Arena (28 page)

The mayhem of the pressroom dulled down to a general rumble as people realized the questioning had begun.

Hannah spoke up, answering a question seriously for once. Our characters were melting away. “We've been training harder than ever and longer every day. We study our opponents, but more importantly, we study ourselves.”

The sea of hands waved wildly, like the wheat fields in high wind. Another reporter stood.

“Kali, you've become reclusive in these past few weeks, especially this one leading up to the championship. Is that some part of your strategy?”

In so many ways.

I leaned toward the microphone and unleashed a wicked smile. “You'll have to watch to find out.”

Then I winked at the cameras. The room exploded in flashes, and I blinked back stars. The emcee must have motioned toward a reporter, because another question echoed through the room while I blinked away the psychedelic haze of the cameras.

“Rooke, any comment on your relationship with Ms. Ling?”

He paused before leaning into the microphone. “The arena isn't the only place where she's a warrior.”

He glanced at me, heat in his eyes. The reporters reacted, chuckling and exchanging bold looks. A few of the men clapped. It's for the show, I told myself, though my foot itched to kick him under the table.

A voice called out from the back of the room.

“Your rivals InvictUS had some incredible things to say about you during their last interview. Some people are calling this the greatest current rivalry in all of sports. Do you have any response?”

Derek looked directly into the camera. “We'll see you in the fields.”

A reporter stood in the front row. “Between the millions of dollars in prize money and your reputation as athletes, what's more at stake for you?”

Lily answered.

“Pride.”

I smiled to myself, feeling that very emotion swell in my chest. So
much that I decided to be bold and pressed my lips against my microphone.

“Win or lose, we'll be dedicating the match to our former teammate Nathan. In case some of you forgot”—I paused to clear my throat of the vindictive tone stuck inside it—“Nathan died earlier this season of a drug overdose. Winning the tournament was his dream. He'll be in our minds and hearts through the matchup, and we ask that you keep him in yours as well.”

The reporters stared at me, dumbfounded, throwing sideways glances at each other. I could practically hear their thoughts. A drug overdose? What is she talking about? I thought Nathan died of a heart defect.

Above them all, I could hear Clarence screaming in my head, too, until I pictured him as a little ant that I crushed with my thumb. The emcee shot me a look of sheer shock. He cleared his throat into the microphone.

“Okay, that's enough for tonight.”

Like always, he was ending the press conference early while the reporters shouted in protest and hollered more questions as we left, and even after the doors had shut behind us. Clarence called me into his office as soon as the conference ended. I stood in front of his desk as he lectured and stuffed items into his briefcase.

“I know the sponsors were the ones to encourage the memory of Nathan, but I'm not so sure how much they'd like you talking about it.”

Ah, yes. The sponsors. Even Clarence was in the dark about that one.

“Gives us something even bigger to fight for, right?” I said, feigning innocence. “The more we stand to lose, the better. The more conflict and tension there is, the more the audience will eat it up.”

Clarence halted for half a second, as if someone had temporarily hit the pause button in his life. Then he snapped back to reality and rummaged in his desk again.

“Yes, I suppose you're right,” he mumbled. “It doesn't matter anyways. The censors cut out the part about his drug overdose, so no harm done. Good thing there's that ten-second delay to air.”

My stomach fell to my knees. I stuttered.

“B-but the reporters—”

“Won't say anything. Hell, half those magazines are owned by the sponsors' parent companies. They won't print anything they shouldn't.”

My eyes fell shut, and I let a slow sigh pass through my nose. Defeated. How else was I going to speak the truth? I couldn't hack the advertising database again. No sponsor would claim responsibility for it this time, given the content. And I couldn't get the word out through the cameras or the tabloids. I didn't accept defeat easily, but how was I going to get past the media?

“I have to admit you have a gift for this, Kali,” Clarence began, “for manipulating the game in your best interest.”

So right, and so wrong. Manipulating the industry for the interest of the game and those who played it, maybe—not the other way around. Though it didn't surprise me that was the way he saw it.

“If I didn't know better,” he said with a click of his tongue, “I'd consider you a threat to my job.”

Oh, I was a threat, even if I was only a mere blip on his radar. Every day that passed, my desire to rip down the gaming industry grew. Though part of me had to wonder if this was a test. In ancient civilizations, to become top dog, you had to take out the dictator. I was a gladiator, after all. But Clarence wasn't the real problem. He was a puppet.

I was no puppet.

If I owned a team, I'd let them be themselves, not some image created for them. I'd give them regular therapy sessions. Mental checkups would be just as important as the physical ones. I wouldn't falsify their drug tests. Hell, I'd do everything differently because my attention would be on those who really mattered. The gamers and the fans, not the industry and the sponsors.

I watched Clarence jam a few more items into his briefcase and seized the change of subject.

“What are you doing?”

“I have meetings to attend tonight with the sponsors,” he said. “We have to finalize any last-minute ads for the championship.”

My stomach did flip-flops. He was leaving? Like, really leaving?

“I trust that you can manage the team well enough,” he continued, “especially since you won't be stepping outside the facility.” He narrowed his eyes at me.

I beamed. “That's the plan.”

He nodded. “Excellent. I knew it was a good idea to keep all of you in. The sponsors are chomping at the bit about this. This is the VGL like they've never seen it.”

Clarence droned on about the meeting and how brilliant he was. I simply smiled and nodded, though my hands itched to give him a good shove out the door. Funny how only a few years ago I was doing this same thing whenever my parents were leaving for the night.

What? VR Parties? Noooo.

Once Clarence had left for the night, I met my teammates in the rec room and revealed our owner's departure.

“Too bad we can't go out,” Hannah said. “We could really party it up tonight without the wrath of god hanging over us.”

I stepped forward. “You're right. We can't go out. But you know what we could do?”

We exchanged glances with each other before the screaming started.

“Classic video games.”

We raced to the rec room and locked ourselves in for the night. We took turns, one sitting out while the other four played. But all of us laughed, killing ourselves over who won and who lost, no matter what game we played or who was playing.

For that night, we weren't so much a team. We were more than that. We were friends now, and most of all, we were having fun.

The way it should be.

F
riday night. The last night before the championship.

I sat on the roof overlooking the facility, where I'd reclaimed my favorite alone spot as just that—alone. Below me, traffic flowed through the streets in endless streams, like raindrops sliding across glass. Up on the rooftop, high above it all, a soft breeze caressed my hair. I tossed my head back and smiled as I looked out over the city. The atmosphere glowed with the reflection of neon and a thousand blinking lights. I glanced down at one of the countless signs weaving its way across the building blocks. It read:

ESPORTS: RAGE CHAMPIONSHIPS
SATURDAY OCTOBER 31—7:00 PM PST
FIGHT-FOR-NATHAN.

A certain taste hung in the air, but not pollution or smog, or even the coolness of the night. It tasted like triumph.

Tomorrow was the end of it all. The weeks had soared past. High school had always dragged by, endless days, years that went on forever. No one told me how fast time starts to go as you get older. And I realized it was funny how, while I always thought I'd get here, I never figured this would be my path. Fighting for someone other than myself, alongside a
team that believed in me as captain and a sort-of boyfriend who believed in me for everything else. Okay, fine. An actual boyfriend. What Rooke and I had was real now. What started out as complete fabrication had evolved into the most interesting and complex relationship I'd ever had.

“I thought I'd find you up here.”

So much for alone time, and speaking of the boyfriend . . . Rooke approached from behind and sat beside me.

“Did you see this?” he asked, pushing a tablet into my hand. The screen featured tomorrow's copy of the
L.A. Times
. On the front page was a picture of us during our press conference days earlier. The fine-print caption below the picture read:

Team Defiance focuses their thoughts on their fallen teammate as they head into the championship round of the RAGE tournaments.

I skimmed through the article. There were quotes—real quotes—from all of us regarding Nathan and how we were motivated by his memory. Although his drug overdose failed to grace the morning edition, my lips still spread into a smile. This wasn't just another crack in the façade. This was a rip-off-the-mask and stare-into-the-sun moment.

Below the article was a video feed of the conference. I tapped on it and watched as it scrolled through the interview. I focused in when the cameras landed on me toward the end of the conference, right before the emcee had called it quits. It is weird seeing yourself on a video, at first, but I'd long gotten used to seeing my image plastered over television screens. And digital ads. And T-shirts.

“Win or lose,” I began on the screen, “we'll be dedicating the match to our former teammate Nathan. In case some of you forgot, Nathan died earlier this season—”

The feed cut off, still disguising the truth behind Nathan's demise. I rolled my eyes. Clarence wasn't kidding when he said they'd cut my confession out of the press. Marcus and Howie popped up on the screen. They looked pissed. Guess Clarence wasn't the only one I'd upset over my little reveal.

“And that's the report from Team Defiance,” Marcus said, pushing
his standard-announcer voice through his anger. “In less than twenty-four hours now, they'll be facing off against their rival InvictUS in what is sure to be a fantastic match—”

I paused the video feed, not needing to hear any more. It sucked ass that I couldn't get the word out about Nathan. If we hacked the advertising database again, the sponsors would know it wasn't any of them that committed the act, and we'd be caught. As much as I was willing to give myself up for the right thing, I couldn't ask it of my teammates. Still, at least this was all heading in the right direction. Months ago, this would have never happened in the VGL.

Rooke must have read my mind because he said, “What was it Clarence told you once? You can't change the world, Kali.”

I held up the tablet. “It is progress, but I don't think this changes the world.”

“All revolutions have to start somewhere.”

I pointed a finger at him. “If you start quoting famous revolutions from history, I'll make you swallow this tablet whole.” I shook it at him to emphasize my threat.

“Just one?”

“NO.”

He chuckled but didn't tempt the seriousness of my warning. Which was good for him because I wasn't kidding. I turned back to the article and scrolled through it some more. I sighed.

“I still wish I could get the truth out, though.”

Rooke shook his head. “Kali, you've done enough. Let it go.”

I shook my own in response, stubborn as ever. “Not until people know the truth. They don't know why Nathan died or what this sport drives gamers to do.”

“Well,” he began, not testing the strength of my obstinacy, “you got Clarence to let us stay in to train, and you inspired your teammates to want the same thing. Maybe you'll motivate someone else to follow your lead.”

“Is this another one of those ‘good leader' things? I don't think everyone practices life through Chinese philosophy.”

“Unfortunately.”

We shared a grin.

“Where's everyone?” Rooke asked, nodding down at the facility.

“The team? They're sleeping.”

He sighed. “Lucky.”

“Yeah. I can't sleep either.”

“Can't believe the championship is tomorrow. This all went by so fast.”

I looked at his profile. “Did you ever think you'd be here?”

“Yeah, but it's like a dream that doesn't seem real even when you're living it.”

I nodded. That's exactly what it felt like. A dream.

“Kinda feels like we should do something to mark the occasion,” I said.

“How about a round of shots?” he joked.

I laughed. “No.”

“Sex?”

I laughed more. “I was hoping for suggestions a little more suited to the occasion.”

“Hey, sex works. You could dress up.” He waggled his eyebrows at me, and I punched his shoulder.

“Wait.” Rooke grabbed my arm. “I know what we can do.” He grinned at me but didn't say anything more. The twinkle in his eye tugged at my curiosity.

“What?”

He didn't answer. Instead, he took my hand, led me to his bunk, and sat me down on the bed.

“Just wait here a second.”

“I thought I said no to sex.”

He ignored me and went to the side of the room. From a wall compartment, he pulled out a metal briefcase, placed it on the bed, and opened it. I peered inside. My breath caught in my throat at the contents in the case.

Nestled in protective, custom-fit foam was the original Nintendo Entertainment System. The 1985, as-gray-as-the-walls-around-us, it's-a-me-Mario, no-really-it's-a-me-Mario, freaking Nintendo set.

“Are you serious?” I screeched like a twelve-year-old girl. I peered up at Rooke as my stomach did somersaults. “Is it real?”

“You bet.”

“Oh my God. Oh my God.” I repeated it a dozen times, followed by, “Can I touch it?”

“Where have I heard that before?”

I was too stunned to punch him or even think of a retort.

He nodded at me for encouragement. “Go ahead.”

I reached into the case and lifted out the black-and-gray controller, complete with two red buttons and one directional pad.

“Is this the original NES? I mean, the actual original set, not a replica?”

He nodded, still grinning.

Of course it was. Would Rooke have anything else?

“God, this thing is like a hundred years old.”

He sat down on the bed beside me. “Not quite, but yeah.”

I held up the connection cables to the system. Each had a gray-plastic carton on the end.

“But wait, this is new technology,” I said, turning it over in my hand to examine it. “What is it?”

“Adapters. Look.”

He pulled a shelf out from the wall, propped his tablet on it, and plugged the cable in. The screen flickered. Then the game's menu popped up, and a pixelated red plumber jumped across it.

My heart rifled into my throat.

“It works?”

Another screech.

Rooke grinned and dropped the remote in my lap. I glanced between it and the screen, openmouthed, not moving, heart still beating in place of my larynx.

“You look tentative,” he said, reaching for my lap. “Maybe you should let me—”

I snatched up the remote. “Screw you. I'm going first.”

He chuckled to himself but didn't reach for the remote again.

The room filled with the sounds of clicking buttons and 1980s synthesizer music as I plowed my way through the 2D world on the screen.
I glanced at Rooke, figuring he'd be bored, but he watched with fascination as I chased coins and broke bricks. Gamers. We never tire of the game.

“Funny how far we've come, huh?” he mused.

Whether he meant the game or us, I wasn't sure. I stuck with the game.

“From stick characters to fully immersive virtual reality in a century. It doesn't seem that fast when you think about it.”

“In context it does. The automobile was invented in 1886, but it wasn't until the late 2020s when they became truly automatic and drove themselves. That's 140 years compared to 60, if you consider 2044 as the introduction of the first fully immersive VR system. Hell, it's less than half the time.”

Wow. History and math. I'm a lucky girl.

I considered jamming the spare remote in his mouth. “You and history. Two peas in a pod.”

Either he missed the sarcasm or ignored it entirely when he started talking again. “You know, the first real video game was invented in the 1950s and ran on an analog comfuterrr—”

His words became a muffled mess as I smothered his lips with my hand.

“Not now, babe. I'm gaming.”

As if just to spite me, the screen broke into a pixilated jumble of red lines. I dropped the remote, mimicking the sinking feeling in my stomach.

“Shit. Is it toast?”

“Nah, it's a glitch.” Rooke waved a hand at the screen like it was a common occurrence. “Just reset the game.”

I pulled the game out of the system and turned it over in my hands, looking for the reset button.

“No,” he said with a laugh. “You have to blow on it.”

“What? What would that do?”

“I don't know. It's just what everyone does.”

I looked between him and the game a few times, and blew on his face instead. When he tried to tickle me as a comeback, I punched him in the ribs, and he doubled over, half coughing, half laughing.

Warriors don't get tickled.

Thirty seconds after I got the game going again, he slipped an arm
around my waist, pulled me tight against him, and pressed his lips against my ear. Little shock waves coursed through me. I fumbled, almost dropping the remote, but kept my eyes on the screen. I recovered and resumed pushing buttons.

“That isn't going to get you a turn any faster,” I told him. He lowered his mouth to the nape of my neck, pressed his lips against my pulse point, and murmured something that sounded like “I want you.”

Good thing even games back then had pause buttons.

We ended up at the foot of his bed, me straddling him. His hands kneaded my hips as I rocked against him in a slow and grinding pace. We clung to each other, every inch touching, mouths brushing. Our eyes locked as our breathing synced. In the moments when our hips met in perfect unison, we'd gasp together. We eased into a rhythm. Soft. Comfortable. Like we'd been together for years.

This is what it was about. Being with another person. Not a release. Not just about pleasure, but what you could give to each other. It was just as much about you as it was about the other person, and all about the connection you created with them. The feel of their body against yours. The taste of their skin. Their vulnerability. Their energy. Their everything.

And to think, I didn't even have to dress up.

The next morning, I woke to his touch. He traced the outline of my hip with his fingers, featherlight touches that sent goose bumps flooding across my skin. I smiled. He'd stayed the night. Sure, it was his bunk, but he'd kept by my side through the moonlight. That was something.

His eyes flicked to mine and back to my hip.

“You know what today is.”

My stomach twisted, half from excitement and half from fear.

“Halloween?” I offered. It really was. But the fact that the holiday coincided with the championship was just coincidence. I sighed. “Yeah, I know.”

It was Saturday. The last Saturday. Only of the tournament, of course, but it might as well have been a Mayan apocalypse. For us, there was no tomorrow. There was only tonight. Only the championship.

He pushed out a heavy sigh. “Last one.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Last one.”

Rooke slid under the covers, nestled against my back, and pulled me tight against him.

“We have a few minutes,” he murmured against my hair, “before the alarm.”

I smiled at the thought and snuggled even more into him. His nose grazed against my neck, his breath tickling the crook of my shoulder. His warmth pressed against my back and curled over me like the blanket. The heat from him rivaled the facility's cool air around us. His steady heartbeat opposed the empty sounds of the facility. This was balance. No. This was pure relaxation.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

My chest tightened at the sound of the alarm. This was it. The beginning of the end. Rooke exhaled into my hair, and his grip tensed around me.

“Showtime.”

—

I returned to my own bunk to shower and dress. Showering with Rooke would have been just a little too tempting to end up late to breakfast. After pulling on my training gear, I sat on the edge of my bed to meditate and focused on centering myself on the sensations around me. The soft memory foam of the mattress conforming to my body, the cool hospital smell of the facility around me, and the soft pinging coming from my tablet.