Chapter 11: Thirteen

"Don't listen to them," I said. "Play it like you can't hear anything. Mac, it's yours."

"Mine?"

"You've called this team all season. Call it."

I kept the timeout in my pocket.

Mac called the Texan's shield onto B and put herself up on the balcony alone.

Austin came to B loud and then went quiet, and nobody on our side cared.

The Texan held the door.

Bodie died in it, and the night manager's drone pulled the Texan back up off the floor.

Mac took two from the balcony and the last one from behind, while the Canadian said sorry to the man he'd softened up for her.

That made it six rounds to six.

Round thirteen would decide the map, and the map would decide everything.

I called my last timeout.

The five of them turned around.

Up on the stage across from us, the streamer had his hands behind his head.

He was talking to his teammates without stopping.

"I played six years next to that man," I said. "He can't stand quiet."

"So?" Mac said.

"On his stream, if the chat goes dead for five seconds, he starts talking to himself."

Bodie laughed, which was good.

"In a game, it's worse," I said. "When he doesn't know where you are, he throws something at the quiet to find out."

"A grenade," the night manager said slowly.

"A grenade. So go silent. All five of you. Crouch the whole round. Nobody shoots, nobody reloads."

"And then?" the Texan asked.

"Then you listen for a pin."

"You won't be able to tell us," Mac said. "Your mic's cut during the round."

"I know. You'll have to hear it yourselves."

She looked at me for a second.

"Where will he be?"

"Right of whatever he throws at. He's thrown right-handed around corners since he was eighteen."

The buzzer went.

The arena got loud for the last round, so loud I felt it in the stage floor.