Sweat trickled down my back, soaking my shirt, as I squeezed my way through the overcrowded bus to the rear door and slapped the bell. The ding caused everyone to scowl. We were all late for something, cursing the Houston public transport system.
The bus slowed to a stop. The door hissed open, allowing a wave of hot summer air to rush in, destroying what little progress the air conditioning managed to achieve in the past few minutes.
The space in front of the Waller Convention Centre stood empty. The crowd of two thousand who brought tickets had long since entered. A massive Warlord's banner hung above the entrance, rippling in the breeze, and reflecting the Houston sun.
I leapt onto the sidewalk and started running for the players' entrance to the right of the main door, knowing the place from past tournaments. My worn trainers pounded out a beat as I sped across the hot concrete. The only thought going through my head was…fuck, another curveball.
A more perfect analogy for my gaming career probably didn't exist. Being late for my last tournament summed it up nicely.
A few years ago, I might have been angry. However, the bus breaking down was just another curveball life had thrown my way. I had been standing at the plate so long that striking out didn't faze me anymore. If anything, the curveballs made me more resilient. You have to be when your pro gaming career spends nine years on the edge of a home run without ever quite taking that final step which pushes you from semi-pro to pro.
If you don't become resilient, you break down or become one of those basement trolls who live with their parents and spend their free time watching professional matches, yelling at their computer screens, deluding themselves into thinking they could do better. The only difference between those guys and those washed up high-school athletes is they never got laid as much.
I'd seen it happen to my friends. Charley, Max, Don—one by one, our old team's lack of success drove them away. They went straight, got real jobs: mechanic, programming, a male nurse. Yeah, we all gave Don shit for that.
Now it was my turn to go straight.
My turn to let go of my dreams.
My new team, if you could call us that, was third in the line-up. The second teams were already facing off and halfway through their match. I could hear the commentator through the live stream on my phone. The delay was about ten minutes behind, and if I didn't get inside in the next few minutes, we would forfeit.
I needed this win.
Not to go pro, that dream was as dead as a hooker in a Vegas hotel bathroom. No, this win was to pay the bills. My university tuition was covered. I'd always been bright, so I'd earned myself a decent scholarship even at twenty-six. But I had other expenses.
Expenses the wealthy parents of the high school kids I was coaching promised to cover if I could make their little assholes place in the top three. If they failed, I was looking at weekends of flipping burgers. Five grand wasn't much to some people, but it would keep me in ramen and TV dinners for the next year, and by then, my accounting papers would qualify me for work that didn't require manual labour.
I reached the bottom of the stairs and took them two at a time, holding out my player pass. "Arnold Parker, I'm in team Archomundo," I shouted to the overweight security guard in front of the door.
I ran most days to keep fit. So the little run for the door hadn't left me anywhere close to panting and my words came through clear. The guy, only a couple of years older than me, who had been mildly concerned by my speed, immediately lost interest, going so far as to step out of my way, waving me through.
As he stepped aside, a small blonde cosplay girl, wearing some sort of white robe with gold stitched runes came into view. She'd hidden behind his bulk, her eyes downcast as she muttered under her breath, blocking the player's entrance.
"Coming through," I shouted, not wanting to slow.
The girl remained in place, muttering. Something about her presence triggered my inner nerd instincts, telling me she was in character, the way hardcore cosplayers loved to be. She was just a kid, not even old enough to be in high school, so she was probably just playing a game with people, testing their nerd credentials.
I smiled.
My sister Sophie was the same at her age.
If I could remember who she was cosplaying, maybe I could say some sort of phrase and she would get out of the way. She was definitely a side character from one of the newer fantasy anime. Any of the older ones and I wouldn't need to think about it. Her character's name sat on the edge of my tongue, which annoyed me more than her being in my way. There was a time I could literally name any character any cosplayers were impersonating at any con, but the last few years I'd been missing more and more.
I had to face facts.
I was getting old.
I didn't have endless hours to waste watching anime.
I reached the top of the stairs, and the name failed to appear. I slowed to a quick walk, marching up to the girl, intending to squeeze past since I couldn't remember who she was pretending to be.
I turned side on and began to squeeze by. "Pardon me…argh—"
The girl's palm slammed against my chest glowing with a nebulous green light. There was a flash of pain as the muscles around her hand constricted. The pain doubled and then doubled again. I felt my heart beat, once, twice, and then I was falling.
The security guard stepped through the girl, making her vanish like a mirage, concern engraved on his features. His lips moved, but no sound came out. And the world got smaller and smaller.