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“Debatable.”
“You were about to explore the concrete,” he says, and I laugh, and he finally releases my arm, slowly. My skin feels warmer where his hand was, a small stubborn imprint of heat.
“Did you come down here to catch me before I walk into things?”
“No.”
“It’s becoming a pattern.”
“You walking into things?”
“You catching me.” His gaze holds mine, steady, unreadable, and something underneath it that I can’t quite name yet.
“Maybe stop giving me reasons,” he says. Simple words. Not simple underneath at all. I feel it. So does he. I can tell, because his jaw does the thing where it tightens like he’s biting back more than he’s saying.
Before either of us can chase that further, a man calls out, “Amber Murphy?”
A fan. Baseball cap backward, phone half raised. Christopher steps toward me, subtly, protectively. I notice and say nothing.
He wants a photo, says he watched our championship match in Seoul, talks strategy for a minute and actually knows what he’s talking about. Then the question I hear constantly.
“So do you actually make enough gaming to live on?”
I keep smiling. Muscle memory. “Yep.”
“Seriously?” He asks.
“Seriously.”
“That’s crazy.” He says. “Playing video games and getting paid to do it.”
I laugh politely. He isn’t trying to be rude. I know that. Most people aren’t. Still.
“Like, you don’t have another job?” He presses. “Like gaming isn’t part time after work?”
“Nope.”
He shakes his head, half-admiring, half-baffled. “Man, must be nice getting paid to screw around all day.”
There it is. I feel the little pinch behind my ribs. Familiar. Worn smooth from use, like a stone I’ve been carrying so long I barely notice the weight of it anymore.
I know exactly what to say. I’ve said it a thousand times. Tell him all about what it really takes to be a professional gamer. Justify my life choices. I open my mouth to run through my usual list of proof.
Christopher speaks first. “She doesn’t screw around all day.”
The guy turns. So do I. Christopher stands a few feet behind me, hands loose at his sides, expression calm. He’s not angry. Somehow that makes him more intimidating.
The fan laughs awkwardly. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“I know.” Christopher says. He’s not confrontational. He simply says, in that same steady, briefing-room voice, “Professional esports requires training, strategy, team coordination, and consistent performance under pressure. She also competes internationally, as you’re aware.”
He remembered. Not just the money, the part everyone remembers, but the details. The parts I don’t usually bother explaining because most people stop listening halfway through.
When the fan leaves, I turn to Christopher. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
There it is again. He says it like it’s obvious. Like helping me wasn’t an obligation, but a choice.
