He’s right. By the time we’ve reached a clearing through the endless trees, sweat trickles down my neck and spine. I’m already panting and exhausted—this is going to be a miserable day.
Better than the alternative.
“Gather up!” Kellen’s voice commands immediate attention despite its light tone. The recruits form a loose circle around him, and I position myself at the edge where I’ll draw the least notice. “Standard rules,” he states, rolling the sleeves of his undershirt. “Two teams, two goals, one ball.” He holds up a small metallic sphere, about the size of my fist. “Field is live for tackles, but no powers. Anyone caught using abilities sits out.”
He continues explaining rules that make increasingly less sense to me—something about shock zones, charge points, interference lines. I focus instead on watching others’ reactions, planning to mimic their movements when the game begins.
“Alright, teams.” Kellen studies the circle. “Shirts versus skins. Elias will captain shirts, I’ll take the latter.”
A chorus of good-natured groans and laughter ripples through the group. Several men immediately strip from their shirts, tossing them to the side with casual disregard. Othersmove to stand beside Elias, who’s already dividing them into positions I don’t understand. I have no idea what to do here.
But then my focus narrows to Kellen as he peels a shirt over his head in a single fluid motion. My breath catches as I inspect the defined planes of his chest, the ridges of muscle across his abdomen, the dusting of dark hair that narrows into a line disappearing beneath a thick waistband. His skin is several shades lighter than his face and hands, marked here and there with scars whose stories I suddenly, desperately want to know.
My tongue wets my lips. He’s beautiful. I jerk my gaze away as a different kind of heat surges through my body.
Stop crushing on the men who want to kill you, idiot.
As always, my inner voice keeps me rooted in reality.
“You’re with us, Ashford,” Elias calls, waving me over to the shirts team. “Since you’re keeping your mask on.” As if that were even a question.
I join their huddle, careful to maintain appropriate distance from the others. Elias has gathered ten to his team, and they’re already discussing strategy in rapid-fire terms that might as well be a foreign language.
“We’ll run the double charge on their weak side,” Finnick says, gesturing animatedly. “Malcolm can anchor the back line while we push for shock position.”
“Darius sh-should cover the perimeter,” Ronan, one of our team’s Clingers, adds. “A-and we need someone on i-interference duty.”
Eyes turn to me, and I realize they’re waiting for my input. I stay silent, nodding as if considering their words, though I have no idea what any of it means. Just another embarrassing thing for me to process.
“Ashford can flank with me,” Elias decides when I don’t speak. “Keep to the outside and watch for the handoff signal.” Inod again, hoping I won’t need to figure out what a ‘handoff signal’ looks like on the spot.
The huddle breaks, and players scatter to various positions across the field. I hesitate, uncertain where to go, until Elias’ hand lands on my shoulder.
“Just stay near me and follow my lead,” he says, his energized voice low enough that only I can hear. “First time playing shockball?”
I consider lying, but he would know.
“Is it that obvious?”
A half-smile tugs at his mouth, lighting up his features. “A bit. Don’t worry about it, it’s just a game.”
But nothing here isjustanything. Everything is a test, a way to measure worthiness, to identify weaknesses. My failure to understand this simple recreation just once again reaffirms how out of place I am.
The game begins with a shrill whistle, and chaos erupts.
Bodies surge forward, men shouting and crashing into each other as they fight for position around the metallic ball Kellen tosses into center field. I freeze, overwhelmed by the sudden explosion of movement and noise.
Something catches my eye—a slight flicker around the ball, like heat distortion in summer air. As a player from Kellen’s team snatches it, a small spark jumps from the metal to his hand.
It’scharged somehow, I realize, awed.That’s why they call it shockball.
The player with the ball sprints toward our team’s goal, dodging and spinning around defenders with a grin plastered on his face. Two of our players converge on him, but he dives between them, rolling back to his feet in a smooth motion before flipping the ball to another teammate.
I’m supposed to be doing something, but I have no ideawhat. Everyone else moves with purpose, clearly understanding their role in this complicated mess. I stand motionless.
“Ashford!” Elias shouts, running past me. “Move up!”
I jog forward, uncertainty in my steps as I attempt to belong in this game.
