Steven had 17 moves left.

If he didn’t win in 12, he’d lose the match. But losing was not an option. Not today. This was the Property Brothers Mobile Game world championships. Only one person could walk away knowing they were the best. And Steven was not going to let it be Kaylynne.

The energy in the ballroom of the Vancouver DoubleTree by Hilton Suites & Seafood Grille was electric. Steven glanced out at the crowd—sweaty, ham-faced Canadians with homemade signs reading, “I’M HOMO FOR PRO-BRO’S,” and “STEVEN PLZ RENOVATE MY HOLE.” Perched at the players’ table, in her signature Life is Good long-sleeve tee, was Kaylynne. The girl who’d taken San Diego from him last year. The 26-year old mother of 4 who’d downloaded the Property Brothers Mobile Game “by accident” and within weeks rocketed to the Top 100 ranked players worldwide. Steven tried to envision Jonathan and Drew hanging the championship medal (a miniature stainless steel oven hood) around his slender neck. He locked eyes with Kaylynne. Not today bitch.

With one flick of his dainty finger, Steven exploded a green cube, creating a dynamite. The entire room held its breath. 16 moves left. The air reeked of baked salmon as Steven’s hands danced across the screen with Rooney Mara-esque grace. 2 more for a TNT. Now the audience could see his endgame—the dynamite cleared the lightswitches. The TNT took out the jewelry safes below. The crowd roared to its feet. 12 moves left.

“BREAK.”

Steven’s vintage Chelsea boots clippity-clopped across the ballroom carpet as fans threw themselves at the lithe phenom. “Marry me!” screamed one hot British guy with huge ears. “I made a famous sculpture of you and also I’m a top,” yelled another hot Russian guy, who also has big ears randomly. A furry offered Steven a Sharpie to sign his tail. These attractive men loved Steven for his beautiful face—but they loved his brilliant, generation-defining skills at the Property Brothers Mobile Game even more.

Property Brothers Mobile Game is like Candy Crush via West Elm: players meld colored blocks into explosives, then destroy household objects—bookcases, flower vases, throw pillows. Steven was the sport’s reigning cowboy. He once set off 7 TNT’s in a single game (the previous record was 5). On the Spanish circuit, he was known only as el tonto homosexual (“the homosexual fool”), for his brazen playstyle. It was a high-risk, high-reward ballet where split-second decisions yielded terrifying consequences—the perfect pastime for someone with unspeakable demons.

Steven stared at his quietly stunning face in the DoubleTree’s all gender restroom mirror. “You’ve made it this far without mommy’s little helpers,” he whispered. “You can go all the way.” But like an old friend inviting you to do Whip-It’s over Thanksgiving break, he could feel the voracious lure of the familiar. He extracted a 12-hour Sudafed from his Jacquemus coin purse, crushed it up with his Dunkin Donuts rewards card, and snorted a line off his Droid. “All work and no play make Steven a dull girl,” he smiled.

As Steven strided back across the ballroom floor, Kaylynne accosted him.

“Did you phone a friend in there?” the Denver-based Jo Jorgenson voter snarled.

“No, I jacked off,” he replied coolly. “My balls were getting too big.”

“Balls? Or forehead?” Kaylynne laughed, gesturing to Steven’s receding hairline. She sniffed loudly—was that a reference?—before stomping off in her Keds. Would she tell the judges her suspicions? Was pseudoephedrine even a banned substance? He tried to brush it off.

12 moves left. The armchairs were all that remained—big yellow honkers with ghastly black & white throw pillows on them. Destroying them would be a careful dance. Two blues down. 10 moves left. He was going for a dynamite but misjudged—leaving a lone green cube, dangling.

Panic set in. His eyes shot back to the players’ table, where Kaylynne wasn’t even watching. She assumed he was fucked. Then he remembered the words of his former coach—a butch, Armenian hausfrau named Milena: “Don’t worry about making it pretty. Sometimes you have to win ugly.”

The next 15 seconds were a blur. Steven formed a bomb with 5 greens. 9 moves left. Exploded the bomb, filling the fireworks charger. 8 moves left. Fireworks popped and hit all the yellows, releasing the hideous armchair from its mortal coils. Game over.

The entire Vancouver Doubletree by Hilton Suites & Seafood Grille exploded with ecstasy. The stainless steel oven hood was Steven’s. Fans sobbed in rapture as Jonathan and Drew planted big, fraternal kisses on Steven’s shockingly dewey skin. His gaze searched across the chaos to find Kaylynne, her face ashen.

“Win ugly,” he smiled.