Chapter 57 | A Non-Date with Competitive Consequences [PS BONUS]

We stepped into Chromium Arcade, a sprawling two-floor palace of flashing lights and electronic symphonies. Between the racing simulators, shooter cabinets, and claw machines, the place looked like someone had taken Tokyo’s gaming district and transplanted it into downtown Verano.

"Holy shit," I breathed, taking in the scene. The smell of fresh pizza mixed with the scent of new electronics and faint sweat from competitive gamers hunched over fighting game cabinets. "This place is huge."

Sloane nodded, her eyes reflecting the neon glow from a nearby dance machine. "Told you it was worth checking out."

She led the way to a counter where a guy with blue-tipped hair stood looking bored. His nametag read "KEVIN" in a font that screamed comic sans.

"Two cards," Sloane said, slapping her black credit card on the counter. "Hundred bucks each."

Kevin’s eyebrows shot up. "Sure thing." He tapped a few buttons on his screen. "That’s two hundred total. You get unlimited play on most cabinets, but the prize games and simulators will deduct points."

"Fine, whatever." Sloane drummed her fingers on the counter. Always impatient.

Kevin slid two glossy black cards across the counter. They had "CHROMIUM" printed in holographic letters that shifted from purple to green when they caught the light.

"Enjoy your date," he said with a knowing smirk.

"It’s not a—" Sloane began.

"Thanks," I cut her off before the word ’date’ could hang in the air any longer. I grabbed both cards, handed one to Sloane. "We will."

Her cheeks flushed pink. The color started at her neck and spread upward like she’d been hit with a low-grade Detonation she couldn’t control. She snatched the card from my hand. "I never said this was a date."

"Research purposes," I reminded her, keeping my face neutral. "Very serious research for my future career in institutional analysis."

"I hate you." But the corners of her mouth betrayed her, curving upward despite her best efforts.

"No you don’t." I started walking before she could argue. "Come on, let’s check this place out."

We moved through the rows of cabinets. Kids screamed at zombie shooters while college students trash-talked over fighting games. The air smelled like sugar and competition. Sloane stopped at a basketball machine, her eyes narrowing like she’d spotted prey.

"Wanna start here?" she asked.

I glanced at the scoreboard mounted above the hoops. Top score: 156 points, set by someone named "BLAZE420" who probably peaked in high school. "Sure, if you want to lose right away."

She scoffed. The sound came from somewhere deep in her chest. "Please. I’ve been sinking three-pointers since I was ten."

"Bet you can’t break 150," I said.

"Bet you can’t break 100," she shot back.

"Loser buys food?"

"Deal."

I swiped my card across the reader. The machine beeped twice. I grabbed a basketball from the rack, testing its weight in my hands. The balls were slightly underinflated. Classic arcade trick. Made the bounce unpredictable, threw off anyone who expected proper equipment.

The machine reset. Sixty seconds appeared on the timer above the hoops.

My first shot bounced off the rim. Second one, swish. Third, swish. I found my rhythm, releasing each ball with the same arc. My body remembered playing pickup games in my previous life, muscle memory taking over despite this body never having played much basketball.

When the buzzer sounded, my score flashed: 147.

"Not bad," Sloane admitted grudgingly.

She stepped up, bouncing a ball against the floor a few times. Her stance was perfect—feet shoulder-width apart, elbow at ninety degrees.

The timer started, and Sloane became a machine. Every movement economical, every shot following the same perfect trajectory. She didn’t celebrate her makes or react to her misses. Just grab, set, shoot, repeat.

When the buzzer sounded, her score flashed: 162.

"New high score!" the machine announced, flashing congratulations.

Sloane turned to me, a smug smile on her lips. "You were saying?"

"Beginner’s luck," I muttered.

"Nine years of watching me play and you still thought you could win?" She patted my cheek condescendingly. "Cute."

We moved through the arcade, trading victories. I destroyed her at skeeball. She annihilated me at a shooting game called "Hero Crisis" where players had to take down villains without hitting civilians.

"This is bullshit," I complained after my fifth civilian casualty. "The controls are broken."

"Or maybe you just suck?" She twirled the plastic gun around her finger like a cowboy.

Our competitiveness drew attention. A small crowd gathered to watch as we battled through game after game. Sloane’s pink hair and intense focus made her stand out, and people whispered as they passed.

"That’s Sloane Fitzgerald," I heard someone say. "Her mom runs Fitzgerald Media."

"Who’s the guy with her?"

"Boyfriend, probably."

Sloane either didn’t hear or pretended not to, but a small smile played at the corner of her lips.

After an hour, we were tied at seven wins each. The rubber match came down to air hockey.

"Ready to lose, Belmont?" Sloane asked, gripping her striker with white knuckles.

"In your dreams, Fitzgerald."

The puck dropped, and we battled like our lives depended on it. The plastic disc flew between us, occasionally launching off the table when one of us hit it too hard. Sloane played with her whole body, leaning into shots and slamming the striker down with enough force to make the table shake.

"Yes!" she shouted when she scored, pumping her fist in the air. "That’s eight-seven! I win!"

"Best two out of three," I insisted.

"Nope. I won fair and square." She did a little victory dance. "Now you owe me food."

"Fine." I couldn’t help smiling at her enthusiasm. "What do you want?"

Before she could answer, my eyes caught something across the arcade—two motorcycle racing cabinets sitting side by side. Actual motorcycle replicas you could sit on, with screens showing a track from the rider’s perspective.

"Actually," I said, nodding toward them. "How about one more challenge?"

Sloane followed my gaze, her eyes narrowing. "Racing? That’s your Hail Mary?"

"Unless you’re scared."

She snorted. "Please. I’ve been driving since I was fifteen."

"Then let’s go."