Last Light of the Gaming Legend Son-In-Law

Chapter 7: Coffee for the Enemy

On Sunday morning, the sun came up warm over Bayview Hills, and the Lockwoods held brunch on the patio as if nobody’s life was about to be sold for a dollar.

I carried out the coffee at ten. My eyes felt like someone had rubbed sand in them, and I’d slept for three hours, but nobody at that table cared how I slept.

“There he is,” Brandon called, waving his phone. “The runaway. Where’d you go last night, Cole? Did you finally find a job?”

“I was with a friend.”

“You don’t have friends,” Vivian said, feeding a piece of bacon to the little white dog in her lap. “You have a phone and a candy game.”

Howard sat at the head of the table in a gray suit, even on a Sunday, reading the business pages. Sienna sat beside him with her laptop open, answering emails, her ponytail tight, her face pale. She hadn’t said a word to me since our talk in her office.

At ten-thirty, a long silver sports car rolled up the driveway, and Spencer Dalton stepped out in a cream suit and his bright white sneakers, followed by a thin man carrying a leather folder.

“Good morning, family,” Spencer said, smiling his perfect smile. “I brought my lawyer, so Monday goes smoothly.”

The lawyer opened the folder and set a stack of papers on the table in front of Howard. “The buyout agreement, sir. Ready for signing at nine a.m. tomorrow, in the Lockwood Holdings boardroom.”

“One dollar,” Spencer said, and winked at Sienna. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep the name. The Lockwood Lions has a nice ring to it.”

Howard turned a page of the agreement without looking up. “It’s a fair offer, Sienna. More than fair, considering the debt.”

“Fair?” Sienna’s hands stopped moving on her keyboard. “Dad, you’re selling your own daughter’s company to the man who owns the team that beat it.”

“I’m collecting a loan,” Howard said softly. “Business isn’t personal.”

“It’s always personal with you,” she said. “I still have until Monday.”

“Of course you do,” Spencer said kindly. “Twenty-two hours. That’s plenty of time for a miracle.”

“Speaking of miracles,” Tyler said, bursting out of the house in a fresh Monarch T-shirt, his messy blond hair still wet from the shower. “Did you guys see this? The King’s Gauntlet! The final’s tonight!”

“Nobody cares about your video games, Tyler,” Vivian said.

“Everybody cares, Mom! There’s this mystery player called LastLight.” He shoved his phone at the table. “He came out of nowhere yesterday and beat a top Korean pro. People are saying he played part of the match with his eyes closed. Nina Park posted about him, and it’s got a million views! The final’s going to be bigger than the Pro League!”

“A million views,” Spencer said, interested now. “Really?”

“He plays like a ghost,” Tyler said. “Some people think he’s Monarch.”

He said the name the way other kids said the names of superheroes. Tyler had a Monarch poster over his bed, a Monarch phone case and a Monarch tattoo he’d drawn on his arm in pen when he was fifteen; he’d told me once that the day Monarch vanished was the worst day of his whole life. He had no idea he was saying it to the man who’d made him cry.

“Monarch’s gone,” Brandon said. “Everyone knows that.”

“Then who else plays like that?” Tyler turned and grinned at me. “Hey, Cole, you should watch tonight. Maybe you’ll learn how a real gamer plays.”

“Maybe I will,” I said, pouring Howard’s coffee.

“Don’t get your hopes up, kid,” Brandon said, scrolling his phone. “I put twenty thousand dollars on PeakBet against this LastLight guy. Nobody wins from nowhere. The odds are great.”

“You bet against him?” Tyler looked horrified.

“I bet against fairy tales,” Brandon said. “That’s how you get rich.”

Spencer laughed and clapped Brandon on the back. “PeakBet thanks you for your business.”

Of course. PeakBet belonged to Dalton Media, and Dalton Media belonged to Spencer. Every bet anyone in this family made went into his pocket.

“Cole,” Vivian said, without looking at me. “Mr. Dalton and his lawyer need coffee.”

I poured it. Spencer held his cup out without looking up, the way you’d hold a glass out to a waiter, and I filled it to the top.

“Black, two sugars,” he said.

I added two sugars.

“Stir it.”

I stirred it.

Sienna’s jaw tightened, but she kept her eyes on her laptop.

“Good boy,” Spencer said, and the lawyer smiled into his folder.

“And Cole,” Vivian added, “Mr. Dalton’s car is covered in dust from our driveway. Go wash it. We’re talking business.”

Nobody laughed this time. They didn’t need to. Brandon was filming with his phone, already grinning.

I walked out to the driveway, filled a bucket with soap and water, and washed Spencer Dalton’s car.

It was a long silver sports car with the Iron Dynasty logo on the license plate frame. I washed the hood. I washed the doors. I washed the wheels, kneeling on the warm stones, while the voices on the patio drifted down to me, Spencer’s laughing, Vivian’s sweet, Brandon’s loud.

“…once the team is mine, she’ll come around…”

“…honestly, Spencer, she only married him to spite you…”

“…she’ll divorce him by summer. Mark my words.”

I kept washing. My eyes stung from the sun on the bright paint, and I had to stop twice and close them. Every time I did, I saw the same thing in the dark: Crown Fall, my move, on the screen of the man who wanted my wife and her team. I scrubbed the Iron Dynasty logo on the license plate until it shone like a mirror.

When I finished, the car was shining. I dried my hands on my jeans and walked back up to the patio.

“I’m going out to buy groceries,” I told Vivian.

“Take the bus,” she said. “And don’t come back with the cheap coffee again.”

Sienna looked up from her laptop, and for one second, our eyes met. She looked tired, and something else… confused, maybe, as if she was trying to read a page in a language she almost knew.

“Get milk,” she said quietly. Then, after a second, almost too soft to hear: “And Cole… thank you for the coffee.”

“Okay.”

I walked down the hill to the bus stop and sat in the very back row. The bus to Eastport took forty minutes. I spent all of them with my eyes closed, resting them for tonight.

Halfway there, my phone buzzed. It was Maggie, and she didn’t say hello.

“Your next opponent just went live on his stream.”

“Who is it?”

“Rocco Vitale. Blaze.” I knew the name; everyone did. One of the best players in Europe, with three million followers and a mouth twice as big as his talent. “Cole, he just called you a cheater in front of three million people. He says nobody wins with their eyes closed unless the game is rigged. He says when he beats you this afternoon, he’s going to make you take off your mask on camera.”

I opened my eyes. The bus was turning onto the bridge to Eastport, and the bright water below hurt to look at.

“Good,” I said. “Tell him I accept.”

“Accept what?”

“If he beats me, I’ll take it off.”