Page 68 of Played By Design

My head cocks to the side. “Did you?”

“Twice.”

“That was excessive.”

“Not excessive enough.” He pulls me from the chair. “Shoes.”

I grab them from beneath the desk.

“Nape guard.” Kain holds out the hateful contraption.

I take it from him. “One of these days, I’m going to flush this thing down the toilet.”

“Good thing I bought backups.”

I narrow my eyes. “How many?”

“Shoes, Bunny.”

“Kain.”

He steers me toward the door.

“How many?”

He doesn’t answer.

Oh, fuck him.

The Blue Note’s booth fits five people if nobody minds thigh-to-thigh contact.

Kain’s arm stretches along the back of the bench behind me, his fingers toying with the string on my hoodie. The last band of the night plays on the stage, not my favorite but not bad, either.

Most of the crowd cleared out after Kain’s band performed their last song, leaving regulars and our crew to fill most of the front room, and I appreciate the quieter crowd. I’m glad Kain doesn’t play on Fridays or Saturdays. Those nights are packed until the bar closes.

“Forty-seven rooms without taking a hit, and you let the second elite flatten you because someone asked about the Dusk Protocol picture on your wall.” Lev shakes his head as he taps his phone screen, and the clip plays back at half volume.

I sink deeper into Kain’s side as his fingers toy with the collar of my hoodie. “That’s not why I died.”

“That’s absolutely why you died.” Lev pockets his phone. “I don’t know if I should cut it or put it in a blooper reel.”

Kain’s fingers find the back of my neck and squeeze. “How’s the post-competition viewer bump holding?”

“Strong.” Lev leans forward, his hazel eyes catching the dim light. “New viewers are staying beyond projections. Average viewing time jumped from forty-two minutes to just over an hour.”

“Does that mean I can push livestreams to an hour and a half?” I ask.

“No, leave them wanting more,” Lev says. “The sponsorship inquiries are up, too. You should capitalize on the momentum and aim for another quick-paced pattern game.”

“Pulse Riot nearly ruined his hands.” Kain’s thumb rubs a slow circle at the base of my skull. “He’s on a mandatory cooldown for anything requiring sustained rapid input.”

I flex my right hand. My ring finger still aches, but not as much as it did right after the competition, and I make a discontented sound.

“No,” Kain says, firmer this time.

I huff and reach for Kain’s drink, taking a sip.

Eww, water.