The day before the finals dawned gray and rainy—perfect, Lena insisted, for "channeling our inner thunder." But for Jesse, the gloomy weather only amplified his anxiety. He arrived at Tom's Café an hour early, his calming kit stuffed into his backpack (now containing three mouse pads, two stress balls—one chewed, one new—a blue towel, and a thermos of chamomile tea with honey, courtesy of Marcus), his hands shaking even before he sat down at his PC.
"You're here early," Elias said, looking up from his laptop. He was reviewing Storm Riders' match footage, his wrist bandage adjusted snugly. "Nervous?"
Jesse nodded, slumping into his chair and pulling out his new stress ball—a plain blue one, no cat teeth marks. "What if I freeze up again? What if I miss the big shot? What if I let everyone down? The bakery sponsor is counting on us. Old Tom is counting on us. Your wrist is sore because of practice. I can't—"
"Breathe," Elias said, cutting him off gently. He pushed a plate of chocolate chip cookies toward Jesse—fresh from their sponsor, still warm. "Remember what we talked about? You don't have to be perfect. You just have to be you. And we'll have your back. Always."
Jesse took a cookie, biting into it slowly. The chocolate melted in his mouth, and for a second, his hands stopped shaking. "Thanks. But it's not the same. The finals are bigger. More people. More pressure. Last time I played in something this big, I messed up. Badly." He stared at his keyboard, his voice quiet. "I was on a little league baseball team in high school. We made it to the championship. I was the pitcher. Bottom of the ninth inning, tie game, bases loaded. I froze. Threw three straight strikes. We lost. Everyone looked at me like I'd ruined everything. I quit baseball that day. And I haven't been able to handle pressure since."
Elias nodded, listening quietly. He knew what it felt like—to carry the weight of expectation, to fear failure more than anything. "I get it. After the NWC, when everyone called me a cheater, I quit, too. For three years. I was scared to even touch a controller. But then Lena showed up, and Marcus, and Olivia. They didn't care about the Ghost. They cared about Elias. And right now, we don't care about the 'perfect sniper.' We care about Jesse. The guy who brings extra cookies for Marcus, who shares his tea with a cat, who hits perfect headshots when he's not overthinking."
Jesse smiled faintly, wiping a crumb from his chin. "You really think so?"
"I know so," Elias said, grinning. "Now. Let's practice. But not like usual. No bots. No warm-up matches. Just you. Me. And a little pressure training."
By the time the rest of the team arrived, Elias had set up a makeshift pressure drill: Jesse would take position on the rooftop of Urban Ruins, and Elias would spawn enemy bots one by one—faster and faster, while playing loud music (Lena's choice, which was mostly pop songs sung off-key) and having Marcus "accidentally" drop his textbook every two minutes (to simulate crowd noise). Olivia stood nearby, her arms crossed, but her eyes soft with encouragement.
"This is stupid," Lena said, bouncing in her chair. "Why can't we just play a normal practice match? I wanna beat something. Or someone. Preferably Jake. But bots work too."
"Because Jesse needs this," Olivia said, cutting her off. She tossed Jesse a water bottle. "And if you don't be quiet, I'll make you sit next to Marcus and listen to him talk about lab rats for an hour. No cookies."
Lena pouted, but she quieted down—mostly. She still hummed off-key, but she stopped yelling. Marcus sat next to Jesse, his laptop open to a page of "Anxiety-Busting Techniques for Gamers" (he'd printed it out that morning). "Ready when you are, Jesse. Remember, deep breaths. In for four seconds, hold for four, out for six. And if you need a break, just say the word. We can have another cookie. Or tea. Or both."
Jesse nodded, putting on his headphones and adjusting his blue mouse pad. "Ready."
Elias started the drill. The first bot spawned—slow, easy. Jesse aimed, took a deep breath, and fired. Headshot. "Good," Elias said. "Next."
The second bot spawned faster. Jesse's hands shook a little, but he fired. Headshot. "Nice," Marcus said, dropping a cookie next to him. "Keep going."
But by the fifth bot, the pressure started to get to him. The music was loud, Marcus's textbook thudded to the floor, and the bots were spawning one after another. Jesse aimed, but his hand twitched—he missed. The bot fired, hitting his shoulder, his health dropping to 50%.
"No," Jesse muttered, closing his eyes. "I messed up. I'm sorry. I—"
"Stop," Elias said, pausing the drill. "Take a break. Breathe. Have a cookie."
Jesse took a deep breath, grabbed a cookie, and sipped his tea. His hands were still shaking. "I can't do this. I'm gonna freeze up tomorrow. I know it."
"You can," Olivia said, leaning against his desk. She sounded tough, but her voice was gentle. "I was in JROTC in high school. We had to do a drill in front of the entire school. I froze. Couldn't even say my name. Everyone laughed. But I tried again. And again. And eventually, I got it. You're not gonna get it right on the first try. But you're gonna try. And we're gonna be right here."
Lena, who'd been quiet (a miracle), slid a crumpled piece of paper toward Jesse. It was a drawing—Jesse, standing on a rooftop, holding a sniper rifle, three mouse pads around him, a cookie in one hand, and a big smile on his face. Next to him was a stick figure of Lena, giving him a thumbs-up. At the top, it said "JESSE = BEST SNIPER EVER (NO PANICKING!)."
Jesse stared at the drawing, laughing through his nerves. "It's… amazing. Even if my head is bigger than the rooftop."
"Hey!" Lena protested. "I'm an artist! Sort of. Okay, not really. But it's the thought that counts. And if you freeze up tomorrow, I'll yell at you. Loudly. Until you snap out of it. And then we'll get cookies. Lots of cookies."
Marcus pushed his glasses up, grinning. "I also found a study that says positive reinforcement helps with performance. So every time you hit a headshot, we'll cheer. And give you a cookie. And tell you you're awesome. Science says it works. Probably."
Jesse took another deep breath, sitting up straight. "Okay. Let's try again. But can we turn down the music? Lena's singing is worse than my chamomile tea without honey."
Lena gasped, pretending to be offended. "Hey! My singing is amazing! But fine. For you. This time."
They restarted the drill—music softer, Marcus's textbook drops less frequently, but bots are still spawning fast. Jesse missed a few shots. He froze for a split second once. But he didn't quit. Every time he hit a headshot, the team cheered—Lena yelling the loudest, Marcus clapping gently, Olivia nodding approvingly, Elias grinning. And every time Jesse took a bite of a cookie, feeling his confidence grow.
By mid-afternoon, Jesse was in the zone. His hands stopped shaking. He didn't freeze. He hit 15 headshots in a row, even when Lena "accidentally" knocked over a soda can (to simulate a crowd cheer) and Marcus's laptop pinged with a study reminder. When Elias spawned three bots at once—fast, aggressive, just like Ryan, the Storm Riders' sniper—Jesse took them all down, one after another, without hesitation.
"Yes!" Lena yelled, jumping up and down. "That's our sniper! That's Jesse! WOOHOO!"
Jesse stared at his screen, wide-eyed. "I did it. I didn't panic. I didn't miss. I—" He turned to the team, a big smile spreading across his face. "I did it!"
Marcus high-fived him, pushing a cookie toward him. "Told you science works! Well, either that or the cookies. Probably the cookies."
Olivia smiled, patting Jesse's shoulder. "See? You were overthinking it. You're good. Really good. Better than Ryan, even. And if you start to panic tomorrow, just remember: we're right there. And I'll yell at you if you need it. Nicely. Maybe."
Elias leaned back in his chair, feeling proud. "That's the Jesse we need tomorrow. Calm. Focused. Ready. And if you do start to feel nervous? Take a deep breath. Think about the cookies. Think about us. We're the Thunderclap. We don't do perfect. We do messy. We are chaotic. And we do win. Together."
Old Tom walked over, carrying a giant plate of cookies—extra, he said, "for the best sniper in the back alley." "Heard you were killin' it, kid. Don't worry about tomorrow. You got this. And if you don't? I'll blame Lena. She'll never see it coming."
Lena gasped. "Hey! That's not fair! I'm the one who made the amazing drawing!"
The team laughed, crowding around the cookie plate, joking and talking about the finals. Jesse grabbed a cookie, holding his new stress ball in one hand and his blue mouse pad in the other. For the first time in weeks, he didn't feel nervous. He felt ready. He felt like part of the team—like he belonged.
As the rain stopped and the sun peeked through the clouds, Jesse looked at his teammates: Lena, still singing off-key; Marcus, rambling about his study notes; Olivia, pretending to be annoyed but smiling; Elias, watching them all with a calm, proud look. He took a bite of his cookie, feeling the warmth of the team around him.
Tomorrow would be tough. The Storm Riders were good. The pressure would be high. But Jesse wasn't alone. He had his team. He had his cookies. He had his blue mouse pad and his stress ball. And he had himself—no more fear, no more freezing, just a sniper ready to win.
"Ready for tomorrow?" Elias asked, grinning.
Jesse nodded, his smile bright. "Ready. Let's go win. For the Thunderclap. For the cookies. And for no more cat-stolen stress balls."
The team cheered, and Lena yelled, "AND FOR MY NEON PINK SNIPER RIFLE!"
Old Tom chuckled, shaking his head. "Kids. Gonna be the death of me. But good kids. Real good."