GuildMaster42: That’s not part of the requirement
ButterBoi69: ...maybe a little bit because I miss your characters already
And maybe because talking to someone who gets excited about games makes me remember why I loved them. Makes me want to dig out my old controller and see what I’ve been missing. Makes me wonder what else I could reclaim from the pile of things I thought I had to sacrifice.
9
PIPER
We’re packing up from a successful tutoring session—it’s been a month now and I’m finally starting to get it—when someone calls out across the quad.
“Yo, Prescott!”
A guy built like a brick wall jogs over—jersey number 82, arms that could probably bench press me and my laptop. He and Ethan do that complicated bro-handshake thing that involves way too many moving parts.
“Missed you at the game Saturday,” the guy says. “Could’ve used your eyes on that third-quarter fumble.”
“Saw the highlights,” Ethan replies, and suddenly his whole posture shifts. Shoulders back, stance wider—he looks like he belongs on a field. “Martinez needs to stop telegraphing his throws. Defense read him like a picture book.”
“Right? That’s what I said!” They launch into rapid-fire football speak—defensive formations, pocket presence, things that might as well be ancient Greek. I stand thereclutching my laptop, watching Ethan transform into someone I haven’t seen before.
The player finally notices me. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“All good,” I say, though I understood maybe twelve percent of their conversation.
They wrap up with promises to catch up later, and we head toward campus coffee. My mind’s spinning.
“You know a lot about football for someone who doesn’t play,” I observe.
“Yeah, used to play in high school.” He shrugs, but it’s too casual. Forced. “You want coffee? I’ve got two hours before Game Theory.”
“Sure. I’ve got three before Machine Learning.”
CC’s is packed with the usual suspects—stressed pre-meds, art students covered in suspicious stains, that one guy who’s definitely been here since yesterday. We snag a corner table, and I immediately spread out my notes like I’m marking territory.
“So you played in high school,” I press, booting up my laptop. “Why not here? You clearly know the game.”
“It just wasn’t for me.” He pulls out his own computer, the one covered in game studio stickers. “Found other stuff I loved more.”
But the way he said it—like a door slamming shut—I recognize that tone. It’s the same one I use when people ask about Miles.
We work in comfortable silence for maybe ten minutes. He’s sketching something that looks like a character in armor. I’m pretending to optimize functions while actually stealing glances at his drawings—and at him. The way his jaw tightens when he erases something. How his left shoulder sits slightly lower than his right.
“You’re really good at that,” I say, nodding at his sketch.
“Thanks. Four years of practice.” He adds shading to what’s definitely armor now. “Plus, turns out I can draw for hours without?—”
He stops mid-sentence, entire body going still. The change is instant—shoulders squaring, jaw setting, like someone flipped a switch from relaxed to ready-for-war.
I follow his gaze across the coffee shop. A girl with sleek dark hair is at the counter, laughing at something the barista said. She’s gorgeous in that intimidating way—like she walked out of an Instagram filter.
“Shit,” Ethan mutters. But instead of looking away, he watches her with an expression I can’t read.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. Just—” He cuts himself off as the girl turns, scanning the shop. Her eyes land on our table and her perfect smile shifts into something sharper.
This is weird. I’ve only seen Ethan confident and easy-going, always ready with a joke. Now he looks like he’s bracing for impact.
