Page 44 of Don't Hate the Player
Gatsby, my brain volunteers. God, no. That guy sucked.
Who?he finally replies.
Oh no. I check the previous message in our DMs and see that whoever JHoops is never responded to my initial message. Did I send my phone number to a complete rando? How did Jake know to leave the notes then, if it wasn’t his account?
sry wrong person, I type quickly and exit out of the message window. Well, that was humiliating. That’s enoughGLOfor tonight. I slide my cursor up toward the log-out button and am about to dip when a new message window pops up. It’s JHoops.
messing with you em
Really? I wish that didn’t make me smile, but it does. The guy has one move, and he’s gotten me with it twice in five days. Before I can come up with a response, the message window unexpectedly glows greener with an invitation to voice chat.
The green window pulses to the tune of theGLOringtone, and the hypnotic gradient washes everything on my desk the bright verdant color of . . . ?matcha, unfortunately. I take it as a sign.
“Hey. Again,” I say once I answer the call. I’m sitting up straighter in my desk chair now, like I’ve been sent to the principal’s office and Klein’s just walked in with disappointment on his face.
“Oh, wow,” he says, and from the crackle on his microphone, I think he’s letting out a breath he was holding for as long as it took for me to answer, “it’s you.”
“Yes, I just told you.”
“Sorry, yeah. It’s just weird communicating.”
“I gave you my number!”
“Right. I didn’t want to . . . ?I didn’t want to intrude. Figured there was an easier way of letting you know you were okay without leaving a digital trail.”
He thought a morning of deep espionage was easier than sending me a text message? High drama Jake Hooper strikes again. Can’t say I hate it.
“The notes were . . .” I stop myself to think of a more neutral word than the first one that comes to mind. Amazing? Delightful? The only thing that made my day this week? “. . . ? cool. Nice touch with the bio whiteboard.”
“After I did it I was like, ‘Aah, that was corny, like way too corny.’ ”
“Jake.” I have to stop him before he talks himself into another self-effacing spiral. “It was dope. Thank you. And thank you for checking in the first place, obviously. Def helped me sleep easier this week.”
I hear Jake chuckle into the mic. “No it didn’t! You’re awake now.”
“Touché. So are you, though.”
“I’m kind of in a waiting room and don’t want to get out. Do you want the ID?”
Right. People who are logged intoGLOat midnight are usually there to play the game. That’s fine. Playing through the conversation I actually want to have with Jake might make it easier for me to get through it.
“Sure, yeah. DM it to me. I’ll meet you in there.”
The message window blips again with a room code from Jake. It’s for another freestyle map, but this one is a beta, which makes it perfect for role-playing or just hanging out on the server with friends. Back when I first played, freestyles were where I met some of the guys who turned out to be total assholes. Before they found out I was a girl, they were pretty cool to hang out with.
Some of the more popular beta builds get overloaded, hence the waiting room, and the one he’s invited me to is Crystal Cathedral, an unreleased map for Diamond-tier players to beta test before Wizzard releases it to the rest of the game. It’s a flex that Jake is even in the waiting room and a compliment that he knows I’d be able to get in alongside him. There’s still a bit of a wait (the hottest club on the internet is this beta map), so we have a few minutes to talk before we’re in.
“Who are you playing?” I ask as I sort through the many, many Pharaoh skins I’ve collected over the years. Should I go for his extra-dead-looking Halloween outfit or the rare gold robes I got beforeGLOnuked their loot boxes?
“I am Pythia and Pythia is me,” Jake replies. I don’t ask what skin he’s putting on his poison prophetess.
“Cool.” I settle on the gold robes. I feel like a sleep-deprived turd, so Pharaoh will have to look fresh for both of us. “Hey, before we go in, can I talk to you?”
“Mhm,” Jake answers sleepily. If I keep him up any longer, I’m going to have more than one thing to apologize for, and that will surely be the thing that kills me.
“I, um. I want to say sorry about Monday. With the ice cream.” It’s a good start. I don’t want this to come across as one of those crappy non-apologies, though, so I keep going after Jake leaves me hanging in deserved silence.
“I’m so, so, so sorry I didn’t help you, or stick up for you. Or get you a paper towel; you definitely could have used a paper towel. I saw you, and it was my fault he threw the ice cream, and I feel horrible. Are you okay? Were you okay?”
