get closer, I see the other side has a character I don’t recognize. Some sad-looking tall guy in a blue jersey. In the rain, it almost looks like he’s shivering.
Upon closer inspection, he is shivering. I’m not seeing another character through the rain; I’m seeing someone standing in front of where the other poster should be. It’s Jake Hooper, standing at the bus stop in a T-shirt, looking sixteen seconds from hypothermic collapse. God, he looks awful. I don’t know the bus schedule here, but the tournament still has at least forty-five minutes of wind-down time to get through. He could be stuck out here in the freezing rain for an hour if not more.
Welp, sucks to suck. I’m sure Jake can’t hear me over the rain, so I jog past the back of the bus stop and keep on moving toward my car. It’s another few minutes before I reach it, and by the time I do, my entire sweatshirt is soaked through. Once I’m in, I crank the heat up, check my bag to make sure I didn’t forget anything, and see my phone screen glowing through the wet fabric. Two missed calls from Connor. One voicemail from Connor. Seven unread texts, all of which are some variation of “What’s up” from, I just guessed it, Connor.
The phrase “Why are boys?” runs through my mind as I tap through to listen to—ugh—the voicemail he’s left me. I have a few minutes before my car heats up anyway.
“Hey, Lia, it’s me. Connor D. I was going to ask if you wanted to hang out tonight and Penny told me you were busy.” Yikes. I need to come up with something else to tell Penny about today since she’ll know I wasn’t with Connor. Also, is it just me or is it weird of him to ask my friends if I’m free? Penny’s not my assistant, bro. If anything, I’m hers. Or I will be once I start being a better VP.
“So whatever you’re doing, I definitely think you should ditch it so we can have another date. Just kidding. Kind of.” He is not kidding at all. The audacity of this—“Seriously, let’s hang out soon. Some of the guys are coming over to playMaddentomorrow if you want to watch or something, I think Ben’s new girlfriend will be there so you won’t be the only one. Let me know. Bye.”
