#yip gaming

Your friend Gaming had been pacing for the better part of an hour before the match even started, bouncing on the balls of his feet while his teammates tried to warm up around him. He had been told at least three times to stop burning through his energy before the actual game, but every time somebody pointed it out, he only laughed and promised he was fine. You knew him well enough to recognize that particular kind of nervousness, though; the louder he became, the more jokes he made, and the more he bounced around the locker room, the more obvious it was that he was trying not to think about how much this match meant to him.

When you finally found him near the entrance to the court, he brightened immediately, and whatever nervousness had been hiding beneath his grin seemed to disappear the moment he spotted you. He jogged over with his jacket half-zipped and his hair still slightly damp from warming up, stopping in front of you with enough energy that he nearly collided with your shoulder. “You came!” he exclaimed, his face lighting up as he looked you over, and when you laughed and told him you had promised you would, he shook his head as though that wasn't the point at all. “No, I know you promised, but you actually came. That's different.”

You smiled as you reached up to fix the crooked collar of his jersey, and Gaming immediately went still beneath your hands, watching you with an expression that was far softer than the grin he'd been wearing a moment earlier. You told him that you wouldn't miss something this important, especially after listening to him talk about the match for the past month, and he laughed while rubbing the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed that you'd noticed how much he'd been talking about it. When you wished him good luck, he caught your wrist before you could pull your hand away and looked down at the little red bracelet around your wrist, the one he'd given you weeks ago after joking that it was his personal lucky charm.

“You're wearing it,” he said, his thumb brushing lightly over the bracelet as though he needed to make sure it was really there.

You glanced down at it and smiled. “You told me I had to.”

Gaming's grin returned immediately, bright and almost boyish as he released your wrist. “Then we're definitely winning today.”

You laughed at the confidence in his voice, but he only pointed toward you with an exaggeratedly serious expression before backing toward the court. “Don't take it off, okay? I'm counting on you.”

The match was brutal.

For most of the first half, Gaming looked like he was fighting the entire opposing team by himself, throwing himself into every play with the same reckless enthusiasm he brought to everything else. Every time he landed a difficult move, he looked toward the stands as though he needed to make sure you had seen it, and whenever your eyes met, his face would brighten before he turned back toward the game. You found yourself gripping the edge of your seat harder with every passing minute, especially when the score remained painfully close and the other team began pulling ahead.

By the final minutes, Gaming was exhausted.

His breathing had become heavier, his hair was sticking to his forehead, and there was a scrape along his cheek that you knew would probably become a much bigger story than it deserved once he had recovered enough to start exaggerating it. The score was tied, the crowd was deafening, and the entire court seemed to narrow down to the few seconds remaining on the clock.

Then Gaming saw you.

You had stood up without realizing it, both hands clasped tightly in front of you, the little red bracelet still visible around your wrist. When his eyes found yours, something in his expression changed. The exhaustion remained, but the uncertainty disappeared, replaced by the same determined grin he had worn before the match even started.

The final play happened so quickly that you barely understood what you were watching.

The final whistle blew—the crowd erupted.

And then... Gaming's team had won!?

He didn't wait for the rest of his teammates.

The moment the referee confirmed the final score, Gaming turned and ran.

He sprinted across the court with his jersey clinging to his back and his teammates shouting after him, but he ignored all of them, weaving past people until he reached the barrier separating the court from the stands. You barely had time to laugh before he reached up for you, his hands catching yours as he looked up with a grin so wide that you could see exactly how proud he was of himself.

“We won!” he shouted, breathless and laughing as though he had forgotten that thousands of people were watching. “I told you we'd win!”

You laughed with him, leaning over the barrier as you congratulated him, but Gaming was already looking at your wrist again. His fingers closed gently around your hand, his thumb brushing over the bracelet before he looked back up at you with an expression that suddenly seemed much more nervous than victorious.

“I think it really worked,” he said, laughing softly as he glanced toward the court and then back at you. “Or maybe it was just because you were here.”

Your smile faltered slightly.

Gaming seemed to realize what he'd said at the same time you did.

For once, he didn't immediately turn it into a joke.

Instead, he looked down at your intertwined hands, his ears turning noticeably pink as he rubbed his thumb over your knuckles. “I've been wanting to tell you something for a while,” he admitted, his voice quieter now that the initial excitement had begun to settle. “I kept thinking I'd do it after the match because I figured if I lost, I'd need time to recover from embarrassing myself twice.”

You laughed softly, and he smiled at the sound before taking a breath.

“But I don't really want to wait anymore.” His eyes lifted to yours, and despite the noise surrounding you, his attention seemed completely fixed on you. “You're not actually my lucky charm because of the bracelet. You're my lucky charm because whenever you're around, I feel like I can do anything. I play better, I stop worrying so much, and I keep looking for you whenever things get difficult because somehow just seeing you makes everything feel easier.”

Your heart began beating faster as you listened, and Gaming's nervous smile returned when he realized he had your full attention. He squeezed your hand gently before continuing, his voice becoming softer as he finally said the thing he'd apparently been trying to build enough courage to confess for weeks.

“I like you,” he admitted, the words leaving him with a small, almost embarrassed laugh. “Like, really like you. And I know this is probably the worst possible place to confess because there are a million people around us and I'm sweaty and I probably smell terrible right now, but I just won the biggest match I've ever played, and the first person I wanted to see was you.”

You stared at him for a moment, trying to process the fact that the boy who had just played one of the most important games of his life had apparently spent the entire time thinking about you.

Then you smiled, reaching down to cup his cheek despite the sweat and the scrape and the ridiculous grin he was trying to hide. “You really are an idiot, Gaming.”

His eyebrows lifted in surprise, and his smile became almost shy as he leaned instinctively into your hand. “Is that a yes?”

You laughed as you nodded, brushing your thumb gently over his cheek. “That's a yes.”

The grin that broke across his face was somehow even brighter than the one he'd worn when the final whistle blew. He caught your hand and pressed a quick kiss against your knuckles before laughing under his breath, his entire face flushed with happiness as his teammates finally started yelling at him from across the court.

Gaming glanced over his shoulder, then looked back at you with the same mischievous expression you'd seen a hundred times before.

“I'll come back,” he promised, reluctantly letting go of your hand as he started backing toward his teammates. “Don't go anywhere.”

You smiled and touched the red bracelet around your wrist, watching him run back toward the court with a ridiculous amount of energy for someone who had just played an entire match.

Maybe the bracelet had never been lucky—maybe the real lucky charm had always been the person waiting for him at the finish line.