More Than a Game

I don’t know what to do anymore. It feels like everything is a waste - of time, of energy, of life. I just…

Nolan hit the arrow at the bottom of the screen. A box popped up reminding him that the draft would be lost if he continued away from the screen. His finger hesitated while a battle raged inside his mind. The box and the partly written message disappeared, leaving only a name on the screen.

“I can’t bother Christopher with this,” Nolan muttered aloud. He set the phone on the desk as his head dropped onto one of his forearms.

The phone buzzed against the wood like an angry bee. Nolan glanced at the lit screen.

Christopher

Sup? Thought I saw u typing but nothing came thru. 

A quick smile tugged at the corner of Nolan’s mouth. Through years of friendship, he had come to understand that Christopher couldn’t be bothered half the time to finish words in text. Whenever Nolan brought up that predictive text could guess the word and spell it right for Christopher, he’d just say, “That’s an extra two seconds that I save. Two seconds can mean the difference between the bomb going off or getting diffused.” As usual, he used Call of Duty as a point of reference.

Not much. Nolan shot off the text before his hands got the better of his brain again. Up for a match?

Always

Nolan pushed back his chair and leaned under the desk to turn on the computer, pausing to pat the shaggy mop of fur that was curled up alongside the tower. A tail thumped on the floor quietly then stilled as Nolan sat up again. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the monitor just before the login screen appeared. Truth be told, he was relieved that Christopher had said something. Even if Nolan couldn’t muster up the courage to say what he wanted, at least he could lose himself in the game for a couple of hours.

Immediately upon logging in, an invitation screen popped up from Christopher. When Nolan accepted, he was thrown straight into match observation, forced to wait until the next round. The dead players chattered in the lobby while Christopher faced off against two from the opposite team. A couple of the players, friends of Christopher’s, greeted Nolan as he entered the lobby then went back to their conversation.

Though Christopher couldn’t hear the rest of the team while they were dead, the group cheered him on anyway. They celebrated as Christopher took down one of the remaining enemies then groaned when he was caught by a claymore.

Nolan expected Christopher’s good-natured laugh when the match ended, but there was silence. Except for the other two, who repeated the last moments of the match in dramatic effect. When Christopher still didn’t say anything, Nolan finally spoke, the little microphone indicator next to his player identification flashing. “Hey, man, if you’re talking, your mic is muted.” 

“Think his mic broke,” someone said. Nolan couldn’t tell who it was because the other was laughing.

“Yeah, maybe.” Nolan picked up his phone to send a message. 

You good?

He dropped the phone into his lap and started to move his character before the game could kick him for inactivity. Despite Christopher being incommunicado, he and Nolan prowled through the map with seamless teamwork and made quick work of the enemy team. Two rounds later and Nolan’s phone remained silent and dark. They continued playing for several more matches.

Finally, Nolan’s phone buzzed.

Christopher

Can you call?

Nolan pressed a button and propped the phone between his ear and shoulder.

“Hey,” Christopher said when he answered.

“What’s up? Did your mic break?” Flipping through the stats of the previous match, Nolan felt a jolt of glee hit him when he saw he’d topped Christopher’s Kill/Death ratio, a rare occurrence.

“No, just didn’t feel like talking tonight. Watch out for that guy heading toward Bravo.”

Nolan didn’t respond, focusing his attention on the target. “Got him.” Another pause. His face started to heat up as he thought about what to say. Talking was always harder than texting for him. He took a short breath and said, “So what’s going on?”

Christopher sighed into the phone.

So preoccupied was Nolan with the pending response that he missed a shot, and his character paid the price. Both eliminated, the two sat in silence. Nolan shifted so that his hand held the phone while waiting for the next match. “So…” He drew the word out expectantly.

“Molly’s sick again.” Christopher’s voice sounded flatter than the tire on Nolan’s abandoned dirt bike. “With COVID-19 around and all, she had a higher risk of getting it.” 

“Man, I’m sorry,” Nolan said quickly then felt like a dolt because obviously that wasn’t enough. Nolan’s own brother wanted nothing to do with him, but Molly had always seemed like the center of Christopher’s world and for good reason. Molly had been in and out of leukemia treatment for six years. Though there had been a couple of close calls, she always came out ahead. “She doesn’t… I mean, it’s just a cold, right? She’s had those before.” 

A cough came over the line as Christopher cleared his throat. “She got tested this morning. We’re still waiting on the results.” He faked another cough. “She’s bad off, man. I don’t know how to help her. I don’t… I can’t…” He went quiet.

Nolan cast his eyes around, searching for something that he could say or do. He thought about the emptiness he was all too familiar with. In a hushed, almost reverent voice, he said, “I get feeling helpless, like it’s not worth the effort. It’s okay to not know what to do. You’re not a doctor or a biologist or whoever it is that studies diseases. You just need to be what Molly needs - her brother.”

A long silence filled the air. Nolan checked the phone to make sure the call hadn’t dropped. When he held it to his ear again, he could hear Christopher draw a shaky breath. “You’re right,” Christopher finally said. “I’m gonna go check on her, maybe take her some ice cream. Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Christopher chuckled. “You know, I think you’re the only one I know who means that. Later.” 

The line beeped. Nolan set his phone on the desk, exited the game, and turned off the monitor. His own pain wasn’t completely gone, but at least he didn’t feel like a waste anymore.