Try to look through him.
I raise my eyes to his. Stormy oceans, a billion shining fractals, dancing and sparkling, drowning me.
“Punch me.”
The air sucks clean out of his chest, clean out of the stadium. Robin’s fist curls slowly, held tight by his side, waiting.
Is it a trick? Of course it’s a trick.
“Hit me!”
All the anger I stuck in him yesterday and the day before lashes out through his fist, and he strikes hard, strikes from the hip, twisting his wrist as it comes for the left side of my jaw.
Exactly as expected.
I block it.
Next comes a straight jab, intended for my diaphragm.
I block it.
He’s deep in the drill we both learned from birth, and he’s fast, reliant on it.
He slams a foot down; I step back in time. His other knee rises; I swipe it away with my open palm. He twists, brings his elbow up for my cheekbone. I duck my head back then follow his motion with a countering hand, landing a ringing slap on his cheek.
His composure’s shot, cheek pinkening with the blow and mortification, the others snickering in the background.
His eyes darken, that top lip twisting with hatred.
He starts where he left off. Chin jab. Block. Twist and backwards elbow strike. Parry. He’s off his balance, and I let him take it back, enjoying the drill. I remember every step like it’s an island song. Memories of practicing with my brother on the beach assail me, and I try to push them loose.
Uppercut. Dodge. Strike with his left palm. Parry. Then, I take the opportunity to land a clean punch to his stomach. He folds. I kick the back of his knee in, and he’s on the sand. I grab the back of his head and bring my knee up fast, stopping just short of connecting with his nose, my fist in his hair, both of us breathing hard. “That’s where I smash your face in. Then I plant the Deathball in your brain.”
His eyes run up my thigh, and I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but they seem to linger there a moment, pausing at the edge where the short tunic throws a shadow across the top of my quads. His lower lip rolls back beneath his teeth, and when our eyes meet, it shoots a season’s worth of adrenaline straight to my cock.
They’re staring. The whole team. They can see the way I’m looking at him.
Like every other lie that slides off my tongue as if it were liquid gold, I tell him loudly, “You’re a shit fighter. I’m actually embarrassed for you.” And I kick him over into the dust.
I make it two steps before I feel the sharp blow on my ankle—I haven’t even hit the ground when I realize what it is. Robin’s foot. My chest smashes into sand, my ready hands doing little to slow my fall. I catch a flash of the guards in the distance, armor glinting as they run toward me. Not fast enough. Robin’s knee smashes down on the back of my calf, driving my foot into the sand. I feel his pelvis slam into my ass as I try to push myself up. He rips one arm away from me, twisting it behind my back. My left fist takes up all the coarse and filthy sand it can hold. I drop hard on my shoulder, roll, and fling it into his face.
“Fuck!” He doesn’t let go, but the pain in his eyes weakens his grip. I finish the twist, rip my arm free and knock him to the ground, then scramble on top of him, pinning his splayed legs with my shins, holding his wrists above his head as he struggles against me.
“You filthy bastard,” he spits. “That was a dirty move.”
“In Deathball, you play dirty or you die.”
His pelvis stabs up at me in an effort to break free, so I force his legs wider with my shins, holding him so hard I know my boots will leave bruises on his thighs.
“Yield.”
“Fuck you.”
“Yield!”
“Never!”
“Then we’ll stay right here. I’ve got all day.” The guards stand close, weapons at the ready. The men gather around to watch the fight. I have no choice but to win this in front of them.
