2. Chapter
Asher
M oving to the suburbs of my childhood home is a decision that shocks no one who knows me, but everyone who knows me would be surprised to find out that I'm slumming it in an apartment instead of my own house.
With a dog next door.
Liam:
Just a reminder, the other side of the duplex is a young lady with a dog. Do not kick her dog. Repeat: Do not kick her dog.
Aiden:
Hundred says he kicks it before the weekend.
Liam:
She's a good tenant who never causes problems, and the dog doesn't either. Don't kick the fucking dog, Asher.
Asher:
I'm not going to kick the fucking dog, Liam.
It's hard not to roll my eyes at the exchange, but I somehow manage as one of the movers waves to get my attention, clipboard in hand. He squints up at me in the midday sun, sweat beading off his forehead, likely due to the company sweaters he and his men wear. Seems a ridiculous choice of attire for their job.
"Hey, where do you want these boxes?" he asks, wiping his brow with the back of a gloved hand.
I point to the three-bedroom duplex I just moved into. "We're on the right. Living room's in the front, kitchen's to the back, laundry room is in the kitchen, and bedrooms are upstairs. If you start unloading, I'll direct you."
He nods and gestures to the rest of the crew to get to work. I watch them haul boxes and furniture inside, relieved that this move is finally coming together.
Switching back to the group chat, I grimace.
These fucking guys.
Being best friends all your life is great, but said best friends are also shitheads who will never give up a chance at screwing with you when they get a chance.
Aiden:
He hates dogs. That dog's toast before next weekend.
Liam:
Don't. Kick. The. Fucking. Dog.
Asher:
What kind of fucking person do you think I am?
Shaking my head, I pocket the phone. There's no reason to keep going at it with them. I'm not about to kick a dog. I might not like them, but it isn't like I'd wander around punting them for fun.
As I watch the movers bustle around, hauling my belongings into the house, I can't help but reflect on the spotlight that follows me even after stepping away from the professional scene. The fans who used to cheer my name now speculate on every move I make, from my choice of residence to my latest business venture.
I never thought I'd miss the exhaustion of late-night gaming sessions and the adrenaline rush of competing in tournaments. But here I am, surrounded by boxes in my new apartment, pondering the strange sense of nostalgia that retirement from the pro gaming world has brought me.
That life seems so distant now.
The decision to move closer to Liam and Aiden had been a simple one. I miss their camaraderie, the way they tease and challenge me in equal measure. And as much as I love the thrill of competition, running my own company and enjoying the freedom retirement provides has its own appeal.
Living in one half of a duplex is a little less appealing, but I'm not about to make stupid financial decisions until after my business has stabilized.
I make my way inside, navigating through the maze of boxes to find the kitchen. The smell of fresh paint lingers in the air, mixing with the faint scent of apples and cinnamon that seems to waft from next door. I glance out the window, catching a glimpse of the neighboring duplex where a young woman with dark hair chats on the phone.
I lean against the counter, watching her for a moment before turning my attention back to unpacking. The sooner I get settled in, the sooner I can get back to work. The allure of a new project beckons, promising challenges and rewards in equal measure.
I grab a box labeled "office supplies" and head upstairs to set up my workspace. As I unpack my computer and monitors, memories of intense gaming matches flood back. The thrill of outsmarting opponents, the rush of executing a perfect strategy—it’s a high unlike any other.
But as I power up my computer and make sure it's working, a sense of calm settles over me. The blank screen holds endless possibilities, each keystroke a step towards building something new and exciting.
I glance out the window again, catching sight of the woman next door now walking her dog in our shared backyard. It's a little russet mop. Probably yaps a lot. The owner, on the other hand, moves with a certain grace, a confidence that draws my eye despite my best efforts to focus on work. Of course, she is also at least a decade younger than me. Is she even old enough to live on her own?
I shake my head and leave the room I’ve turned into my office, returning downstairs to watch as movers bring in the large couch I bought with my first tournament winnings. It’s old but comfortable, and the perfect place to relax in the rare moments I game without any goal in mind.
We’re finishing up when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and see another text from Liam.
Liam:
Drinks at The Hound's Den tonight?
At least they've stopped bothering me about the fucking mutt she's got next door.
I shoot back a quick affirmative, before scrolling through the other notifications cluttering my phone. Most are the usual bullshit I can easily swipe out of my life, including a few contacts from reporters—my retirement is still a popular headline—but a text from my assistant has me groaning.
Miriam:
Sir, you have to answer your phone sometimes. Since I’m sure you’re not going to listen to the voicemails, HypeGaming wanted to discuss some changes to the contract before signing tomorrow. I’ve e-mailed the relevant documents. Call me ASAP.
Fuck. Considering that it is now two in the afternoon, I would lay bets that I won't be home before midnight—and that is without the easygoing dinner I just put on my calendar.
Absolutely fucking nowhere on my list of ways to end my fucking day from hell is saving my new neighbor from a murderer.
But here I am, with a hammer in hand by her back door, trying to peer through her curtains—impossible, by the way—and answering the questions given to me by the dispatcher.
“Sir, units are on the way,” the woman on the other line assures me.
“Why are you trying to kill me?” I can hear my neighbor screaming. “Stop it! Stop! STOP!”
“They better fucking hurry!” I snap. “He’s about to kill her!”
The dispatcher never once breaks her calm. “Sir, what is happening? Can you hear him? Any gunshots?”
“No, but she’s screaming—”
“I didn’t do anything to you! How long have you been stalking me for? Are you playing with me right now?!”
Energy crackles through my body, and I double my efforts to try to look around or through her curtains. She has double sliding glass doors, identical to my side of the duplex, but hers are covered in what seems like sheer curtains that apparently give a lot more privacy than I thought they would.
“Ow! Stop slicing me, you fucking psychopath!”
“I’m going in,” I bark into my phone before shoving it into my back pocket. With one hand holding a hammer and the other shoving a center punch into the glass, shattering it in half a second, I charge into her home with a roar, praying the shock will keep the man from shooting me.
Only, as I charge through her kitchen and into her living room, my brain begins to catch up with my eyes. And my ears.
Screaming woman? Check.
Murderous psychopath? … Not so check.
In fact, the woman I’m saving is staring at me , pointing at me , like I’m somehow the monster in this situation. Screaming. Not bleeding. Not dead. Not even in distress—okay, well, clearly in distress. But not the kind I’m thinking of.
And she isn’t screaming with words, like she’s been doing before. No, now this is just screaming. Sounds. High-pitched, painful-to-my-ears sounds.
I lower the hammer and look around, my eye catching the TV high up on her wall. A familiar avatar dances in a jovial fashion on the screen, with “You placed #5” splashed across the screen, followed by the text, “Eliminated by RedRumFieval007.”
I realize at some point all sound has ceased. I jerk my head back to the woman standing on the couch, my eyes drawn to the hot pink controller held at her side. Her other hand is jerking from me to the back door as she processes the scene in front of her. Fair. I am, too.
What a way to meet the new neighbor. I realize then that she is short—real short, like can she see over her steering wheel short —with dark hair dyed blue at the ends and wide brown eyes hidden behind oversized, thick-framed glasses. She is young, way too young, wearing a faded sweatshirt with the logo of a local tech college and—is she even wearing pants? Hell, I don’t think she is. Kids these days don’t always wear shorts that actually show, though, so who knows?
"Are you okay?" I ask her, at the same time a scrabbling sound makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. A russet-colored thing scampers over and lifts its leg, pissing on my shoe.
Fuck.
Don't kick the fucking dog, Asher.
That’s when my new, young, possibly half-nude neighbor finally finds her voice. “Who the fuck are you?” she yells, right before throwing the controller right at my face.
Because I’m in the middle of trying to keep a rusty mop from pissing all over my leg, one might consider forgiving me for not catching a hot pink controller before it slams into my nose. I swear in ways I should, under other circumstances, definitely not be doing in front of a young and impressionable woman before yanking the phone out of my back pocket, remembering that 911 is on the line.
“Sorry to take up your time,” I drawl into the phone, watching the girl’s eyes narrow. “There is no intruder. My neighbor is apparently a little too excited while playing a video game. I don’t think any officers will be needed on scene after all.”