Page 3 of Played By Design

I heave a sigh.

“I heard that,” Kain says, adjusting the speed.

I sigh again. Louder.

But I don’t argue. Arguing with Kain about the gym is like arguing with gravity. You can complain about falling, but you’ll still hit the ground.

Kain sets a slow pace so I can keep my balance while tapping at my tablet. My fingers find the strike zones by muscle memory, thumbs moving across the screen while I match the rhythm of the belt.

Left, right, left, right.

Thumb, index, middle, ring.

The cadences clash, then sync up, my body splitting its attention between the mechanical plod of my feet and the dance of my fingers on the screen.

Ten minutes in, my breath is shallow and even, a rhythm I can hold while my focus splits.

Kain is doing curls in the mirror, the dumbbell moving in a slow arc, up and down, up and down. He tracks me in the reflection, his focus on my gait, as if he thinks I’ll stop walking if he doesn’t keep an eye on me.

Which is fair. I’ve done that in the past. Kain says exercise is a necessity for my focus and health, but it’s evil.

When the warm-up timer chimes, he sets down his weights and returns, hand extended. “Tablet.”

As I surrender it, my fingers stay curved, still holding the device’s shape in empty air. Blue-green light glows between his fingers before he sets it face-down on the bench, and the screen dies.

“Come on.”

He steers me to the far basement corner where the dance pad sits unrolled on the rubber floor, connected to the wall-mounted TV. This isn’t Pulse Riot. Pulse Riot lives in my hands. This game lives in my whole body. A rhythm map fills the screen, arrows scrolling upward that I have to hit with my feet on corresponding panels.

“Socks off,” Kain says, and I toe them away, unconcerned with where they land.

Menu music starts through the TV speakers as Kain selects my profile and sets the difficulty to Expert. My top score flashes, a number I’ve been trying to beat for three weeks.

The first track is fast enough to demand my attention, my feet finding the panels. Left, right, up, down.

The combo counter starts climbing in the corner of the screen.

One hundred.

Two hundred.

The arrows come faster.

By the second track, sweat collects at my temples and hairline, sliding behind my ears. My glasses slip, and I nudge them back into place with my palm without stopping, left foot hitting the down arrow as the next sequence floods the screen.

I ditch my hoodie somewhere around the third track. I don’t remember dropping it, only the sudden lightness across my shoulders and cool air on my damp T-shirt.

My steps grow faster, cleaner, each foot landing on its panel with a solid thud that echoes through the basement. My nostrils flare with each hard, controlled breath, the rhythm matching the beat.

My combo hits five hundred.

Six hundred.

The timing is perfect, my body anticipating the map a half-second before my brain processes it. My top score glows at the screen’s bottom, a taunt I’m about to erase.

Seven hundred combo.

Eight hundred.