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Wang Jiexi had often felt defeated, but there was something unique about this particular feeling, on this particular night, that was especially unbearable. He almost wished he had a nicotine addiction: now seemed like the perfect time to exhale a dramatic plume of smoke and gaze up at the night sky with a forlorn expression and slumped shoulders.
However, he was neither a smoker nor was he outdoors. He also wasn’t dramatic. The most dramatic thing he’d done tonight was leave his team behind for a few moments to gather his composure. He suspected it would do them more good than it would him, all things considered. Apologizing that much couldn’t be healthy for anyone.
I didn’t think I was such a stern captain, Wang Jiexi mused to himself, that my teammates would fall all over themselves to beg forgiveness because of one loss.
True, it wasn’t just any loss. It was the championship, and the finals, and they had lost to Blue Rain’s (frankly black-hearted) mind games. But it was still just a loss, one more defeat in a long line of them. There was next season. There were seasons after that too, and a whole life to be lived in the nebulous future known as post-retirement. They were all too young for this to weigh their hearts so heavily.
But how else were they to feel other than heavy-hearted? The trophy had been swiped out of their reach just as they were about to grasp it. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if it had seemed hopeless from the start, but none of them had been expecting Blue Rain to bring out that level of psychological warfare. Dirty tactics, clever moves, sure, they were prepared for all that—Wang Jiexi prepared them for all that. Not so much for trash talk.
Hence the uniqueness of this feeling, on this particular night. A defeat so unexpected, so insultingly casual, so not-what-should-have-happened, and it was Wang Jiexi’s duty to bear it, no matter how unbearable. After all, he was not just a component of the team, but its captain: the one whose responsibility was beyond doubt.
The one who was going to have to withstand a lot of scrutiny in about twenty minutes, if his estimates were right.
He wished he had whatever it was that allowed Ye Qiu to treat press conferences like optional side quests.
The sound of shoes scuffing against the floor had Wang Jiexi raising his head. In a relatively deserted, badly lit hallway a fair distance from where the player lounges were located was not where he’d expect to be found (at least not this soon). He braced himself—
But it wasn’t some stadium employee, team manager, or teammate. For a harrowing second, he thought it might be a very determined, very audacious fan. Then he recognized that handsome face.
A matching name came to mind. “Zhou Zekai?”
“Mm,” came the soft agreement.
Wang Jiexi contemplated the suddenness of this visit. Of course, it didn’t take a genius to determine that Zhou Zekai was probably one of many colleagues who came to observe the deciding match of the finals personally, but those colleagues would normally be occupied with the winners, not the captain of the losing team. Who disappeared from view as soon as Tiny Herb filed off the stage, for the record.
“How’d you find me?”
To be frank, Wang Jiexi had little understanding of who Zhou Zekai was as a person. In his second year as a pro player, he could still be considered a rookie. That said, he was Samsara’s ace, which put him in the spotlight from debut (Wang Jiexi could relate), so there was a lot to talk about where Zhou Zekai was concerned. His team had made several strides forward with him at its center and he was bafflingly good-looking to boot—interest was natural.
Yet, due to what Wang Jiexi could only ascribe to excessive shyness, Zhou Zekai had remained closed-off and uncomfortable with the media. His interviews were awkward affairs that offered next to nothing by way of personal information. Or any information at all.
Thinking about it now, Wang Jiexi had never talked to Zhou Zekai except to exchange polite greetings and farewells. Zhou Zekai hadn’t made attempts at conversation, either. The shyness might be a foundational character trait.
“I looked,” Zhou Zekai replied. He approached Wang Jiexi with merely passing hesitance, his expression rendered unreadable in the dark.
“Were you looking for me for a specific reason?” Wang Jiexi asked after a moment.
Zhou Zekai nodded his head, the gesture somehow cute. “Congratulations.”
Wang Jiexi raised his eyebrows.
After a pause, he ventured, “You looked for me to say congratulations.”
Zhou Zekai nodded again. Cutely.
“Well, thank you,” Wang Jiexi said, “though that’s usually what you say to the champions.”
Puppy-like, Zhou Zekai tilted his head one way, then the other. He was standing close enough now that Wang Jiexi could pick out hints of confusion and struggle on his face. Maybe it wasn’t all shyness; did he have some kind of impairment…?
“Senior…did well,” said Zhou Zekai, eventually, after much thinking. “Your Witch is…mm. Magical.”
Reflexively, Wang Jiexi smiled. “Isn’t that about what you’d expect from a Witch?”
Zhou Zekai hummed, giving the impression that he agreed, but he didn’t retract the compliment or explain it. Wang Jiexi decided to let it be.
“No matter how magical my gameplay, though, Glory is still a team effort. Our strategy fell apart in the end.”
“Mm.” Zhou Zekai blinked at him. “Pressure?”
“Yes. Blue Rain deserved the victory.” Wang Jiexi leaned more comfortably against the wall at his back and sighed. “I expected Yu Wenzhou to use his head, but I should have been extra wary of Huang Shaotian.”
Zhou Zekai hummed again and leaned against the wall across from him.
“I don’t have a lot of regrets about how everything went down until now,” Wang Jiexi explained. “I just wish I could have known about this weakness sooner. Good tactics and a strong formation don’t mean much when you can’t think clearly enough to use them.”
“Surprised everyone,” Zhou Zekai replied. It came a bit later than most people’s replies would, but the delay was obviously not due to a lack of sincerity or care. The kid all but radiated earnestness.
Wang Jiexi smiled again, with a lot less humor this time. “Myself included.”
“Senior…”
Patiently, Wang Jiexi waited.
“Arena?”
“You want to duel?”
Zhou Zekai gave him two enthusiastic thumbs up. “Soon? Please?”
“Sure, though I’ll be a bit busy for a few days.” It was unfair how Tiny Herb’s efforts—a season’s work and weeks of preparation—could be frustrated in a flash, but the arduous trials of publicity continued. Sadly, he didn’t make the rules.
“Okay.” Zhou Zekai glanced back the way he came. The light bathed his youthful features with the attention to detail typically reserved for a master painter’s signature work.
Wang Jiexi made a mental note to add Zhou Zekai as a friend on QQ when he was free, then stood up straight. “I should head back before Fang Shiqian hunts me down.” His sharp-eyed vice-captain hadn’t said much of anything since they departed the stage; Wang Jiexi wanted to avoid his ire for a little longer.
Zhou Zekai followed Wang Jiexi’s lead in silence. When they walked out of that hallway, they were side by side, content in the quiet.
Wang Jiexi took a while to realize neither his heart nor his burden felt all that heavy anymore.