Orange Hour Gaming Soul

The coaxial cable hung like a dead snake from the wall, its metallic guts exposed where my brother had tried to 'fix it' with duct tape and pure desperation. Three hours until the regional Fortnite qualifiers, and my internet was moving with the speed of a sloth on sedatives.

'Marcus, you're not gonna believe this,' I groaned into my Discord channel. 'My brother tried to reroute the cable through his room and now I'm basically living in 1999.'

My best friend Sarah's voice crackled through my headphones. 'That sucks, but listen—Jasmine heard that you're trying out for the team again.'

I squeezed my eyes shut. Jasmine. The junior varsity captain who'd made my freshman year a living hell with her constant comments about how I 'didn't belong' in gaming. 'Yeah, well, she can watch me lose from the spectator stands.'

'You're not gonna lose,' Marcus said. 'You've been grinding forever.'

I stared at my screen, where my character's orange hoodie glowed against the dark backdrop. It was the same shade as the Fanta I'd chugged at every gaming session since seventh, our weird little good luck ritual that had started when I first discovered competitive streaming. 'She's right, though. I don't belong in the competitive scene. I'm just messing around.'

'Stop,' Sarah said firmly. 'Remember when you carried us through that raid last month? You were an absolute beast. A literal bear, Leo. You shredded that boss.'

I cracked a smile despite myself. That raid had been legendary—mostly because I'd been hyped up on three orange Fantas and had accidentally streamed my victory dance to the whole school.

'Yeah, well,' I said, grabbing a fresh soda from my mini-fridge. 'At least I know my color scheme.'

The truth was, I was tired of feeling like an imposter. Tired of Jasmine's side-eye in the computer lab, tired of wondering if I was just the 'token diversity kid' on the roster. But gaming was the one place where none of that mattered—the one place where my reflexes and strategy spoke louder than anything else.

My phone buzzed. A text from my brother: 'Cable guy coming in 20. Sorry about earlier—I know qualifiers are today.'

I took a sip of my Fanta, the orange fizz flooding my senses like liquid courage. Whatever happened in three hours, I was going to show up as myself—hoodie, luck ritual, and all. Even if Jasmine was watching.

'Leo?' Marcus asked. 'You still there?'

'Yeah,' I said, feeling something shift in my chest. 'I'm here. And I'm ready to bear down.'