Page 12 of How We Play the Game
“I have to tell you something, I was just about to tell you, I’m here to tell you, I very much want to tell you, no, like you care, can you wait for, like, five seconds? and I’m trying,” Ivan spits back, smooth as if he’s reciting the stats from his favorite in-game weapon. Even I have to think back to what I said exactly to realize that, yeah, he answered every question, in order. Color me impres—NO.
“What’s, uh, what’s going on there, friends?” Hearing Trieu’s voice after concentrating so hard on Ivan’s brings me back to reality with a jolt. Ivan and I both look to the side and see Cassius, Kavi, and Trieu staring at us with differing expressions of comprehension. In their defense, we are, like, four feet away from them. And have both been too busy fighting to remember that.
“She”—Cassius points to me—“don’t like him.” He points to Ivan.
“He doesn’t seem too thrilled with her either,” Trieu observes.
“Correct,” I say.
“Correct,” Ivan says too.
I’m not sure which of us is more upset that we’ve said the same thing at the same time, but I’ll admit my own bias and still choose me.
“Uh-huh,” Kavi says slowly, eyeing the both of us like we’re newly dressed mannequins in the window of her favorite boutique. “So what did you want to tell her?”
With one final glare in my direction, Ivan rolls his shoulders back, closes his eyes, looks up at the ceiling, and then back down at the three of us—with completely different energy. Gone is the tension in his neck and smart-ass smirk he wore when talking to me. He smiles, and it actually reaches his eyes, his posture straightens, and he looks … friendlier. More open. It’s remarkable, actually. I thought I’d have to live a lot longer before I met the One True King of Social Bullshit, but here I am, not even eighteen, refusing to be humbled by His Majesty.
“It’s actually something I have to tell him.” He gestures to Cass. “But Zora was the person to crash her chair into me and ask a bunch of mean questions, so I addressed her first.”
I keep my face perfectly still. I am a statue. Statues do not respond to provocation. But they remember.
“Well, now I’m intrigued,” Trieu says slyly. I see the way his eyes flick up and down Ivan’s admittedly buff-ish body and make a mental note to warn him that Ivan may look pretty, but he’s also the woooorst.
“You.” Ivan points to Cassius. Cass makes a silent “who, me?” face and points to himself. “Yeah, you. Your seat is over there.” Ivan points to the other end of the stage, at the other empty seat left over from the roll call.
“What?” Cass asks Ivan, but looks at me.
“There’s only a handful of lefty desks, and you’re sitting at one,” Ivan clarifies. “Are you a lefty?”
Cassius glances down at his desk and sees that, yes, the whole keyboard setup is indeed configured for a left-handed player. He shakes his head in answer.
“No,” comes out of my mouth before I mean it to. “I don’t believe you. Say something else.”
“Do I look the most thrilled about it either?” Ivan asks.
“Little bit,” Kavi mutters. She’s sitting closest to me, so only I hear her. I give her a questioning look, to which she does not respond.
“Okay,” Cassius says stiffly. He stands up and pats his pockets to see if anything fell out when he was sitting down. “Bye. I guess.”
“Cass.” I grab on to his arm. “You’re not really moving over there; he’s just messing with us. I bet he’s not even left-handed.”
“Actually, I am,” Ivan adds. “And you might want to move a little faster.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because the show’s about to start,” Ivan replies distractedly. He looks over his shoulder at Brian, who is stepping back up to his microphone for the next part of the program.
“The desk you chose today is your desk for the rest of the competition,” Brian’s voice booms from the speakers again as he swivels in place to address the full academy seated upstage. What about those of us who didn’t choose, Brian?
At that moment, without any of our input, all of the monitors switch on simultaneously and Cassius is jolted into action, crossing the stage without so much as a look back. Ivan calmly takes the chair that Cassius just vacated and rolls himself over to his computer in one smooth, almost balletic motion.
“You know what comes next!” Brian says with another wild smile. I thought I did, but apparently I don’t. There are more people on the stage now, men with steady cameras mounted to their waists and technicians rushing between the rigs to make sure the webcams at the top of our monitors are turned on. I am so not ready to stream right now. Maybe I can ask for an accommodation?
I reach down to adjust my chair and accidentally send myself plummeting to the floor butt-first. Ivan laughs. I pretend I can’t hear him through all the steam coming out of my ears.
“Battlers, get ready!” I swear the little chair-lever thing that controls the height of my seat has straight-up disappeared. I’m feeling (okay, wildly slapping) down there to see if I can grab on to anything when Ivan leans over and holds a small button on my armrest. The seat rises. God damn it. I refuse to look at him, or think about his finger manipulating my chair while my butt slowly ascends to an optimal gaming height.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
