Chapter 26 #2
“If we get there, then yes. I don’t want to commit to anything too soon, but I’m a planner at heart.” They pull back to look at me, and I can see uncertainty flickering in their eyes.
"No. Not too soon to mention.” I kiss them, putting everything I feel into it. "Someday, our place. With dogs. And a kitchen you cook in while I do the dishes."
"And a bed we both sleep in."
"Every night," I agree.
"Every night," they echo, and it sounds like a promise.
"You're terrible at this."
"I'm not terrible. I'm just… strategically challenged."
Royce laughs, moving their game piece across the board to capture another one of mine. "You're losing to me in chess, Little Menace. Badly at that.”
We're in the office screwing around. Technically, we should both be working, but it's a slow Friday, and we'd decided to take a long lunch. Which somehow turned into Royce teaching me chess using the set I’d kept on the bookshelf. It was a gift from ages ago that I never put to use.
At least I hadn’t until now.
"In my defense," I say, studying the board like it might suddenly make sense, "I've never played before."
"That's becoming obvious." They lean back in their chair, looking entirely too smug. "Do you want to concede?"
"Absolutely not. I'm a Meyer. We don't give up."
"Even when you're objectively losing?"
"Especially then. It’s our least appealing quality.”
They shake their head, but they're smiling. I love making them smile like that. Genuine and unguarded, so different from the professional mask they wear in meetings.
I make another move, one I'm pretty sure is legal, and Royce immediately counters it.
"Checkmate," they announce.
"That can't be checkmate. I still have pieces on the board."
"Checkmate doesn't mean all your pieces are gone. It means your king is trapped with no legal moves." They point to the board, showing me the position. "See?"
I study it, then slump back in defeat. "Best two out of three?"
"You just want me to destroy you again."
"Maybe I like watching you in your element. You're good at this. At figuring out puzzles. At thinking ahead. It's impressive." It comes out more seriously than I intended.
Their expression softens. "You're good at strategy too. Just different kinds. Baseball strategy, people strategy."
"Not chess strategy."
"Not yet. But you could be, with practice." They start resetting the pieces. "Again?"
We play three more games. I lose all of them, but I last a little longer each time and start to see patterns I couldn't see before. Royce is patient, explaining moves when I'm confused, pointing out opportunities I'm missing.
"You're a good teacher," I tell them after the fourth loss.
"You're a good student when you stop trying to prove you're already perfect."
The observation hits closer than they probably meant it to. "I don't—"
"You do." They reach across the board to take my hand. "Kenny baby, you don't have to be good at everything on the first try. You're allowed to learn. To make mistakes. To not be perfect."
"Old habits," I mutter.
"I know. But you're working on it." They squeeze my hand. "And I'll be here to remind you when you forget."
A knock on the door interrupts us. We pull apart as Gillies pokes his head in.
"Hey, sorry to interrupt." He grins, clearly not sorry at all. "Just wanted to let you know that guy I met starts Monday. Thought you'd want to know, Kenny."
"Thanks for telling me," I say, confused about why he's telling me specifically.
"Well, you were asking about him the other day. Figured you'd want the update in case Royce didn’t mention it.” Gillies winks and disappears before I can respond.
I turn to Royce. "I wasn't asking about him. Why did he even come here?”
"He knows that. He's just being Gillies." They start putting the chess pieces away. "Although speaking of North, I should probably review his onboarding paperwork. Make sure everything's set for Monday."
"Always working," I tease.
"Says the man who's been answering emails on his phone between chess moves."
"Fair point."
We return to our respective tasks, but there's comfort in it now. Working in the same space, occasionally looking up to catch each other's eye, existing together without needing to fill every moment with conversation.
This is what I want, I realize. Not just the passion and the intensity, but this—quiet afternoons in offices, losing at chess, learning each other's rhythms.
But soon I won’t be here at all. In fact, I’ve got exactly one week left. Can I really let this all go?
"Kenneth?" Royce's voice pulls me from my thoughts.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For being here. For being patient with me. For—" they gesture vaguely "—all of this. I was worried this handoff would be hard. Partly because I’m not a sports buff, but also because of our history. You being you, the real you, put me at ease.”
I cross to their desk, spinning their chair so they're facing me, and crouch down so we're eye level. "Your Majesty, I'm exactly where I want to be. Where I'm supposed to be. With you."
They lean forward, pressing their forehead to mine. "With you," they echo.
"I can't believe you're taking me to an arcade," Royce says as we pull into the parking lot of Fun Zone, a massive entertainment complex on the edge of town. "Are we twelve?"
"We're adults who deserve to have fun," I counter, putting the car in park. "Plus, you said you wanted to do something different this weekend. This is different."
"I was thinking maybe a museum. Or a shopping trip to update your wardrobe.”
“What’s wrong with my wardrobe?”
“Nothing, Kenny baby. You look great.” Their tone is teasing, as if they want to egg me on. I ignore it to stay on subject.
"We can do those things too. But today, we're going to play games, race go-karts, and I'm going to absolutely destroy you at the batting cages."
They raise an eyebrow at the challenge in my voice. "Is that so?"
"That's so. Unless you're scared?"
"Oh, you're going to regret that, Little Menace."
Inside, the arcade is a chaotic symphony of beeping games, excited shouts, and the smell of popcorn and pizza. It's been years since I've been to a place like this, and the nostalgia hits me immediately.
"Where to first?" Royce asks, looking around with what I think might be curiosity mixed with amusement.
"Go-karts. I need to prove I'm still athletic before you crush me at everything else today."
The go-kart track is outdoors, a winding course with sharp turns and straightaways. We get fitted with helmets and climb into our respective karts. Royce chooses a sleek black one while I opt for red.
"Loser buys lunch," I call over to them.
"You're on."
The race is closer than I expected. Royce is aggressive, taking corners tight and not hesitating to cut me off when they have the chance. I manage to pull ahead on the straightaways, using my longer reach to my advantage, but they're relentless.
In the end, I win by maybe half a second.
"That was luck," Royce says as we climb out of the karts, but they're grinning.
"That was skill," I correct. "But we can go again if you want a rematch."
"Later. I want to see you back up your trash talk at the batting cages first."
The cages are less crowded, just a few parents with kids occupying the slower speed areas. Royce and I head for the fast-pitch zone, and I can feel them watching me as I step up to the plate. I told them to stand outside while I get warmed up.
I’d never forgive myself if a ball went foul and hit them.
The first pitch comes in at eighty miles per hour, and I connect with it solidly, sending it into the back net. Muscle memory takes over—feet positioned, weight balanced, eyes on the ball. I hit nine out of ten pitches, and the one I miss is because I'm showing off, trying for a home-run swing.
"Not bad," Royce says when I step out. "For someone who was injured as badly as you say.”
“Recreational fun is still doable. It’s the pro-level I can’t reach anymore. Now let's see what you've got, Your Majesty.”
They step into the cage with more confidence than I expected. I move to stand behind the fence, watching as they adjust their grip on the bat.
"Wait," I say, entering the cage. "Your grip is wrong."
"My grip is fine."
"It's not. Here—" I step back inside and move behind them, my chest against their back. Reaching around to adjust their hands on the bat, I tell them, "Loosen up a little. You're strangling it."
"I am not.” They stop talking as I shift their stance, my hands on their hips, positioning them correctly.
"Feet shoulder-width apart," I murmur close to their ear. "Knees slightly bent. You want to be able to rotate through your hips, not just swing with your arms."
I can feel the tension in their body, but it's not from the batting stance. The air between us has shifted, charging with an energy that has nothing to do with baseball.
"Like this?" they ask, their voice slightly breathless.
"Exactly like that. Now show me what you've got." I let my hands linger on their hips for just a moment longer than necessary before stepping back.
They hit the first pitch solidly, and I can't help but smile. The next few are good too. Not perfect, but respectable. By the tenth pitch, they've gotten into a rhythm, and I'm genuinely impressed.
"See?" they say, stepping out of the cage with a satisfied smile. "I know a thing or two about sports."
"You do. Though your form definitely improved after my expert instruction."
"Your expert instruction was very…" They pause, their eyes meeting mine with heat, "…hands-on."
"Was it? I can be hands-on in other ways too, if you want."
"Kenneth Little Menace Meyer, are you trying to seduce me in a batting cage?"
"Is it working?"
They laugh, grabbing my hand and pulling me away from the cages. "Come on. I want to try some air hockey.”
We spend the next two hours working our way through the arcade. Royce destroys me at air hockey and ski-ball, while I dominate at basketball shootout and the racing games. We play cooperatively on a zombie shooter, yelling strategy at each other and celebrating every level we complete.
At one point, at the prize counter, Royce uses our combined tickets to get me a small stuffed dog. It’s a golden retriever that reminds me of Rookie.
"For when we get our real ones?” I ask as they hand it over.
Their expression softens. “Yes, Kenny baby.”
"Promise?"
"Promise."
We end up at the pizza counter, sharing a large pepperoni with extra cheese and laughing about my go-kart victory and their surprising skill at batting.
"I had fun today. Even if it was ridiculous."
"The best things usually are." I catch their hand, threading our fingers together on the table. "We should do this more. Just… be together. No work stress, no obligations. Just us."
They nod, eyes fixed on me. “Just us. Though I reserve the right to demand a go-kart rematch."
"Anytime you want, Your Majesty. I'll even let you win next time."
"You will not let me win. I'll win fair and square."
"We'll see about that."
We finish our pizza and play a few more games before finally heading back to the car. As they drive us through the city, I lean my head against the window, the stuffed dog in my lap.
"Kenny?” they say quietly.
"Yeah?"
"This—" they gesture between us "—what we're building. It's good. Really good."
"Yeah," I agree, reaching over to take their hand. "It really is."
And as we drive back with the late afternoon sun streaming through the windows, I let myself believe that this is just the beginning. That we have countless Saturday afternoons ahead of us. Some at arcades, some quiet at home, all of them building toward a lasting future.
One day at a time.
Starting with today.