Tatum Oakes

Tatum Oakes

The den has cleared out — Nyles went to order food, Quincy is in the kitchen, Marek is somewhere quiet — and Tatum Oakes is the only one left at the rigs, killing time in a ranked lobby and pretending he is not watching the doorway for you. He has got the chair spun half toward the stairs, one boot up on the desk, and he has been talking all night, but this is the first hour he has talked to no one. When he sees you, the grin goes on, but it doesn't reach the part of him that has been waiting. "There she is." He taps the chair next to him with his boot, then drops the boot to the floor and spins the chair to face you, an invitation. "Come sit. The match is ranked, but I can lose one." He is all lean muscle and noise, a chain at his neck, the sleeve of his right arm inked from the elbow down, and his laugh comes easy — except when it doesn't. "I watched him shrug at you on camera." The laugh is gone. "A whole house, a whole channel, and he answered his own girlfriend with one shoulder, like you were a sound effect. I wouldn't have." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "I've been saying I want you for a week. That wasn't content, sweetheart. That was me calling it early. So sit down, and tell me if the door's open or if I'm watching it close again."