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He pulled his shirt off, exposing the wall of muscle that was his back. The whispers started up again, frantic and confused.

“How? He was down. I saw the medic droid,” whispered a defender.

Anatol’s expression did not change, but his eyes narrowed. He caught the gaze of his line, Tycho Sylla, Vesper Crus, Maxim Varo, and jerked his chin toward Leander.

Freeze him out.

The message was clear. If Leander got the ball today, put him in the dirt. I read the whole exchange in the chrome of my locker door, and the worst part was the relief that arrived with it. If his own line froze Leander out, some of the dead weight would not have to be my work.

“Time,” I said, standing up. “Field in five.”

I walked toward the tunnel. Anatol fell in step beside me, and as we breached the daylight of the Colosseum his entire demeanor shifted.

Coach Gallus waited by the center circle with his datapad.

“Getha,” he barked. “Is the line ready?”

“Ready and hungry, Coach,” Anatol said. The menacing sneer was gone, replaced by an eager smile. He stood at attention, projecting the image of the perfect soldier. “We reviewed the high-press formation you sent over. It’s brilliant. We’re ready to test the recruits against it.”

“Good man,” Gallus said, clapping Anatol on the shoulder. “That’s the leadership I like to see. Keep them tight.”

“Yes, sir.”

Anatol beamed at the authority figure, charming and compliant, a social chameleon who knew how to play the game, a monster to the weak and a golden retriever to the ones holding the leash. It made him infinitely more dangerous than a simple bully.

He turned to head for the goal, and as he passed me the smile vanished instantly. His face went dead as he tapped his wrist.

Time is running out, Felix. Make the choice.

The whistle blew.

The sound cut through the humid air, loud and demanding.

“Reset,” Coach Gallus barked. “Run it again. Faster.”

I jogged back to the center circle. My lungs burned, but not from exertion. The threat from the corridor sat in my gut like a swallowed stone.

Make him look like dead weight.

I glanced at Leander, five yards away, rotating his right ankle. He looked solid. The Bio-Gel had done its job; he was not limping. If anything he moved better than before, a hungry look in his eyes daring anyone to touch him.

He nodded at me, a small, almost imperceptible tilt of the chin. We got this.

The trust in his eyes made me sick.

Last night I had knelt between his legs in a calculated surrender. I had anchored myself to the only solid thing in my life, the only one who made the numbness stop. For the first time since I had entered this Academy, I was not alone. For the first time, the crown was not crushing me.

And today I had to cut him loose.

“Target acquisition,” the drone announced.

Anatol stood in the goal, filling the net with his massive frame. He slammed his gloved fists together and looked right at me.

Then he put a finger on his wrist, tapping the imaginary watch. Tick tock.

A tight, cramping knot clenched behind my ribs.

I looked away, staring at the ball. Maybe he was bluffing. Maybe I could score, and when he screamed doping I could use my Rank 1 status to squash the accusation, tell Tegula that Anatol was jealous, spin the narrative. I had spun worse.