Humans called it hooliganism. I called it primitiveness.
At least most wereball players were gifted with hard skulls, thank Stephen. Stephen Hawking, that is—the only man deserving of thanks on a daily basis, certainly more than any wolf deity.
Amaia patted my hand where it was drumming over my knee. “He’s looking at you again. I’ve counted five.”
Following her gaze, I understood. When I met the moss-green eyes of the defender—our tutor, Sillas Wilder—he turned away. Was that a blush, a rash, or a bloodstain on his cheeks? Hard to tell from here.
I pressed my lips into a tight line, hiding a grin. “Well, five is a quarter of the times Lachlan has looked atyou.”
Her quiet gasp was loud enough for my werewolf ears. Despite herself, her attention flickered over to Lachlan. He was barking orders, the skin around his mouth rippling with the strength of his shouts.
The rival captain charged forward, slicing through our defense, only to meet Sillas head-on. The impact was like a car crash.
“That’ll need at least a dozen sutures.” I bit my thumb nail.
Amaia squinted. “Tibia?”
I leaned forward, narrowing my eyes. “No. Femur and sacrum. Possible comminuted fracture.”
“Hard to know without palpation or imaging,” Amaia hummed, nibbling thebanh chungshe got from her last visit home to Vietnam.
I never got into playing wereball. To me, the field looked more like an anatomy lesson than a sport.
Another rival came up behind Sillas and sunk his fangs into his left bicep, right above his tattoo—an island with a now-bleeding little palm tree. With a grunt, Sillas kicked the ball to my brother, who was trying to free himself from two opponents.
My hand clamped over my mouth as I took in the new scratches and bite marks decorating my twin. With all that constant worry about him taking up space in my brain like some freeloading tick, I glanced down at my green wristwatch.Six more minutes left on the clock.
I dove into my bag and resurfaced with my emotional support friend—an almond apple muffin. While I peeled the wrapper, the field saw fangs peeling past mouths, fur bursting through skin, and bodies twisting as they rearranged. Rival players were getting more desperate, shifting into their wolves mid-field. A Comet wrapped his arms around a freshly shifted, sandy-brown wolf—and squeezed. A crack, a wet sound, and a whimper tore from his muzzle.
Amaia elbowed me. “Hear that?”
I looked up and popped a chunk of muffin into my mouth. The wolf was convulsing now, furry chest heaving all wrong.
“Tension pneumothorax.” Brown crumbs spewed out of my mouth before I covered it. “Probably a punctured lung.”
Amaia clapped her hands once with a grin. “Well done!”
Our little guess-the-diagnosis game went on. Years of watching wereball had at least turned us into decent field diagnosticians. Not that it was too hard; before each game, players smeared themselves in Pure Lorea—a gel that burns like acid and blocks werewolf healing properties—just to prove theywere tougher, to mock the rival team. It certainly gave us enough time to tally up the compound fractures.
I sighed. We doctors couldn’t save people from their own stupidity just because white coats hang from our shoulders andDr.sits before our names.
The gong banged.
The Comets won. My lungs deflated as tension released.Another game survived for Lachy.
Down on the field, my brother’s teammates hoisted him up onto their shoulders. The stands erupted. Our pack howled victory.
Across the arena, the Golden Furs and their losing fans began their petty, post-game ritual—throwing things at us. Rocks. Chairs. Fire bottles.
Welcome to wereball.
The biggest waste of medical supplies I’ve ever witnessed.
The floor buzzed under my soles, the arena quaking with a thousand footsteps pounding the ground.Both teams’ Ultras—the crazy, obsessive fan clubs—descended toward the field, jumping the railings and sprinting straight at each other. The space between them shrank like a fuse burning down until they clashed, two furious tectonic plates that wanted to remove each other from the map.
Tiziano, leading the charge for the Shooting Stars, let out a growl that would likely vibrate through the unlucky skulls of those in his vicinity for a good few seconds. With a leap, he shifted—bones snapping, shirt ripping, fur bursting—and launched at a rival Ultra who’d spent the entire game heckling my twin. Tiziano never forgave and never forgot, especially when it came to us or Lachlan. Pack loyalty was everything.
With one last glance at the war zone below, I pulled a book out of my bag.
