Arena (19 page)

I folded my arms. “Jealous?”

“Of course,” he said, ducking back inside. “He gets to eat pizza all day.”

I glowered at the spot where Rooke had just been, gritting my teeth together. My heartburn was back. Since when did I have competition as the leader of the smart-ass-retorts domain? I caught the door just before it closed and followed Rooke down the hall.

“Up to thirty-five years ago,” he protested, as we entered the rec room, “that's the way everything was delivered.”

I sat on the floor. “I'm just saying it's still weird to see a person instead of a drone.”

He sat next to me and placed the pizza between us. “After the government commandeered so many for the Diablo cleanup, I think it'll be a while before everything gets back to normal.”

“Probably just in time for the next disaster.”

Rooke shrugged. “I don't know. I kind of prefer the human element. It's nice to have a person tell you to have a nice day instead of a machine.”

“Really?” I gasped, placing a hand over my heart. “You prefer things the old-fashioned way? You don't say. Remind me to get you a loom for Christmas.”

He frowned. I laughed.

I grabbed the first slice from the box, watching the cheese pull into foot-long strings. When I took a bite, my eyes fluttered shut. The gooey mozzarella melted in my mouth. I smiled at Rooke as he picked a slice for himself.

“How is it?” he asked.

I sighed. “Almost as good as coffee.”

He chuckled, shook his head, and devoured his slice in three bites.

Boys.

“How's your stomach?” he asked as he reached for another piece.

“Good. I'm taking it slow.”

As I chewed my own slice, the incident with the delivery guy came back to mind. I'd never signed anything. For anybody. None of us had.

“You okay?” Rooke asked, looking over my expression.

“No. That pizza guy was right. We never do things for the fans. We should. They're the reason for all of this.”

“You really think Clarence would go for that?” He scoffed. “He's trying to give us a godlike status. I don't think interacting with the fans would help our image.”

I shook my head and frowned. Image. How important.

I turned to the wallscreen and raised my voice. “On,” I commanded. “Station: VGL.”

The screen flicked on and jumped to the VGL's home channel.

The entire wall filled with a scene on a mountain cliff, where two cars raced side by side up a narrow path. As they entered a tight corner, the inside car swung wide, driving his opponent out. He skidded along the corner, his back wheel cutting off the edge. I stopped chewing and leaned toward the screen.

The scene slowed, purposely entering slow-motion mode as the car teetered. The camera panned up, revealing the stories-high drop into the rocky shards below. My breath caught in my throat. Inside the car, the
driver slammed the clutch into gear, and the car rocketed down the road. Safely. For now.

I sighed. “Ugh. I forgot it was Sunday. Virtual car racing.” I made a face and glanced at Rooke. His grin matched the delivery guy's from earlier. My jaw dropped open.

“You like this stuff?”

He nodded eagerly.

“Oh God, you're one of those men who thinks it's an art form, aren't you?”

He grin faded as he grew defensive. “Of course it's an art form. Who drives their own car anymore?”

I rolled my eyes. Rooke nodded at the screen.

“You ever play anything other than the RAGE tournaments?” he asked, between swallowing pizza slices. “I mean, at this level. Full immersion with no safeguards.”

“Not really. You?”

He nodded. “A little of everything. I doubled up in the amateur league, RAGE and Special Ops.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Better chance of getting picked up as a pro if you do more than one.”

“Is there much difference between them?”

He half nodded. “Yes and no. They're both about tactics and eliminating the enemy, but you tend to die faster in the Ops. It's all about shooting, so without limbs flying off everywhere, it's not nearly as brutal. At least, when you're on the inside. Some viewers think it's just as bad. And by bad, I mean good.”

We shared a grin.

“Does getting shot hurt?” I asked.

Okay, yes, I'd played enough first-person shooters to be an army commander. But never had I played one at the pro level, where I'd actually feel the bullet puncturing my body.

“Usually, swords hurt more, but it really depends where you get hit,” he explained. “You have to take out your opponent as fast as possible in
the Ops games. Even when they're down, they can still shoot you or throw a grenade. It's not like in the RAGE tournaments where you'd only have to stay at arm's length to avoid getting hit. Plus, in any type of army setting, you tend to wear armor, so when you get hit, either it doesn't go through or you get killed instantly.”

“Hey, we wear armor, too.”

“Yeah, but there's a lot more skin exposed.”

His eyes landed on my stomach when he said it, and for a second, he seemed to forget about the pizza in his hand. His gaze slid up my form, slowly, and met my eyes. Warmth curled through me, and my breath shortened under the intensity of his stare. I swallowed the bits of pizza in my mouth in a gulp. Finally, he seemed to remember he was in the middle of speaking and cleared his throat.

“So, it's easier to find vulnerable spots and kill your opponent in a multitude of ways.”

Multitude. Pffft. Who uses that kind of word in everyday speech? Though judging by the look in his eyes, it wasn't killing me he was thinking about doing in a multitude of ways. I was pulled out of the thought when Rooke folded two slices together and stuffed them into his mouth at once.

I motioned at the synthetic box the pizza came in. “You gonna go for that next?”

He shrugged. “What? Haven't you seen a guy eat before?”

I scoffed and turned back to the wallscreen. A giant boulder tumbled down the mountain's side and crushed a car on the road. The vehicle flattened and burst instantly, like a balloon popping glass shards and metal bits instead of pink rubber.

Rooke winced. “Yeah. That's not fun.”

“You've done car racing, too?” I asked. He answered with the same cat-inspired grin. I shook my head and glanced at the open doorway to the facility. “Clarence would kill us if he walked in right now.”

“Sure, he's a dick, but you have to feel for the guy a little. His brother was killed in the Diablo disaster.”

I nearly choked on my food. “What? Are you serious?”

Rooke nodded. “Yeah.”

“So, his brother worked at the plant?”

“Are you kidding? They owned the plant. That's how his family made all their money. Nuclear energy.”

“Wait, how do you even know that?”

“Like I said, I read
everyone's
stats.”

I chewed a little slower then as my body went numb. I didn't know Clarence even had a brother, let alone that he'd died. Is that really why he was such a dick all the time? Guess everyone in this industry had a story to hide and a part to play.

“I still find it surprising,” I said, “that people love to watch virtual gaming so much. You'd think with all the violence and war threatening to break out all the time, they'd be looking for entertainment that's a little more . . . mellow.”

“War is always threatening to break out. It's nothing new. Bottom line: People know this is fake. I think it helps them to deal with violence. Makes it not so real, you know?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“You have a point, though. Maybe that's why the Special Ops and other games aren't as popular.”

“You mean they're too real? Like, something in the past or future is unfamiliar, so people enjoy it more. But something present-day just reminds them of the negative aspects of their lives.”

“Exactly. The RAGE tournaments are based off ancient Rome, so no one nowadays ever experienced that before. It lets them escape.”

On-screen, the racing cut out to a special promo. Five familiar warriors appeared in their battle armor, each a gigantic brute with a menacing grin, gripping a blade covered in blood.
YOUR 2054 RAGE TOURNAMENT WINNERS' BRACKET FINALISTS.
I swallowed thick and dropped my slice of pizza back in the box. “I think I just lost my appetite.”

Rooke looked over the screen and shrugged. “They're just human guys. Painting them as invincible is part of their image.”

“Then they're damn good at playing the part,” I said, just as the contents of my stomach roiled, and a bitter taste filled my mouth. I gripped my midsection and doubled over, breathing sharply through my mouth.

Rooke surveyed me for a second before his gaze stopped on my stomach. “That's not because of InvictUS, is it?”

I shook my head. “Why do I feel so nauseous? Is it the pizza?”

“You didn't plug in all day. Plus, isn't this the time you'd usually be doing a hit at the club?”

Yeah, it was. Guess this was the withdrawals he talked about earlier.

“What other symptoms should I expect?” I asked.

“Maybe some headaches. But it will be more psychological than anything.”

“You mean I'll crave it?”

“That, and when you don't let yourself have it, you'll get . . . irritable.”

“You mean I'll be a bitch.”

He laughed. “Sure, if that helps.”

The waves in my stomach gradually subsided, like when the ripples of a pond smooth out again. I took a deep breath and slowly pushed myself up straight.

“I talked to Dr. Renner about what's going on,” I told him, staring at the wallscreen. “She says I need to come up with a plan to change and share it with someone who will understand.” I glanced at him. “So, I guess I'm asking for your opinion on what to do. I can't cut out of the virtual world entirely. I still have to plug in for the team.”

“You don't have to cut it out completely. The sleeping pills, and the HP, and whatever else—that should go. We could sneak out of the clubs early. That will get you away from the drugs and give you some time at night to focus on yourself. I think as long as we leave together, it'll be fine.”

“And then?”

He shrugged. “Whatever you need. We could come back here. Train. Sit out on the roof. Meditate.”

I hadn't meditated in years. But it had always been a way of quieting the mind and connecting to the body—two things I needed desperately.

“And you're not wrong with thinking that games are supposed to be
fun more than anything else,” he continued. “You just need to retrain your mind to think that way. The virtual world is just for fun, and reality is the place worth living.”

“How do I do that?”

“You focus on the real. You have to learn to appreciate everything that's here.”

My hand instinctively went for my necklace. I thumbed the pendant, outlining the shape of the yin yang, especially the S curve down the middle that separated the whole into two halves. Virtual and real. They went hand in hand. Together, they symbolized my life as a gamer. But one had completely overtaken the other. Looks like it was time to brush up on the importance of balance. I think I had more than enough books to refer to.

“When it comes to games,” he continued, “stick to consoles more than virtual. The classic ones seem to help.” He grinned. “We could play a few rounds.”

I dusted off my hands and stood. “Not tonight.”

Rooke peered up at me. “Where are you going?”

“To bed, and part of you is coming with me.”

He choked even though there wasn't any food in his mouth. “What?”

“Yes,” I said, smiling. I leaned toward him. He retreated, eyes darting about, like he didn't know how to react to my closeness. My smile grew even wider.

“I have reading to do.”

T
his became our new standard programming.

Every night, Rooke and I would meet on the mats. Darkness and moonlight no longer signaled parties and drinking, but instead meant the weight of a staff in my hands and the sounds of feet padding the mat and wood hitting wood echoing through the room. The night always ended in the rec room, studying matches and various VGL tournaments over whatever food we snuck into the facility for the evening.

After devouring my fill and getting a few jabs in with Rooke—physical and otherwise—I'd return to my bunk to reread the
Tao Te Ching
and other books. Just before sleep, I'd sit on the edge of my bed and meditate, focusing on my body. Focusing on the real. We couldn't come up with an excuse to stay in all the time, so we developed a routine. For show. We'd go to the clubs with the team, scoop a couple of hits of HP from the tray, and disappear onto the dance floor, crushing the pills beneath our feet.

No one was the wiser.

On the dance floor, I pressed my back against his front. His hands immediately gripped my hips and pulled me even tighter against him. I sighed and melted into him, pressing myself into every valley and crevice. Together, our hips rolled in harmony with the pulsing beat of the club. Within seconds, my heartbeat matched. I was completely aware of my body. And his.

Hey, I was supposed to be focusing, after all.

Everyone in the club stared. The bartenders, the patrons. Even the other gamers. Some straight-out gawked while others flitted glances with as much heat in their eyes as there was between us. I smiled my practiced warrior smile and gave them what they were silently begging for. I reached up and wrapped my arms around Rooke's neck, threading my fingers through his hair. Then I jerked his head down, pressing his lips against my neck. He chuckled, and his hot breaths flashed across my skin. I let my eyes roll back, let everyone watch, as his hands devoured my form, as he wrapped himself around me until his body practically swallowed mine.

He pressed his lips to my ear.

“Wanna leave?”

For what?

I shook my head, and my brain cleared.

Training. Yes, training.

I led the way back to the VIP lounge, where our teammates sat watching whatever VGL event was on that night.

“See you guys later,” I said, grabbing my purse from the booth.

“Where are they going?” Derek asked, as we walked away.

“To ‘practice,'” Hannah told him, making quotation marks with her fingers.

Derek watched us leave through thin slits of his eyes. But Lily—stone-faced Lily—winked at me.

Even the girls were buying it.

The second we stepped outside, the cameras flashed. All the paparazzi were still there, as some of the other gamer celebrities were just arriving to the club. We stole the spotlight every time as we left, fondling each other, acting like no one else could see us until we'd disappear into the car.

As soon as we arrived back at the facility, we'd rush to change into our training gear and meet on the mats. At some point in the night, I'd slump against the mat, trembling with nausea and weakness. Tonight was no different. Down on my knees, I braced my hands against the mat, waiting for the dizziness to pass. Rooke sat beside me.

“You wanna call it quits for tonight?”

“No,” I said, just as a gagging fit seized me. Rooke steadied me, bracing his hands on either side of my abdomen. When my coughing fit subsided, I slumped against him, breathing careful, deliberate breaths through my mouth to calm my raging stomach. He paused for a second before wrapping his arms around me completely. I didn't protest. His closeness, his arms around me, knowing he'd been through this, too, all gave a sense of comfort. So I stayed against him and listened to his heart beating soundly in his chest.

“You said it gets better.”

“It does. You're doing well,” he insisted. “You're not as nauseous as often, or for as long. And you never did anything harder than HP. You're recovering quicker than I did.”

“You didn't have help.”

It hit me then. He went through this alone. I'd be a miserable asshole, too, if I had to deal with all this by myself.

“Look,” I began. “Sorry if I was rude to you when you first joined the team. I didn't realize what was going on with you, but that shouldn't have mattered anyway.”

He shook his head. “I should have told you. As team captain, you should have known what was wrong. But I was worried I'd get kicked off the team, and I needed this.”

I looked up to his face, and he tilted his down at the same time. For a minute, we just sat there, looking at each other. This wasn't like in the clubs, where it was all for show. Something passed between us, like a moment of understanding. His jaw slacked, and his features went soft. I could have kissed him then—IF my stomach hadn't been a looping roller coaster. When I met his eyes, they were staring at my lips, as if he was thinking the same thing.

He cleared his throat and looked down at the floor. “Are you going to be okay for Saturday?”

Saturday. Another matchup. Another time where I'd have to go virtual.

“I have to be. For the team.” I looked up at him again. “Do you think they know?”

“No. Training has been going well all week. As far as I can tell, they don't know you're sick.”

“Because you've been helping cover it up.”

“You could tell them. I think they'd understand.”

“Maybe, but I'm not ready for them to know.”

“That's fair. What do you want to do for the rest of the night?” he asked. “Classic video games? It's your turn to pick.”

“Mortal Kombat.”

He laughed. “Nice choice.” He got to his feet and helped me up. My stomach behaved itself and even retreated a little.

In the rec room, we each snatched up a controller, and the room filled with the sounds of me kicking his ass. Digitally, of course.

“You better not be letting me win,” I warned.

He glanced at me, scowling. “I'm not.”

I laughed, and soon he was laughing with me.

The rest of the week went like this. Some nights after training and studying, we'd just talk. About everything. Video games. Taoist philosophy. Our lives before pro gaming. Others, I'd be too weak for even that, so he'd help me to bed or rub my back whenever my stomach wasn't behaving itself. On Saturday night, right before we stepped into our pods for the next match, our eyes met. Despite the busyness of the pod room, a sort of silence settled between us. We had a bond, now. We'd gone through battle together, and not just in the arena.

Inside the tower, I took a breath and tightened my grip on my sword. I felt strong. Stronger than I ever had.

When the other team burst through the entrance, Rooke and I fought side by side while Lily took the rear. Our blades swirled through the air, in and around each other, making figure eights and S shapes in our foes. Like our nightly matchups, we were becoming synchronous.

When we left the pods, our eyes met again. This time, we were both smiling. We weren't the only ones. Above the pod doors, Howie and Marcus beamed at the camera.

“Another amazing match. Defiance, welcome to the losing-bracket semifinals.”

We had two teams left to beat. The last team left in the losers' bracket, and the team InvictUS had defeated in their finals.

Rooke and I kept up the same routine into the next week, sneaking out of the clubs early to return to the facility and practice together. My nausea became less, my sleep got deeper and more restful. I hadn't lost time or phased out in days, and I was lasting longer and longer during our nightly training. It was going smoothly until halfway through the week when my tablet pinged in the middle of practice. I dropped my staff, jogged over to the bench where I'd left it, and tapped the screen.

Kali,

Report to my office immediately.

Clarence

I frowned, and my shoulders fell.

“Oh shit.”

“What's wrong?” Rooke asked.

I held up the tablet to him.

“We're caught.”

—

I scrambled to change back into my clubbing clothes, and stumbled into Clarence's office like I'd had one too many.

“You wanted to see me?”

“You've been ducking out of the clubs early.”

Great. He'd figured out our little ruse. I couldn't give up training and staying away from the clubs. Not with how much better I was feeling by the day. How was I going to salvage this?

“Uh, yeah,” I began. “The scene has kind of sucked lately. You know, midtournament lag. It's bound to pick up again—”

“I don't care what your excuse is. It's brilliant.”

I blinked. “. . . what?”

“By leaving early, you're catching maximum exposure to the paparazzi. You've made the cover of every tabloid so far this week. Good job.”

Uhhh, was this actually going in my favor? I went with it.

“You mean I have to keep it up?” I whined. “This blows.”

“Of course you have to keep it up.”

“But—”

He slammed a hand on the desk. “Enough. You will continue to leave those clubs early every night. Is that clear?”

I sighed. “Fine. Whatever. Can I go?”

He nodded and waved like he was shooing me, and turned his attention to his desk. I pressed my lips together to hide my smile. I left, changed back into my training gear, and returned to the training room. Rooke met me with a serious expression. “What's the damage?”

I smiled.

“Absolutely none.”

Before we returned to sparring, I sat on the mats and crossed my legs. Rooke looked down at me with narrowed eyes and a tilted head.

“What are you doing?”

“Centering myself.” I tapped the ground in front of me. He reluctantly sat and mirrored my pose.

“Have you ever tried meditating?” I asked.

“Once in a while.”

That didn't surprise me, given his appreciation of Chinese philosophy.

“How about before a fight?”

He considered it and shook his head. “Never.”

“You know, in feudal Japan, samurais would meditate before battle. In certain martial art schools, they'll have you meditate in a position that's uncomfortable, sometimes even painful. You'll sit on your knees, or your knuckles, or even hang upside down. And you'll stay like that for minutes, maybe hours on end. The point is not to learn to ignore the pain or even find a way to alleviate it. The point is to accept it. Training your mind to be calm while the body is suffering makes you a stronger fighter. That way, when you're hurting or even dying, you won't panic. You'll focus on the battle, not yourself.”

He smiled. “Sounds like the School of Kali Ling.”

“Well, I'm not going to hurt you if you behave. Now, focus on connecting your mind to your body.”

“How?”

“You find your chi.” I pressed my hand against his stomach, just below his navel. He glanced down.

“I think mine is a few inches lower.”

I punched his gut. He grunted, then grinned. “Hey, you said—”

“You're not behaving.”

He nodded, but his grin didn't fade. “Fine.”

“Rest your hands on your knees and straighten your spine,” I told him. He did. “Your body should be aligned, but relaxed at the same time. Deep breaths help. Close your eyes.”

He did that, too, and I closed my own.

“Now what?” he asked.

“Focus on your body. Feel your muscles relax. Sense your heartbeat, your pulse. Just be still and listen.”

He went quiet then, and didn't ask any more questions. I took a breath, eyes still closed, and focused. Energy teemed inside me. Robust yet passive. Solid yet fluid. A perfectly balanced moment. Life was starting to fill more and more with these moments. I was at peace. I was myself. Even with the soft breaths caressing my face.

Soft breaths?

I opened my eyes. Rooke's face was an inch from mine.

“Bah!”

I recoiled as he exploded with laughter. I punched his shoulder. “This is serious.”

“I know. Your concentration is good if you sensed me that close.”

“Maybe I smelled you.” I frowned at him. “The point was to focus.”

“I did. Honestly.” He smiled. “Thanks for sharing that with me.”

He stood and offered a hand to pull me to my feet.

We took our positions on the mat, staffs in hand, and attacked. The staffs became a blur. The sharp chopping of wood echoed through the room in a pace so fast, woodpeckers would have fainted. Circling each
other on the mats, we both feigned, swung, and snapped. Neither landed a shot. There were no weaknesses left between us.

We broke apart, panting, both leaning on our staffs. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, and the smile wouldn't leave my face. God, it was like a drug. No, better than a drug. This was bo-staff-training sex.

“Hey. Am I interrupting?”

I glanced to the side. Derek stood at the edge of the mats. I nodded at him.

“Not at all. What's up?”

He rubbed a hand against the back of his neck and shifted his weight. “Um, can I join?”

I glanced at Rooke, who nodded eagerly. I grinned.

“Here. Take my spot.”

I passed him my staff and took a seat on the edge of the mats. Derek rotated the staff in his hand a few times, staring at it like it was a stripper pole. I could practically read his mind.
What the hell am I supposed to do with this?

Rooke stood tall, staff in hand like it was part of his body. His chest barely moved with his breaths. There was my gladiator again.

My gladiator?

Rooke attacked slowly, letting Derek get a feel for the rhythm. Then he snapped the staff down and caught his shin. Derek hopped around on one leg, hissing.

“Holy shit, that stings.”

I chuckled to myself, realizing this is what I must have looked like the first night.