"Games of many sorts lead to triumph, tragedy, angst, joy, hookups, and breakups for teens in tales set both on and off the playing field...Readers will find this collection fresh, thought-provoking, and wise in the ways of adolescent coming-of-age...likely to broaden anyone’s notion of what winning is all about."—Kirkus Reviews
"Game On is a love letter to games and competition. Whether you’re a fan of sports, board or video games, chances are there is at least one story in Game On will bring out your inner champion. With inclusive narratives and diverse characters, this anthology is a fun addition to any bookshelf!"—The Nerd Daily
"These stories have heart—a competitive heart—and collectively remind readers that, just like in life, how you play the game matters."—Booklist Online
Game On: 15 Stories of Wins, Losses, and Everything in Between
Narrated by Various
Laura SilvermanUnabridged — 11 hours, 19 minutes
Game On: 15 Stories of Wins, Losses, and Everything in Between
Narrated by Various
Laura SilvermanUnabridged — 11 hours, 19 minutes
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Overview
From the slightly fantastical to the utterly real, light and sweet romance to tales tinged with horror and thrills, Game On is an anthology that spans genre and style. But beneath each story is a loving ode to competition and games perfect for anyone who has ever played a sport or a board game, picked up a video game controller, or rolled a twenty-sided die.
A manhunt game is interrupted by a town disappearing beneath the players' eyes. A puzzle-filled scavenger hunt emboldens one college freshman to be brave with the boy she's crushing on. A series of summer nights full of card games leads a boy to fall for a boy who he knows is taken. And a spin the bottle game could end a life-long friendship.
Fifteen stories, and fifteen unforgettable experiences that may inspire readers to start up that Settlers of Catan game again.
Audiobook Table of Contents:
Let It Spin, by Sona Charaipotra - narrated by Ulka Simone Mohanty
Hell Week, by Amanda Joy - narrated by Tyla Collier
The Liberty Homes, by Katie Cotugno - narrated by Emily Eiden
Mystery Hunt, by Gloria Chao - narrated by Annie Q
She Could Be a Farmer, by Nina Moreno - narrated by Frankie Corzo
One of the Good Ones, by Isaac Fitzsimons - narrated by Ryan Vincent Anderson
Just Tell Them You Play Soccer, by Anna Meriano - narrated by Frankie Corzo
The Girl with the Teeth, by Kayla Whaley - narrated by Carla Corvo
Spite and Malice, by Shaun David Hutchinson - narrated by Michael Crouch
Game of the Gods, by Francesca Zappia - narrated by Annie Q
Do You See It Now?, by Laura Silverman - narrated by Emily Eiden
Plum Girls, by Kathleen Glasgow - narrated by Carla Corvo
World of Wonder, by Kimberly Jones and Gilly Segal - narrated by Tyla Collier
Weeping Angels, by Yamile Saied Méndez - narrated by Frankie Corzo
Night Falls, by Kika Hatzopoulou - narrated by Ulka Simone Mohanty
Editorial Reviews
2021-10-26
Games of many sorts lead to triumph, tragedy, angst, joy, hookups, and breakups for teens in tales set both on and off the playing field.
Prefaced by content warnings for four entries, these previously unpublished stories by a stellar cast of YA contributors feature casts notably diverse in racial and sexual identity in settings ranging from a football field and an amusement park to a house abandoned for decades in the wake of a bloody mass murder. The disquieting stories are well outnumbered by more upbeat ones, though. Bisexual Mexican American Maddi, who lives with an anxiety disorder, struggles to keep her hot college roommate, Olivia, from finding out that she plays quidditch in Anna Meriano’s “Just Tell Them You Play Soccer.” While Benji, in Shaun David Hutchinson’s steamy “Spite and Malice,” finds a competitive card game gives him the nerve to take a chance with neighbor Dan, giddy Fei (Anglicized as “Faye”) teams up with her crush, Pierce, who presents White, to solve multilingual puzzles in “Mystery Hunt” by Gloria Chao. Other young players pair off or form groups of various combinations and grow, grapple with racism, deal with grief, and even expose a killer. Readers will find this collection fresh, thought-provoking, and wise in the ways of adolescent coming-of-age.
A few chills but mostly thrills and likely to broaden anyone’s notion of what winning is all about. (author bios) (Anthology. 13-18)
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940176196559 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Penguin Random House |
| Publication date: | 01/18/2022 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
Read an Excerpt
LET IT SPIN by Sona Charaipotra
As I stare out the grimy New Jersey Transit window, the Raritan River glitters with snow, surprisingly beautiful as it follows the sun down into the city.
But it’s so crowded I can barely breathe. God, just let me fall asleep.
The train roars toward the tunnel as I’m drifting off. But I am acutely aware of someone watching me. You know, the kind of staring that you can actually feel. I open my eyes.
Jason. Should have known.
I’ve been seeing him on the train the past couple of weeks. I heard he’s at NYU, at Tisch, studying animation or produc- tion or something. Makes sense, considering. He’s always had that penetrating way of looking at you, so you can’t escape his gaze, familiar and ironclad.
It’s just like Saachi’s, that definitive take, done deal. The way she locks moments into place from her own perspective, sealing them up tight so there’s no room for you to share your version of history. Believe me, I’ve tried.
I know he recognizes me, catching my eye, waiting for me to make the first move. Well, why should I? Why can’t I be the one who’s pursued for a change? But that’s the way it goes with him. With everyone lately. And I’m over it.
At least it’ll give me something to tell Saachi. I can’t help the smirk settling on my face, unbidden.
So not worth it. I hear her voice in my head, clear and sharp, like it’s been there all along. Like it’s been there forever. It’s been months since I’ve seen her. Probably my fault. But I can’t help my grudge. Never could. Now dread roils in my stomach like bile, making me want to turn right back around on the next train to Jersey.
But there are some moments in life that we don’t get to skip. Usually the ones that leave scars.
Saachi was sixteen when she stopped talking to me. Not literally talking, but you know. Having those deep, intimate conversations you have with someone who’s loved you since you were six. I didn’t even know why.
But I could feel it, deep down, in my fumbling to fix things. In the echoes of that dark, disturbing nightmare, the one that struck every so often, the one I tried to push down and away. Always the big, grand backyard I spent endless childhood hours in, the swing set abandoned, the ground frostbit. A black-and-white sky, pale flowers spilled out over the milky picket fence. A moment I’ve lived a million times in my head.
I still can’t quite unravel what it means. Saachi’s long dark pigtails flying—cheeks still chubby, eyes pale and bright—as she coasts by on that rusted red tricycle. The vivid crimson a warning, a reminder, stark against the muted dreamworld hues. Then the fall, the wheels spinning endlessly, vicious and cruel like the circle of life and death. And blood on the concrete, shocking but familiar as yesterday.
Somewhere in the distance, I hear it, the call of moments past, lost. The Bollywood beats muted in the background, that comforting clink of glass bangles and ice in crystal glasses. The roars of lions long since tamed, smoke filling the room as the men shed fatherhood and other responsibilities to cackle endlessly at jokes I still don’t quite understand.
It’s always that familiar, strange laughter that wakes me up in a cold sweat, clammy hands still grasping, helpless and unsure. It echoes in my ears, loud and rough, spilling secrets once forgotten.
When we first met, I was barely a person. More my big sister Raina’s shadow, really, following her around as she led me by the hand, nearly disappearing in the presence of strangers. But Saachi saw me, claimed me, like no one else had—at least not at six—and it was like the first time I took a bath in the big tub, the bubbles enthralling and danger- ous as it filled up and over, the delicious, looming threat of being swallowed whole.
That’s exactly what happened. We’d barely moved into the little chocolate chip house on Library Place when Saachi’s family—four doors down—invaded ours. Mama would spend endless hours whispering with Madhu Auntie over chai and pakore, reminiscing over lazy Delhi summers and complaining about day jobs. Our fathers split lawn work, Saachi’s brother, Veer, bearing the brunt of it really, as Subhash and Mohan bonded over stock trades, cricket scores, and the riots and injustices happening thousands of miles away, across oceans and continents. They became a united front, an army of two, basically the same person. Maybe not physically, but the same spirit. The same broken, often comical English, the same urgency, the same happy, whiskey-soaked slur as they laughed late night over endless hands of blackjack and samosas.
It was only natural, then, for Raina and I to adopt Saachi, to make her the other sister.
While Raina developed an instant crush on Veer, who alternately tortured or ignored us, Saachi became our American ambassador, tasked with explaining everything from Halloween (“dress up, but make it scary”) to boy bands and school politics.
Raina always wanted to be the boss of me, but Saachi was mine to lead—if just for a moment—before I became the one to follow. And she was lovely. How could I not adore her? Long, silky black hair, skin pale as moonlight, and she looked just like her father—the same fat, pink lips, melted chocolate eyes, that small nose, and no jawline at all. Not a pretty little girl by any standard, yet entirely feminine. Delicate, like a doll.
A walking, talking, breathing doll that followed me around and hung on my every word. Being someone’s sun is fun, at least for a little while. Though I knew I was hardly worthy of worship, with my little-boy looks, my hair cut close like Daddy’s, and those awful toy guns, I let her believe in the awe- some powers she thought I possessed, all the while ignoring her own. I wanted to be just like her. Even though I pretended the opposite. It got to the point where it was Saachi-and-Raina-and- Ruby instead of Saachi and Raina-and-Ruby.
Not that we minded. Or at least I didn’t.
Except when it came to boys.
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