The Uber dropped Ethan two blocks from his house, at the corner by the Sunoco station on Castleton Drive. He walked the rest of the way through the warm May evening, hands in his pockets.
The house was a two-story colonial his parents had bought in 2003 — nothing fancy, vinyl siding, a basketball hoop in the driveway with a slightly deflated ball that had been slightly deflated for approximately four years. His dad ran a small hardware supply business out of a storefront on Morse Road. His mom worked in the county assessor's office, steady salary, good benefits, not much room for extras.
Two kids in college at the same time was going to stretch things thin. His older sister Rachel had just gotten into her master's program at Ohio State. Ethan was about to start his freshman year somewhere, assuming he didn't completely blow the upcoming exams.
He wasn't worried about the exams.
What he was thinking about, even as he turned up the front walk, was the number he'd written in his notebook that afternoon:
Capital needed before June 12th.
June 12th. World Cup opening day.
He had fifty-three dollars in his wallet and $847 in his Chase account, most of it birthday money he hadn't spent yet. Every other cent he'd accumulated over the years had gone toward an Xbox, two years of iTunes purchases, and an embarrassing amount of Chipotle.
He had twenty-seven days until finals and thirty-four days until the tournament started. The math was tight but workable — if he was smart about it.
He unlocked the front door.
From the kitchen came the sound of his mom, Linda, asking his dad to please call Ethan and find out where he'd been all day.
Ethan stopped in the doorway and felt something hit him square in the chest.
His dad, Robert Hayes, was sitting in the armchair with his legs crossed, holding a mug of coffee, not looking up from the baseball game on TV.
In another life, Robert Hayes had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer at fifty-one. Gone eleven months later. Ethan had made it back for the last two weeks, which meant he'd also missed everything before that — the diagnosis, the first round of treatment, the good months in between where his dad had apparently taken up birdwatching and gotten genuinely enthusiastic about it.
He stood in the doorway for a second longer than normal.
"There he is," his dad said, still watching the game. "Your mother's been ready to file a missing persons report."
Linda came out of the kitchen holding a dish towel, looking at Ethan with the particular expression that meant I'm not actually that mad but I need you to explain yourself.
"Ethan Robert Hayes. Where exactly have you been since two o'clock?"
"Mom." He dropped his bag by the stairs. "I was over at Jake's reviewing for the Calc exam. You can text him."
This was mostly true. He had been at Jake Mercer's house for approximately forty-five minutes before ending up at Cloud Nine, but the timeline was defensible.
Linda studied him for a moment, then turned back to the kitchen. "Dinner's ready. Robert, come set the table."
"It's the seventh inning—"
"It's recorded."
His dad got up without further argument, catching Ethan's eye on the way past and giving him a look that said: I tried.
The table was loaded — pot roast, roasted potatoes, green beans from the can because his mom maintained that fresh green beans were a waste of effort. Ethan sat down and ate with a focus that surprised even him.
He hadn't eaten his mother's cooking in almost a year. In the previous life, the last several months had been catered lunches, restaurant dinners, a personal chef for approximately three months before he decided that was excessive even by his standards.
This was better.
"Your sister called," Linda said. "She wants to know if we're coming to her thesis presentation."
"When is it?" Robert asked.
"Three weeks."
"I'll move the Hendricks order." He pointed his fork at Ethan. "You've got exams anyway."
"I can do both," Ethan said.
His parents exchanged a brief glance — the kind that carried an entire conversation in about half a second.
After dinner Ethan helped clear the table, then headed upstairs. He could hear his parents talking quietly in the kitchen, his mom saying something about I don't think he actually went to Jake's, and his dad responding with something measured about giving the kid some space, exams are in less than a month, he's not doing anything stupid.
Ethan sat on his bed and stared at the ceiling.
Same as before, he thought. Always covering for me.
He grabbed his notebook and uncapped a pen.
At the top of the page he wrote two things:
1. FINALS
2. WORLD CUP
Finals he wasn't worried about. He'd tested into Wharton in another life — he could handle the Ohio state standards. He'd coast through on muscle memory and spend the real energy on problem number two.
The World Cup bracket was locked in his memory like a blueprint. Every result. Every upset. He didn't need to gamble wildly — just precisely. Small, smart, distributed bets placed through legal channels. Nothing that looked impossible. Nothing that drew attention.
The problem was seed money.
He looked at the $53 in his wallet.
He looked at his notebook.
Can't play the lottery — I never followed it closely enough to remember the numbers. Too much corruption in the draw anyway. The World Cup is clean data. I lived through every match.
He tore the page out, crumpled it, tossed it in the trash.
Stretched, showered, and went to sleep before eleven — which, for a 18-year-old on a Saturday, felt vaguely heroic.
Sunday morning his phone buzzed at nine.
He picked it up and squinted at the screen.
Three texts from Jake:
"dude you up"
"cyber café today??? I got a new setup"
"I literally destroyed everyone last night bro come watch me do it again"
Ethan typed back: "Yeah I'm in. But you're going to learn something today."
Jake: What?
Ethan; Going easy on my son don't count.
Jake: "???? okay old man"
Ethan smiled and put the phone down.
He got dressed, went downstairs, said good morning to his dad who was already watching pregame coverage with his coffee, grabbed a breakfast sandwich from the place on Henderson that had been there since Ethan was in middle school — the owner, Mr. Kim, nodded at him like nothing had changed, because nothing had — and walked the six blocks to LAN Zone, the gaming café on Parkview.
Standard rate was $2.50 an hour. Monthly membership brought it down to $1.80. The back section had the newer rigs; the front section near the windows had the older machines missing half their peripherals, which was where Jake always insisted on sitting for reasons no one had ever successfully explained.
Ethan pulled up a chair in the back section, cracked his knuckles, and loaded in.
He had twenty-seven days until finals, thirty-four until the World Cup, and approximately $900 to his name.
First life, I built everything slowly, the hard way, with no advantages.
He flexed his fingers over the keyboard.
Let's see what happens when you actually know what's coming.
There are some advance chapters ahead in my Patreon. If you are interested can check it out.
patreon.com/B_A_3439