The coffee shop Claire had chosen was tucked away in a quieter district of Silvercrest City—far from campus, far from the gaming cafes, far from anywhere Ethan might be recognized. It was called "Brew & Bytes," a small establishment that catered to the tech crowd with decent Wi-Fi and privacy booths.
Ethan arrived at 4:30 PM, still in his campus hoodie, backpack slung over one shoulder. He'd managed to escape the university without too many interruptions, though someone had definitely followed him for three blocks before giving up.
Claire was already there, seated in a corner booth with a laptop open and two cups of coffee on the table. She looked up as he approached, that same analytical expression he'd come to recognize.
"You're early," she said. "I like that. Shows discipline."
"Or anxiety about being late," Ethan replied, sliding into the booth across from her.
"Also valid." Claire pushed one of the coffee cups toward him. "Black coffee, two sugars. That's your order, right? I saw you drinking it at the tournament."
Ethan blinked. "You're observant."
"Habit. When you're trying to scout talent, you notice everything." She closed her laptop, giving him her full attention. "So. How's fame treating you?"
"It's exhausting. I got asked for autographs in the bathroom today."
Claire laughed—a genuine sound that made her seem less intimidating. "Yeah, that's going to be your life now. At least for a few weeks until the next big thing happens and people move on."
"Can't wait," Ethan said dryly, taking a sip of coffee. It was perfect—exactly how he liked it.
"But you're not here to complain about fame," Claire continued. "You're here because you don't know what to do next. The tournament is over, you got second place, and now you have opportunities but no direction. Am I close?"
Disturbingly accurate. "Pretty much."
Claire leaned back, studying him. "Okay. Let's break this down. What do you actually want, Ethan? Not what people expect from you, not what would make a good story—what do *you* want?"
The question caught him off guard. In his old world, he'd wanted to go pro but never believed it was possible. Here, the possibility was suddenly real, but he hadn't stopped to actually think about whether he wanted it.
"I want to keep playing," he said slowly. "I want to get better. I want to prove that I belong—not as a token male player, but as someone who's genuinely skilled."
"Good start. Specific goals?"
"Win a championship. Not just get second place—actually win." The words came out with more intensity than he expected. "I want to close out games when it matters. I want to not... throw."
Claire nodded, not with pity but with understanding. "That game three haunts you."
"Every time I close my eyes, I see that dash forward. That one mistake that cost us everything."
"Good," Claire said.
Ethan frowned. "Good?"
"Good that it haunts you. Bad players forget their mistakes and repeat them. Good players obsess over them and make sure they never happen again." She pulled out her phone, scrolling through something. "I've been watching your replays. Want to know what I saw?"
"That I threw?"
"That you're raw talent with zero formal training." Claire turned her phone to show him a spreadsheet—detailed analysis of his gameplay. "Your mechanics are insane for someone who's self-taught. Your champion pool is creative but inconsistent. Your decision-making under pressure is both your greatest strength and biggest weakness. You take risks that pro players wouldn't touch, and sometimes it works brilliantly. Sometimes..."
"It loses me championships."
"Exactly." Claire set down her phone. "You need coaching, Ethan. Real coaching. Structure. Training regimens. Someone to tell you when your aggression is genius and when it's suicide."
"And you're offering?"
"Me? No. I'm good, but I'm not coach material." Claire smiled slightly. "But I know people. I've been in the scene for three years. I have connections."
"Why are you helping me?" Ethan asked. "You barely know me."
Claire was quiet for a moment, considering her answer. "Because I like stories that break the mold. Because I'm tired of the same narratives being repeated. And because..." She hesitated. "Because I know what it's like to be told you don't belong."
"You? But you're ranked high, you play for a collegiate team—"
"I'm also from a family that thinks gaming is a waste of time, I'm majoring in engineering which leaves me almost no practice time, and I'm constantly told I'm only good because I play support—the 'easy' role." Claire's expression hardened. "Different struggles, same bullshit. So when I see someone fighting to prove themselves, I want to help. Call it solidarity."
Ethan found himself warming to her more. She wasn't just some mysterious scout or potential love interest—she was a person with her own battles, her own reasons for caring.
"So what do you suggest?" he asked.
Claire pulled out a small notebook, flipping it open to a page covered in neat handwriting. "I've been making a list. Here are your options, ranked by practicality:"
**OPTION ONE: Join the University Esports Team**
"Olivia Chen is serious about recruiting you. The team is good—they placed fourth in the collegiate regionals last season. They have coaching staff, practice facilities, and a structured schedule that won't completely destroy your academic life."
"But?" Ethan sensed there was a but.
"But it's collegiate. The skill ceiling is lower than professional play. You'd be the best player on the team by a significant margin, which means you'd carry often but not necessarily grow as much. Safe option, but limited upside."
**OPTION TWO: Form a Semi-Pro Team with Mixed Bag**
"Your current team has chemistry. That's rare and valuable. With proper practice time and coaching, you could compete in amateur circuits, work your way up. It's the romantic option—building something with the people you already trust."
"And the downside?"
"Time and resources. You'd need a sponsor, a practice space, someone to coach you. And you'd be starting from scratch in terms of infrastructure. It's high risk, potentially high reward, but you could also spin your wheels for months without meaningful progress."
**OPTION THREE: Accept Tryouts with Professional Organizations**
"Three teams have expressed interest. I happen to know two of them pretty well." Claire pulled up something on her laptop, turning it to show him. "Meridian Vanguard is a mid-tier pro team looking for a substitute jungler. They're not top-tier, but they're established and have a decent support system."
"Substitute?" Ethan felt a sting of disappointment.
"Yeah. Here's the reality—no top-tier team is going to put an unknown male player in their starting roster immediately. The publicity would be intense, the risk too high. You'd need to prove yourself in academy leagues or as a sub first."
Ethan sipped his coffee, processing. "What would you do? If you were me?"
Claire closed her laptop, meeting his eyes. "Honestly? I'd do option two. I'd stick with Mixed Bag, find a way to get proper coaching, and build something from the ground up. Because you already have something most teams spend years trying to create—genuine synergy. Riley's shot-calling, Jake's consistency, Marcus's willingness to absorb pressure, Sophie's quiet brilliance, and your ability to make insane plays work. That's special."
"But you said it's high risk."
"Everything worth doing is high risk." Claire leaned forward. "Look, I'll be straight with you. The esports scene isn't kind to pioneers. You're going to face skepticism, hostility, and endless scrutiny. If you go the safe route—join the university team, play it conservative—you'll be comfortable but you'll always wonder if you could have been more."
"And if I build something with Mixed Bag and fail?"
"Then you fail trying to do something extraordinary instead of succeeding at something ordinary." Claire smiled. "But I don't think you'll fail. I've seen too much potential in you—in all of you."
Ethan sat back, his mind racing. Three paths, three different futures. Each with its own appeal and danger.
"I need to talk to my team," he said finally.
"Good answer." Claire pulled out a business card—sleek black with silver text. "This is my personal number and email. I meant what I said about connections. If you decide to go with Mixed Bag, I can help you find resources. Coaches, sponsors, practice spaces. I can't promise it'll be easy, but I can promise you won't be alone."
Ethan took the card, feeling its weight. "Why are you doing all this?"
"I told you—solidarity." Claire stood, gathering her laptop. "Plus, I'm selfish. If you succeed, it makes my job easier. I'm trying to start a talent agency for unconventional players. You'd be a hell of a first client."
"So this is a business opportunity?"
"Everything is a business opportunity if you're smart about it." She paused. "But it's also personal. I want to see you succeed because your success makes the scene better for everyone who's been told they don't belong."
She started to leave, then turned back. "Oh, and Ethan? One more thing. Don't make your decision based on fear. Don't pick the safe option just because you're afraid of throwing again. Champions aren't made by playing it safe."
Claire left, leaving Ethan alone with his thoughts, his coffee, and three possible futures.
---
That evening, Ethan called an emergency team meeting. They gathered at Marcus's apartment—a surprisingly neat place for someone with such chaotic energy. Pizza boxes covered the coffee table, and everyone sprawled across the worn couches.
"Okay," Riley said, once everyone was settled. "You called this meeting. What's up?"
Ethan laid out everything Claire had told him—the three options, the pros and cons, the reality of their situation.
When he finished, silence filled the room.
Marcus broke it first. "So basically, we have to decide if we're serious or if this was just a one-time thing."
"Pretty much," Ethan confirmed.
Jake had his laptop out, already pulling up information. "If we form a semi-pro team, we'd need approximately 15-20 hours of practice per week minimum. That's on top of classes and jobs. We'd need sponsors to cover tournament fees, which are typically 500-1000 credits per entry. And we'd need a coach, which could cost anywhere from 2000-5000 credits per month depending on their experience level."
"So basically impossible for broke college students," Marcus said.
"Not impossible," Riley countered. "Difficult. There's a difference." She looked at each of them. "But Jake's right that we need to be realistic. This would be a serious commitment. It would affect our grades, our social lives, everything."
Sophie, who'd been quiet, finally spoke: "I want to do it."
Everyone turned to look at her.
"I know I don't talk much," Sophie continued, her voice soft but firm. "But that tournament... that was the most alive I've felt in years. I'm tired of playing it safe. I want to see how far we can go."
Marcus grinned. "Hell yeah, Sophie! That's what I'm talking about!" He stood up, pacing with excitement. "Look, I know it's crazy. I know the odds are against us. But we got second place in our first tournament together. Second place! Against teams that have been playing for years!"
"We also threw a 7000 gold lead," Jake pointed out.
"Because we lack experience closing games," Marcus shot back. "That's a skill we can learn. But chemistry? Synergy? That's not something you can teach. We have that already."
Riley looked at Ethan. "What do you want to do? Honestly."
Ethan thought about Claire's words. Don't make decisions based on fear. Don't play it safe.
"I want to run it back," he said. "Not just one more tournament—I want to build something real. I want us to become a team that people respect, not because we're a novelty, but because we're good enough that gender doesn't matter."
"Inspirational speech," Jake said dryly. "But how do we actually make this work?"
"We start small," Riley said, her strategic mind already working. "We set realistic goals. First goal: qualify for the next major tournament in two months. Second goal: establish a practice schedule we can all maintain. Third goal: find a coach who'll work with us."
"I can help with the coaching part," Ethan said. "Claire—the girl I met with today—she has connections. She said she'd help us find resources if we commit to this."
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Claire, huh? Is she cute?"
"Focus, Marcus," Riley said, but she was smiling.
"What about the university team?" Sophie asked. "Olivia seemed really interested in recruiting us."
"Some of us could do both," Riley suggested. "The university team practices don't overlap with what we'd do as Mixed Bag. Jake, you're already on the university roster, right?"
Jake nodded. "I'm a substitute. I could probably get Sophie and Marcus tryouts if they're interested."
"That could work," Ethan said. "Get more practice time, more competitive experience. As long as it doesn't conflict with Mixed Bag."
"So we're really doing this?" Marcus asked, looking around at everyone. "We're actually going to try to go semi-pro?"
One by one, they nodded.
Riley put her hand in the center of the coffee table. "All in. This is going to be hard, probably stupid, and we'll probably fail spectacularly. But we do it together."
Marcus put his hand on top of hers. "All in."
Jake added his. "All in."
Sophie hesitated, then placed hers on the pile. "All in."
Everyone looked at Ethan. He put his hand on top, completing the stack.
"Mixed Bag," he said. "Worst team name, best team."
They held the moment, hands stacked, a silent promise made.
Then Marcus ruined it: "Can we please get a better team name though? Mixed Bag sounds like a grocery store brand."
Riley threw a pillow at him.
---
Later that night, Ethan lay in bed scrolling through his phone. His social media was still exploding with activity, but he'd learned to mute most of it.
A message came through from Claire: *"So? What did you decide?"*
Ethan typed: *"We're going for it. Mixed Bag is sticking together. Going to try for semi-pro."*
Three dots appeared immediately, then: *"Hell yes. That's what I wanted to hear. Give me two days and I'll have some options for coaches. Don't let me down, Ethan. You've got something special."*
Another message from Vicky: *"Heard you're staying with your team. Smart move. Trust is harder to build than skill. Speaking of which—dinner this weekend? Mom and Dad want to talk about 'your future.' Fair warning: it'll be awkward."*
Ethan smiled despite himself. *"Can't wait."*
A notification popped up—the next major tournament registration had opened. The Silvercrest Regional Championship. Two months away. Prize pool: 25,000 credits. Every serious team in the region would be competing.
Including Starfire Academy.
Ethan stared at the registration page. Starfire's name was already on the roster, along with dozens of other teams. Some he recognized from the underground tournament. Others were completely unknown.
His finger hovered over the "Register Team" button.
Two months. That's all they had to prepare, to train, to become good enough to not just compete but win.
Two months to prove that the finals weren't a fluke.
Two months to show the world that Mixed Bag belonged.
He clicked the button.
**TEAM REGISTERED: MIXED BAG**
**TOURNAMENT DATE: 8 WEEKS FROM NOW**
**GOOD LUCK, COMPETITORS**
Ethan set down his phone and stared at the ceiling. The journey wasn't over. It was just beginning.
But this time, they weren't going in blind. This time, they'd be ready.
This time, they wouldn't throw.
His last thought before sleep: *We're going to need a better team name.*
---