Jeez, I sounded like a schoolmarm, but if I didn’t set the rules at the beginning of every conference, they’d just start shouting over each other.
When I finished my little speech, a few dozen hands shot in the air, waving. I pointed at a woman in the front row. She stood.
“Tegan Fava, Pro Gamer Weekly. How did you feel going up against K-Rig?”
“They’re an incredible team,” Derek said. “It was an honor just to play against them. It’s an opportunity not many people are going to get.”
More hands waved in the air. I pointed to a reporter at the back. He stood.
“Jeffrey Stout, L.A. Times. Should we expect to see your missing teammate in the next match?”
We all answered together.
“Yes.”
The crowd laughed. Lily cleared her throat and kept her lips against the microphone. The rest of us backed off. It wasn’t often Lily answered questions.
“Everyone has their moments when they break down,” she said. “But that’s part of being on a team. You lean on each other.”
Damn. Go, Lily.
I pointed at another reporter in the center of the crowd. He stood and didn’t bother with announcing himself or what publication he was with. I quickly found out why.
“Now that you’re in the losers’ bracket, going up against the best teams in the world, do you think you even stand a chance?”
I blinked. What kind of a question was that? Yes, the competition was fierce, but why did he imply we wouldn’t stand a chance? This guy was lucky we weren’t in the arena.
Hannah reached across Rooke’s empty seat and rested a hand against my knee. Her warmth grounded me in reality. I turned to look at her, and my other teammates beyond her. They stared back at me, waiting for my answer. But I took the moment to appreciate them. The team was important. The press was important only to the sport. Not to life.
I turned back to the reporter and smiled.
“It’s always better to come back from the bottom. We prefer the challenge.”
• • •
After the press conference, I found Rooke in the training room. The steady-yet-broken beat of his fists pounded a punching bag. I walked up to him and stopped a few feet away. He failed to look up at me.
“We’re in the losers’ bracket now, aren’t we?”
“You didn’t watch the matchup?” I asked.
“I should have been in there,” he huffed.
“Are you saying I should have tampered with your test results?”
He didn’t answer, just kept his gaze on the punching bag. Thap, thap . . . thap, thap. I shifted my weight a few times. “If you didn’t watch the matchup, then what were you doing?”
He grabbed the bag to steady it and leaned toward me.
“What’s wrong? Worried you couldn’t watch me while you were plugged in?” He nodded toward the corner of the room. “I have a babysitter.” Dr. Renner sat on the bench in the corner, typing on her tablet. Rooke leaned in even closer. “Do I have you to thank for that?”
I sighed. I knew why he was so angry. The hostility he was directing at me was really what he felt for himself. I knew Rooke, and he’d blame himself for our loss tonight. Even if he’d been in the game with us, chances are we would have been destroyed by K-Rig. He’d never admit it or see it that way. The way he was going after that punching bag, he was probably wishing it was his own face.
And yes, I had asked the doctor to keep an eye on him, and she’d willingly obliged. But I wasn’t about to admit that to him.
Rooke continued to pound the bag.
“I thought on your team,” he huffed, “we were entitled to our privacy.”
“Privacy is earned,” I said, crossing my arms. “This is still my house.”
“Privacy is earned.” He scoffed. “Even our rooms?”
“Yes. And I will search them if necessary.”
The next punch he threw missed the bag, and he whirled around. “You wouldn’t.”
I nodded. He sputtered.
“Kali, you’re out of control.”
I really wasn’t. His reaction to the thought of my searching his room was just another sign of his addiction coming through. This was for his benefit, not mine.
“Deal with it,” I said. “I’ll run my team the best way I see fit.”
He pressed his lips together in a tight line, as if he was trying to hide a sneer. He left the punching bag and pushed past me toward the door, but not before he muttered, “Sure thing, Clarence.”
My muscles clenched. Every one of them. It was bait, and I wasn’t going to bite. Instead, I let him leave without another word. Dr. Renner’s footsteps padded along the canvas mats and bamboo flooring and stopped behind me.
“You’re doing the right thing,” she said.
I turned to face her. “It doesn’t feel like it.”
“You have to be firm. He has to know there’s nowhere to hide.” She watched him leave, hugging her tablet to her chest.
I glanced between her and the exit Rooke had disappeared through. “How can we know we’re doing the right thing?”
“Human behavior can be hard to predict,” she admitted. “We can know people for years, and one day they’ll just do something completely unexpected. Not just against their character, but even against statistics and studies that say they should be behaving in every other way than what they are.” She took a breath. “But addicts tend to need a lot of the same things. They need love and understanding, but also a firm hand and rigid guidelines. You’re doing that for him. You’re giving him what he needs.”
She kept saying that. Hell, I even kept saying it myself. But it still felt like I wasn’t doing the right thing. I pushed out a heavy sigh. “It’s harder than I thought it would be.”
“Dealing with an addict—”
“That’s not what’s rough. Not really.”
She circled around to face me.
“Last year, I was acting the exact same way with him, and now I know how hard it is to be on the receiving end of it. And despite that, he stayed. He fought for me. I was a miserable hothead and chewed him apart every chance I got, and he still stayed. And when I finally broke, he picked up the pieces. He held my hair back whenever I got sick from withdrawals. He was by my side every minute I needed him to be, even when I didn’t realize it myself.”
Dr. Renner considered that for a moment.
“He saw himself in you,” she concluded. “When you were dealing with your own addiction, he was just getting through his and saw the opportunity to help someone else like him.”
“Maybe that, or maybe that’s just the kind of person he is. Maybe he would have helped me anyway.” I sighed. “I know this might sound hard to believe because of the way he’s acting, but now I understand what he did for me, and I respect him more than I ever did. Now it’s just a matter of digging the real him back out.”
Dr. Renner looked a little surprised by my statement. “That’s a really positive way of looking at things.”
“I owe him that much.”
She studied me for a minute and shook her head. “You can’t be blaming yourself for the media reaction—”
“I made a choice, and he’s the one who was out of the Death Match. The whole world just saw us play without him, and they all know why he wasn’t there.”
“Do you have a plan to handle that?”
It wasn’t just handling Rooke that I was concerned about. That last matchup made us look terrible, and I knew the sponsors would be screaming as soon as I picked up my phone. There was only one way to handle the situation.
Damage control.
CHAPTER 12
“You saw K-Rig at the all-star dinner, right?” I asked Hannah when I jumped on the treadmill next to her. It was morning workout time, and she was already some distance into he
r run. Still, she had enough breath to laugh.
“Of course. Who didn’t see them?”
“Can you create something like that?”
She slowed her pace on the treadmill and looked at me with her head tilted. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m not going to tattoo and laser-alter my team, but we need some kind of look. Something instantly recognizable. You have experience in modeling and fashion. I want your input.”
“Let me get this straight,” Hannah said, drawing a deep breath, as if to stop herself from getting too excited. “Are you saying I get to dress up the team?”
“. . . I guess?”
“Kali Ling, I think I love you.” She started up her pace again, and her gaze traveled across the training room to land on Rooke. “How’s things with you-know-who?”
“Rocky.”
“One-word answer. You almost sound like him.”
“Fuck you. There. That’s two words.”
She laughed. “You know, this seems a little familiar. You and Rooke at odds, you and me talking about it. I think I’m having flashbacks.”
I almost told her to shut up but figured she’d make another joke about my limited vocabulary. Instead, I watched her as she watched him. She glanced him over and got a knowing look in her eye.
“He looks good,” she said, “with that five-o’clock shadow.”
Rooke was usually clean-cut, and his scruffiness lately was an unexpected treat. But when her words really sunk in, I shook my head. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“You date women, but you admire men’s looks and bodies all the time.”
“So? I don’t actually feel anything for him. I’m just playing around. Besides, gay men do it to straight women. Why can’t I?”
“Well . . . some people think it’s weird.”
“Some people have a stick up their ass.”
I laughed.
“I mean it.” She pressed a button to stop the treadmill and mopped the sweat from her brow with a towel. “People find out I’m gay, and they have this little box in their minds that says, ‘This is what a gay woman is supposed to be.’ And when I don’t fit inside it, they scream.”
I blinked as I processed that. “Wow, that . . . sucks.”
“Actually, it’s fun. I love the sound the box makes when I rip it to shreds.”
I laughed again, but Hannah leaned toward me, and her face went soft.
“To me, beauty has no gender. If someone looks good, I’m going to tell them. If they’ve worked hard to lose a hundred pounds or tone the shit out of themselves, whether they’re a man or a woman, I’m going to compliment them on it and hopefully make their day. Because, really, what’s more important? That I fit into someone’s dumb-ass stereotype, or that I made someone feel good about themselves?”
I just stared at her, and it took me a minute to realize I had stopped running on the treadmill. “Look, Hannah, I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with—”
“Don’t be,” she said. “I can handle it. It’s just something I had to learn. The more people find out about you, the more they try to change you. Not because your heart isn’t pure but because you don’t match their stereotypes. People like their boxes, and they don’t like anything that doesn’t fit inside them.”
I stared again, at a loss for words. How do you react when someone you’ve always thought to be carefree and even a little superficial suddenly says something deep? I guess that meant I’d stuck Hannah in a box of my own.
After a moment of awkward silence, Hannah broke it by looking me up and down. “You didn’t bring this up because you’re jealous, did you?”
There she was. Right back to her usual self.
I held up a hand. “I’m good.”
She smiled. “You sure?”
This was even more awkward than the silence. Luckily, Lily walked by and gave me a way out.
“Hey,” I called. “Your girlfriend is hitting on me.”
Lily circled back to us. “What else is new?”
Hannah beamed at her. “Kali is developing a new look for us. She says I can help.”
Lily shook her head. “You just unleashed the beast.”
Indeed, I did. By the afternoon, she’d already put together a few samples for me. She presented her tablet to me and flicked through a few mock-ups.
“This one I particularly like,” she said, as she swiped the screen.
The picture showed a model wearing various pieces of clothing Hannah had incorporated and manipulated right on the screen. He wore a leather suit, all gray with a nude shirt underneath. The finishing touch was the visor he wore over his eyes. The whole outfit was similar to our in-game look but also more edgy and unique.
“I spoke with the designer,” she continued, “and already sent him our measurements. Since the tournament has such a big audience, he’s willing to see us this afternoon. That way, the clothes would be ready by tomorrow.”
“He can do that within a day?”
“With the right technology, yeah.”
I handed the tablet back to her and smiled. “Tell him we’ll be there. Good job.”
Hannah left to call the designer, and I went to the pod room to meet with Derek. He stood behind one of the pods, powering it up for afternoon practice.
“No virtual practice today,” I told him. “We’ve got to get fitted.”
“For what?”
“New clothes. If we’re in the all-stars, then we need to look it.”
His expression fell. “Are you kidding me?”
“Really?” I tilted my head at him. “A nice new suit, I thought you’d be happy.” I leaned toward him and grinned. “You’re gonna look cool.”
“I always look cool.” He shot me a flash of his signature million-dollar smile. I laughed. But then his smile faded. “Do you think dressing us up will make the problems go away?”
“Honestly, yeah. If we look all shiny and new, and together, the media might back off.”
He actually made a hmmmm noise as he thought about that before he said, “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
He turned back to the pods and started shutting them down.
“We’ve got photo shoots tomorrow with the new look,” I added, “and we’re going out tomorrow night.”
Derek halted and turned back. “Wait a minute. So, we’re cutting into our practice time for two days? We have less than a week until the next matchup.”
“This is part of it,” I insisted. He didn’t look convinced. “We’ll get back to training right after this, okay?”
“Kali—”
I took a step toward him and gently squeezed his arm. “It’s for Rooke.”
With that, his reluctance faded. I could see it diminishing right on his face. Eventually, he sighed and nodded.
“Fine.”
That afternoon, we were fitted with our new clothes.
Gray leather jackets, some longer, some shorter, all to match our personalities. All were done halfway up, or secured shut only with straps. The layer beneath was supposed to be nude, but Hannah had the designer custom manipulate the color to match each of our varying skin tones. So, really, it almost looked like there was no layer there at all.
My favorite part? The glasses. We wore visors like in the game, but these had a faint tint to them. Glowing lines snaked across the edges and corners, making circuit-board patterns: squares, and diagonal lines, and small circles with empty middles.
Standing in front of the mirror, I looked down the line on either side of me, with all my teammates dressed the same. I couldn’t deny it. We looked good, and we looked like a team.
The next night, we went out as planned.
In front of the club, we posed for pictures, intentionally trying to be seen by every camera that had gathered
beyond the velvet ropes. Despite the five of us standing together as one team, the voices emerging from behind the cameras zeroed in on only one person.
“Rooke, any comment on your failed drug test?”
“How many times did you get high?”
“Are you headed for rehab?”
I leaned toward him and spoke through my teeth.
“Don’t answer them.”
He barely glanced at me. “Not planning on it.”
I pushed down the anger burning in my chest and replaced it with a smile on my face. Dr. Renner’s words echoed in my mind. Have patience. Be understanding. An addict lashes out. Don’t lash back. But even Dr. Renner should have known that while I can take a hit like a pro, I’ll only allow so much before I strike back, no matter who was on the receiving end.
With that, I turned and ushered my team into the club. Most clubs catering to the virtual elite boasted an ultramodern style to match the taste and lifestyle of the world’s newest celebrities, but this place took it to the next level. I had no idea what the floor was made of. It looked impossibly glossy yet was easy to walk on, like it was made from some blend of glass and concrete. Besides the floor, there wasn’t a straight line in sight. The walls curved in and out like rolling waves. Digital red lines ran through them, occasionally dancing and switching their patterns—which I’m sure was meant to entertain those who’d had more than just alcohol inside the club.
We were barely through the lobby and inside the club when we were approached by two men. The first was older, clocking in around his late forties. He looked like the kind of guy who once had a buzz cut, but his hair had since receded so far back that his haircuts should have been half-price. Stubble lined his jaw like he hadn’t shaved for three days and was more white than blond. Not sloppy, though. Between his jeans, sport jacket, and days-old stubble, there was a vibe to him that was both professional yet edgy.
The second man, judging by his size and the stance he took up behind the blond man, was either a bouncer or some other form of personal security.
Gauntlet Page 16
