Page 20 of How We Play the Game
It strikes me that I had the huge benefit of a blank slate coming into this academy, a chance to define myself for myself, but Brian scratched out my entry in the dictionary before I even knew there was anything to write. I am not in control over how people see me, and since I’m apparently here to be seen, that lack of control extends to everything else in this program. That’s the most annoying part of all of this.
Actually, wait. No. Ivan’s the most annoying part. But the surrendering of my personal narrative sucks too.
“Zora! Over here!” Kavi waves me over to where she’s standing with Trieu, near enough to the archway to greet people as they walk in but far enough to keep an eye on everyone else. I feel a few sets of eyes following me when I cross over to them, but now that someone who’s not them has given me a place to stand, the bulk of their attention returns to themselves.
“One twenty-block walk and you already got a little bit of a tan,” Trieu says appreciatively when I shuffle over to only two people at this party who don’t want to kick me down a well. “Girl, you are glowing.”
“I believe that,” I say. “If only because people around here seem to think I’m radioactive.”
Kavi laughs. “Radioactive isn’t so bad. I mean, everybody lovesFallout.”
“‘War never changes,’” I quote with a half smile. “And neither will I, I guess. Pigeonholed on day one.”
Trieu looks over my shoulder at our so-called guests. “Maybe,” he says. “But ‘pretty girl outcast’ is something we can work with. If you still want our help in standing out.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I say, hoping that my newfound tan hides the blush I feel creeping up into my cheeks.
“I think trying to manipulate this situation will only make it worse. I’m not really built for all of this.” I gesture at the growing crowd of shiny gaming influencers and feel even more out of place, if possible. “But I still don’t want to stay in last place? I don’t know. It’s been a day.”
“Wait, so do you want us to help or no?” Kavi asks.
“I don’t want you to get radiation poisoning,” I reply.
“Did someone call a row-two team meeting?” Ivan saunters up to us, having finished his circuit of the room. I caught him out of the corner of my eye a few times, glad-handing his ass off and kissing metaphorical babies like the self-appointed mayor of Wizzardland. I took my eyes off him for a few seconds, though, and now he’s here. Again. I should have known better.
“Shoo, you,” Trieu says, more flirty than demanding, “this is girl talk.”
“All right.” Ivan holds his hands up and smiles at Trieu. Really turning on the charm for that one. “Let me know if you want to boy talk later …” He trails off and walks toward another group of people. His path takes him all the way to the other side of the common area, past more than one cluster of players. I see a girl stop talking when he passes by and hope for a second that he’s more of an outcast here than I assumed before, but there’s no reproach in her eyes. Just naked, obvious attraction.
“Might wanna back off that one,” I say, loud enough for her to hear me. Ah, there’s the reproach I was looking for. They were saving it for me.
“Seriously, what is your deal with Ivan?” I’m a little shocked at the sudden vehemence coming from Trieu.
“What isn’t my deal with Ivan?” I reply. It’s not my best comeback. Might actually be one of my worst, but it was a reflexive response. It sucks being the one human alive who doesn’t think Ivan Hunt walks on water. “Am I the only one who remembers what he did to—”
A commotion rises up from farther down the floor, closer to the stairwell and my bedroom door. For a moment I think it’s more people freaking out about Saint Ivan walking among them, but it’s something more exciting than that. My height lets me see over everyone’s heads and spot the source of the commotion before Kavi or Trieu gets a good look.
“—her!” I finish my sentence with a new note of triumph. I feel like Lex Luthor getting his hands on a giant chunk of kryptonite. There is one thing—two things, really—that I know will throw Ivan off his game.
Emilia and Jake are in the building.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE HALLWAY CROWD parts around them like a school of fish around a pair of sexy-ass sharks. Up close they’re even more perfect than I could tell from the cheap seats in the theater earlier. Jake’s shy smile is genuine, more charming, so is the way Emilia chats people up like a princess going down a line of well-wishers at a royal wedding. They are fantastically compatible, and it shows.
All it takes is two seconds of watching Jake put his hand on Emilia’s lower back to move her out of someone’s way, or Emilia tossing her curls to look up at Jake’s cute face to see they are madly and charismatically in love with each other. It’s simply coincidence that their love sells tickets. And merch. And gets Wizzard some clutch partnerships from companies that wouldn’t have touched esports with a ten-foot pole if there wasn’t a legit streaming teen romance holding the league together at its core. That kind of power is intoxicating to witness. All I want right now is to find out how I can generate some of that on my own.
If being memorable is what it takes to succeed this summer, I don’t want to be remembered as a screwup. I don’t know exactly what I do want to be remembered for, but I want it to look more like the way Jake and Emilia move through the world. Confident, admired. A true dynamic duo. Except without having to worry about relying on anyone else, because that’s stupid. I need to be one of one, a dynamic uno.
“Oh my god, hi!” Trieu confidently waves the two superstars over as if they were old friends. Which, to be fair, they might be. I haven’t asked. It’s entirely possible everyone in the Wizzard esports community knows each other except for me and Cass.
“Sorry we’re late,” Jake says.
“You’re really not,” Trieu responds.
“That’s just how he says hello,” Emilia clarifies. “We can’t stay for long, though.”
“All good. How’s Bob?” Trieu asks.
