Chapter Eleven
“HEY, WHAT’S UP, guys, this is MannyPlays here at the Wizzard Theater in New York Cit-ayyy.
” A twentysomething-year-old man with a broccoli cut and the rubber-faced enthusiasm of someone with a crippling caffeine addiction and a YouTube channel is sitting next to me on a couch.
He’s not talking to me as much as he is saying loud words at the lens of his camera setup while Ivan and I are both in blisteringly close earshot.
The last time I was in the players’ lounge at the Wizzard Theater was at Wizzcon, and for a moment I’m not sure if it’s still the same room.
Six months ago every beanbag chair, every table and chair, every packaged snack and soda can set front-facing in the glass refrigerators was themed around Wizzard’s actual games.
Now every item in the room is sponsored by some company or another in a horrendously discordant display.
The chairs are printed with the logo of a VPN provider, and the couches are trying to sell me a new pair of headphones.
The fridges are stuffed with an unreleased flavor of carbonated cold brew, and there are QR codes printed on banners that promise free tokens for new users of a sports betting app.
It’s all so ugly I almost flinch. One look over at Ivan tells me he’s grossed out as well.
Is this how Brian wants to use the academy?
As a backdrop for cramming as many ads as possible into the retinae of everyone’s combined followers?
“Relax,” Ivan says without moving his lips an inch out of place from a toothy grin. I remind myself to add amateur ventriloquy to the list of skills Makeup Zora needs to pick up.
“I am relaxed,” I mutter back. Thankfully MannyPlays hasn’t given us personal mics, or rather he tried until he realized I was wearing a hilariously expensive jumper (Kavi borrowed it from a friend’s older sister’s job’s sample sale).
I had the choice between letting him unzip me to run a cord behind my bra and me taking his arm off like Beowulf; he should think about changing his name to Grendel.
“If you want to see more live-streamed content like this, don’t forget to smash that like button and subscribe with notifications so you get an alert every time I post a new video and to get reminders for my weekly streaming schedule—”
“Okay,” Ivan says again. “Then could you maybe stop squeezing my hand like a stress ball?”
I look down at my lap, where my hand is in fact holding his very tightly.
It was Ivan’s idea to hold hands when we sat down.
No, wait. It was mine. Or, no, it kind of just happened; I don’t know.
It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.
But now the tension in my fingers is turning his knuckles whiter; I try to wrench my hand away.
“Nup-up.” Ivan holds my hand fast in his.
“That part we have to do.” He thinks for a moment, while MannyPlays continues to get through his intro, somehow.
I don’t think this man-ny has even stopped to take a breath since he started.
“Unless you’re uncomfortable with the contact.
I won’t—we don’t—only if, you know, consent and—”
“It’s fine,” I say, mostly to get him to stop talking.
Ventriloquist or not, this is Ivan’s first video appearance since he disappeared after the Guardians League Online championship last year.
His fans, and his not-so-fans, will be observing the heck out of his behavior.
And mine, I realize. I wonder how many times I’m going to have to remember to act like I’m being watched before it’s second nature.
I look at Ivan again; this time he catches my glance and winks, face cheated at just the right angle so the affectionate gesture plays toward the camera.
“And of course to support the channel even more, there’s a link to my Patreon in the description; paying subscribers get access to all kinds of awesome perks like early access to my streams, discounts on my merch drops …”
Actually, on second thought, no. I deliberately remove my hand from Ivan’s and watch his fingers flex the moment I stop touching him. He must be relieved I’ve stopped squeezing.
“—and you even get to vote on which topics and players I cover every week including this surprise-drop power couple here to take Brian Juno’s summer academy by storm!
To start off with the obvious, VANE’s back!
That’s right. What’s up, man?” Manny holds his hand out for a high five, which Ivan uses his newly freed hand to slap.
I tuck mine under my thigh and remember to keep smiling no matter what.
When I said “no matter what,” I actually meant “until my brain crashes out halfway through lunch.” Nonstop socializing, especially when I know I’m being potentially filmed by everyone in sight, is more hellish than I could have imagined.
I am grumpy. I am tired, and Trieu is making the most of it by showing off how good my lips look when I’m pouting.
“I mix some of the highlighter into the lip gloss before I put it on,” Trieu explains.
“You can see the effect better on Kavi and Zora than you can on me.” I pop my hip to bring my height down closer to Kavi’s level, smooch my lips out obediently, and hear a chorus of clicks from people who don’t know how to silence the sound effects on their phones.
“Make sure you get her good side,” Kavi says proudly.
“All she’s got are good sides,” Ivan bluffs from the sidelines. And I swear to god, someone (not me) actually swoons.
“How do you spell your name again?” another amateur photographer asks.
“Zora like from Zelda,” I say, “and Lyon like the city in France.”
“Cool name,” they reply.
“You have no idea,” Ivan interrupts again, “how cool she really is.”
My stomach flips, and I feel a familiar anger creep up to redirect my thoughts toward dislike. I know Ivan has to say nice things about me, but the more he compliments me and the more sincere he sounds, the more I hear the lie underneath it all.
“She’s an incredible player too; just wait for the match later.”
He must be making fun of me. That’s how he’s so good at this—he’s turning me into a joke where only he knows the punch line. Why else would he be laying it on so thick?
My jaw hurts, which makes sense considering I’ve now spent two hours alternating between a huge fake grin and clamping my jaw so tight I could bite a chunk of coal and spit out diamonds.
Next to me, on another branded couch, with his hand on my knee and barely a droplet of sweat showing on his pearly skin, Ivan snort-laughs.
“My favorite thing about Zora? I mean, look at her, she’s beautiful.
But she also makes me laugh.” He sighs dreamily.
I lock my eyes at a spot on the wall to stop them from rolling.
We’re not even on camera this time, just chatting with some influencer while Kavi and Trieu shoot some B-roll around the room.
Chatting and now standing so close together that I’m surprised the rules of surface tension haven’t merged all the water in our bodies into one warm, angry droplet.
“Babe?” Ivan asks, his thumb brushing over my shoulder softly. I try not to shudder away from its phony comfort.
“Sorry, what?” It’s harder than I thought, to pay attention and make right faces in the right order.
“I said you’d never forgive me if I went easy on you in GLR.”
I can’t stop myself laughing. I don’t care if it’s the right response or not. Ivan going easy on me? Is that the narrative everybody wants to read here? Hate that. Pass the game script; I’m doing a rewrite.
“That’s true, I wouldn’t forgive you,” I say. “But it’s not like I’m worried.”
“And why is that?” I can’t remember this influencer’s name. It’s Dennis.
“I knocked him out of the running for the academy at Wizzcon,” I reply. Immediately, I see panic rise up in Ivan’s eyes.
“Oh, is that how you two met?” Actually, wait, I think it’s Tom.
“Yep,” I say proudly.
“No!” Ivan says at the same time.
“And, wait, if you didn’t win at Wizzcon, how did you end up in the academy, Ivan?” Finally, Doug (?) is asking the right questions.
“Great question.” I nod. “How exactly did that happen, babe?”
I smirk over at Ivan, thinking this is appropriate revenge for him mocking me all afternoon, but something has changed with him.
He’s fidgeting, and his hand is compulsively tucking his hair behind his ear.
I don’t know what his problem is, but I’m not going to make it mine. I’m still looking out for number one.
“Excuse us,” Ivan says sharply, ostensibly to Doug, but I know his tone is mostly meant for me. “Great talking to you, Barry.”
Oh, wow, I wasn’t even close.
“That was unkind of you, Zora,” Ivan says the next time Team Vision regroups in the kitchen area.
“Maybe,” I admit. “Wouldn’t want you to think I was ‘going easy on you,’ though.” Trieu is dusting at my jawline with a kabuki brush, so he’s close enough that I hear the frustrated hiss he otherwise tries to suppress.
“What’s the problem?” Kavi asks. “We were doing so well!”
“The jerk store called and they’re out of her,” Ivan grumbles. That was toothless, even for him.
“You do realize—wait! We got a bogie on our six.” I notice a not-so-sneaky someone pointing their phone in our direction and straighten up.
“That’s our three,” Ivan corrects me. “Six would be behind you.”
“Shut up and do what we practiced in the lounge.”
On cue, we all fake a laugh in case they’re recording something. Look at us, the cool kids. Cool kids being cool friends, cooling the day away.
“He’s gone,” Cassius calls out. I shake my hair out and continue the extremely sick burn I’ve cooked up for Ivan.