Arena (10 page)

I rolled my neck and made my feet move forward. Finally free. But at the edge of the canvas, the photographer blocked my path.

“Clarence tells me you've taken the role of team leader.”

“Yes, that's right,” I confirmed.

“Then I'd like to get some shots of just you and the new recruit.”

My stomach dropped. What? Just me and him? I forced a smile across my face as my mouth went dry.

“Sounds great,” I said through gritted teeth.

They posed us facing each other, but heads turned toward the camera. I purposely kept a six-inch gap between us. The photographer waved at us.

“No, closer.”

Of course closer. What's that old adage? Sex sells.

I took a breath to settle my churning stomach. Why was this bothering me so much anyway? It was only for show, and I was strong. Hell, I was the warrior.

Closer. Okay.

I closed the gap entirely and pressed my body against his. Hadn't I done this exact pose with Nathan once? No big deal.

I looked at the photographer. “How's this?”

He grinned. “Perfect.”

I rested my head against the skin of his chest, and the warmth from him kissed my cheek. Rooke went so still under my touch, I couldn't tell if he was only holding his breath or had stopped breathing altogether.

The camera started up and flashed dozens of times until the room morphed into a psychedelic blur. I let my vision fade, and my other senses kicked in. The scent of wood brushed against my nose. What was that? Pine, or maybe cedar? I shifted my head against his chest, and his heart beat against my ear. Images flashed across my mind, like flicks of the camera. Snapshot thoughts of running my tongue over his skin just to feel his pulse thread against it.

Whoa.

I jerked away from him, shaking my head. The photographer appeared over the lens.

“Problem, doll?”

I stared at him, blinking. Then I looked up and met Rooke's eyes. They'd narrowed, and I could see the question dwelling within them.
What the hell is her problem?

I smiled at the photographer. “It's nothing. Sorry.”

After several dozen more photos, maybe hundreds, the photographer finally called it quits. I relaxed and pulled away from Rooke. My knees ached and my back felt stiff. Apparently, I'd held myself so rigidly against him, I'd given myself premature arthritis.

Rooke left abruptly. So abruptly, in fact, he would have knocked me over if I hadn't sidestepped out of his path.

“What's wrong?” I called out. He glanced back at me. “You don't like to cuddle?”

He scowled and stomped away. Wow. Did this guy ever smile?

Hannah came up to me.

“You looked comfy in his arms,” she said. “The photographer loved it. He took more pictures of you two than the whole group combined.”

I waved her off. “He could probably tell I was fake smiling. Had to take plenty to catch one that looked natural.”

“It looked pretty natural—”

I shot her a look that would have made any warrior bow down.

“Or not,” she finished. “Yeah, or not.”

The rest of the day went without incident, until that evening, when we went clubbing.

Rooke didn't join us.

“Where's the new guy? Already left the team?”

The same question from a dozen different people. The reporters, the press. Hell, even the bartenders. Didn't Rooke understand how important our image was? Five on the team, and only four go out. I'd have to deal with him at some point. Maybe if I waited, Clarence would chew him out first.

The next morning, after shaking off a mild hangover (whether from the shots or the sleeping pills, I wasn't sure), I turned to leave my room. As soon as the door to my bunk slid open, a hardback copy of
I Ching: The Book of Changes
clunked against my foot with a new sticky note on its cover. Who the hell was this guy, a twentieth-century librarian?

Nice note. I used it to blow my nose.

Jackass.

I scooped the book into my arms, marched down the hall to Hannah's room, and pressed the buzzer on her keypad. Footsteps approached the door.

“Sticky notes,” I said, as the door slid open.

Hannah's brow furrowed as she pushed strawberry blonde tangles away from her face. Looks like even she wasn't perfect in the morning.

“What?” she asked.

“Do you have any sticky notes?”

“Sure,” she said slowly. “They're with my typewriter. Help yourself.”

I frowned. “I'm serious.”

Her gaze lowered from my face and landed on the book in my arms. “What is that?” She leaned toward me, and her eyes went wide.

“Is that a book?” she gasped. She reached forward—tentatively—as if her touch would both make it real and make it shatter. When I pulled back, she snapped out of her trance and met my eyes again. “Why do you have a book?”

“Never mind. Do you have sticky notes, or paper? Anything?”

She shrugged. “No.”

I sighed, letting my shoulders fall in defeat, and headed down the hall.

“Is everything okay?” Hannah called out from her doorway.

I glanced back at her as I stormed away. “I'm going to war.”

I followed the hallway to the admin/IT department of the facility, found the closest security guard, and half begged, half charmed him into opening the supply-room door. After rummaging through the entire closet, I found a dust-covered box near the back. Inside, among some writing utensils, was a pad of pink sticky notes.

Victory.

I snatched up the notes and two pens and returned to my bunk. A few minutes later, the book was at Rooke's door.

Thanks for noticing my incredible improv skills on my last note.

BTW—I hope you got eyeliner up your nostrils.

A different book was back at my door the next day and every morning after, with a new, snappy comeback stuck to the cover. Within minutes, it was returned to his door with my own brand of equally sarcastic reply.

This quickly became my new morning routine. On my way to the cafeteria, I'd drop the latest hardcover off at the library of Rooke. In the lunchroom, I'd sit across from Lily and Hannah with a brimming cup of hot java in my hands while the boys chitchatted at the end of the table. The usual, now. Standard programming in a way. Except today, either the boys were late or I was early because the end of the table was empty, and as I sat across from my female teammates, they had abandoned their breakfasts for the tablet gripped in Hannah's hands. Their faces were so close to the screen, they could have kissed it.

“What are you guys looking at?” I asked.

They both jumped, as if they just realized my presence at the table. Hannah hid the tablet behind her back.

“Nothing.”

I frowned at her. “You'll have to be less obvious than that.”

“I swear. It's nothing.”

I grinned. “Are you peeking at naked ladies?”

“Uh, yeah. That's it.” She relaxed a little. The tablet now rested near her side.

“Oh, okay. In that case . . .” I reached across the table and snatched it from her.

“Kali!”

“Come on. What's the big deal?” I brought the tablet up to my face.

“Please don't be mad.”

“Why would I be mad?” I tapped the black screen out of sleep mode. Our issue of
Pro Gamer Weekly
magazine flashed across it. “Hey, it's out already . . .”

My voice faded as I realized the picture they'd chosen as the cover. My head resting on Rooke's chest. His hands fingering through my hair. Not the team. No. Not all of us.

Just me.

And
him
.

The caption read:

In the wake of tragedy, RAGE warrior Kali Ling finds comfort in the arms of her team's newest recruit.

I gripped the tablet so hard, my knuckles turned white. Hannah's breathing went rapid. “Oh, God. She's trembling. It's like watching a volcano as it explodes.”

Lily shrugged and stabbed at her cereal with a spoon. “I told you she'd hate it.”

“What—the hell—is this?” I screamed.

Hannah tried to pry the tablet from my hands. “Kali, please. A flexible LED screen is not indestructible.”

I ripped it from her grip and marched toward the cafeteria's exit just as Derek and Rooke walked in carrying trays. As I passed by Rooke, I tore the tray from his gasp and tossed it on the nearest table. He shot me a look halfway between confused and pissed.

“What's your problem?”

“Come with me.”

I grabbed his arm and dragged him along by the sleeve. He shook my hand off but followed me down the hall.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

I shoved Hannah's tablet into his hands. “You know anything about this?”

Rooke went quiet as studied the screen. “No.” He scrolled through the magazine. “There's an interview here. And quotes. But they didn't even ask us any questions. Can they do that?”

I flashed him a sarcastic grin. “Welcome to Hollywood.”

Several swear words, a few sharp retorts, and one elevator ride later, we entered the green-and-white walls and antibacterial stench that was Clarence's office. Lo and behold, guess what was plastered across the wallscreen.

That. Fucking. Picture.

Stretching across the length of the room and nearly two stories high, it was spectacularly more annoying at ten by twenty than it ever was on Hannah's tablet. Hell, add some spotlights overhead, and it would be a billboard for
fuck Kali's life
.

With a cell phone pressed to his ear, Clarence waved us into the office. Everyone thought all phones would be videos one day. Pffft. Sure, video conferences were common enough, but no one wants to look perfect all the time. Smeared makeup. Baggy eyes. Even in Los Angeles—the land of the perfect—some people shuffled around in their pajamas at five in the afternoon.

Finished with the call, Clarence pulled the phone away from his face and snapped it against his wrist. It curled around his skin like a wristwatch, but as thin as cardboard. Or plastic. Just like everything else in this world.

“Ah, perfect,” he said as he approached, sounding way too chipper for the crack of dawn. Or seven thirty. “I was about to go looking for you two.”

“No kidding.” I marched across the office, pointing at the wallscreen. “We have to talk about this.”

Clarence nodded. “Yes, apparently the issue is selling faster than any other in history.”

I stopped dead.

“What?”

“Did you really expect any different?” Clarence asked. “The RAGE tournaments are one of the most popular divisions in the VGL, and our team was the highest-rated in the preseason. Intertwine a love story, and it's liquid gold.” He turned to the screen and studied our picture for a moment. “I'm glad I came up with it.”

My jaw clenched. “You
what
? This is because of you?”

“Everyone saw you two fighting inside the last match. Do you have any idea how bad that looks? Painting you two as a couple turns your little screaming contest into a heated lover's quarrel. People love it. They're eating it up.”

A knot grew in my stomach, folding over itself again and again. I forced the next question through my lips, worrying I already knew the answer. “And what are we supposed to do about it?”

“You'll do what's expected of you,” Clarence said. “You'll play the part.”

Yup, knew that. I folded my arms and shook my head. “Absolutely not.”

“We've already gone public with this. It's part of your image now.”

“Then publicize our breakup.”

Clarence mirrored my stance, folding his arms. “I thought you always gave the people what they wanted.”

“Not this.”

“Yes, Kali. You will.” He loomed over me, doing that thing where he looked down his nose into my eyes. “I'm getting sick of your little attitude. I don't care if the relationship between the two of you is real or not, just as long as the cameras think so. You'll act as if you're together, and you'll do it with a fucking smile on your face.”

He glared down at me, and his eyes became endless black pools. Like death. Or a game-over screen. I faltered and looked away, my gaze trailing across the office. The posters of Nathan were already gone, replaced with various shots of the group and a few solos of Rooke. Clarence's
words echoed in my mind. Two weeks, and you'll be forgotten. Would it even take two weeks for everyone to forget about Nathan?

With renewed strength, or anger, I returned my gaze to Clarence's face. “I'm not about to pretend to be with some guy because Nathan died. ‘In the wake of tragedy.' That's bullshit. I'm not about to spit on his memory.”

Clarence sighed. “Kali, he died of an overdose. It's not like he sacrificed himself saving a baby from a fire. Get over it.”

“But he—”

“Leave it,” he snapped. “I'm not going to let your conscience ruin this team or our chance at the championship. Every sponsor we have is two seconds away from dropping us. This”—he pointed at the picture on the screen—“is the best thing to come out of the whole Nathan incident. We can't risk any bad publicity right now. If I ever hear that name again, you'll be the same as him. Forgotten. Is that clear?”

I looked down at my feet, unable to meet Clarence's eyes again. Nathan shouldn't be swept aside. Maybe it was a drug overdose, but he still died. He died because of the games and this lifestyle. But still, this was my career on the line. The rest of my life. If Nathan were the one still here, wouldn't I want him to keep going in the tournament?

I sighed. “Fine.”

Before I said anything I shouldn't, I marched toward the door, the burning anger within growing with every step.

Three feet from the exit, Clarence called out.

“By the way, certain tabloids are offering seven figures for the first shots of you two kissing, so expect the paparazzi to be more aggressive than usual.”