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His arm swept across us on the last line, and the sweep collected Helier on its way, folding the grinning Reserve Captain into the frame with the rest of us like he had always been part of the picture. I had told the country to take all of us. Tegula was making sure I learned what all could mean.

The sweep did not collect Anatol. Nobody said his name. The keeper stood three feet outside the shot with his fists at his sides, learning in front of the nation exactly what he had sold everything for.

Confetti cannons exploded along the rim of the stadium. Gold streamers rained down on us, sticking to the sweat on our skin.

Leander was standing amid the falling gold, looking at the screaming crowd with cynical eyes. He saw it too. A corner of his mouth lifted in a grim smile.

We survived.

I reached out and took his hand. The cameras flashed, and for the first time I gave them my real face and let them keep it.

CHAPTER 36

LEANDER

The roar of the crowd faded as the blast doors sealed behind us, cutting off the adulation like a severed nerve.

Felix stumbled as the adrenaline that had held him upright on the stage evaporated, leaving him hollowed out. He swayed, his knees buckling under the weight of the performance.

I caught him, my arm wrapping around his waist, hauling him against my side before he could hit the concrete.

“I’ve got you,” I rumbled against his ear.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled, the lie automatic.

“Shut up, Felix. You’re done.”

We walked down the corridor and the rest of the squad followed, dazed and glittering with confetti. Sylla was leaning on Varo, both of them looking at their hands like they couldn’t believe they were still attached. They had survived the mutiny, but the reality of what they had just done was starting to settle in. They had defied the Director and lived.

Director Tegula was waiting for us at the elevator bank. The “Proud Father” mask he had worn for the cameras had dissolved, replaced by the reptilian calculation of the administrator.

“Impressive theater,” Tegula said. “I allowed it because the show was good, but don’t get confused about your place.” He tapped a stylus against his datapad.

“You gave me a product. The pre-order jerseys with your names on them have already sold out.”

“We aren’t merchandise,” Felix rasped, leaning heavily on me.

“You are whatever I say you are,” Tegula corrected him. He gestured to the elevators. “Welcome to the National Team. Your clearance has been upgraded to Tier Alpha. You will move into the Spire immediately.”

He looked past us to where Anatol Getha was standing. The giant goalkeeper looked furious, his fists clenched at his sides.

“Getha,” Tegula said. “Report to the Holding Pen.”

Anatol froze. “Director? I am the starting keeper.”

“You were the starting keeper,” Tegula said, not even looking at him. “You allowed a mutiny to occur on your watch. You let a cripple and a traitor on live television. You looked weak, Anatol.”

“But—“

“Get out of my sight. Fight your way back from the Reserves if you want the jersey back.”

Anatol stared at us, the hatred in his eyes absolute. He turned and stormed off toward the lower levels.

The message was clear. Win, and you were a god. Look weak for a second, and you were trash.

Tegula stepped into his private lift.

“Enjoy the penthouse, gentlemen. It’s a very comfortable cage.”