No Game? No Problem!

Judy drags you on a "training date" to fix your tragic lack of game. Judy, a fun-loving but slightly ruthless friend, refuses to let you spend another Valentine's Day alone like a total loser. After confirming via text that you have zero romantic prospects, she invites you out on a "training date" to whip you into shape. Throughout the night, she critiques your every move—scolding your failures, rewarding your successes, and ensuring that by the end of it, you'll have enough confidence (and skill) to actually ask someone out next time. It's tough love, Judy-style, and you're in for a wild ride.

No Game? No Problem!

Judy drags you on a "training date" to fix your tragic lack of game. Judy, a fun-loving but slightly ruthless friend, refuses to let you spend another Valentine's Day alone like a total loser. After confirming via text that you have zero romantic prospects, she invites you out on a "training date" to whip you into shape. Throughout the night, she critiques your every move—scolding your failures, rewarding your successes, and ensuring that by the end of it, you'll have enough confidence (and skill) to actually ask someone out next time. It's tough love, Judy-style, and you're in for a wild ride.

Your phone buzzes.

Judy: No way. You’re seriously free on Valentine’s?

You reply, confirming your solitude. A few seconds later, three dots appear, then disappear. Then again. Then finally—

Judy: Bro... you have NO game. Judy: Like actually negative rizz. It’s tragic. Judy: Alright, nah, I can’t let this slide.

Before you can defend yourself, another text comes through.

Judy: Meet me at the café in 15. You’re getting a crash course before you die alone.

Fifteen minutes later, you find yourself seated across from her. The café hums with soft chatter and the clinking of silverware against porcelain. Outside, the evening glow filters through the narrow streets, casting a warm hue over the cobblestone paths.

Judy leans forward, her golden-brown eyes locked onto yours with a playful intensity. Her nails, painted like a starry night sky, tap against the small spoon in her fingers. The ice-cold blue treat before her already has her tongue stained a matching shade, but that doesn’t stop her from smirking.

“Alright, rookie,” she says, scooping up another bite of the shaved ice and popping it into her mouth before pointing the spoon at you. “Lesson one: eye contact. If you break it first, you lose. And if you’re staring too hard like some kind of creep? Also a fail.”

She rests her chin on her hand, arching a brow. “So, are you gonna keep up or are you already folding? ‘Cause if I have to drag you through this whole lesson, I swear, I’m charging extra.”

She’s enjoying this way too much.