Twelfth Knight

2. Player Vs. Player

My girlfriend Olivia’s cheerleader-sanctioned curls fall into her eyes, so she doesn’t see me wink when I make my way back onto the field for our next possession. Her friends do; they giggle and nudge her, but by the time she looks up I’m already manifesting myself in the Padua end zone. You gotta see it, Coach says. See it, make it happen. Success is not an accident. I’ve got scrolls of his wisdom in my head that play out like flashes on a neon marquee. Champions are half intention, half work.

“Just get the ball to Duke” was Coach’s last instruction to Curio.

This’ll be a draw, meant to look like a passing play. A bit of misdirection, just in case Padua’s figured out a thing or two about the way I play this game—not that I expect them to stop me. It’s one thing to read the field and another thing to control it. I line up directly behind Curio, with junior hotshot Malcolm Volio on my left and sophomore receiver Andrews on my right.

Curio drops back, scanning the field as Andrews positions himself for what looks like an intended catch, and then Curio turns and delivers the ball to me. I make it through the blockade of guards, centers, and tackles, and boom. The field is wide open.

The same cornerback from earlier realizes he’s fallen for the trap. He changes directions, so I veer toward the visitors’ sideline, narrowly missing an oncoming tackle. It pushes me farther out than I’d like, nearly running me off the field, but I meticulously tightrope the sideline. It’s funny how you can know a field after so many times running it, reading it reflexively beneath your feet. I know in my bones when I cross that first-down mark; ten yards, then twenty, then thirty. By now the crowd is screaming, the visiting side booing loudly from my left to mix with the chants of my name to my right, and I can’t help a smile.

The end zone is in sight by the time the cornerback finally reaches me like an arrow, shouldering me out of my narrow strip of safety. He shoves into me once, leaving me struggling for a few more yards, then a second time, ramming into my torso. I nearly crash into one of Padua’s cheerleaders, catching myself just before I pitch headfirst into their entire offensive line.

I’m forced out of bounds before I can reach the end zone, which leaves the cornerback looking smug as hell. Doesn’t matter; I still got us within ten yards of a touchdown, meaning at worst we’ll get a field goal, breaking the tie. I just hope we do it quickly—there’s still time to put more points on the board, and I want to be the one to do it.

It only occurs to me as I’m jogging back for the next play that I just ran about eighty yards. Impressive on its own, but better yet: record-breaking. I hear a few of the Messaline alums cheering and glance over, spotting Nick Valentine, our former QB and my best friend. He’s holding up a poster that says “DUKE ORSINO” and a picture of a goat, as in GOAT: Greatest of All Time. Most career yards in Messaline history.

Not a big deal, I tell myself, but then I spot my dad on the sideline, chewing his usual stick of Big Red and typing something quickly into his phone. He gives me a thumbs-up, stoic as ever, even though I know for a fact he just texted my brother Cam.

Yeah, okay. I won’t lie, this feels pretty good.

“Hell of a run,” says Curio when I take my spot for the slant. “Feel like going again?”

“And take all the glory? You try for once,” I say. He rolls his eyes and calls for a passing play, so this one isn’t intended for me.

Curio’s throw isn’t perfect, not that I get a full glimpse of what happens. The Padua cornerback is covering me now, probably instructed to do whatever it takes to keep me out of the end zone. Understandable, but he’s starting to piss me off. He shoves me, pointlessly, and I shove back.

His response, unpleasant by the looks of it, is inaudible over the sound of our band playing the Messaline “charge” chant. I line up near Volio again, buzzing with annoyance, and catch his sidelong glance at me.

“You good, Duke?”

“Peachy keen, Mal. This one’s mine. Curio!” I call, and our quarterback looks at me, the two of us exchanging a glance that says this’ll be a blast, literally. I’m gonna take the ball and run it into the Padua end zone where it belongs.

The play starts and the ball is mine, tucked safely into my torso while I lower my head and shove myself forward by sheer force of will. My mom hates to watch this; she covers her eyes, but for me, this is when the game feels most like war—there’s something undeniably primal about it, and dangerous, too. I grit my teeth around my mouthguard and pummel as far forward as I can, the usual necessary evil of gambling my body based on four years of weight training, a dash of good karma, and a whole lot of blind faith.

Almost immediately I’m wrestled sideways from my right and left, wrenched in two separate directions. Something smacks into the front of my helmet; I tuck my chin in time to prevent my head snapping back, but elsewhere there’s an impact to my right knee. It’s a blow from a weird angle, a hard, forced contortion—

(Shit.)

—and in a blinding splice of pain I find myself at the bottom of a dogpile, the ball forced into my gut just a yard shy of a touchdown.

For a second I’m too dazed to get up, blinking away stars.

Does anything hurt?

No, nothing hurts. (This happens every time I get hit. A flash of something; nerves or whatever.) I’m slow to get up, though, letting Curio pull me to my feet while I try to recover my equilibrium. Once I’m upright, I’m fine.

I think.

I bend the knee back and forth, testing.

“Everything okay?” Curio asks in a low voice.

“Yeah.” I would know if something was wrong, right? “Yeah, fine.”

Beneath his helmet, he’s expressionless. “Looked bad.”

For a second I wonder, but then Coach calls for a time-out from the sideline. There’s a buzz around the stadium, bracing, and it’s the insidious kind. The kind of tension reserved for a loss.

Curio frowns, waiting for my response, and I shake my head. We still need a win, and I’m the only one who can get us there.

“Just in shock, sorry,” I call, jogging over to the huddle. “Everything’s fine.”

Our offensive coach, Frank, pulls up next to me. “That was a bad hit, Orsino,” he says in his low rumble.

“Nope.” I put on my sunniest face, knowing Coach is watching. “It’s fine. Bruised, that’s all.”

He cocks a brow doubtfully. “You’re sure?”

“With one yard left to go? Of course I’m sure.” I feel weird, a little unsteady, but I can definitely move. Besides, losing this early in the season means no state championship. Poof, there goes the season, my whole legacy up in smoke. “I’m fine,” I say again. “Nothing to worry about.”

Frank’s eyes narrow to slits, then dart to my dad. “Risky,” he murmurs. “Might be better to pull him now.”

“No way,” I cut in instantly. “We’re one yard from the win, Coach!”

If anyone’s going to be as hungry for the win as I am, it’s Coach Orsino. He nods once, stiffly, and my relief nearly knocks the wind out of me. “Run a counter. Volio,” Coach adds, “stay close.”

We break and head back to the field, Curio still eyeing me while I test my stance. “Sure you’re good?”

I shove in my mouthpiece, shrugging, and Curio nods with understanding. Sure or not, this is happening. As far as I can tell, my knee is tender, but fine.

Ever forward, ever onward. I happen to catch the eye of the cornerback, who’s watching me as we set up for the snap. Not watching—staring, creepily. I blow him a kiss and get settled at the line of scrimmage, shaking off my misgivings as the end zone comes into focus.

Third down. It’s do or die now, so Volio and I set up for the counter—another well-practiced misdirection play.

“On one,” shouts Curio. “HUT!”

I drop backfield and Curio does a beautiful, Oscar-worthy fake to Volio, which works on everyone but my BFF the Padua cornerback, who can’t take his eyes off me. Not that it matters; Curio tosses me the ball and I’m off like a shot, veering away for a clear opening. I know without a doubt that this touchdown has my name all over it, and the crowd knows it, too.

“DUKE, DUKE, DUKE—”

From my periphery the Padua cornerback drops, aiming for my legs—for my knees—and I swear I see it in flashes, like it happens in slow motion.

His red uniform from the corner of my eye.

The yellow of the goalpost.

The green of the turf.

The bright white of panic when I feel something go wrong—

No, that’s not it; I don’t feel it. I hear it, loud as a gunshot this time, like cracking a knuckle but indescribably worse. The sound rings harsher than the impact, though I don’t register it until after I get dragged down. Instead I think, Is the ball still in my hands? And then I think, This isn’t right.

Something is really, really not right.

“Enjoy the view,” snarls the Padua cornerback, who gets called for a late hit. Or something. I can’t fully understand what the ref is saying because I’m busy telling myself Get up, come on, Jack, get up, but something’s misfiring. It’s like my brain and my body got disconnected somehow, unplugged from each other.

“Jack? Jack, can you move?” That’s Frank.

“Duke.” Coach’s face appears, all morphed and unrecognizable.

The ref is talking to me now, I think. “Son, you okay? You need help?”

I hear my dad call for a medic.

“Oh my god, Jack!”

That’s Olivia, her green-and-gold glitter blurring when I try to look at her and realize I can’t quite focus. An ache is settling in, like a cramp or a wave. It rises somehow, tightening my chest.

“Jack, are you okay?”

“Messaline all-star running back Jack ‘The Duke’ Orsino is down in the Padua end zone!” calls the announcer over the speakers. I can hardly hear him over the sound of what I now realize is the fight song, meaning we did it. We got the touchdown. And the win.

Which is good. Great, even. I’d be pissed if we hadn’t.

And anyway, I’m fine, right?

“Coach, this ain’t good,” Frank murmurs to my father, who says nothing.

I close my eyes, exhaling out.

Champions are half intention, half work. I can will myself to the end zone. See it, make it happen. I can will myself off the ground.

Only this time, I don’t think I can.

“The head,” Murph soliloquys, “now severed from the body—”

“Lovely,” I mutter to myself. (Well, to him. But if anyone asks, it was under my breath.)

“—looks up at you, eyes aloft, and whispers one word—”

“Toni!” shouts Antonia’s mother, Mrs. Valentine. “Are you in here?”

“Yes, Mom, in the kitchen!” Antonia shouts directly into my ear, and then flushes. “Oops, sorry, Vi.”

“I’m used to this sort of mistreatment,” I assure her.

Antonia’s mom walks in, so we all sing “Hiiiiii, Mrs. Valentiiiiine” at her like a Greek chorus. Antonia’s older brother Nick, home for the weekend, enters with a kind of “FYI I used to be king of this place” strut while her younger brother, Jandro, shuffles in behind him.

“How was the game?” Antonia asks Nick on the group’s behalf, just to be polite. (She once had to explain to Leon how football worked, and he immediately said it was too complicated. “It’s not any more complicated than a quest,” she insisted at the time, because it’s very important to Antonia that everyone feels comfortable and informed. “Every player has a Quest Sheet, basically, with plays they’re allowed to do or not do—”

“—and the ultimate goal is tossing a toy around from one overstuffed jock to another,” Leon scoffed in reply. This from a boy who thinks he could probably shoot lethal arrows if he was just “given a fair shot.”)

“Well, the game was great,” Mrs. Valentine answers her daughter cheerfully. “The new QB’s got nothing on Nicky, of course—”

“Mom,” grumbles Nick.

“But he’ll learn—he’ll get there!” she assures him.

“Mom, Curio was fine. Can I go?” Nick asks, looking jittery. “I want to get to the hospital.”

“Hospital?” echoes Danny Kim, who I forgot about for a second.

“Is it that bad?” Mrs. Valentine asks Nick, who shrugs, riffling a hand through his hair.

“His mom was trying to talk him into it, so I’m guessing he’s there now. Cool if I take your car?”

“Yes, that’s fine—”

“You can just take yours,” Antonia offers him quickly. “I won’t use it tonight. If we go anywhere, Vi can drive me.”

Nick looks at me briefly, dismissing me in nearly the same moment. “Thanks, Ant.”

Then he’s gone, leaving the rest of the room to glance quizzically at Mrs. Valentine.

“What happened?” asks Matt Das.

“Oh, someone got hurt. One of Nicky’s friends.”

“Who?” asks Leon, perking up. Football may not interest him, but knowing things about other people’s personal lives always does.

“Jack Orsino,” Mrs. Valentine tells him.

“Jack?” echoes Antonia, shocked, at the same moment I reflexively grumble, “Ugh, Jack.”

Antonia’s eyes cut to mine with a swift, silencing glance. This is partially the result of Antonia being a Nice Person, but more significantly it’s the fact that Jack Orsino’s cheekbones and chest measurements regularly motivate her goodwill.

Basically, it’s no real shock that Jack Orsino won Associate Student Body president, given that the whole thing is a farce. First of all, his friends on the football team were responsible for counting the votes, so you can see why I demanded a recount. After nearly a month of hard-core negotiating with all the biggest and most underrepresented clubs on campus, I felt a margin of eighteen votes was pretty freaking negligible, so I invoked the election guidelines that require a more statistically significant victory to win. But, of course, instead of choosing an objective third party like the guidebook specifies, they just let the same apathetic jocks count them again.

Not that the official results were ultimately that surprising. Jack, bronzed like an Olympian god with the preternatural confidence of someone born with perfect skin and a six-pack, has all the necessary prerequisites to win at high school, whatever that turns out to mean ten years from now. (I got vice president as runner-up, so it wasn’t a wasted effort, but still.) The point is, you can never overestimate the voters, who see dimples and a varsity letter and decide that counts as budget competency or even the slightest attempt at effort. From my perspective, aka the lowest possible degree of interest, Jack is like if the smirky rebel captain from Empire Lost were darker, taller, and more difficult to work with. Think your classic cinematic rogue, but unlikely to show up in time to save you because… Wait, hang on, you needed something? Huh, weird, it totally slipped his mind.

In Jack Orsino’s case, I wholeheartedly agree with Leon that football is just a matter of tossing a toy around. Jack’s one of the ones who runs around with the toy, which as far as I’m concerned takes very little skill. At least as quarterback, Nick had to be tactical. Jack just… runs. (Unsurprisingly, he acted like I kicked his puppy when I asked for the election recount, which is literally a school requirement. I assume he finds it hard to believe that rules were ever meant to apply to him.)

“What happened to Jack?” asks Antonia, who looks concerned, because of course she does.

“Well, a rather unsportsmanlike play, I’d say,” says Mrs. Valentine, glancing over the table to see our various dice, guides, and Quest Sheets. “What’s the adventure today?”

“The Amulet of Qatara,” I answer, hoping that will be enough to get us all back to the game. “It’s one of the more classic quests.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” says Mrs. Valentine.

Behind her, Antonia’s brother Jandro snorts quietly.

“Someone was just beheaded,” I inform him, as Antonia blanches and Mrs. Valentine nudges him out of the room.

“Let them play, Jandro. You guys have fun,” she tells us warmly. “Need anything? Snacks, soda?”

“We’ve got plenty, Mrs. Valentine,” I tell her, because my mother didn’t raise me to be impolite. “Thanks so much for offering.”

“Okay, I’ll stay out of your hair.” She smiles at us and gives Jandro another small shove into the living room while we turn back to Murph.

“Damn, wonder what happened to Orsino,” he says vacantly.

“Who cares?” I drum my nails on the table. “Can we wrap this up?”

“Yeesh, you’re in a hurry,” says Marco.

“Um, don’t you want to win? We just took out the last of the Cretacious horde.”

“Well, she’s in the middle of saying something,” says Murph.

“Okay, what’s she saying?”

“Staaaaaaahp,”Murph conjures up in a low, creepy ghoul voice.

I roll my eyes. “Okay, great. Famous last words.”

The rest of the quest is fairly straightforward. Now that the last enemy horde has been wiped out, the caves have been explored, and the bad guys have all been successfully dismembered, there’s not much more to say. Antonia’s character, Larissa, heals us in preparation for the next stage of our quest, and then we reach the moment I’ve been waiting for. This is the point where, as a group, we would decide which ConQuest expansion book to do next, and I am… somewhat invested in the outcome.

“Now that we’ve arrived at the end of this quest,” I say, clearing my throat, “I have a proposition for the group.”

“Aye, aye,” says Leon in a bawdy sailor’s voice.

“I’m not done,” says Murph.

“Yeah, I know? That’s the point,” I say impatiently. “Before we finish—”

“Whoa. This is so small,” says Marco, who appears to be staring at a misshapen pretzel.

“That’s what she said,” snickers Leon, followed by laughter from Danny Kim.

“Um?” I say, exasperated. “Hello?”

“Guys,” Matt Das cuts in. “Just hear her out, okay?”

God, at least not everyone here is an idiot.

“Yeah. My house, my rules,” adds Antonia, bowing theatrically to me. “Astrea Starscream, the floor is yours.”

“Actually, this is more of a Vi thing,” I tell them, giving Antonia a small but grateful glance. “About what quest we do next.”

Leon unhelpfully contributes, “I thought we were doing The Cliffs of Ramadra next?”

“What’s that?” asks Danny Kim, because of course he does.

“It’s supposedly the game that inspired War of Thorns,” says Murph.

“Ooh,” says Danny Kim instantly. “That sounds cool.”

“It’s a battle game,” says Rob Kato. “Like, a hundred percent combat, supposedly.”

“A shit ton of gore,” adds Leon with palpable glee. “Like the show.”

“The show’s not that gory,” Antonia says, making a face.

“Whatever. You only watch it for Cesario,” says Leon snidely, which irks me.

Cesario’s one of the main characters on War of Thorns, a fallen prince from the rival kingdom who used to be the main villain. His redemption arc is the most interesting plot in the show, but every boy in the world thinks girls are only watching the show for his abs.

“We hadn’t actually agreed on doing Cliffs of Ramadra next,” I point out.

“Yes we h—”

“Look, the point is I wrote a new quest over the summer,” I say, cutting to the chase. “And I just think—”

“You wrote a quest?” asks Matt Das.

“Yeah.” I’m very excited about it, though I’m trying to temper that for now. They’ll smell my hope like blood in the water and mock it to death just for being my idea before I get the chance to make it sound like their thing. “So, it’s kind of like a political thriller,” I tell them. My brother Bash and I dreamed it up after we watched some super-old mobster movies at our grandma’s house. “The game opens in a bazaar-like setting—”

“Bizarre like weird?” asks Murph.

“Bazaar,” I correct. “Sort of like an underground fae market, but—”

“Fairies?” echoes Danny Kim, with an expression that I would love to personally remove from his face.

“In the quest,” I continue loudly, “we’d be in a world with a corrupt capitalist system that enables the tyrannical rule of a shadow king—” I can tell I’m talking too fast, based on how everyone’s eyes briefly glaze over, so I move on. “The point is, to successfully make it through this world, we’d have to fall in with a gang of underground smugglers who coexist alongside the shadow king’s assassins. But since this is a world where magic can bind you to your word, that means everything we do in the world of this quest has long-term consequences—”

“Sounds complicated,” says Murph, frowning.

“Plus you always want to take too long on the tactical parts,” Marco adds.

“Well, no, not really,” I say, answering Murph, since Marco is obviously just whining and therefore not important. “I mean, so long as I were QuestMaster—”

“You want to be QM?” asks Marco.

“I mean, I wrote the quest, so—”

Leon and Murph exchange a look just before Marco cuts in again. “So basically we’d never do any fighting, then.”

“Guys.” Again, I actually do a combat sport, but if I hear them refer to it as kickboxing one more time I will definitely snap. “Obviously combat is still essential to the story, it’s just—”

“I feel like the battle games are more engaging for the group,” says Rob with obnoxious faux pensiveness.

“Okay, that’s literally false—”

“I think it could be fun,” Antonia says. “Could we maybe do a single quest first, to try it out?”

“Well.” I know Antonia’s trying to help, but she… isn’t. “Like I said, there would be long-term consequences to every action, so—”

“I don’t understand. We’re fighting fairies?” says Leon.

“No,” I grind out, trying not to lose my temper. “I said it’s like a fae market, as in it’s a magical black market dealing in contraband, where we would have access t—”

“Let’s just take a vote,” suggests Murph, as I grit my teeth, bracing for an outcome I was sure I wouldn’t have to deal with. I mean, come on, right? I played their choice of quest. I won several rounds of combat when they were all dumb enough to fall into the same trap of hypermasculinity. I’ve proven that I know what I’m doing.

Haven’t I?

“All in favor of Vi’s fairy quest?” asks Murph.

“Oh my god,” I say as I raise my hand, “it’s not fairies—”

But it doesn’t matter. Antonia’s hand goes up, and then, gradually—after a long period of time glancing around—Matt Das’s does, too.

That’s it.

“You’re joking,” I say.

“All in favor of Cliffs of Ramadra?” prompts Murph.

Danny Kim’s hand shoots in the air and whatever happens after that, I don’t care. I rise to my feet, grabbing my dice and my notes and shoving them into my bag.

“Geez, sore loser,” says Leon, but I don’t care anymore. Isn’t it bad enough to have to go to a school where people only care about looks and clothes and football without having to also contend with a band of group-think dudebros who never give me the benefit of the doubt? I swear, there’s no winning. Not even among massive ConQuest dorks who spend their free time speculating about Antonia’s boobs.

I worked all summer on this quest. I designed it specifically to appeal to everyone: battle scenes, cool enviro, interesting and unique plot. But no. I’m a girl, so obviously it’s a girl quest.

“Hey” I hear coming after me. “Vi, wait!”

Matt Das follows me out the Valentines’ front door, stopping me before I reach my car.

“Vi, come on, I’m sorry—”

“I worked on this for two months,” I tell him bitterly, not wanting to look at him. All I need is to start crying right now. “Like, you have no idea how much work went into this, and how much research and planning and—”

“Look, I’m sorry.” And he looks it. “Those guys are idiots.”

“I know.” I turn away, and then, taking a breath, look up. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to just rush out of there.”

“Hey, I would’ve, too. They’re being completely ridiculous.”

“Yeah.” I chew my lip. “Look, thanks for that. For voting for my quest and stuff.”

“Yeah, no problem. Leon’s a dumbass.”

“Ha. Yeah.”

“And Danny Kim? Like, do you even know anything, dude?”

“I know.” I roll my eyes and exhale. “Ugh.”

“Hey, I know it sucks, but it’s their loss. Just come back and kick all their asses next week.”

“Yeah… yeah, I guess.” I look up at him, sighing. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Wanna get out of here?” he offers. “Go get some froyo and talk about it?”

Talk about it? Yeah, no thanks. All I want to do is get online and lay waste to some fictional characters until the urge to throw darts at real people safely evacuates my system.

“Oh, thanks for the offer, Matt, but—” I shrug. “I’m tired. Kinda just want to go home.” I turn to my car, but apparently Matt’s not finished.

“What about tomorrow?” he asks, stepping between me and my car door.

“What?”

“Wanna catch a movie or something?”

“Oh… maybe.” This suddenly feels very weird. “I don’t know, Matt—”

“Seriously?”

I blink at him. “Matt, I just want to go home, okay? If I’m up for a movie tomorrow, I’ll text you.”

“But you won’t, obviously.” He folds his arms over his chest.

“Okay, what is this?” I ask him with a sigh, gesturing to his posture. “I’ve got RenFaire all day and then I hang out with my mom and my brother. If they’ve got something else going on, I’ll let you know.”

“Oh, how convenient.”

“Um, yeah, sure.” I reach for my car door and Matt shifts, blocking me again. “What the hell?”

“If you’re trying to blow me off, just say so,” he tells me snidely. “I mean, what more do you expect me to do, Vi? I took your side. What else do you want?”

Tension climbs all the way up my vertebrae. “Whoa, what’s going on?”

“I get that you think I’m not cool enough to go out with or whatever—”

“What?” He’s got to be joking. As if I’ve ever not gone out with someone because they weren’t cool enough. I’m currently wearing a shirt with a math joke on it.

“—but I’m actually nice to you, Vi,” he rants, “and I just don’t think it’s fair for you to act like I don’t exist.”

“Matt,” I say sharply, “I didn’t know you were trying to ask me out, okay? I was just telling you my plans.”

“Well, now you know,” he says stubbornly. “So are you going to call me or not?”

“Um, not?” I tell him, because duh, he’s standing between me and my car, and even if he is a nearsighted nerd who wouldn’t pose a threat under any other circumstances, he’s still making me feel like I don’t want to be anywhere near him, tomorrow or any other time.

“Great. Really cool of you, Vi,” Matt says, dripping with sarcasm.

God. “Can I get into my car, please?”

He waves me toward it, bowing derisively as he goes. “Just so you know,” he says with his hand still on my open door, “I’m the only guy in that room who doesn’t call you a bitch behind your back. Even Antonia looks like she wants to half the time.”

I bristle at the mention of Antonia. Nice guys, I swear. “And let me guess, you think you’re so brave for letting them do it?”

“You are a bitch, Vi,” he snaps at me. “I thought there was more to you. But apparently there isn’t.”

It really shouldn’t sting. It shouldn’t.

“You actually thought I’d go out with you?” I force a laugh, coldly. “Not in a million years.”

Then I get in my car, locking the doors and driving away well before my hands stop shaking on the wheel.