Chapter Twenty
“They’re on our right,” I shout into my mic. “Right. Right. Stop heading straight, fuckface. Are you even listening to me? What the fuck, seriously?”
I am going to murder someone.
Hopefully the enemy, but at this rate it is looking like I might kill my teammate instead.
We are down by four kills, and there are only three minutes left of the round.
The odds aren’t looking great, but I refuse to give up. I just need this fucking noob to get his shit together.
I grind my teeth, remembering that this is all being live streamed. I’m not opposed to trash-talk, but I don’t want to say anything that could get me canceled.
“Stop sucking your own dick and follow me,” I growl into my mic at the guy.
A notification pops up in the corner confirming a double kill from one of my other teammates, and the tension lessens a fraction. At least not everyone sucked.
“Okay, they’re just around the corner; stay behind me.”
My words are pointless because said noob fucking runs right around the corner and dies. I curse and throw a grenade into the room, cloaking the surroundings in smoke. I run in and get one headshot just as the timer hits zero.
It’s still not enough.
“RED TEAM WINS” splays across the screen, and I slam my mouse on the table.
I shove my headset down, leaving it to hang around my neck as I twist my head to glare at the guy two seats down from me. Some random gamer who ended up on our team and couldn’t play for shit. Dude kept bringing the team down and was the reason Red Team won because he basically died forty fucking times. Didn’t matter how much I tried to carry him; it meant nothing. This is why randomized team battles suck.
Every inch of my body is thrumming with frustrated energy. It bubbles, threatening to break loose.
That match should’ve been a breeze; we should’ve won. I should’ve won.
“Yo, English, good game.” A large hand claps my shoulder, and I turn to see CeleryGod grinning down at me.
I’m ninety percent sure his name is Andy, but we always go by our gamertags during streams, so it’s easier to just stick to that.
“You only say that cause your team won.” I shrug out of his touch and snatch my mask from the table, slipping it on to hide the anger.
“Well, it is tough to beat a god.”
I snort, some of the tension easing out of my body as I make my way offstage. “You wish, Celery. We would’ve wiped the field with you if it weren’t for that noob.”
Celery jogs next to me. “Yeah, that was shit luck. Guy was great target practice.”
The farther I get from the stage, the more I begin to calm down. The more I’m less likely to punch that damn rookie.
This isn’t me.
And this shouldn’t be bothering me as much as it is.
But I’m a superstitious person.
The last two tournaments, I won my team battles clean through, and then I went on to win my speedrun matches. Losing the team battle sets me off kilter. It’s not a good start.
Plus, I ran into CreepyPillows earlier, someone who shouldn’t even be in the country right now.
Creep is another one of the top speedrunners and an all-around pain in my ass. Last year he won Best Speedrunner at the Streamzies even though it should have been me. And now he’s here. I knew I’d be going up against him at the Divizion Championship Series, but that is still a month away. I thought I had more time.
Creep and I are both speedrunners at Dreadlander, but I’ve always beaten his time there. However, today’s speedrun is for Final Destiny, which is his specialty. It’s the one I’ve been clocking most of my hours in, practicing in anticipation for DCS. Final Destiny is my weak point, and I was hoping to test myself at this Miami tournament since I knew I’d be going against Creep later.
Not now. Not today.
Nerves eat their way through my body.
Fuck. I wish Sydney were here.
“You good, English?” Celery nudges my shoulder with his.
“Yeah, mate. I’m all right. Just distracted.”
We flash our badges at a security guard who lets us into a roped-off area.
“Might want to un-distract yourself before the run.”
“What a brilliant idea. Hadn’t considered that.” I deadpan him, but he can’t exactly see my expression with the mask on. “Plus, you’re one to talk. I merked you eight times that last round.”
Celery rolls his eyes. “I still won. These matches are just for show, anyway.”
I pat him on the back. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
“All right, hotshot. Team battle next week, your guys versus mine.”
“You’re on. We’ll bring in Lee and Wylder as our fourth and fifth.” FrozeLine is a 5V5 game, and as much as Deer is becoming one of our crew, this game is not her strong suit. Wylder, on the other hand, is a pro gamer and good friend of ours. “Prepare for failure.”
“You really think you’re going to beat the Streamer of the Year?” He grabs an energy drink from the fridge and tosses it at me. I catch it and frown.
“You’ve been insufferable ever since you won that award.” I toss the yellow can back to him, and he barely manages to grab it before it hits him in the face. “I like the blue flavor.”
“Of course, you do.” He throws a new one at me with more force this time.
I catch it gracefully and crack it open with the same hand, grinning at him as I go to take a drink.
The can knocks against my mask. He laughs, and I sigh at my rookie mistake.
I pull the mask down and take a sip. The blueberry flavor doesn’t really taste like blueberry. It’s more just…blue. But it’s still better than the medicine flavor the red one has.
Celery has a point. I’m distracted.
I need to be back on stage for my run in ten minutes, and I have to be at my best if I’m going to put Creep in his place. I can’t lose to him today, or he’ll make my life hell at the championship.
My phone buzzes and I pull it from my pocket.
SYD: Don’t worry about the match. Things happen. Just stay focused. You’ll crush the run. I know you will :)
SYD: But also, don’t crush it too hard. Remember, we’re still keeping our cards close.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I don’t think she knows Creep is here. But I also don’t want to be the one to inform her. She’ll just worry, and she’s supposed to be enjoying her time in Napa.
Hell, she shouldn’t even be texting me right now. The girls promised me that they’d give her a taste of her own medicine and put her in tech isolation. Hence, the reason why I think she has no clue Creep is here. He showed up this morning and was added to the roster, knocking some rookie speedrunner from the run.
ME: thanks love ??
ME: now put ur phone away
SYD: good luck ??
I sigh and chug the rest of my drink, feeling bad that I’m keeping her in the dark. I crush the can and shoot it into the nearest rubbish bin. It bounces off the rim, and I grimace. The fizzy drink settles uncomfortably in my stomach.
“Mr. English.” I turn to see a security guard hovering on the other side of the roped-off area. “I’m here to escort you backstage.”
“All right, sounds good.” I pick up the can and dump it in the bin before sliding my mask back up my face.
My world once again turns blue, and I breathe a little easier. I roll my shoulders and remind myself that I’m EnglishCoffee. That I’ve got this.
I follow the black-suited man through the crowds and down the back hallways until we get to the second main stage. I immediately clock the other five gamers. None of them pose much of a threat other than Creep and Van.
OnlyVan is another speedrunner whom I always end up pitted against for awards. I knew he’d be here, though, along with his sister, so I’m prepared. Plus, the only time Van’s gotten close to my times is when he found a new skip, which I respect him for.
The announcer begins calling us on stage, and as each gamer walks up the stairs, it leaves less and less people as a buffer between Creep and myself.
“Glad to see you finally came out to play with the grown-ups,” Creep says in his stupid Australian accent.
“You won’t be glad when I leave you in the dust.”
“Nah, mate. This is my stage.” He grins and runs a hand through his sandy hair.
“Oh yeah? What did you do, lick it and claim it?”
“Actually, I made sweet, sweet love to it.”
I laugh and then curse myself for letting my guard down. This is what he does. Stupid fucking Aussie charmer. I would like the guy if we weren’t always pitted against each other. Until I win that damn championship, I’ve got to keep him squarely where he belongs.
“All the way from Down Under, let’s hear it for CreepyPillows.” The announcer’s voice ends our conversation, and Creep rolls his eyes as one of the event staff ushers him to head up the staircase.
I jump up and down a few times, shaking myself out as I wait.
“And last, but certainly not least, he’s the mysterious man in blue. The one, the only, EnglishCoffee.”
I jog up the stairs and onto the stage. The bright lights are muted by my mask, and I make a show of waving to the crowd, blowing them kisses and being as extra as I can. People expect me to be larger than life, and I’m not here to give them any less, even if there’s a pit of fear inside me.
I settle at my desk, which has been set up with all my gear. Van is on my left and his sister is on my right. Creep, thankfully, isn’t anywhere in my direct eyesight.
I slide off my mask and pull my headphones back up. The noise canceling goes into effect immediately and drowns out sounds around me. I give my wrists a quick roll before getting my hands in position. The sensitivity levels seem to be right, but I give my mouse a few shakes, just to make sure.
My heart beats steadily in my chest as I wait.
The announcer counts down, and the second he says “one,” I click on the Start button.
The game starts, and muscle memory kicks in. I know this game. I’ve practiced. I’ve got this.
Those first few minutes are always the most adrenaline inducing. If you don’t start off perfectly, you might as well quit and not waste your time. My heartrate begins to level out as I keep playing, and I successfully get through the first mission without any hiccups.
The first hour passes in a blur, and so far, everything is on track. I haven’t messed up any of the skips. I did heed Syd’s advice, and I purposely ignored one of the new glitches I’d mastered, which would’ve shaved off a solid three minutes, instead opting to save it for the championship.
I just had to hope that everything else I’d improved on would be enough to beat Creep.
I pull out my revolvers and kill the store clerk in front of me, stealing his keys so I can bypass the mission objective. My morality meter takes a dip, but it’s not an issue in the long run. I’ll only need to worry about it if something goes wrong.
I would regret that thought.
I’m almost through the second hour when I catch movement from the corner of my eye. That split second distraction costs me. My character was in the middle of world traveling. I had to make sure to double bounce when I landed at my new destination in order to use the momentum to blast myself across the town to the next mission point.
Instead, I miss it.
“Shit,” I mutter.
A fucking noob mistake.
I scramble to shove an NPC off their neo-bike and begin speeding it through the streets. Except I run over a few more NPCs in the process, and my morality meter begins dipping lower. When it turns deep red, a bounty logo pops up in the corner of my screen.
“Fuck.”
I finally make it to the quest point and skip through the dialogue, but my heart rate isn’t slowing down. I have no idea how much time I just cost myself. That was one of the worst things I could’ve missed.
Everything starts going downhill from there, and I just get more and more mad at myself. In my hyped-up state, I miss a shot and end up nerve-gassing myself. It happens three more times until I succeed in taking down a watchtower.
Each time I screw up, I fall deeper into the cracks of my brain. Spiraling further and further.
It’s when I hear cheering so loud that it breaks through my headphones that I know I’ve lost.
It’s probably another twenty minutes until I finish the game.
The end credits roll, but I feel nothing.
I just want to slam my fist through the monitor. But that won’t get me anything except a fucked-up hand, an upset publicist, and a trip to the med bay.
So, I do as I’ve been taught. I take a deep breath and weave a smile on my face as I turn to look at the cameras. I hold my hands up and shrug, effectively telling everyone, “Oh well.”
I tug off my headphones, and the uninhibited sounds of the crowd shock me for a second. The noise is suffocating, choking me from the inside out. I wrestle with myself to push it all away.
I turn everything off before I grab my mask and slip it on. My shoulders relax a fraction behind the safety of the blue light. I stand up and give the crowd a dramatic bow before grabbing my shit and booking it offstage.
I don’t bother looking up at the screens as I leave. I don’t want to see what my time was. I don’t want to know how much Creep defeated me by. I don’t want to know who else did better than me.
I don’t want to know what a failure I am.
I stop by the private lockers to grab my backpack and shove my stuff into it before bypassing the press area. I’m going to get an earful from Syd and Mathias, but I can’t bring myself to care. I would do more damage in an interview right now, anyway.
And a part of me tells me Syd will understand.
Nausea churns in my gut as my gray-eyed angel flashes in my mind.
Fuck, she’d been so confident in me.
But I’d screwed myself over.
Gotten so wrapped up in my own head that I’d gotten distracted.
Even if she won’t be disappointed in me, I am.
There were only two tournaments left now, and if I didn’t win at least one of them, I could kiss the championship goodbye.
I shove out the front door of the building and curse myself.
Idiot.
There are reporters everywhere, their cameras flashing in my face.
I was supposed to go through the exit where I was dropped off this morning, not here. For some unknown reason, I decide to power forward. Maybe to punish myself.
I push my way through the crowd, ignoring their questions and demands. Trying to block out their words that are jabbing into me. None of them are worse than the ones swimming in my own brain.
I don’t have a plan, but I just need to get away from them.
“Parker.”
Something about the voice breaks through barrage of people around me.
I look up and see a familiar head of blonde hair. A beacon. My head clears a little, and my feet begin pounding on the concrete as I run toward her. She opens the passenger door to a chrome Maserati. I dive in and slam the door as she rounds to the driver’s seat and immediately takes off.
The engine revs as she weaves her way farther from the arena. The rumble of the low car soothes me, bringing me back to earth.
“Well, that could’ve gone worse.”
I pull off my mask and look into the blue eyes that are a mirror of my own.
“Gee, thanks, Pheebs.”
“Just saying.” My sister shrugs as she pulls on the indicator and switches lanes.
“I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“I didn’t want to add any pressure. Thought I’d just watch from the box and offer my silent support. I wasn’t going to bring some big poster, like Paige would.”
I let out a low laugh because that is exactly what our sister would do.
My stoic eldest sister softens at the noise, and it just makes me feel worse. Phoebe isn’t one to offer pity often.
“I’m sorry, Parker.”
“It’s fine.”
“Really?” she drolls, cocking a perfectly sculpted brow.
“No.” I cross my arms over my chest and sink into the leather. “It’s not fucking fine. I just lost to a complete asswipe. It was my one chance before the championship, and I fucking blew it. Everyone’s going to think I suck and make fun of me online, and Sydney is going to see all of it. She’s going to think I’m a loser because even I think I’m a fucking loser right now.”
Phoebe pats my knee like a child. “Feel better?”
I glare up at her. “No.”
“You’re not a loser, P. You’re a lot of things, trust me, but you’re not a loser.”
“I lost, Phoebe. That’s the definition of a loser.”
“Technically, that bloke, what was his name…Danger…something, whatever, technically he came in last, so he is the loser. You just weren’t the winner.”
I sigh, some of the fight leaving my body. Being mad is exhausting, and that’s all I can feel in my bones. Exhaustion.
My phone begins vibrating in my pocket, and I pull it out to see an incoming call from Sydney.
Panic lances through me. I stare down at her photo, one I took of her just a few days ago when we were cuddled up on the couch. Half of me wants to answer the phone, the other half doesn’t.
Honestly, I just don’t want to deal with it right now. I don’t want to deal with the shame and embarrassment. I don’t want to deal with her sympathy. I don’t want to feel worse.
I acted like hot shit only to end up as dog shit.
The Maserati comes to a stop out front of the Covington Miami. A handful of reporters and fans are milling about outside, but security begins ushering them out of the way once they notice my sister’s car. Six men in suits flank the car as we exit and guide us inside the building. I keep my expression neutral until I’m safely inside my sister’s penthouse suite.
“I was wondering who had booked the penthouse,” I mumble as I dump my stuff on the couch and curl up. “I ended up settling for the King’s Suite because of you.”
Phoebe rolls her eyes as she pulls a bottle of LOUIS XIII cognac from the bar counter and pours three fingers worth of liquid into two tumblers. She sits on the couch next to me and hands me one of the glasses.
“I prefer my cognac on the rocks,” I say as I eye the crystal.
“Well, I like mine neat. So, either suck it up, or I’ll drink it.”
I grumble, taking the tumbler and sipping the amber liquid. It coats my tongue with its spicy taste before gliding slowly down my throat.
“Why are you beating yourself up over this so much? It’s unlike you.”
“You know why.”
“Parker, it was one tournament. Grandpa isn’t going to leave you to the wolves just because you lost once. You have two more games to qualify for the championship, and even then, it’s not like you’re going to be poor if things don’t go right.” She takes a sip of cognac, crossing her legs.
“That doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“Well, it’s the truth. You’re acting like when you were ten and lost your first polo tournament. You sulked in your room for the entire weekend, refusing to eat or shower or anything.”
“Paige would’ve been a lot nicer about this.” I down the rest of the cognac, welcoming the burn. It stokes the fire within me, fueling the anger.
“Yes, well, unfortunately, you got stuck with me this time.” She takes the empty crystal from me and goes to refill it. “Plus, if you remember, you went on to win silver in the under twelves that year even though you lost.”
“Silver isn’t gold. And this isn’t some hobby for me, like polo. This is my work, my life, Phoebe. I can’t lose it.”
“You won’t lose it. No one’s trying to take it away from you.”
She holds out the tumbler to me, and I gulp all the amber liquid in one swoop. I use the back of my hand to wipe my mouth and then place the empty glass back in her hand.
“Sure doesn’t feel that way. What good am I if I can’t win a simple tournament? Maybe I should just give up, settle into a proper role like everyone wants.”
She raises both of her brows slightly before letting out a soft breath.
“Parker, that’s not what we want.”
The sympathy in her voice cracks me.
I’m not mad at anyone except myself right now.
Sure, maybe I’m overreacting a little bit. But it’s so much more than just a tournament I lost.
It’s everything.
It’s all the expectations clawing at my throat. All the pressure crushing my shoulders. The need to prove that I am worth something pulls on my ankles like chains. That I can stand on my own. That I am smart and capable and more than just a guy coasting through life. That I’m someone people can respect and look up to.
Phoebe looks down at me with her blue eyes, and the ocean within them feels like it’s drowning me.
I shove off the couch and snatch up my backpack, storming past her.
“Parker!” she shouts. “Oi, get back here!”
But I don’t look back.
I don’t breathe until I shut the door to my own suite.
The room is dark, and the shadows close in on me, swirling around my body. Every negative thought clouds around me in a suffocating haze.
My phone picks up it’s buzzing in my pocket, and I growl as I throw it across the room. It narrowly lands on the corner of my bed before bouncing to the ground.
I don’t miss the name on the screen, and it just makes me feel worse.
I’m supposed to be better than this. I’m supposed to be the guy everyone loves. The guy who doesn’t take things too seriously.
I don’t want her to see me like this.
In pieces.
I don’t even want to see myself.