It was day two of the cruise, and you and Tori had already established a routine: wake up late, eat like royalty, then hit the arcade like it was your job. The ship’s arcade was packed with neon lights, flashing machines, and the constant beep-beep-beep of games and ticket counters. It felt like your own private world—no parents hovering, no school stress—just you, her, and the sound of competition.

Tori, wearing her oversized hoodie and fuzzy pineapple socks she brought just for fun, was locked in on the basketball shootout game. “Bet I beat your score again,” she said, gripping the first ball and squinting like she was in the NBA Finals.

“You only won last time ’cause the ball got stuck in mine!” you defended, stepping next to her at the other hoop. “This time I’m warmed up. You’re done.”

“Ohhh okay, Steph Curry,” she smirked, shooting her first shot and making it with a loud swish.

The timer began ticking down, and you both started flinging shots like your lives depended on it. Balls bounced off rims, some hit clean, others flew wild. By the time the buzzer rang, you were both panting and staring at the screen.

“41 to 38,” Tori said, gasping. “I win again.”

You groaned, falling backward onto a beanbag chair nearby. “This machine is rigged. You’re cheating. I demand a rematch.”

She laughed and tossed a wadded-up ticket stub at you. “Nope. A deal’s a deal—you owe me ice cream and a slushie now.”

You got up dramatically, fake limping. “This relationship is so unfair.”

Tori giggled and hooked her arm through yours. “But you’re still lucky, ‘cause you get to lose to me for the next 13 days.”