I got the call Sunday morning, and I fully expected it to be them--maybe Finn personally--telling me to fuck off and crawl back under the rock I call home.

Instead, Coach Singh told me the spot was mine if I wanted it, and that I just needed to come over to the house to sign the official offer and take some photos for the sponsors.

I stared at my phone, mouth open, for a good five minutes after hanging up with her. Even now as I get out of my Lyft driver's car and walk up to the front door of the Cyclones’ house, I still can't really believe it.

I'm a member now. I'm going to be employed by this team that's known the world over. I'm going to be a professional gamer.

Fifteen-year-old me is squealing somewhere. Hell, twenty-two-year-old me is squealing a little, too, and already imagining all the routes forward. Tournaments, cons, sponsorships--I could actually make a name for myself as more than "that dick who's constantly tweaking the Cyclones just because he can."

I don't have to work for my father's company. I don't ever have to hear the words "account acquisition" again.

After I tell him, at least. He doesn't know I'm down here, and he definitely doesn't know I was trying for another job. But as much as he likes to treat me like I'm still living under his roof and beholden to his rules, I'm an adult. This is the way I'm choosing to make my life, and if it doesn't work, I'll tell him he was right and slink back with my tail between my legs.

But it will work. It has to work.

I ring the "pizza delivery module" and hear footsteps again. This time it is Finn who greets me. Or at least Finn's the one who opens the door. I'm not sure his neutral expression really counts as a greeting.

"Hello," he says, distant and formal, like we've never met before. Like I've never been inside him. "Coach Singh's waiting for you at the table."

"Thanks," I say, moving past him and feeling way more awkward than I should.

Is this how it's going to be? I can deal with it, I guess. Not like I was expecting Finn to be all over me. He obviously didn't get what I did out of our experience together. But I'd hoped after I was straight with him yesterday that he'd treat me with something a little better than mere civility.

Don't let him harsh your vibe. You fucking made it.

Reminding myself of that helps my mood and puts a little spring in my step as I move through the entryway and into the house proper. My house, soon. I pass the sun room and see a bunch of people lounging on massive bean bags, bulky GameCube controllers in hand.

"Yo, Ryker," Zed calls out, stopping me in my tracks. "Smash tournament. Mandatory. As soon as you're done there."

He flashes me a mischievous grin that tells me it's definitely not mandatory, but I don't plan on skipping it. Even if I suck at fighting games, the fact that I'm being invited... it's nice.

"I'll be there," I tell him, returning the flippant little salute he gives me.

I'm going to be called XO a lot here. I can already feel it.

Coach Singh is waiting at the long table where we conducted the interview. She's got a tablet and stylus in front of her instead of a stack of paperwork, but the idea is the same.

"Ryker," she greets me.

She stands so she can shake my hand--then pulls me in for a brief hug. It's surprising, but... not in a bad way. My family was never big on hugging or any shows of affection, really. Probably why I'm such a slut for touch. Sexual, romantic, or just completely platonic like this.

"I'm glad you'll be joining us. We think you'll make a great addition to the team."

I smile back at her, feeling weirdly self-conscious. "I'm honored to even make it this far."

"There are a couple of things we need to discuss before I have you look over and sign the offer. Why don't you take a seat," she gestures to a nearby chair and I sit down. Finn is still standing. "I want to be upfront with you, Ryker: this offer is conditional."

The world's been spinning around me since I got the news. Now it comes to a sudden stop.

"Conditional...?"

"Due to your past behavior, some members of the team were worried you might give in to impulse and post things that reflect poorly on the Cyclones," she explains.

Ouch. I can't really blame them for thinking I'd lose my fucking mind on social media, but it still hurts. Especially knowing that it was enough of a concern to apparently make my employment conditional.

"We ultimately feel you're worth the risk, or we wouldn't be offering you a contract at all. But understand that your continued involvement with the team is dependent on you not engaging in those behaviors."

I draw in a breath and lean back in my seat. This is... a lot to take in, and every word of it's making me feel smaller and smaller. "Should I just... not use my personal accounts?"

"No, quite the opposite," Coach Singh says. "You said you wanted to build a platform and a presence, and we'll support you in that."

To a point.

Somehow I doubt they're going to support the real Ryker who sometimes goes off on people on Twitter because they're being vile little shits.

"There's a clause in the contract," Finn says, breaking his stoic silence. "It's not as stringent as you're thinking."

I want to snap back that he has no idea what I'm thinking, but in this case, he's right. Alarm bells are going off, warning me that my every thought is about to be policed.

He pulls up what I guess must be the contract on his phone and reads aloud. "'No slurs of any kind, for any reason. Competition is fine, but unsportsmanlike conduct won't be tolerated. You should not engage with anyone speaking negatively about the team or you specifically, even if you know they're wrong.'" Finn looks up at me. "These are rules we all follow to keep things professional."

I shift in my seat, some immature part of me wanting to throw a tantrum. But what they're asking isn't unreasonable. Not using slurs is an obvious one, and I never did that even when I was being a massive shitlord. The other two are less obvious to me, but I can see where they're coming from.

"What happens if I slip up?" I ask. "Am I instantly booted?"

"Of course not," Coach Singh says, "we all make mistakes. If you own up to it and act like an adult, we'll forgive and forget. If you make a habit of it or try to defend a shitty action you took... then we're going to have problems."

I nod, feeling oddly a little more at ease by how plainly she's speaking. It's not being communicated in strict legal jargon--though I'm sure part of the contract is written that way so they can cover their asses. Instead she's just speaking to me like I'm a rational adult capable of accepting that there are consequences for my actions.

It's a far cry from the way my dad treats me.

"All right. Can I see the contract?"

She slides the tablet over to me and I look through it. Most of it is stuff I expected. There's a non-disclosure agreement baked in that basically says I won't go and tell all the Cyclones' secrets to a rival team. The social media stuff is in there, just as Finn said. And there are expectations about my job here and my life at the house. Basically saying I'll show up for practices and team events on time, and that I'll respect the space I'm living in.

The section about salary is broken up into two parts. Apparently I'm being offered a fixed amount for this probationary period, then a standard salary after that of $42,000.

My dad would scoff and tell me I can make three times that working for him, if only I'd let myself be miserable. But I'm honestly stoked to have steady pay on the table, and the mention of tournament bonuses and supplemental income through content production more than makes up for any loss.

I still negotiate a little--Daddy didn't raise no fool--and finally sign the contract for a $45,000 a year salary, along with a small stipend for moving expenses.

Coach Singh hugs me again and emails me a PDF copy of the contract for my records. She tells me I'll have to fill out tax forms and all of that good stuff before the salaried position starts, but I'm basically "released" with her parting words:

"Now go and try not to let Zed beat you too badly at Smash. I swear he just organizes these tournaments so he can place first in them every time."

"You would be right," Finn says with a smile--the first one I've seen from him since I got here. "It's one of the few joys he has in his sad life."

She snorts and shakes her head, and a petty part of me wants to call them both on "unsportsmanlike conduct." But Actual Adult Ryker Winthrop knows the difference between friendly, in-house ribbing and tearing someone apart on social media, so I keep quiet on that point and instead turn to Finn.

"You going to compete?"

"Like I'm going to miss the chance to place second to last." There's a competitive gleam in his eyes that's weirdly reassuring, and I hold to that as we join the others.

For the most part, the Smash tournament reminds me of a LAN party. It's just a chill meet-up of a bunch of nerds who really enjoy games. There's popcorn and soda and it doesn't feel like I'm the odd man out.

Sure, most of them kick my ass, and they aren't shy about gloating. But I'd expect that from anyone, so getting it now makes me feel less like the outsider and more a genuine part of the team.

"Dude, you're killing me," Rosa moans. "You've been sitting on your super for like five minutes now!"

Realistically it's been maybe thirty seconds at the most, but I get it. Backseat gaming when someone inept is playing is always a frustrating experience. But also, I'm not just going to suck it up and take her "abuse."

"The longer I wait, the more charged it gets? Right?"

I play up the wide-eyed innocence and I'm rewarded by a groan from her as she flops down onto her beanbag.

"Oh my Goooood."

The others laugh--even Finn--and continue laughing when I finally do use my super on absolutely nothing. Rosa rolls onto her stomach and muffles a fake scream.

Nobody's safe from friendly competition and shit-talking, and it all just feels... normal. Like I'm hanging out in a friend's dorm room slinging insults and having as many thrown back at me with full knowledge that once the game is over, we'll just go back to being friends.

In the end I place dead last, with Finn just above me like he said he'd be.

"No points for second worst, Finny," I taunt him good-naturedly when he starts gloating.

He actually cracks a smile at that, and it emboldens me to approach him as we're cleaning up the rec room. He's working on a far corner, picking up soda cans and stray bits of popcorn that were thrown at various team members.

I just decide to come right out and ask--no point beating around the bush. "Hey, are you and me going to be okay? You don't still think I did all this to fuck with you, do you?"

He straightens, tugging on the drawstring of a trash bag to pull it closed. "No," he answers after a moment, brow furrowed, "but..."

Finn looks around to make sure no one's nearby, then leans just a little closer. It's not nearly as close as I've had him before, but my heart rate still kicks up and I can smell his aftershave now.

"What happened at the con can't happen again, Ryker."

I'm not sure what to feel at that. Insulted that he thinks it's all I'm thinking about? Disappointed he doesn't want to have another go? Annoyed he's decided I still want him?

I'd be kind of a hypocrite to feel any of those things because I have thought about it more than I should, I am disappointed he doesn't want another go, and yeah, I definitely do still want him.

I'm also enough of a cheeky bastard to just flash him a grin and say, "Can't control destiny, Finny," before I take my own trash bag out to the garage and go upstairs with Coach Singh to scope out a room.