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“Reset,” I say. “They burned resources.”

Our coach is silent. He knows I have it. We counter.

Ten minutes later, first map is ours. I sit back. Exhale. Derek bumps my shoulder.

“Good call.”

“Obviously.”

“There’s the ego I know and love.”

“Necessary in this field.”

The second map is harder. We lose early control. I make one bad call, and it costs us a point. My stomach drops.

Old instinct whispers: You screwed up. Fix it immediately. Do more. Push.

Then, absurdly, I hear Christopher’s voice in my head. One mistake doesn’t erase the career.

I breathe. Reset. No spiral. No punishment. No trying to compensate with reckless play. Just the next decision.

We claw our way back. By the third map, I know we’ve got them. Their support player is tired. Their rotations get half a second slower. Most viewers won’t see it. I do.

“Pressure left,” I command.

We push. They break and the final objective drops. Victory fills the screen. The arena explodes. I yank off my headset. Derek grabs me in a hug. Someone is yelling. Our coach slaps the back of my chair. Cameras close in. And then I remember.

Christopher.

I look toward VIP seating. It takes me a second to find him. He isn’t screaming. Of course not. I can’t imagine a world where Christopher Fowler screams. He is, however, standing with his arms crossed, watching me with an expression that hits harder than the crowd ever could. Pride. Pure pride. His composure is gone just enough for me to see it.

And when our eyes meet, he smiles. Not the tiny one. Not the one I have to work for. But a full smile that reaches his eyes and I know it’s just for me. My chest squeezes so hard it almost hurts.

Derek follows my gaze. “Oh, you’re done for.”

“What?”

“That man looks at you like you invented oxygen.”

I elbow him. “Shut up.”

“He does.”

“We have an interview,” I change the subject.

“Coward.”

“I’m just being professional.”

I walk toward the post-match desk before he can say anything worse. But I’m smiling. I can’t stop. By the time the event ends, I’m running on adrenaline and approximately one-third of my remaining social battery. We won. Not the entire tournament. Quarterfinals. But we played brilliantly, and tomorrow we advance.

The team goes to dinner. I don’t. I tell them I have plans.

Derek looks toward where Christopher is waiting near the backstage entrance. “Obviously.”

“Don’t start.” I push a finger into his chest.

“You’re glowing,” he says. “It’s nice seeing you happy, Amber.”