Page 58 of Don't Hate the Player
“As you all know, Philadelphia is a city very close to our hearts at Wizzard. It is our home, our foundation. When we first sought a partnership to build America’s first esports arena, we knew we had to start here.”
Pause for applause, pause for applause . . .
“That is why we invited local teams to this first tournament, to celebrate the Guardians who rose in this city . . . ?who can and will defend it!”
I can’t not look anymore. I lean out of line for a moment and peek over at the other side of the stage, where Jake is standing with the rest of Unity. He’s staring straight ahead as well, but he must feel my eyes on him because his gaze slides left for the briefest of seconds. I snap back into position like I’m pulling away from a hot stove. Jake doesn’t know what’s going on either. He would have told me if he knew something was happening today.
I mean, he told me he witnessed the inciting sexual incident of his parents’ divorce; he woulddefinitelyhave told me if there was something I should look out for at the tournament. Unless he’s better at keeping his barriers up. He could like me enough as Emilia and not be so attached as to reveal any information that might knock me off my game.
“This tournament has been the culmination of years of planning, with Claricom and with my team at Wizzard. One of these four teams will be victorious in two weeks’ time, but that was never meant to be the end of this journey. There is a second prize for the winners of this tournament, a”—he pauses for effect—“secret coronation. One we kept from you all before meeting our final four. After seeing the turnout from last week’s matches, the ink on our contract is dry! Get a good look at them now, guys, gals, nonbinary pals, and ask yourselves, what good is a championship that does not crown a champion?”
The stage lights go dark, maintaining a spotlight on Thibault. Thank god. I’m not sure I want the audience to see how I react to wherever this announcement is going.
“Wewillfind our champions, and they will lead us into the next phase ofGuardians League Onlineas the first team to join . . .”
Next to me, I hear Erik whisper, “No way,” as the screens behind us light up with something. Every team turns around to look up at the logo projected thirty feet high. It’s similar enough to theGLOmain title, but in gold instead of gray medieval script. And there’s no “Online” at the end. The logo animates to flash a series of cities—New York, Orlando, San Francisco, Chicago, Omaha for some reason, San Antonio, and a few more that whiz by too quickly—before zooming out to rearrange the letters into . . . Oh no. Oh hell no.
“. . . the Guardians League! The first professional esports league sponsored by Wizzard Games, coming next year!”
This is bad.
“The winners of this tournament will not only win the $200,000 pot, but a one-year, million-dollar contract to represent Philadelphia as the only esports team in America to have a home arena! Who will it be? Will it be Unity?”
Thibault speaks Unity’s name, and a series of blue spotlights rotate in the catwalk above to settle on and highlight Jake’s team on the far side of the stage. The spotlight snaps off quickly as Thibault moves on to tease the next potential Guardians League champion. From where I’m standing, I can only see the lights of ten thousand phone cameras flashing in the dark and Byunki’s gleeful face shining in the strobe they create.
“Will it be Beast Mode?”
Green lights shine down on Beast Mode next to me. I need to get off this stage. Winning a tournament is one thing, an easy thing. Show up, kick ass, and be home before curfew. A yearlong contract as aprofessionalplayer, though? That’s a full-time job.
“Will it be . . . ?Chronic?” Team colors: electric yellow. The Chronic boys look jaundiced in their spotlight. Gross. Focus.
Going pro means travel, interviews, gettingpaidto playGLOas a representative of the company. It’s the most incredible life I could possibly imagine for myself, doing what I love and want while being recognized as one of the best players in the country, if not the world. If Fury wins this, my real life and myGLOlife would morph into an enormous, intractable fame monster with no room for secrets or partitions. Emilia would play for the Guardians League, not KNOX. Amazing. Impossible.
“How about . . . the Philadelphia Fury?”
The red lights hit us so abruptly I sneeze. In the five quick seconds we’re lit, I get a blood-tinted view of the audience on their feet, shouting and cheering at the possibility of the five of us representing Philly on a national circuit. They’re nowhere near loud enough to drown out the intrusive realization that’s forced every other thought out of my mind: I really can’t win, can I?
I can’t sign a contract to go pro in the Guardians League. I have to finish my junior year, keep my grades perfect, and spend the summer before twelfth grade preparing all of my college applications. I have field hockey in the fall, Model UN in the winter, mock trial in the spring, quiz bowl in between all of those, and the hundred million other things my parents told me were the keys to manifesting the future they dreamed up for me. I’m supposed to go to college and major in business, then the Wharton thing, and grow up to be busy and successful and adult. I was born to build on the legacy my family worked so hard to give me, not tear it down and rebrand it as—what? AGLOlegend? That’s not a success anyone in my family would understand.
My mouth is salty again, and I don’t know what to do with myself. Luckily, the rest of Team Fury takes over for me now that the announcement is over. Thibault has more to say about the league and how it will work, so Byunki nudges me as a cue to leave the stage. That’s fine. I fall in line behind him like a good, albeit robotic, little duckling. Now he wants me to wave to our fans while we walk out. Thank you for being here today. Before we can disappear into the wings, Ivan wants to hold my arm up for a second to show Fury’s DPS squad is ready to win. My arm is his noodle to do with as he wants.
Once we get backstage, I assume Ivan, Han-Jun, and Erik are making some noise, but my thoughts are too loud and consuming to follow their conversation or contribute in any way. Thank god the expression of shock I’m sure is on my face is easy to mistake for a natural response to receiving the most life-changing news any of us have ever heard, so I don’t look too out of place as we parade back down the ramp. I’d never noticed before how narrow these hallways are. Or maybe they’re not and the walls just feel like they’re closing in around me because every cliché about impending panic attacks is 100 percent true.
No one here knows me well enough to assume that my silence comes from anything other than being overwhelmed. I mean they’d be half right; I’m very overwhelmed right now, because I trapped myself in a tournament that I thought would give me a taste of glory only to find out it’s actually trying to shove a massive slurry of it down my throat like that mean thing people do to geese.
I want to play. I want to find out if I’m good and stand tall in front of crowds like the one that just screamed my team’s name and see where being a founding player in a national league takes me. If I had anything resembling a choice, that would be what I choose. I don’t have a choice, though. Thibault’s announcement took that choice away from me. I really, really can’t win.
And there’s my answer. That’s how I get out of this: I have to lose.
The clarity I was looking for early snaps back into focus. Planning mode: activated. It would be easier if we had reserve players because I could just quit now, but we don’t and I still owe it to Fury to give them their best shot at winning without me. That means I have to play today.
I’ll mess something up, something bad enough to lose but not quite, and Byunki will be mad enough to let me resign once the match is over.
If there isn’t a contractual obligation for the teams to remain intact through the finals—mental note to check the fine print on the tournament documents we signed on entry—that gives them two weeks to find a new DPS. It will be difficult, but not as impossible as it would be if I ditched them today, or with only one week to go before Round 3. Once I’m out, I disappear. I junk myGLOaccount, say goodbye to all the sweet cosmetics I earned on this one, and . . .
. . . ?probably never make a new one. This has gone on long enough. I should have stopped playing the first time, when those guys made it very clear that I didn’t have a place in gaming. It doesn’t make them right, but once I give this up, there’s nowhere else for me to go. I’ll be good. I’ll go to school; I’ll do the things. I’ll even have time to do the readings during the semester.
Jake will have to find another ride to Round 3 if he makes it.
