Abby Ryan has her whole life planned out, up until graduation that is. As a journalism student at the University of Southern Washington, she has one goal in mind for her last semester of senior year: secure a scholarship for graduate school. But whe...
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It's almost ten, and even though I should be studying for my organic chemistry test tomorrow, I let Luke and Micah convince me to join their NBA2K tournament. We're three games deep, and somehow, I've won every one so far. I have no fucking clue how, especially since I haven't played in a while, but since I've beat Luke nearly every game, and his puffed-up ego can't seem to wrap his head around that, he's been bitching the entire time. Apparently, it's only becausehe "gave me the good controller"—the one that hasn't been brutally disfigured from him and Micah slamming it down like assholes every time they lose a game—which, to be fair, is probably true. But regardless of how it's happening, it's really pissing him off.
"What the fuck?" He stands up from the couch as my player steals the ball from his, as if standing is somehow going to give him an advantage. "This game is fucking glitching! Did you see that shit?"
I honestly have no clue how this is happening. Luke should be beating my ass right now since this is all he and Micah seem to do when they're not in class, at practice, or getting fucked up at a party. He's usually impossible to beat, and I'm more shocked than he is that I'm winning.
"Right in his fucking mouth." I laugh, watching the replay of my player dunking a nasty one in his player's face. Micah leans over and slaps my outstretched hand, and we both watch as Luke stares in disbelief at the screen. It's pretty clear from that play that his controller was glitching, but when I glance back at Micah's damn near giddy smile, I know we agree that we're not going to admit it.
"That's—no, fuck that—no. This is fucking bullshit." He flings his controller down into the couch, and we all watch as it bounces high off the cushion and hits the floor with an incriminating crack. I glare at him as he rubs his hands through his hair roughly because that's now the third controller he's broken.
"Whatever. I'll buy a new fucking controller," he snaps.
"Don't blame the controller, bro. You just fucking suck," Micah calls, tossing another chip into his mouth. Luke flips him off before disappearing into the kitchen, where the sound of a beer top popping off and hitting the counter echoes through the living room.
Micah grins at me, the kind of smile reserved for rare, fleeting moments like this when Luke McConnell finally isn't the one rubbing his 2K wins in our faces.
"I want a rematch," he calls out as he rounds the corner into the living room. I toss the controller to Micah and get up, stretching my arms above my head to get those three cracks from between my shoulders. My legs still fucking burn from the three miles coach made me run during our morning workout yesterday for my stadium jumping.
It was still worth it.
"I'm tapping out for the night, boys. Abby should be here soon." I glance down at my phone, hoping to see something from her, but aside from the usual stream of texts in our team group chat, there's nothing new from the one person I actually want to talk to right now. I was supposed to get a FaceTime from her two hours ago after she got out of dinner with her mom, but instead, I got a text—I can't talk, but I'll see you soon.
