Finally, Yadira takes the rebuttals, and unfortunately for the St. Celeste team, she is an expert at noting logical fallacies as though they were typos being proofread. She’s ruthless at casually bringing up the ceteris paribus of the lengthy socioeconomic argument made by the guy who proposed eliminating moving walkways from airports to champion cardiovascular health.

Yadira is all poised and stern on this one, which makes up for her slip in decorum. “A truly ridiculous argument that inaccurately assumes equal physical capabilities for all human beings that frequent airports.”

She sounds a little embarrassed for them. She finishes her round with an acknowledgment of their tu quoque approach to rhetorical debate (appeal to hypocrisy), which circumvents the arguments in favor of moral outrage. It is just a chef’s kiss of derision that causes the ears of one of them to go bright red.

In the end, it’s a slaughter. An elegant slaughter filled with rebuttals, but the downside of all the St. Celeste guys sounding exactly alike is that they get the same exact grade after their performances, and the judges concede us the win with a total of twenty-eight points over St. Celeste’s twenty-four.

The applause is as expected: unhappy but polite. Mr. Garrison is tight-lipped as our team members all gather to the front of the auditorium to take a photo together. I grin and throw an arm around Greg and place myself in front of the bargain-bin Marvyn as Greg beams with the trophy in hand. His satisfied smile betrays weary eyes, like tonight will be the first time he has a good night’s sleep in weeks.

“Admit it,” I say, kissing him wetly on the cheek and watching him recoil. “You’re going to miss me next year!”

“I’ll definitely have difficulty finding a replacement next year,” he concedes, wiping his cheek but smiling.

The crowd disperses quickly after, and pretty soon it’s just the three of us at the center of this unfamiliar auditorium. It makes sense that they wouldn’t want to entertain the conquerors too long. Yadira scans the premises, phone in hand, and darts up the stairs when she spots her prey.

“What are you doing?” Greg asks as she quicksteps after the St. Celeste guys scurrying out through the back.

“I’m going to go take a selfie with them. Fellas? Oh, fellas!” she shouts, and it sounds like a poacher wanting to preserve the memory of herself crouching next to her slain prey.

Greg and I head out on our own, knowing we won’t see her before Monday. Let the record show that, win or lose, Yadira is always terrifying.

“Do you need a ride home? My car is picking me up around the corner.”

“Nah, I’m good.” I smile. “It’s a nice day, I’m just going to walk through the park. Burn off this victorious energy. Thanks, though!”