Page 59

The smirk faltered, not by much, but enough to know it was affecting him also.

I swung my legs out of bed. “Get dressed. We have a deal to break with Anatol.”

We carried that tension out into the corridor. The walk to the training field was silent, but the air between us was charged. Our strides matched on the concrete without either of us adjusting.

The squad was gathered at the center circle, and the whispers didn’t stop when we arrived. They got louder. They had seen the photos on the morning feed, the two of us locked together on the dais. But they had also seen Felix carrying Anatol’s bag through these corridors, and the two files refused to reconcile, so the squad stood there holding both, smelling weakness without knowing which direction it blew in from.

Anatol Getha leaned against the post of his goal, arms crossed over his massive chest, chatting with his defensive line. He smirked when he saw Felix.

He tapped his nose.

Remember who owns you.

“Line up!” Coach Gallus barked. “Symbiosis Drill. High intensity.”

I stepped up to the line. Felix stepped up beside me. He leaned into my shoulder, a subtle pressure, a silent confirmation.

“Ready?” I murmured.

“Drive the center,” Felix whispered, staring straight ahead. “Draw Anatol out. I’ll take the wing.”

“Ball in!”

The cannon fired.

The world narrowed as Felix trapped the ball, and his first touch answered everything. A blind flick into the channel where I should be, no glance, the exact pass delivered before the echo of the cannon died.

The defenders hesitated, because they were still marking the Felix Cento who dribbled and played selfish.

I exploded into the gap, and the ball landed in my stride like it had been couriered there. The haptic suit hummed against my skin, a warm vibration reporting Felix on my hip, matching my pace step for step.

“Switch!” Felix yelled.

The defense collapsed on me. Two Tier 2 backs slid in to crush the run, but I dug my heel into the turf and cut hard, stopping myself short, and their momentum carried them past me like derailed trains.

I backheeled the ball. The connection between us wasn’t tactical anymore. It was buried in my spine, and my spine said he was there.

Felix collected the pass and the air inside the Colosseum changed. The hum of the drones vanished, the shouting of the defenders faded into white noise, and the only geometry left standing was the line between Felix and the net.

He was in open space, gliding past the stumbling defense, a blur of white and gold elegance leaving a wake of destroyed pride behind him.

Anatol charged off his line to close the angle, a wall of neon-green muscle designed to break bones, arms spread wide, blocking out the light, screaming a sound built to paralyze, but Felix smiled.

It was a terrifying, dead-eyed smile, the look of a god who found the resistance of mortals amusing.

For a split second the violence of the sprint suspended itself. Felix planted his foot and dipped his toe under the ball.

A chip.

The ultimate disrespect, a shot that required total disdain for the opponent, and the ball rose in an impossible arc, floating over Anatol’s outstretched gloves while the big man clawed at the air, too heavy, too committed.

The ball dropped behind the line and kissed the net with a whisper of nylon.

GOAL.

The word flashed on the massive screens in blood-red pixels, ten feet high. For a heartbeat, silence slammed into the Colosseum.

Then it shattered.