Day 4: Post-Rachel (Still Life, In Motion)

You miss the bus.

The one you booked, the one you promised yourself you’d catch. The one that would have had you there before the lights came up on the first match of the day. You’d even picked out a breakfast burrito spot two blocks from the venue like a smug little support boyfriend.

But your phone is face down, your brain molasses. The alarm goes off like a mosquito in the room of your dreams—annoying, ignorable. You blink awake to mid-morning light stabbing through your blinds and a little digital notification that says, “Bus departed: 6:15am.”

You groan. Sit up. Then collapse back down again.

It’s not shame exactly. Just resignation, sticky and slow. Like you tried to be the guy who shows up, and fate handed you the sweaty t-shirt of the guy who arrives halfway through. Still, there's a second bus, even if it is a couple of hours later. You catch that one, backpack slung like you're fifteen and auditioning for a student film, caffeine in hand and guilt burning hotter than the coffee.

You track the matches as you ride. HexDrive loses their opener.

Wins the next.

Then loses again.

You grip your phone harder. You’d memorized their bracket—two wins would’ve guaranteed them a mid-tier seeding. Now they’re scraping. Fighting just to avoid dead last. At least it’s only those who lost everything that are likely to be eliminated.

By the time the bus wheezes into the regional hub, you’re practically vibrating. Not from nerves, or love, or guilt. From not knowing.

The tournament venue isn’t fancy—just a converted community center with some LED panels and corporate swag—but the crowd buzzes with the same tension you’ve felt just before the lights rise on the College Spread show. But this is bigger. There are hundreds here who just want to be a part of what’s happening. You sign in at the visitor’s desk, get your little paper bracelet, and shove your way through corridors of gamers, merch tables, and shrieking energy drink promos.

You don’t see Rebekah at first.

What you see is HexDrive, mid-warmup, just off the main stage. One of the screens shows the team roster and avatar layout. Their support is fiddling with his control bindings. Their top laner’s bouncing one leg like it’s a metronome for stress.

Rebekah?

She’s standing dead center, headset around her neck, one foot on a folding chair like she’s about to give a speech or mount a warhorse. Her fingers twitch slightly in midair, tracing phantom movements—combo sequences or maybe prayer sigils. Her eyes track the screen like a hunter who hasn’t eaten yet today.

Jesus.

You slip into a seat in the third row from the back. The crowd’s from all over the region—fans, a few parents, some scraggly streamers hoping for a breakout clip. The lights dim.

“Next match: HexDrive versus Longtail Prophets. Final placement seeding. Winner takes 11th seed, loser takes 16th.”

You don’t know who Longtail Prophets are. You just know they’re in the way. And you sense that what you’re feeling is a tiny part of how Rebekah feels when you go into a new week.

The game launches. And holy hell, HexDrive opens strong. Their jungle traps are tight, their rotations crisp. Rebekah’s control on mid is surgical—she’s making space, baiting ults, drawing their sniper out of cover like she knows his every tick. You sit forward, fists tight.

Then… their support drifts.

Again.

And the Prophets punish it.

Hard.

Momentum swings like a pendulum with a grudge. HexDrive claws back to a tiebreaker, **** into a final match where Rebekah plays like she knows you’re watching—cutthroat, creative, controlled chaos. And when they scrape the win by a final team wipe that’s more luck than plan, the room erupts.

They’ve made it. Barely. But they’ve made it.

You don’t charge backstage. This isn’t your moment. You buy a drink with too much caffeine and not enough flavor, lean against a sad column of faux marble, and wait.

Twenty minutes later, you see her. She’s stripped off her hoodie and tied it around her waist. Her hair’s damp with sweat. Her fingers twitch at her sides like they’re still firing spells.

You raise a hand. “Rebekah!”

She spots you. Squints. Frowns. Then walks over like she’s bracing to tell someone off. “You’re late.”

“Technically, I’m here just in time to say congrats.”

“You missed two matches.”

“Your support missed more.”

Her lips twitch—then break into a crooked smile.

“You are an asshole.”

“And you didn’t tell me to come.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

You shrug. “I fly to Portugal to buttfuck a stranger in a glory hole booth and you think I won’t travel two hours to see you win a Fluorescence tournament?”

She sighs and bumps her shoulder against yours. Not affectionate. Just… real.

“You staying tonight?”

“I’ve got a room.”

“Then maybe I’ll yell at you over breakfast.”

“Promise?”

She hesitates. Then pulls you in by the hoodie and leans her forehead against yours for two beats of breath. No kiss. Just contact. Just that anchor.

“I play at 10am,” she murmurs. “Round of 16. If you oversleep again, I will maim you with a lanyard.”

You grin. “Wouldn’t miss it. Although… that’s not actually any kinkier than my first week’s challenge with Kailani.”

She snorts at that then leaves without another word.

And for the first time since you joined this stupid, horny, overwhelming game… you’re not thinking about points, or cards, or rankings. You’re thinking about her. And what it means to show up.

You head back to your motel and fall asleep still dressed. Her team is eleventh seed. Tomorrow, she’s got the round of 16 and quarterfinals. When she wins there it’s the semis and finals on Sunday. When, you realize. You’re not even considering “if”. This is Rebekah in her game.

In your mind, she’s already won. And for once, you’re not the player. You’re the crowd holding their breath as she levels up from regionals to nationals.