Sweet Romance10 min read
How I Ended Up Dating My Teammate — and Living in His Condo
ButterPicks11 views
I matched with a hopeless teammate in a game. Two hours of insults later, we had each other's WeChat. Two hours after that, we were standing face to face outside a parking garage, and I realized the tall man who’d humiliatingly out-muscled me over a username was the same person who could ruin my life with a raised eyebrow.
"You're—you're 'Invincible Explosive Dragon Warrior'?" I asked, pretending to be scary, though my whole body wanted to bolt.
He looked down at me, a blade of a smile at one corner of his mouth. "And you're 'Poop Pixie'?"
"Uh-huh," I admitted, because once you type something ridiculous into the void, you can't take it back.
He snorted, amused. "Show me how you said you'd break my leg and stuff it in my mouth."
My bravado deflated. I fumbled for my phone. "Mom, can you call me home for dinner? Okay, I'm heading back."
Two steps toward the car and a strong hand yanked my collar.
"Don't be a coward. Two hours of insults and you're just leaving?" he said.
I locked eyes with the man. He was taller than me by a head and his face was nicer in person than in any photo. He had short messy hair, narrow eyes with an upward tilt, a high nose bridge and thin red lips that already had strangers wrapped around them.
"I'm not a coward," I said. "I'm not that kind of coward."
He laughed. "Whatever you say, Poop Pixie."
I tried to hold my ground, but inside I thought: of course the guy with the ridiculous screen name is not a child. Of course he’s a handsome adult in a Maybach. Of course my online bluster would land me here.
"All right," I sighed, and turned on my charm. "Sir, are you hungry? If you're hungry I'll buy. You pick."
He paused, then walked inside the restaurant like it belonged to him.
Inside, he motioned to the server. "I'll take those two dishes, and that one."
I glanced at the menu, relieved. Those were within my budget.
"And everything else," he added, like it was nothing.
My stomach dropped. "We can't eat all that!"
He was calm. "Take-out is an option. What's wrong — did you forget your wallet?"
The server looked at me. I wanted to sink into the chair. "No, of course not," I said. I didn't tell him I'd left almost nothing in my bank account.
When they brought the bill, it said 62,530 yuan — I blinked and read again, hoping the numbers were a mirage.
"Excuse me?" I whispered.
The server repeated the number patiently, then handed the bill slip back. I opened my banking app. One-third of it was missing.
The tall man stood behind me. "Forgot your wallet?" he asked.
I nodded like a fool, thinking he would pull out a card and save me.
He smiled that charming smile. "No problem. The restaurant accepts working as compensation."
"You mean…?"
"I don't mean much," he said. "If you want to stay, you can work tonight as a waiter. One night equals the meal. If you don't, pay another way."
I wanted to cry and also to laugh. "That's—very generous," I said, which was the silliest thing to say.
They gave me a uniform. The first hour was simple—two plates, three orders. After midnight my legs felt as if someone had poured lead into them. I broke a plate with a clatter and the manager came up to me.
"Miss, a broken plate means an extra hour," he said matter-of-factly.
"I understand," I said.
I asked about the man who had come with me. The server looked at me with a faint smile. "He left when you started."
I ground my teeth. He had left me to work the night as retribution for the insults of a game. What kind of man leaves a girl at work and goes home? What kind of man orders everything on the menu just to humiliate someone?
I went home with two giant dark crescents under my eyes and the low hum of exhaustion. At the office a coworker named Bella West asked, "Kirsten, you look like you wrestled a raccoon. Where have you been?"
"Gaming all night," I said, blinking.
Bella leaned in, whispering like she had a secret that cost cash. "Big boss is back from abroad."
"Big boss?" I scratched my head. I'd been at the company two years and never seen the head honcho. "Is he rich and old and crinkled?"
"No," Bella said with a little squeeze to my arm. "He's here. And—he's handsome."
The company called a meeting. I took a back seat, planning to doze. Bella wasn't subtle: "Kirsten, wake up. He's here. Oh my God, he's gorgeous."
On the stage, a man stepped up and spoke — and the voice was shockingly familiar. It was the man with the Maybach, the man who'd ordered the whole restaurant. The giant screen flashed his photograph.
He was the same man. My stomach did a strange cartwheel. I—waited in the audience like someone finding the punchline to a bad joke.
That night, I passed out at home and woke up in a hospital bed.
"Tell me everything," Bella said, rushing to my side, overly excited. "When did you meet the handsome CEO?"
I sat up, heart pounding. "I didn't meet him like that—I mean—"
Before I could explain, he walked in.
"You look lively," he said in that same calm tone.
He stood by the door, arms crossed and suddenly everything felt small and exposed. Bella pushed out of the room.
"Thank you for bringing me," I managed.
"Don't thank me," he said. "I was just making sure you didn't die here and hurt the company's image."
I wanted to smack him. "Of course," I said. "You're so selfless."
He pulled a chair and sat like he owned the light in the room. "Poop Pixie, are you possessed?" he asked.
"Invincible Explosive Dragon Warrior," I shot back, with an eye-roll.
He leant forward and said, "I have something to say."
"Say it," I said.
"Your zipper's open."
I looked down. His face flushed red. He turned his back to pretend to fix it. I nearly died laughing.
The rest of the week turned into a fever dream. The next morning my desk space was empty. Someone had taken everything. A colleague came by with a smirk.
"Thought you were climbing the ladder by cozying up to the boss. Looks like you got fired overnight."
"Really?" I said, hating the words even as I said them.
My department director leaned over. "Kirsten, the CEO wants you as his executive assistant."
"Assistant?" I had to sit. It felt like a trap. Was this his revenge? Was he moving me under his thumb?
"Yes," the director said. "He requested it yesterday."
"But I—"
"No buts. It's a promotion. Four times your salary starting now."
I stood, dazed. Listen, four times my salary sounded like manna. I accepted like a starving person at a banquet, even if it meant working under the man who'd left me at a restaurant.
The elevator ride up felt different. When the glass doors opened, he was there, in front of his massive desk.
"Where do you want me?" I asked.
He pointed to a small desk shoved nearest his own. "Organize my files. Send things to the appropriate departments."
I took the role, which basically turned me into a palace maid for a man used to being worshipped. But he was never cruel. He had rules, and when he relaxed, he smiled with a softness that was dangerous to me.
One afternoon, when I was bored and pretending to be productive, I said, "Did you know you can't move your tongue one way and your head the other in a circle?"
He scoffed. "Is that a challenge?"
"One thousand dollars?" I said on a whim.
He didn't hesitate. "Fine."
We both started twisting, and of course he beat me by being better at everything. He laughed and reached out his hand. "Give me the money."
I couldn't win. I wired him the money. My wallet felt lighter and my heart a little heavier.
"There's going to be a company Mid-Autumn festival," he announced one morning, scrolling a file. "Everyone to the main hall."
We sat through the perks and benefits and awkward speeches. During the lucky draw, people clapped and shrieked when they won bonuses. Bella won a cash prize.
I opened my envelope and found his glossy headshot with a flourish of autograph.
"What?" I whispered.
"It's a signed photo," he said over the speaker. "Please come forward to collect the prize."
There was a minute of silence when the MC expected someone to pop up. I stood, sweating under eyes. He took the photo from my hand.
"Down to the office for the key," he said lightly, and I felt as small as a coin clutched by the thumb of a giant.
He gave me the keys later. "Enjoy the apartment," he told me. "One unit in an upscale complex."
That weekend I moved into the place. On my first day, I flung open my door with the key and froze.
"Mr. Best?" I said, incredulous.
He'd just stepped out of the next-door unit in a comfortable home outfit. "This is my building," he said. "I own the complex. Lucky you."
He took off his slippers and sat on my couch like someone coming into his second home. "By the way," he said, "want to play some games?"
The memory of the night at the restaurant flashed in me. He'd ordered everything and left me to work. On the other hand, he'd given me a promotion and a home.
"Fine," I said. "But you owe me for last time."
We played online. He was… surprising. He fumbled and died, complained about weapons and loot like someone with no game sense. I raged half the time and laughed the other half. He moped when he lost.
He looked up at me one time and said, "Kirsten, I'm hungry."
"So order takeout," I snapped.
"No, I want you to cook."
"I cook?" I hadn't cooked for years.
"That's right. If you don't, I will die of hunger."
He had this childlike face when he pouted. It worked on me. I cooked. He ate. He rinsed the plates like a man who'd just learned domestic chores.
Our rhythm settled. He came over for breakfast each morning, drove me to work, and then squeezed me into his life in small ways: matching towels, slippers—expensive, ridiculous slippers—and the odd present. He was always polite and never pushy.
A few weeks later, I caught him sitting with a woman in his living room. She was pretty and crying into his hand like a scene from a bad movie. My heart slammed into my ribs like it wanted to escape.
"Who is she?" I asked.
He pushed the woman away like a new father, eyes wide. "She's my sister," he said.
I wanted to go away with my head held high. Instead I banged it on the doorframe trying to leave too quickly and felt the echo of my embarrassment.
He came after me, concerned. "Kirsten, you okay?"
"Why didn't you tell me you had family?" I demanded.
"I thought it didn't matter."
Later, he sat close and traced idle shapes on my knee. "You looked jealous," he murmured.
"Jealous of your sister?" I said, outraged at myself.
"Yes. Do you like me?" he asked quietly.
My breath stalled. My mouth felt dry. "Maybe," I admitted.
"I want to try dating you," he said, like someone testing the temperature of water.
I laughed like a maniac, then agreed. It was strangely simple. He was gentle. He was pushy only in small, teasing ways. He confessed he'd remembered me from kindergarten, where we'd been childhood sweethearts and sworn in childish vows to marry each other one day. He'd recognized my silly baseball bat pose and that was that.
"You recognized me when I carried that bat?" I asked, incredulous.
"Yes," he said, laughing. "You were fearless then and even more so now."
He started adding small gestures that made my heart do things it had no business doing. He would grin at me in meetings when no one else would notice. He would take my coat when I shivered, like no one else existed. Once he tucked my hair behind my ear in the elevator and said, "You always do that when you're thinking too hard."
Those were the heartbeats. Small things: a smile reserved only for me, a jacket offered without me asking, a hand finding mine in a crowd. We slipped into the sanctity of "us" without a map.
Office gossip followed, of course. Rumors and congratulatory messages. The director called him well, and he joked grandly and handed out bonuses.
One evening, after months of cooking for him, I was doing laundry in our cozy apartment. Most of the laundry was his — expensive shirts that called to be washed gently, as if they were made of clouds. I knocked on his door to bring over some stew. He didn't answer.
I pushed the door and found him with a girl on the sofa — she was leaning on him, tears brimming, and he had her hand and offered tissues. I felt my world tilt.
"Kirsten!" he called, as I knocked too loudly and whacked the door frame with my head.
He stood up and rushed to my side. He pulled the girl into the hallway and explained, frantic. "She's been rejected. She's my sister. She needed me."
I wanted to pack all my pride into a suitcase and leave. But I also wanted to sit down and eat the stew I'd made, the stew he'd asked for. I let both things happen: anger and home-cooked food.
Over time, our relationship softened into something that felt very much like family. He would fall asleep lying on my lap while we played, and I'd stroke his head and pretend I hadn't noticed him snore like a toddler.
One night, I felt something weird inside me and ran to the bathroom and vomited. He panicked.
"Where do we go?" he asked, like a man facing an alien machine.
"Gynecology," I said, matter-of-fact.
At the clinic, the doctor said the words we both wanted and feared: "You're two months pregnant."
He stood rigid like a rifle. Then he made a sound like a small animal. "I don't want you to go through anything dangerous," he blurted. "I can't stand the thought."
"I won't let you feel lost," I said. His big hands were clumsy with fear and tenderness. "Your place is mine too," he whispered. "We share everything. The card will be under your control."
That made me laugh and cry. "No backing out," I said. "And yes, you'll be on baby duty."
He frowned and then beamed. "I was hoping you'd say you'll let me."
We were married a year later, after two years of dating. The life that had begun with a ridiculous online handle and a restaurant humiliation had become a cozy, noisy, loving home. He still lost at games. He still refused to learn certain chores. He learned to cook though — badly at first, then better. He made me stew and then watched me eat like it was his medal.
One afternoon, when our little life felt perfectly ordinary, I shoved him on the couch with my feet on his chest.
"Don't go into that room," I teased.
"What room?" he asked.
"The living room where the console is — someone is playing, remember? You get distracted."
He laughed, grabbed my ankles and dragged me back into his arms like an exuberant dog.
Sometimes I look at him and remember the Maybach and the intimidating banquet and the restaurant bill I couldn't pay. I remember the night I worked as a waiter and the manager who fined me an hour for a plate I dropped. I remember standing on stage, opening the envelope and finding his signed photo, and the way my face reddened when all the people in the hall looked at me.
Then I look at the man asleep with his head on my thighs, fingers curled, and I know life can take a ridiculous road: from a gaming insult to a lifetime of afternoons dotted with stolen kisses, awkward cooking, laughter and the small, steady miracles of everyday tenderness.
"Do you remember your old username?" he asked sleepily once.
"Of course," I said. "Poop Pixie forever."
He pretended to be offended. "And Invincible Explosive Dragon Warrior?"
I tapped his nose. "He's not so invincible at home."
He smiled and nuzzled my knee. "Good. Home is where he's allowed to lose."
We stay like that a while: messy, imperfect, and utterly ours.
The End
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