These Deadly Games(2)

“It’s not funny,” Akira snapped.

“Oh, it’s plenty funny,” said Randall, tossing her a granola bar, though his own cheeks were a bit rosy.

I flicked Akira’s arm. “Kiki, what happened?”

But she just flicked my arm back as Matty hustled downstairs last, Diet Coke in hand, honey-brown eyes glimmering with amusement under his backward blue baseball cap. “Your mom caught them necking in the pantry,” he told me.

Randall shoved him playfully. “Yeah, whatever, man.” Somehow Akira got even redder, even the tip of her nose.

“Oh, God.” I laughed. “Did she try giving you ‘the talk’ or something?” Wouldn’t put it past her.

“Nah, she was cool,” said Randall.

“Unlike Akira’s face.” Matty flopped into his seat at Dad’s old L-shaped desk.

Akira covered her flaming cheeks, but said with a smirk, “You’re one to talk.” Matty always blushed easily.

He guffawed as he hunched over his laptop to reload the game. He was built like a basketball player—tall, broad-shouldered, and lean—though the only sports he’d ever play were pixelated. His sparkling brown eyes, round cheeks, and oversize brown sweatshirt gave him teddy bear vibes, a stark contrast to his vicious mage avatar, best at conjuring sparks and fireballs.

“What happens if none of you hit twenty K?” Randall changed the subject as he took his seat next to Matty. He was our top archer, whose aim made everyone seem like inept storm troopers. It was no surprise he’d already hit twenty K, as had Dylan, those bastards.

“I love you guys, but we are not rock-paper-scissoring this shit,” Matty groaned. None of us wanted to leave this up to chance.

“We’ll get there,” I said. That’s why we were meeting so early on a Friday morning before school. We needed every spare minute to rack up MortalBucks. We only counted earnings at meetings; Randall couldn’t exactly play while ringing up customers at Food Xpress.

“We could call it now,” Zoey piped up.

Of course she’d suggest that—she had only slightly more MortalBucks than Akira, who was in last place. But she was lucky she still had a shot at playing in the tourney at all. If I hadn’t kept my mouth shut—if everyone knew what she’d been doing the past few months—she’d be thrown off the team in a millisecond. She was good at pretending she hadn’t done anything wrong.

To be fair, we all were. Except Dylan. He was free from the memories that plagued the rest of us. The memories that made me wake up screaming in the middle of the night five years later.

“Can we not?” Akira bristled, jarring me back to reality.

I glared at Zoey. “That would be fair … how, exactly?”

She scowled again. “I’m just saying—”

Matty grabbed a pencil from the desk and chucked it at Zoey, missing by about a mile. “Can you stop saying? Rules are rules.” I grinned at him, and he rolled his eyes at Zoey, though pink spots colored his cheeks.

Zoey was still sulking as our dragons dropped us off on a fresh map. She always joked she had resting bitch face—though Akira and I referred to it more as ax-murderer face—but now she looked pointedly miserable, her full pink lips set in a pout, a line furrowed between her angled taupe eyebrows.

After a few minutes, Dylan nudged my elbow. “I’ve got a stockpile of health potions.”

“No, thanks,” I said, emptying a treasure chest. “Just found plenty.”

He smirked. “I wasn’t offering.”

I snorted in response and met his gaze for a moment, catching the glint in his eye. He thought he was so freaking clever. Or cute. And maybe both of those things were true. But really, if it weren’t for Dylan, we wouldn’t be in this mess.

Over the summer, rumors swirled in the MortalDusk Discord about the annual championship. The tourneys in March would be statewide instead of regional, they said. Teams of six would compete instead of five, they said. More prizes than ever. A bigger New York City crown than ever. But we’d need another teammate to qualify. So we held tryouts the first week of junior year and recruited Dylan, the new boy in school. By the time MortalDusk announced the rules—statewide tourneys, but with teams of five—we couldn’t exactly kick him out. Besides, he did boost our odds. He was a fierce enchanter, nimbly crafting potions and spells to eliminate our foes, with solid aim, speedy reflexes, a sharp jaw, defined cheekbones, tousled chestnut hair, and these steel-gray eyes—

Oh, crap. He started pounding on his keys, clearly in a firefight with Randall, who was also annihilating his space bar.

“We got company,” said Randall.

“Dude,” said Matty, “please don’t tell me it’s Fishman.”

“It’s Fishman.” Dammit. Jeremy Fischer, alias Fishman, had dominated the top spot on the Vermont leaderboard for years—at least, until recently.

“Gah. Why’s he playing this early?” Matty was especially determined to beat cocky streamers like Fishman who already had about a zillion followers and made plenty of cash.

“When is he not playing?” said Akira, tucking back a loose strand of black hair.

Ever since Fishman realized a group of bona fide competition lived one town over, he’d made it his personal mission to seek and destroy us. His audience thought it was a riot. He’d be at the tourney on Sunday, but fortunately, his teammates were a master class in mediocrity. Still, he’d give us major trouble in the solo competition.