“It’s…” He stopped, frowned, then started again. “Have you ever been part of something that actually worked? Not just functioned, but worked? Every piece in the right place at the right moment, moving together like one organism?”
She hadn’t, but he didn’t need to know that. “Once or twice.”
“That’s what a good play feels like.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and his hands moving as he talked. The boredom and swagger disappeared like smoke. He was animated, alive in a way she hadn’t seen him before. “When it comes together, when you’ve read the opposition’s formation, and you know exactly what they’re going to do before they do it. It’s like…” He shook his head. “There’s no feeling like it. Nothing else even comes close.”
“What about the play?” she asked. “The one that made you famous. The signature move.”
His lips curved. Not a smirk, but an actual smile. It made him look younger. Less like a predator and more like a man who loved something with everything he had. Her breath caught.
“The Raaz-or,” he said. “That’s what the commentators called it. Took me seasons to perfect it.”
“How does it work?”
“There are phases. And the first two people do not see. They’re like… I dunno, nebulae? You only see what’s right in front of you, but then when you’re in the middle, you can see how complicated it really is?”
Oh my. The charm was gone. Just… gone. And the male left behind was quick as hell.
She hadn’t seen that coming.
He held up one finger. “First, you read the opposition’s defensive formation. Every team has patterns… ways they like to set things up based on where they think the attack is coming from. You need to learn those patterns, and they all change depending on who the opposition field on the day. So different sets for different possible team configurations. And then you memorize them until you can see them in your sleep.”
He scooted forward a bit more on his chair, thighs bracketing hers, and lifted the second finger.
“Next, you bait them…. Push all their buttons if you can because pissed off players make mistakes, ego rules, and they make emotional calls. You want that if you can. If not, then make them think the attack is coming from somewhere else. You commit resources to a fake push, draw their defenders out of position to nab you. They get complacent when they think they’re winning… when they think they’ve got you figured out.”
Her thighs burned where his bracketed them, the solid press of hard muscle radiating heat straight through her too big flight suit like the damn thing had suddenly shrunk two sizes. Oh my, he’s close. The thought looped in her head, loud enough she half expected Fred to chime in with some snide remark, but the AI stayed quiet for once.
She swallowed hard, her gaze dragging up the broad width of Raaze’s shoulders before she could stop herself. They looked even bigger this close, corded with power that made her feel delicate by comparison. His long hair slid forward as he leaned in, dark strands catching the low light of the cabin and brushing over those shoulders like he didn’t give a shit how distracting it was.
Her hands twitched in her lap, and she curled her fingers tight, ignoring the way her pulse kicked up. Focus, Rhenn. He’s just a man. A very large, very warm alien man who’s apparently decided personal space is for lesser species.
He lifted a third finger. “Then you hit the gap they didn’t know they’d left. The one they created when they shifted to counter the fake attack. By the time they realize what’s happening, you’re already through.”
She watched his hands as he talked… the way they carved shapes in the air, mapping out invisible formations. Those hands had been on her just hours ago. Sliding around her waist and over her hips… She shoved the thought aside.
“It sounds like chess,” she managed, her voice thankfully level.
He shook his head, hair dancing over his shoulders. “No. It’s faster than chess. You don’t have time to think, you just react. It all happens in seconds. If you hesitate, if you second-guess, the window closes, and you’re just another player getting tackled.”
“But you don’t hesitate.”
“No.” The smile faded, something harder taking its place. “I never hesitate.”
The silence settled again, but it was different now. Warmer.
“So… your turn,” he said.
She blinked. “My turn what?”
“Tell me something. Something that matters.”
She should deflect. Make a joke and keep him at arm’s length where he belonged.
Instead, she shrugged. “The first time I flew solo.”
He waited. Didn’t push. Just… waited.
“I was seventeen,” she said. “Fred was already in my head… had been since I was fourteen. My father didn’t want me flying at all. Said it was too dangerous and that I should focus on the administrative side of the business. But I’d been training in simulators for years, and I was good. Better than good.”
