Continuing, the commentators seemed biased toward his competition, a dour-faced man in a suit who had narrowly missed qualifying at the last few pro qualifying tournaments and who had a string of regional wins and online records behind him. His suit looked designer, and I had no doubt his decks were full of the sort of expensive, rare cards that often gave Conrad fits to play against. But I had faith in him, tried to beam that confidence toward him. It didn’t matter what the other guy put out. Conrad could win this thing.
However, he lost the initial dice roll, which meant the other guy went first. And of course, he had a turn-one super play, dinging Conrad’s life total right away and establishing himself in superior position to get the scrolls out that he’d need to win. Conrad put out an okay card, not great, and not answering the threat the other guy posed.
“Does he look nervous?” I asked Payton.
“A little.” Head tilting, they frowned. “That wasn’t his smartest move either. He had the ability to go after the other side’s scroll. He should have taken it.”
“Yeah.” Dread started to snake down my spine, making me sweat. Had our argument distracted him too much? A few more turns passed, and on each, Conrad made a move, but not the decisive, inventive play I’d come to expect from him. And not nearly aggressive enough if he wanted to win.
“Come on, Conrad,” I whispered to myself. “Fight back. Believe in yourself.” Because I do, I thought, watching him. But I need you to believe too.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Conrad
I was losing. And I knew why—the other guy had an expensive tinkering deck, the sort of complicated strategy that Alden was probably taking notes on. And just thinking about Alden made me grip my cards that much tighter. He was watching me lose. He had such faith in me, but I was going to let him down.
Not even my Transforming Scroll Scribe was enough to dig me out of my early hole. I got a single turn with extra scrolls before my opponent removed it with a targeted spell. Damn. Not enough. Not—
Enough. Enough. My mom’s text lurked in the corner of my brain, anger still simmering there. Screw best wishes from people who had hurt me in the past. I got to decide whether I was enough, exactly as I was, not anyone else. I’d told Alden that he was enough, that he didn’t need to be anything for me or anyone else. We were each enough. And I got to determine whether I was a success, not my mom, not my dad, not even Alden. Me.
I sat up straighter, loosening my death grip on my cards. I was the one who would decide whether I played a good game, not the commentators, not the viewers, and definitely not the guy sitting across the table from me.
Have fun, Alden had said. And right then, I was most definitely not having fun, nor was I playing my normal game. I’d put out the scroll scribe because I figured I needed to get my most expensive cards out first, try to keep pace with the other dude. But if this last year had taught me anything, it was that I couldn’t live to others’ expectations. I wasn’t going to let someone else’s arbitrary rules define me. I wasn’t a loser just because I’d had to drop out, thanks to my dad’s awfulness, any more than I was a loser because my deck was cheaper. I’d chosen these cards, each one for a reason, could tell the story of how each was acquired, valued them all, and it was time to put them to work for me.
Play your game. I slapped down two frog soldiers, and the other guy sneered, a subtle shake of his head, like he was bored with me, bored with this game. And as I’d hoped, he didn’t bother countering them, deeming them beneath his notice. All good. I spent the next few turns amassing an army of tiny creatures and equipping them with deadly weapons. The other guy kept coming, but all I needed was one more turn.
He attacked. I defended, killing the more formidable of his creatures. One more turn.
I attacked, finally registering damage to his life total. Now he was noticing me plenty, eyes narrowing as he came after my army, but I was ready, countering the combo play he tried to unleash. No complicated stuff on my watch, dude. One more turn.
Again I attacked, small bits of damage that added up, turn after turn. I wasn’t sure how long we’d played, only that I needed one more turn. My life total was down to one, but I paid it no mind. Just one more turn. I was devious in my defenses, using every crafty trick I’d learned over years spent playing, taking little bits of inspiration from the kids I’d watched earlier, the people I’d played before, the wisdom of Professor Tuttle and others like the store owner I’d grown up with. But along with all that advice bopping around in my brain, I used my instincts. The instincts that knew when I was screwed and when to retreat and when to go in for the kill.
And above all else, I had fun. Each turn was fun. Evading certain doom was fun. And creeping past his defenses with nothing other than a turtle was the most fun at all. His look of irritation at having to deal with so minor a threat was priceless, as was the way his mouth gaped when I turned that turtle into a cannon and blew him and the rest of his life total away.
The guy sat there breathing hard, studying his cards, shaking his head. He peeked to see what he would have drawn next. Shook his head some more. Finally, he stuck out his hand. “Good game.”
I’d done it. All of the adrenaline I’d been riding for the match swamped me, a giant wave of feelings and surging heart rate that had me shuddering like a leaf as I took his hand.
Everything happened fast after that, camera crew coming in closer, still photos being taken, flashes hurting my eyes.
“How do you feel?” One of the commentators came over holding a large microphone. Her platinum hair didn’t move as she walked to our table, high heels making her tower above where I was sitting. She motioned for me to stand, and knees still rubbery, I tried to comply.
“I bet your head is spinning. How do you feel?” she prompted again when I didn’t have an answer other than opening and closing my mouth a bunch.
“Okay,” I said, still studying the cards in my hand.
“Just okay? You won MOC West!”
“Yeah.” My head felt too full, that sort of too-heavy, cottony feeling, like the morning after drinking. “I guess I did.” I scanned the room, looking for Alden or even Payton. Someone I knew. Someone who would help me make sense of this. “Wow.”
“Wow is right. That was one impressive come-from-behind victory. Tell us how you did it?”
“I…uh…I took it one turn at a time.” I stammered my way through a few more questions, gradually calming down enough to talk about strategy and my friends from Gamer Grandpa, but it still felt surreal, especially when a trophy was wheeled in on a little cart followed by the inventor of Odyssey herself, Imelda Sanchez—a stately woman in her sixties who had stunned the gaming world thirty years prior before going on to build a massive empire. The present CEO and the head of the game play division accompanied her, a veritable court of Odyssey royalty, important people I’d followed for years in interviews and articles, and now they were in front me, smiling and nodding as the commentator made introductions.
All I really wanted was to get to Alden, to tell him that I’d done it, to see his reaction. Maybe later we could watch the match together, go through it play by play, and it would all seem more real than this. In so many ways, the trophy felt like ours, not simply mine alone, the culmination of our journey together and all I’d figured out along the way.
But even in my foggy state, I knew I couldn’t get out of all these formalities. And indeed, the next interminable stretch of time was filled with speeches and the presentation of one of those oversize ceremonial checks. The guy presenting it to me gave me a whispered assurance that the real check was coming later. Then came the trophy, huge and heavy, and pictures with all the various luminaries. And more interviews. Endless interviews—both for Odyssey’s own streaming channel and the more mainstream media present.
Finally, everything seemed to be winding down, and I had a second to pull out my phone. Two hu
ndred and twelve new messages. Holy wow. Congrats from people I didn’t even know had my number. Only one message I cared about though.
You did it! So proud of you. I beamed down at my phone, practically feeling the warmth of Alden’s pride. Another message was timestamped later than that first one. You look busy. Don’t worry about us. Payton is making me get food, and we’ll probably head back to the hotel afterward. Text when you can.
“Have you eaten?” Imelda Sanchez came striding back over to me, elegant in a pink suit, but kind, asking as if she really cared about the answer.
“I…uh…” Quickly pocketing my phone, I had to stop and think. “Dinner?”
“Yesterday?” She blinked. “We’re getting a late lunch here in our private suite. You’ll join us.” Her tone didn’t broker a lot of room for objection.
Thankfully, it sounded like Alden was willing to wait because I didn’t know how one said no to an offer like that. I nodded slowly. “Okay.”
“Good. We’ve got your future to discuss.”
“Future?” My pulse sped up on a fresh wave of adrenaline. Oh yeah. I’d almost forgotten. The chance for a seat on the pro tour. Traveling. Weeks on end. Different cities. No more bumming around Gracehaven. No more Alden.
How patient could I expect him to be if I was gone all the time? The only future I truly wanted was the one waiting for me back at the hotel. “I’m not sure—”
“Shhh.” She held up a long, aristocratic finger. “Hear us out. I’ve got a proposition I think you might be very interested in.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Alden
Watching Conrad win was easily one of the highlights of my life—the way he came back from the brink of elimination multiple times, finally winning on a trick that was so utterly classic Conrad that I couldn’t help but grin. Payton and I high-fived as pandemonium broke out, people rushing into the tournament space to watch the trophy presentation, other people bickering about the outcome, Conrad lost to a sea of cameras and media before his image appeared back on the display, answering questions.
“I couldn’t have done it without Gamer Grandpa and my friends from the show,” he was saying in response to some question I’d missed. His friends. I supposed I was one now, and that made a little frisson of happiness wiggle up my back, but tempered by the reality that whatever I’d been, whatever I wanted from the future, all of that was changed now that he’d won. I loved him, and not only was there no guarantee that he felt the same way, but now love might have to mean letting him go.
“Come on. Food.” Payton steered me away from the row of displays. “He’s going to be hours probably, and you don’t want to make yourself miserable waiting.”
Actually, I kind of did, but I also didn’t want to be rude. “He’ll be looking for us,” I hedged.
“So, text him. Tell him I’m kidnapping you so you don’t wear a hole pacing on the carpet here. I know how these things go—the press is going to need him, and then the bigwigs. We’d be in the way even if we managed to fight through the throng in there.”
“You don’t like me,” I pointed out, tone factual, not accusing. “Why do you suddenly want to eat with me?”
“Conrad seems to think you’re pretty cool.” Payton shrugged. “And I trust Conrad. Maybe the rest of us never gave you enough of a fair chance away from the game. We can do better.”
“I…uh…thanks.”
“Listen. I know what it’s like to be not included. So, let me buy you lunch?”
“I could have a sandwich.” I sent Conrad a fast text before following Payton out of the convention center to a hipster sort of joint with twelve varieties of toast, three types of kale, and outrageous prices. Conrad texted while we were waiting for a table that he was having lunch with the Imelda Sanchez. I was less jealous and more freaking out on his behalf. And I had to admit, it was nice, not eating alone, stewing over how Conrad was holding up. Payton and I watched the match over again, dissecting everything that happened, and conversing far easier than I would have thought possible a few weeks ago.
After we parted, I made two impulsive side trips. Still no second text from Conrad, so I headed back to our too-quiet hotel room. One more night. Then the trip home. Then…
Who knew.
The uncertainty had me pacing again, and even the distraction of TV didn’t help. I’d just landed on a creepy documentary about bees when my phone buzzed. I grabbed for it, but it was Mom calling back as she’d threatened, not Conrad.
“Hi, Mom,” I said as I turned the volume down.
“Hello, yourself. I’m hoping you’re in a better mood after your match.”
“Sort of.” I didn’t want to get into all the uncertainties clogging up my brain right then. “You saw?”
“We did. And it was no surprise that you did so good in your semifinal. And your friend won! What a testament to the work of Professor Tuttle.”
“What a testament to Conrad, you mean. He didn’t win because of any of the Gamer Grandpa strategies. He won because he’s brilliant. All on his own.”
“Ah.” There was world of understanding in that syllable, and I could almost see her blinking. “He’s…uh…a good friend?”
“He’s…” The best. I scrubbed at my hair. On the TV, a swarm of bees spread out over an apple orchard, not confused in the slightest about their futures despite the alarming commentary from the narrator. Inside, my head kept buzzing, the not knowing what would happen with Conrad almost enough to do me in. “I don’t know.”
“I see. Well, you survived the trip together, right?”
Survived was such a ridiculously inadequate word for the single most significant week of my entire twenty-three years that I had to laugh. “You could say that, yeah.”
“You being out there, with more people, doing social things…that makes Mimi and I so happy for you. And all I was getting at earlier was that hopefully you can come back with a fresh mindset. I’ve got a good feeling about a health administration master’s for you. The deadline is soon, but I’ve got some internship possibilities all—”
“I’m not getting a master’s in health administration. I don’t want to be a hospital administrator.” The bees on the TV looked as agitated as I felt. She didn’t seem to have listened to a word I’d said earlier. I loved my moms dearly, but I was done letting them decide my future.
“You don’t?” A lot of her chipper tone faded away, replaced by exasperation. “Well, what do you want to do?”
“Professional gambler.” I tried some of the humor that had been coming easier to me, but she didn’t laugh at all. “Sorry. Not that. I have been thinking about my future, like I told you I would. But it has to be my plan, not yours. And I think I want to teach.”
“Oh, excellent. I know you worry about publishing, but the writing—”
“Not college,” I interrupted before she could wax poetic about academia and call Mimi over and make this a thing. “I’m going to teach kids. I’m going to take a year and get a postbachelor’s teaching certificate. They don’t have one at Gracehaven, but the state university—”
“You want to teach elementary? But you’re so smart. And the pay… Maybe a master’s in educational admin? Like teach a few years, then work on being a principal or something important—”
“Being a teacher is plenty important.” My voice was as firm as I’d ever been with her. “I’m not in it for the big bucks either. Enough to get a few Odyssey cards—”
“Alden…”
“And enough to stop living at home. Obviously. Cards. Rent. I don’t need some complicated, prestigious lifestyle. That was always more about you guys than me. I just wanted to help kids. And now I still can. Someone has to teach them to think logically. And I think I might be good at it.” I flashed back to the kid I’d helped at breakfast at the Kansas motel. His mom had seemed plenty willing to believe I was a teache
r. There had been other moments this last week too, little reminders of the dreams I’d once had, the kid I’d been, and the future I could still have if only I was brave enough to try. Trying to shut down more back-and-forth, I hardened my tone, adding, “This is the direction I’m going to take.”
She was quiet a long moment, and I could almost hear her considering and discarding ways to get me to reconsider or to reshape my plans.
“If that’s what you truly want…” She sighed, then gentled her tone. “And you’re not going to keep chasing the professional Odyssey player dream? I suppose teaching is more realistic than spending your days with the game, even if you are impressive at it.”
“Oh, I’m still going to play. But going pro was always more of a long-shot thing, and besides, Professor Tuttle’s going to need me to stick around, break in some new players for his group, now that Conrad’s leaving—” My voice wobbled a bit on that word right as I heard the sound of the door lock.
“Honey, are you okay? Do you need—”
“No. I’m fine,” I said hurriedly as a weary-looking Conrad let himself into the room, carrying a giant trophy along with his usual bag, which was bulging with papers. I flipped off the bee documentary and rushed toward him. To Mom, I said, “Can I call you back later?”
“Of course.” While not as chipper as earlier in the conversation, there was something to her resigned tone that reassured me. I’d stood up to them and the world hadn’t ended. For the first time, my future was my own, and that victory was worth a lot, even if it meant letting her down. I had to trust in myself.
Ending the call with her, I turned to Conrad. “Sorry. My mom. She and Mimi watched the live streams.”
I left out the gist of our argument, not wanting to unload on him with so much still uncertain between us. Hopefully, there would be time later to tell him all about my epiphany, tell him how I’d finally managed to free myself from their expectations and plans, determine my own path. But right then, the only path I cared about was the one forward with him.
Conventionally Yours (True Colors) Page 28
