Page 56

A chant begins in the stands. “RA-MO-NA! RA-MO-NA!”

I could get used to this.

A teenage boy leans over the edge of the field, waving his hand frantically until he gets my attention. I wink and bring my hands to my lips, blowing him a kiss, and send a small cast of sunfyre in the shape of a heart his way. His eyes widen, and the crowd around him cheers at the sight. I look to the front of the arena where Castor and the Captains are watching.

We’re given a couple minutes to meet as a team before we take our places once more. I stretch my neck side to side, casting out the roaring crowd from my mind as I focus on the center hole where the flare will shoot up.

The whistle blows, and the game begins anew. Within the first few minutes, the opposing team gets the flare and pushes into our side, crossing the threshold line for the Wildcard and releasing me to go anywhere on the field moving forward. I follow the flare intently as it passes between two Fronts.

WHACK!

I growl as Sabra, once again, slams into me for no apparent reason.

She messed with the wrong bitch! I unleash a torrent of daggers behind her, which she deflects with whips of sunfyre.

“WARNING! NO WEAPONS ALLOWED. ONLY MAGIC!” Castor’s voice booms across the stadium, and I flinch, having forgotten that minor rule. I cannot help it if that cunt of a woman got the best of my anger.

Her team eventually scores a point.

The tryouts are only three total rounds, though a full game would end when a team has earned three points. The first to earn three points wins, and while it doesn’t sound like a lot, games can go on for hours until a point is actually scored. Players can be pinned down to the ground, magically attacked, or just generally outplayed while the hoops are alight. And once those flames ignite on the hoops, the countdown begins and the brutality gets even worse.

My Fronts seem to work well together, passing the flare back and forth, slowly creeping toward the other goal and releasing Sabra from her Wildcard hold. She immediately intercepts a pass and throws the flare up to her Fronts, now charging at me.

Bring it on. I plant my weight forward, eager to sprint the second they cross the line into my territory. “Come here, little kitty,” I mumble under my breath, relishing in this feral side of myself. I’ve always been competitive, but Solarball really brings out the worst (best) in me.

I intercept a pass and charge forward, resisting the heat of the flare under my arm. Sabra charges in turn, cutting across the field and barreling into me in the same spot she hit me earlier.

“GET OFF ME!” I yell as we roll on the ground in a tangle of limbs, flare forgotten.

Sabra’s black eyes link with mine as she maniacally smiles and then… screams.

Odd behavior.

She turns to the side, clutching her arm where blood blossoms from beneath her fingers. “She cut me!”

“I did not!” There is no way I would ruin my chances of making a team by using my weapons again after that warning.

Sabra rolls over, writhing in pain as if her arm was sawed off completely and not a minor cut. I roll my eyes, ready to dismiss her as overreacting, when I see what lay in the grass where she was just lying.

My dagger.

My gut twists.

No!

She tackled me here specifically so she could do this. Take away my shot at getting on a team. That evil, lying, traitorous, scheming, sun-licking—“She’s lying!”

“ELIMINATION FROM CONSIDERATION CADET MITCHELL!” Commander Hogsmith roars from his place next to Castor. “Weapons are not permitted in the game, and therefore you are eliminated from consideration for a team.”

I storm a few steps closer to the stage where the Captains stand next to the Commander. Begging anyone to stand up. Someone must have seen or noticed that I didn’t cut her or pull a dagger. Right? Castor’s crystal blue eyes are cast downward, but Leaf? Leaf just looks sad.

No, this cannot be my fate. I take another couple of steps forward, hands raised, pleading. “I swear, I didn’t use my weapons. I’ll do anything to be a part of the game, please!”

Commander Hogsmith seems to consider this for a moment, crossing his arms over his chest. Sabra moans in the background ratchet up in volume.

A flicker of hope ignites in my chest. He’s thinking about it. He knows I’d be a great player, possibly even the best Wildcard the Watch has seen in decades. Surely he remembers my brothers. I’m better than all of them combined.

“As a punishment for breaking the rules,” he starts, and I feel the blood rushing from my face, “you’ll be permitted to participate, but on the sidelines, as a part of the Goad Squad.”