Priya: Running the Process

By the end of exam week, you’re pretty sure you’ve passed everything. There’s a strange stillness that settles over you as you walk out of your last exam—like stepping out of a noise‑cancelling booth and realizing the chaos outside wasn’t as loud as you thought. It wasn’t easy, but you were prepared. You kept up with the lectures. Studied. Slept enough. Ate… passably. You did the work.

You’re relieved. Not euphoric, just… steady. And after the way this semester has been during the College Spread game, steady feels like a win. Despite cramming hard, this might be the least chaotic week you’ve had. As you breathe the air outside the exam hall, you realize—this felt… normal.

But the same can’t be said for Rebekah.

You caught her in the kitchen one morning, legs folded up on the counter as she downed an energy drink like medicine. Crumpled study notes sat untouched on the table. Ink‑smeared, half‑crumpled pages that hadn’t been opened since she printed them.

“You’re really not going to study?” you asked, halfway between disbelief and annoyance.

She didn’t look up. “No point.”

“There’s always a point. You bomb your finals, you could lose your scholarship.”

“I’ll pass. Probably.”

It was the “probably” that stung.

You stood there, holding your coffee like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. “And if you don’t?”

She mets your eyes. Calm. Defiant. “Then I don’t. It’s not like this was ever my Plan A.”

There it was again—her full‑tilt commitment to Fluorescence. The game. The dream. You admire it. Respect it. Hell, it’s part of what attracts you to her. But sometimes, like that morning, it feels like watching someone edge‑walk a skyscraper roof just to prove they can.

You argued. It wasn’t a blow‑up or a screaming match, just pointed words thrown like darts over toast and scrambled eggs. You said she’s gambling her future. She said you’re too scared to gamble anything. You said she doesn’t have to choose one dream over another. She said you don’t understand what it feels like to finally have a shot at something that matters.

Neither of you apologized. But by Friday, things softened.

It started with a small thing—her hand brushing yours while passing the butter. No fanfare, no smirk, no tension. Just touch. Then the soft nudge of her foot against your ankle as you both sat working through messages. Then a half‑laughed, half‑grumbled “I hate you” after you correctly guess the punchline of her half‑told story.

By Saturday night, the edges have rounded out.

You’re curled up on the couch, her feet draped over your lap, a blanket tangled around your knees. Jada’s gone home for the break, so the house is quiet. It smells like cinnamon oatmeal and reheated pizza because neither of you has the energy to make something real.

Rebekah’s eyes are half‑lidded, her head resting on the back cushion as some low‑volume show hums in the background. She hasn’t said much in an hour. Then she murmurs, “I think I passed.”

You blink and look over. “Yeah?”

She shrugs. “I dunno. One of the multiple‑choice sections was basically about ethics in world religions versus major philosophers. I’d skipped most of that class—surprised they didn’t kick me out—so I guessed. But the rest? I think I did okay.”

You smile—relieved, not teasing. You were never really mad at her; but she’s your girlfriend, and you don’t want to see her fail. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

She shifts, lets her foot slide up your thigh in lazy retaliation. “Shut up.”

You let it sit there—the comfort, the warmth, the knowledge that despite everything, you’re here, together, and exam week is over.

There’s still Fluorescence Nationals ahead. That’s what she’s spent the last two weeks practicing for. But for this breath, you exhale, and it feels good.

The train hums beneath you, cutting through the late‑fall haze like a line through a map. The tournament arena is one state over, which gives you the excuse to spend the trip with your girlfriend. In theory. In practice, she’s completely focused on prep.

She’s beside you, laptop open, foot bouncing. Hoodie zipped despite the heat—comfort armor when she’s anxious. She reviews clips again: last year’s Nationals finals, slow‑mo breakdowns of failed rotations, a dozen notes in the margins. The screen flickers with team overlays and lane splits. You recognize some of it now. You’ve been learning. You had to. Not because she asked—but because it matters to her.

You try to engage her once. You might as well not have spoken. This is Rebekah in competition mode, even more intense than at Regionals. Regionals had a few thousand dollars on the line. Nationals has six figures in play between prize pool and sponsor attention. In the end you sit back and watch the scenery, letting her do what she needs.

It isn’t until the train starts coasting into the city limits that she finally speaks.

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

You turn your head. “For what?”

“This.” Her hand flicks in a vague gesture that could mean the train, the tournament, her whole life. “Putting everything on one shot. Skipping study time. Pissing off my advisors. Blowing off internships. All of it.”

You hesitate. She’s not looking at you, but there’s a stillness to her you’ve learned to read. “I think you’re brave.”

She snorts, but it’s brittle. “That’s what people say when they don’t want to say ‘delusional.’” Then her gaze cuts to yours, sharp enough to pin you to the seat. “If we’re going to be together, you have to promise me something. Never lie to me. Not even a white lie. I can’t explain why right now, but if you ever think you’re protecting me? Don’t. I’d rather be hurt than lied to.”

The sudden intensity hits like a slap. You can feel it — whatever this is, it’s carved deep into her. Step wrong, and she’ll never forget it.

You rest your hand over hers. “I wouldn’t do it. To me, it’s like a high school athlete betting everything on going pro. If it works, you’re a genius. If it doesn’t, you’ll have to hope you can pivot. But… it’s your dream. You’re chasing it. That’s already more than most people ever do.”

She leans into your shoulder, eyes half-closed, as if letting the words settle. “You’re coming to all the matches, right?” she mumbles.

You give her a look. “What else am I gonna do? I’m here with you. Just like at Regionals.”

Her voice is quieter now, but edged. “Well, you do have Priya’s card. You could just spend the whole week sneaking off to fuck her.”

You laugh, but there’s a pulse under it. “We’ll make time for the challenge. But not during a match. BOTH Priya and I are gonna be watching our girlfriend and boyfriend kick ass.”

She gives a small nod. Silence folds around you again.

The train slows. The station comes into view. Banners for Fluorescence Nationals hang from the concourse—neon‑pink gradients against matte black, just like the HUD. Somewhere in this city, the best teams in the country are gearing up to fight. And Rebekah’s here with her team to prove they’re one of them.

You follow her off the train, two steps behind. She’s not holding your hand, but somehow she’s still pulling you forward. She drags you out of the station and into a cab. A quick ride later and you arrive at the hotel—a mid‑range business chain, paid for by the team’s new sponsors. It’s a luxury none of them would have imagined a few weeks ago, but the Regionals victory brought offers in quickly. Nothing major yet, but enough to finance the trip. Hell, they even have an official kit to wear.

The lobby smells like fake citrus and real anxiety. Fluorescence banners flap from the rafters, announcing Nationals in bold, blocky fonts. Gamers in team hoodies mill around in clusters—some hyped, some hollow‑eyed, most somewhere in between. Rebekah’s teammates peel off to check in and get their credentials. She tosses you a wink over her shoulder before joining them.

“Back in an hour,” she says. “Be charming.”

You plant your bag by a massive fake plant and scan the crowd. Then—

“Hey, player—here for the game or for me?”

You turn.

Priya is shorter than you expected, but her presence hits like caffeine on an empty stomach. She’s wearing leggings and a hot‑pink hoodie that reads Scientists Do It Experimentally in glitter print. Her dark hair is piled high in a bun so messy it feels like a choice. No makeup. No hesitation.

“Priya?” you ask. She nods.

“Good to meet you,” she says, offering a hand. You shake it. She glances around the lobby and grins. “You ever been to anything like this before?”

“Nah,” you say. “First time. I’d never even heard of Fluorescence before I hooked up with Rebekah.”

“Really? I met Luca because of the game. I’ve always been a fan—even back when it was just a few nerds on YouTube. I can’t play for crap, so I get my wins second‑hand.”

“I’ve never even tried. Between College Spread and college itself I haven’t had a chance to breathe, never mind learn a game.”

“Well, I guess we’ll enjoy watching our two lead the team to victory, then. Sit together in the stands?”

You nod. There’s a pause—comfortable, not awkward. She gestures toward a quieter lounge area off to the side. “Talk there while they check in? It’s either that or over someone’s open pizza box.”

You follow.

You sink into angular faux‑leather chairs. E‑sports commentary hums on a nearby screen, the pressure of the tournament more ambient than direct.

“So,” Priya says, leaning back, “I was in this last year. I know you pick a challenge card, right? What’ve you got?”

You pull up your College Spread tablet and show her the screen. You’re thinking about your five challenge cards—Naked Kiss, Blow Job, Anal Sex, BDSM, Public Sex—but her card is there too, and she zooms right in.

“I’m a six?” she says, incredulous. “A fucking six? Oh, hell no—we’re making this special. Show them I’m worth more than that.”

You shake your head, chuckling.

“What’s funny?”

“I used to think guys were the ones really into sex, but this game’s opening my eyes.”

She shrugs. “You guys don’t get judged the same if you play the field or talk about it. And yeah, more girls get raised to do the straight‑sex, monogamy thing. Me? I like what I like. Anyone who isn’t okay with that can go fuck themselves. Besides, do you really think liking sex is the worst thing a Sikh immigrant girl’s gonna get flamed for?”

“Fair point,” you say, feeling foolish—not for the first time since this game started.

“Just don’t make assumptions. That’s all.” She flicks a glance at your card list. “Now… about those challenges. I’ve got an idea.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Are you open to anything?”

You think about it. “Not absolutely anything—but after nine weeks of this game, I haven’t found my limit yet. Even where I thought I might.”

“Good. Then let’s talk when the team’s all together.” She gives a slow smirk. “We’re gonna make them remember this one.”

You wonder what she’s planning, but she won’t say. The smirk suggests it’s going to be interesting. A moment later, three people head your way—Rebekah, a teammate you vaguely recognize from Regionals, and a stranger.

Rebekah cocks her head as she looks between you and Priya. “I hope you two like tight spaces, because they only booked rooms for players. And we’re sharing rooms. Luca and I got put together. There’s two queen beds, so four of us can fit, but one of you will have to take the chair or the floor.”

The stranger nods. “I already told you that’s not a problem. I go camping—I’m used to sleeping on the ground.”

If Priya’s included in this group, you realize this must be Tariq and Luca.

“Okay, then let’s get moved in and grab dinner,” says Luca. “I’m starving, and we need to be ready for the first games tomorrow.”