“Wildcards play in preliminary rounds tomorrow morning. Group assignment thirty-seven: lockers in the auxiliary wing. Equipment check begins two hours before match time.” The clerk finally looked up, and Raaze saw the dismissal in his eyes. Another novelty act. Another amateur who’d watched too many broadcasts and thought he could compete with the big boys. “Report to field three at oh-seven hundred. Don’t get yourself killed out there, Vott. Wildcards usually last about ten minutes. Next!”
Ten minutes. That’s all I need.
“Thank you.” Raaze collected his player badge and walked away before he could say something stupid.
Cait fell into step beside him as he passed the refreshment kiosk. She didn’t ask how it went. She’d been watching him all the time.
“The rounds are posted by the main concourse,” she said. “We should check the brackets, see where your group is.”
The main concourse was a different world from the registration hall… all vaulted ceilings and polished floors. Holo-projections high above their heads cycled through highlights from previous tournaments. Raaze saw his own face flash past on one display, a clip from three seasons ago. He looked away quickly.
The roster boards dominated one wall, massive displays listing every team, every player, and every match scheduled for the five-day event. Crowds gathered in front of them, spectators and journalists and scouts all jostling for position.
Finding an opening big enough for the two of them, he pushed Cait ahead of him, using his bigger body to shield her as they got close enough to read.
He knew all the names… the K’Trav Daggers. The X’Vian Dominion. Draanth, even the Tarviisan Titans were here, and they were always a tough team to beat. His eyes moved down the list, cataloging threats and opportunities.
Then he saw it.
The Parac’Norr Exiles.
The name sat in the middle of the preliminary bracket.
“Holy trall, they actually did it,” he breathed, scanning the roster. Daavyn. Sorrath. Bravnak. Draanth, even Vaath.
They were here. Playing in the Summer League. The thing Prince Isan had argued for before disappearing in the middle of the night.
And he’d be playing against them.
The irony tasted like copper in his mouth. Males with claws and armor and feral strength. Males he’d trained because he was bored.
Trall. You trained them because you couldn’t stop yourself caring about the game even when the draanthic had exiled you from it.
His expression hardened as he looked at the roster again. He’d trained them, but they’d never played against him.
They had no idea what was coming.
His eyes moved to the main bracket. The professional teams. The ones that mattered.
Kotorix Ascendants.
There. The third match of day two. And on their roster, highlighted as their star player…
Vikrav R’Tev.
The name burned itself into his retinas. Vikrav. The mediocre player whose family had bought him a career by destroying everyone who stood in his way. Playing for the team he had been slated to transfer to, wearing the colors he should have worn.
Rage built within him, but nothing like the mindless fury he’d heard Blood Rage described as. This was cold and calculated. A weapon he would wield tomorrow on the pitch.
A hand touched his arm.
Cait stood beside him, close enough that he could smell the soap she used and the scent of her skin beneath. He took a deep breath, calming himself as her fingers rested on his forearm.
She didn’t say anything. Just stood there while the roster boards reminded him of everything he’d lost.
He looked down at her.
Red hair escaping from the practical knot she’d tied it in. Freckles across her nose. Eyes that saw too much and judged too little. The woman who’d agreed to help him when she had every reason to throw him out an airlock.
