Jordan Kiefer wasn’t a jock.

He was taller than most of his classmates by the time he was sixteen, but thin, eventually rounding out at five eleven, one hundred fifty-five pounds according to the scale in the West Trowbridge High gym. He was kind of a nerd, doing well in science class. When it came to extra- curricular activities, the best he could do was audio-visual, which meant taping ball games and special assembly events. His one passion was video games. He wasn’t a joiner, so he didn’t get into groups, play Dungeons and Dragons or anything like that. He liked the games with hand-eye coordination where he could shoot at things and take out any frustration and anger in a harmless manner.

Jordan joined the Rifle Club in his senior year. He liked taking the modified M-16 apart, putting it back together, and then trying his hand at targets. He had a pretty good eye. But it was the video games that really got to him. Star Trek of course, Free Lancer, and others that allowed him to improve his shooting skills and his hand-eye coordination.

His dad was also a fan of video games, but had nowhere near the skills of his son. His mom? Not so much. She wanted Jordan to be out and about. She wanted him to play with other kids, to date once he hit his teens, to be a normal kid.

His parents fretted about this, but all Jordan would do was shrug. He did date. Three times. Three different girls. No repeats. He had no real buds, but from time to time he would hang out with guys from the rifle club. He had a raw sense of humor and, as he got older, he got better looking. Certainly not a stud, but enough to get the attention of a couple of girls, one he actually dated twice in his senior year.

As for sex?

Some of the guys told ribald stories of their conquests but, first of all, Jordan was pretty sure most of it was pure bullshit and, second, he couldn’t relate. “No sir,” he would say to the mirror, “my first time is going to be special—and every one after that, too.”

He spent a gap year working at a camp in Maine and fell in love with the solitude of the Maine woods. He was accepted at Sinclair Community College where he got his AA and was ready to move on to Ohio State and study engineering.

His parents asked him what he wanted for his twenty-first birthday. He asked for a trip to The Electronic Game Conference in Las Vegas. That summer, while much of the nation was still distracted by 9-11, Vegas was still Vegas.

It was loud, brassy, and full of tourists, most of who seemed to be beautiful women and conventioneers. At the Venetian Hotel and Casino, Jordan was amazed. He’d expected to find a lot of people around his age, but they spanned the decades. When he got to the desk, the pretty lady at the desk smiled at him, looking calm despite the din in the room and the crowd around her.

“Your name?” she asked sweetly.

“Jordan. Jordan Kiefer.” Jordan’s voice had deepened, his jaw had squared and he when he looked in the mirror he saw a good looking guy.

“Did I sound like James Bond?” When he turned he saw a tall girl, almost his height. She was thin and wore huge glasses with bright red rims. She was wearing jeans and a tight T-shirt that said You’re Fair Game.

“Jordan? I like that name.”

He smiled at her.

She smiled back and reached out a long, thin hand. “Denise. Denise James.”

They shook. The lady at the desk called “Jordan?” He turned and she handed him his welcome packet. He stood aside and waited while Denise registered. Jordan was desperate to make conversation.

“First game convention?”

She threw him a great smile. “Well, I’m a gamer. Have a group of about ninety of us that do group games and I want to develop my own. You?”

“Right now just a hobby. I went to Community College back in Ohio for automation engineering.” Jordan shrugged, dipped his head, a habit of his, and smiled.

“You must be a smart gamer to go that route. Want a drink?”

“Umm, I guess…”

“Dude, this is freaking Vegas. C’mon.” She took his arm and led him through the massive convention lobby into the din and madness of the Venetian casino.

They found a bar just off the lobby and sat in the two stools at the end. “Two margaritas,” Denise said. She looked at Jordan. He shrugged.

“Where are you from?”

“I’m from Wisconsin. Madison. Go Badgers.”

“Badgers?”

She sighed. “I have a real nerd here. That’s what we call our football team, dude.”

He shook his head and dipped it again. “Sorry. Don’t follow football much.”

“No problem. Here,” she said, lifting one of the glasses to him. “Try your margarita.”

Denise told him of her home in Madison with two jock brothers and how she had been kind of a wild child but since getting into Wisconsin U, she had settled down. Mostly.

After the second margarita Jordan felt a little dizzy. Denise was expanding on her idea for a game that would include four hundred and thirty-five players, each representing a district in the House of Representatives. They would debate bills, pass or reject them and profile the real thing.

“I figure eventually we can run actual campaigns and get people elected and see if my game can run the country better than the numbnuts in Washington. What do you think?”

Jordan smiled at her. “Great idea. God, Denise, you’re cool and smart. I better get to my room now. I’m really dizzy. Sorry.”

Denise put her arm around him. “Sorry, didn’t mean to get you drunk your first hour in Vegas.”

He shook his head. “No. I’m not drunk. Jet lag. Yeah, jet lag.”

She giggled, reached over and picked up his convention packet. She found his room number and took out his key card. “C’mon, sport. Let’s get you upstairs.”

She took his arm and walked with him to the elevator. They rode together to the thirteenth floor. She continued to hold his arm as they reached the door to his room, then she slid the card in, and walked him into the room.

“Someone’s going to bring up your bag. Lie down and take a nap until it shows up. I’ll pick you up later and we’ll cruise the convention floor to look at the exhibits.”

Jordan just stood there and smiled. She shook her head, took him in her arms and kissed him.