What had I signed my team up for?
I pressed my forehead against the window, and the cool glass brought a chill to my entire body. I sighed. Training started tomorrow, I reminded myself. We needed it.
Double time.
LEVEL 2:
THE TOURNAMENT
CHAPTER 7
Gamer boot camp started the next morning, bright and early.
I’m neither of those things.
At 6:30 a.m., my alarm blared. I groaned against my pillow and smashed the clock until it stopped chirping. I told myself to get up. Surprisingly, I got a reply.
Fuck you.
Whether the thought was actually directed at me or the early-morning sunlight piercing my bedroom drapes, I wasn’t sure. Probably both.
We had two weeks before the tournament began and one week before they announced the first round’s matchups. As Tamachi had said, there was no preseason, and we’d be going straight to the Death Match. We had fourteen days to train to the max before we faced the top teams in the world.
I swore at myself again.
Well, this was turning out just like any other morning.
I dragged myself out of bed, pulled on a spandex training top and crop pants, and gathered my hair into a low ponytail. This was my battle gear. In the real world, at least. I ate breakfast with the team. Low-fat, high-protein athlete-perfect breakfasts.
Then it started.
Four fricking hours.
Four hours of cardio, weights, gymnastics, weapons training, and hand-to-hand combat. Sure, we were all already in shape and had trained regularly in the off-season.
That didn’t mean jack shit.
Going into a tournament other than RAGE meant a new kind of training. I had sent our trainers some footage of us inside the game, so they could tailor workouts for us. At seven thirty they arrived, and the torture began. They’d created circuits combining weights, gymnastics, and cardio for endurance, stamina, strength, and flexibility. Nonstop running, rowing, box jumps, pull-ups, skipping, squats, dead lifts, blood, and tears. Quick, repetitive, explosive exercises that left our lungs and muscles burning. One minute rest. Then next circuit. More blood. More tears.
Especially tears.
“There are no reps,” the trainers barked. “You go until you collapse. And then you do more.”
Taking advantage of the two-story ceiling in the training room, they had us climbing up poles and jumping onto mats. Flipping, somersaulting, and twisting each way as we tried to land on our feet.
“This is not the RAGE tournaments,” they instructed. “Those battles are fought on the ground. You have to think of this game as three-dimensional. The vertical is just as important to your fight as the horizontal.”
Then we climbed walls.
“The rooftops are your best vantage point against your enemy. They’re less likely to see you coming, and attacking from above gives you an edge.”
The buildings in the game were all a minimum of three stories high and clung to the sides of the road, creating a tight, claustrophobic feel to the world. In the training room, Lily raced up the walls, catapulted off with pure grace, and landed on her feet every time. Looks like we’d found our MVP of the game.
There was a reason for this level of training beyond looking perfectly chiseled for the cameras. In pro gaming, your physical self was your avatar. The faster, stronger, or more agile you were in real life transferred into the game. So we trained to maximize our abilities until we could no longer stand up. And then some.
Whenever one of us did collapse on the mats, trembling, making mewling sounds that weren’t quite human and probably preceded death, we were rewarded with a protein shake. Which, conveniently, came with a straw, in case anyone tried the excuse of not being able to lift the cup to their mouths.
Currently, that was me.
I lay flat on my back on the mats, an empty protein shake in hand. My vision blurred as I stared up at the ceiling. Were those tears in my eyes, or was I peering into the afterlife?
The mats smacked beside me as another body went down. I glanced over. Hannah lay on her back, panting heavily. Rogue strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail were clumped to her neck and the sides of her face.
A trainer appeared over her and handed her a protein shake.
“Five minutes,” he told her, and glanced down at me. “Ling, your break is almost up.”
I groaned as he walked away and let my limbs flap against the mat.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Hannah said, taking a sip of protein through her straw. “Exercise is good for you.”
“So is sleeping.”
She laughed.
One of the trainers appeared over me again.
“Get up, Ling,” he said. “Or the tabloids will print that you spend more time training on your back than on your feet.”
Asshole. If I could have lifted my arms, he’d be dead.
That was just the morning.
The afternoon was spent in the virtual world, running matchups against the computer. This, too, was a whole new ball game.
It had artificial intelligence, so it evolved. The more matchups we played, the more the game seemed to understand us. Once you’ve played them enough times, most video games become easy to beat. The first time you try a racing game, you struggle to place in the top. But eventually you’re flying through every course, even at the hardest level. This was completely different. The game was learning. There was no highest level. There was no end in sight. We’d get faster, it got faster. We learned shortcuts, and our digital opponents cut us off at the next corner.
Currently, Rooke and I stood atop a roof overlooking our flag, watching Derek, Hannah, and Lily attempt to score. Rooke and I had purposely held back, so they could fight against the maximum number of players, and we could witness the battle and offer tips. Derek fended off a single attacker, as did Hannah, who was glowing faint blue with the flag. The three remaining opponents circled Lily.
“Why is the computer ganging up on Lily?” Rooke asked as he watched the fight. He knelt to get a closer look. “She doesn’t even have the flag.”
I knew why. Lily had kicked ass in the previous matchup.
“She’s the reason we scored last time,” I said. “The game is learning.”
“Learning what?”
“Us.” I paused, realizing how strange that sounded. “Give it a week, and these pods will be reading our minds.”
He considered that for a minute as he continued to watch the fight below. His expression went tight, and he exhaled slowly through his nose. He didn’t like that, apparently.
I sat down on the roof next to him. Well, this was familiar. Back when Rooke had first joined the team, we used to sneak off to the roof of our old facility and talk.
I glanced at him.
“So, how are you doing?”
He went still.
“Why do you ask?”
There was an edge in his voice that almost seemed defensive. Either that, or things were still awkward between us. My guess was on the latter since I felt it, too.
“Well,” I began, “we’ve each had our problems with drugs and the virtual world, and I just thought—”
“I’m fine.”
I leaned forward a little, trying to catch his eye. He kept his gaze on the fight though I was pretty sure he saw me.
“You know, it’s okay not to be fine.”
He was quiet for a minute. “These new pods are safer, right?”
“Yeah. Supposedly.”
“Then maybe you should stop hunting for an issue where there isn’t one.”
Passive-aggressive much? This was all circling back to our relationship or lack of one. During the car ride to the all-star dinner, he seemed like he was coming around, and I’d seen a glimpse of my former friend. But ever si
nce, he’d reverted back to his cold and distant self. I bit my lip to keep myself from coming back with it ended because of you and you cut me off first. Nope, I could be the bigger person here. Although if I had to bite my lip every time, I’d end up chewing it off before the end of the day.
In the fight below, Lily went down, and her three attackers piled on. She’d be out in an instant, and that meant all three would turn on Hannah.
“Derek, get to Hannah,” I instructed through the mic.
Derek ripped a sword through his opponent and slammed into Hannah’s, giving her the time to break away. She lunged for the base, her hand touched down, and she scored.
Another match down. So far, we weren’t doing too badly, even with the computer stepping up the challenge every round. Hopefully, it would be enough to prepare us for the all-star teams.
After running through so many practice rounds, I’d noticed something. There was a split second when someone scored where time seemed to stop. The virtual world became a visual bath of pastel neon lights against the dreary grays, where the air was still and yet animated by invisible, continuous rolling code. Mist clung to the air. Absolute silence blanketed the city blocks.
In that moment was peace.
Unfortunately, peace didn’t last very long for me. After practice every day, I would return to my office to deal with owner stuff. First day was seven new calls and twenty-two e-mails. Then thirteen calls and fifty-eight e-mails. Every day the pile grew.
I started clicking through my e-mails, but soon they all started to seem the same, like: We need a new photo shoot by the end of the week if we’re to run the ads before the tournament begins.
And: You’re still captain, right? Because we’re paying to see you as captain.
And: You were supposed to be fighting in the RAGE tournaments. You should have run the switch by us first.
With every e-mail, pressure built around my temples, and massaging them provided no relief. How was I supposed to practice with the team night and day, maintain our image, appear in public, and handle all this owner stuff on my own? I could hire an assistant to help me sort e-mails and take calls, but my budget was already straining. I wasn’t used to the demands (read: didn’t know what the hell I was doing) when it came to managing money on this scale. I wasn’t about to add another staff member when I was already stressing about the ones I had. But maybe I didn’t need to hire someone new to help out.
I sent a message to Derek’s phone.
My office, please.
While I waited, I rested my head on the desk, but it did nothing for my mounting headache. After a minute, his footsteps approached and he hovered there for a minute.
“You okay?”
I lifted my head. “Not even coffee can fix this.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t handle everything. Between practice all day, publicity, coming up with strategies for the team, managing the sponsors, and all the other owner stuff—”
He held up a hand. “So, you need help?”
I offered him a meek smile. “Yes, please.”
He stumbled back and lowered himself into a chair, as if I’d just said something shocking.
“What’s with you?”
He put a hand over his heart. “You said ‘please.’ This is bad.” I frowned, and he grinned in response. “What do you need?”
I let a slow breath pass through my lips. This wasn’t going to be an easy thing to ask.
“Can you take over some of the captain responsibilities, like studying the other teams and coming up with strategies?”
He considered it for a moment. “Sure. I guess that makes us co-captains?”
My stomach clenched. I was worried he’d bring that up.
“Well . . .”
He narrowed his sights on me. “What?”
“I need to keep the title. The sponsors want to see me as captain. It’s important to them.”
He thought about that awhile longer. “Let me get this straight. You want me to be captain without the credit? As in, I do the work, but you keep the title?”
“I’m asking a favor. Just this once.”
“As the team’s owner?”
“As a friend.”
His face went a bit soft, but he didn’t look entirely convinced.
“It will only be for this tournament,” I added. “Things are just crazy because of the all-stars. Plus, once we’re a more established team, I’ll have more sway over the sponsors. But for now, we need to do what they want. They want to see me as captain.”
“Things aren’t exactly the way you’d thought they would be, huh?”
In a word, no. We were only a week into the tournament, and technically the game hadn’t even begun.
Derek’s gaze drifted down to my desk as he thought to himself, and the expression on his face looked like he was counting his teeth with his tongue. “Okay,” he finally said. “I’ll take over as captain. Without the title. But it’s just this once.”
“Just this once. Promise. And thanks.”
With that, my stomach unclenched, and my headache actually dialed back a few decibels, but it didn’t stop an awkward silence from settling between us.
My tablet chimed on my desk. What did the sponsors want now? But when I glanced down at it, I found a message from our former teammate, Cole.
Hey. You there?
I grinned and typed back.
Contacting the enemy again?
Another message popped up.
Did you see this?
He forwarded a statement just released from the VGL. My brow furrowed, and Derek noticed. He nodded at my tablet.
“What’s up?”
“I don’t know.”
I tapped the attachment on the message. It opened.
VGL to Keep Tournament Brackets Secret for the All-Star Death Match.
Oh, fantastic. I flashed the headline at Derek. His mouth dropped open, and he sputtered a few times. “But . . . they tell us, right? I mean, we’ll know.”
Would we? I messaged Cole.
Is that just for the public?
Nope. Us, too. We won’t know until we’re plugged in.
Great. So much for prepping strategy against the other team. If we didn’t know who we were facing, we’d have to prepare for any scenario.
I messaged Cole again.
Is this for every matchup?
Nope. Just the Death Match.
I handed Derek my tablet.
“For the Death Match, no one will know. Not even us.”
He studied the screen for a minute, like the words wouldn’t sink in. “You mean, they’re not telling us who we’re up against until we’re literally inside the match?”
“Seems that way.”
“How are we supposed to strategize if we don’t know who we’re against?”
I shrugged. “Welcome to the all-stars.”
“Kali?” Dr. Renner poked her head into the office. Her gaze flicked to Derek and back to me again. “Sorry to interrupt, but we have a problem.”
What now?
“Do you want me to handle it?” Derek asked. “You know, as team captain?”
I frowned, not knowing if it was a bad joke, or if the favor I’d asked was bothering him more than he was letting on. But before I could ask, he traded places with Dr. Renner and left the office.
Dr. Renner stood in front of my desk, clutching her tablet to her chest, not saying anything for several moments.
“What’s wrong?” I pressed.
She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and glanced down at her tablet before holding it up in front of my face. My eyes traced across a single word I’d seen a little too much of lately.
FAILED.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
I pointed at a word longe
r than my finger on the screen. “What’s that—”
“It’s the chemical name for HP.”
All the feeling drained from my body. Someone on my team was hitting up.
Dr. Renner pulled the tablet back and glanced at the top of the screen. “Did you see whose test this is?”
“Yes. I see whose test this is.”
I stood from my desk and headed for the exit.
“Kali.”
I turned around. Dr. Renner had clutched the tablet to her chest and pulled a breath through her teeth. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the good doctor was worried.
“Please be calm.”
I smiled.
Me? Of course.
CHAPTER 8
A jackhammer would have gone easier on the door.
I stood in front of the locked bedroom door, my fists pounding in rapid succession. Thap, thap, thap. After a few seconds, it opened.
Rooke stood in the doorway.
“What’s your problem?”
I lowered my arms, panting hard, anger trembling in every nerve. But somehow, looking at his face, the rage flooded out until I felt numb. This had to be a mistake. I mean, this was Rooke.
Rooke.
Self-actualized, self-disciplined, self-everything Rooke.
He folded his arms and tilted his head as he waited for my answer. My mouth opened, and eventually, the words trickled out.
“You failed your drug test.”
His reaction?
Nothing.
Well, to the untrained eye, almost nothing. His face remained blank, but he swallowed thick, and the muscles in his arms twitched.
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