The stadium roared.
And the Terminator, whose eyes were fixed on a precise spot inour corner, catapulted himself right across the field. All by himself, wereball tucked under one arm.
I clapped my hands over my face.
What are you doing?!
Mayday, mayday, mayday!This was a suicide mission. Nobody ever faced the full opposite teamalone.
Through the cracks of my fingers, I peeked at him as he bulldozed on.
My heart nearly leaped out of my chest.
Logan was a thunderbolt. Maybe the jagged lines over his arms and shoulder signified that. Lightning—unexpected. Dangerous. Fast, just like him.
He dodged the Comets players, punching one before slipping past a tackle. Shoulders slammed into ribs, knees into guts. His teammates shouted his name—in confusion, in disbelief, in anticipation. They had no clue what he was doing. Nobody did.
At the very last second, swarmed by too many Comets, Logan threw the ball back. A perfect spiral, smooth as silk, landing in Skeleton Guy’s hands. Any coach would’ve kissed him for that pass. Any person would have caught it, including me.
But Logan didn’t stop to check. Didn’t slow down.
He wasn’t done.
His eyes were still locked on one spot—a laser focus that could’ve burned holes into the turf. And his feet kept running and running, eating up distance, toward our defense, toward?—
Sillas.
My stomach dropped.
Makena and Amaia clasped my forearms, both gaping.
“Is he—” one said at the same time the other asked, “Does he know?”
The whole stadium watched in shock and horror as my mate pounced on Sillas. Not in a tackle…but in an execution.
Logan slammed his fist into Sillas’s face so hard that I swore I saw teeth ping off the grass. Then another. And another. He pummeled him with the fury of a rabid dog too far gone for recovery.
For a moment, the game stopped.
The crowd gasped, the noise sucking right out of the air.
Tiziano yelled, “Someone euthanize that degenerate!”
Makena nudged me with a “So romantic!” while Amaia listed the injuries Sillas was sporting like she was checking items off a grocery list.
Sillas tried to fight back—arms up, fists flailing—and defend the last inch of untouched skin and pride left, but every attempt just made Logan meaner.
The Terminator hit him like he had a personal vendetta.
Like he knew about Sillas and me.
Blood sprayed across Logan’s knuckles, his jaw, even splattered the grass.
By the time he was done, Sillas didn’t even look like a player anymore. It looked more like he’d played four consecutive wereball games, then enrolled in an illegal MMA league.
Logan had left his face swollen and purple, his ribs a mess, chest heaving in broken gasps. Blood gushed from internal bleeding that had turned external. While I’d never been afraid of seeing blood, the vital bodily fluid that supplied nutrients and oxygen to cells, I hated it when blood went to waste like that.
When Logan had had enough, he hopped back up, chest puffing out like the slaughter cock king he was.
