I was feeling good, high off the adrenaline of kicking ass when he hit me directly in the back, sending me spinning out of control and smashing into the wall.
And just like that, I was the loser all over again. Same outcome, different day.
“God dang, Jamie!” I yelled, dropping my controller, and throwing my hands up in defeat. “A red shell? Really? How long were you holding on to that?”
He crossed the finish line, laughing maniacally, the deep, foreboding sound of an evil mastermind. Or as close to it as his scrawny, prepubescent voice could get.
“I get my skills from my uncle. You’ll never beat me.” He set his controller down, smiling at me and pretending to crack his knuckles. I could practically smell the smugness emanating from his skin.
“Whatever, dude. I’ll get you next time.”
“You say that every time.”
“Yeah, but this time I mean it.”
We both giggled, wrapping the cords around our controllers, and setting them on top of the gaming system that sat on the floor next to our puny excuse for a television.
It was our ritual. Every night, on the nights I was home, we’d play three rounds of racing and whoever lost had to clean up the living room. “Whoever” always meaning me. I might as well legally change my name from Madison Hartland to Loser Neverwin. The kid was flipping ruthless.
“All right, bud, you know the drill, go brush and wash your face while I clean up.”
He immediately stood and shuffled in the direction of the hallway right behind our couch. His lack of complaint or eye roll instantly had my mom senses tingling.
“That means you have to actually go into the bathroom,” I hollered over my shoulder, not even bothering to turn around.
“Ugh, how do you always know?”
“Eyes in the back of my head.” I chuckled, hearing him grumble to himself before the sink turned on and drowned him out. I wasn’t buying it and was one-hundred percent going to smell his breath before he climbed in bed.
At eight years old, he’d never looked a thing like me. His dirty blond, straight hair and ocean blue eyes were polar opposites of my dark brown, spiral curls and chocolate eyes. Honestly, it was no wonder people assumed I was his babysitter.
His personality; however, might as well have been a carbon copy of mine. He was sneaky as a fox and stubborn as a bull. It made me want to rip my hair out most days, and I had only myself to blame. Lord knows my mother found it hilarious and exactly what I deserved.
But for as stubborn as he was, he was a sweet kid. He enjoyed hiking and exploring, but he wasn’t a rough and tumble kind of kid. He was just as happy vegging with me at home as he was hanging out with friends at school. I considered myself beyond lucky.
Crawling on my hands and knees, I made my way across our small living room, picking up the pillows we’d strewn across the floor. Prior to our match, we’d partook in a pre-game, epic fight to the death for the last package of gummies. He may have escaped with his life, but I won that battle.
Was he in elementary school? Yes. Did he only come up to my shoulder in height? Yep. Did I go easy on him because of that? Not a chance. Sweets were rare in our house. He knew the stakes.
I had just finished brushing crumbs off our faux-wood coffee table and readjusting the rug when he opened the door and walked out.
“That was fast. Did you wash your face?”
Insert dramatic eye roll. I didn’t even need to see him to know he was doing it. “Yes,” he said, drawing out the end like a snake.
I glanced up, narrowing my eyes. His skin didn’t look damp, and there wasn’t even the tiniest hint of pink to his cheeks. “You sure?”