Chapter 18: Open Bracket Final

Satterfield Arena was full by six-thirty.

Every seat in the old lecture hall, and people sitting in the aisles, and people standing along the back wall under the exit signs.

The guild had the back row again.

They had a banner this time, a bedsheet, with CATFISH painted on it in red.

Betsy had the front row.

She'd brought the whole fourth floor of Hartwell.

The towel girl from 418 was there, dressed this time, holding a sign that said NOT A PRIZE.

The waffle boys from the dining hall were there, all four of them, in matching shirts that said 271 on the front.

On stage, the ten stations faced each other across the screen, five and five.

Third Shift came out first to big applause.

Then Carver jogged out behind them in a borrowed Third Shift jersey, both arms up.

The back row went wild.

Then the caster said, "And from the open bracket, Free to a Good Home," and the front row screamed so loud a light rig rattled.

The senior walked onstage.

The freshman walked straight to his chair with his eyes on the floor and both headphones on.

Beck walked next to me.

At the stations, before we sat, he said, very low, "How are we playing him?"

"He's going to chase me," I said. "He chased me for a year. He can't stand that I'm not his anymore."

"So you're the bait."

"I'm the bait."

His jaw went tight.

"Rule two," he said. "That's a bad call."

"It's a good call and you know it."

He looked at me for a long second.

"It's a good call," he admitted. "I hate it."

Game one, Carver was everywhere.

He played loud and greedy and fast, and for twenty minutes Third Shift fed him every kill on the map.

He typed in all chat after every one.

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