Chapter Two #3
“Orok,” I start self-mockingly, “do you remember the exact moment you gave up alcohol? Why, yes. Yes, I do. It was when I—oh my fucking gods.” A memory surfaces. Pretty rude of it, honestly. “Did I helicopter my dick at you?”
“You still had your boxers on at that point, but yes. I wasn’t sure what you were doing until you made propeller sound effects.”
Seb cackles.
Thio finally loses it, too.
And I stare down at the three bucks Thio threw me—wow, I must’ve been bad at stripping; which is some bullshit, I look amazing naked—and rethink every choice that led me to this moment.
Demolishing the stack of pancakes kicks the rest of my hangover.
I should be more conscious of my carb intake with the season around the corner, but that ship sailed, sunk, and turned into a coral base for marine life with all the champagne I had last night.
The pancakes are just, like, an exploratory submarine at this point.
When Seb and Thio head to work, I peel out of my condo’s parking garage toward the Hellhounds HQ in the southern part of the city.
Right off the river, a hop, skip, and a jump from Bwararax Stadium, the whole complex is tricked out in orange-and-black Hellhounds colors, with our mascot, a brown demon dog, snarling on everything.
The parking lot is half full; our practice is in the evening today, but with our first game in two weeks, most of the team will be hitting the gym or getting in extra specialty drills while they can.
I make my way through the massive glass-and-concrete building, passing shrines to players and wins.
There are several cases full of trophies, including one giant display for the three rawball championships the Hellhounds have won over their sixty-year existence.
Those trophies are each half my height, shining gold, with a gilded rawball, the iconic twenty-sided icosahedron shape, right on top.
It’s always a bit humbling walking past these displays—this is what every player wants. More trophies, more wins.
There’s a new trophy in Vegas now, the Chimeras’ fourth.
Shoulders straightening, I stuff my hands in the pockets of the nice slacks I changed into.
A blue button-down, a navy tie, sleek shoes; my black hair’s buzzed short so there’s not much to do in the way of styling it, but I trimmed my beard and facial hair, trying to be as respectful and professional as possible.
The pro rawball league’s official stance on having a patron god is pretty fluid.
Players aren’t required to have one, and if they do, gods don’t always intervene with the mortals who claim them.
Sometimes, like with Darian, players get magic boosts from their gods the way wizards get boosts from familiars.
Urzoth’s never had that kind of a relationship with any of his followers; he doesn’t talk to me like Darian’s god talks to him, doesn’t give me divine assistance. It’s been a formality only.
Taking on a god or stepping away from one is seen through a lens of what’s best for each player. Does their patron god contribute to better performance on the field? No? Then why are we talking about it?
The pro rawball community, though, has very strong opinions on patron gods, discussing them with zealous aplomb, mostly because a lot of the fans hold to various religions themselves.
The biggest fallout will be with my public perception, which is already in the hole thanks to the lawsuit. Why not keep digging, right?
I hope team management shares my totally flippant, completely at ease attitude. Oh, you want to renounce Urzoth? That request could’ve been an email, Monroe. Get out of my office.
The manager suites are on the third floor, a few towering doors centered around a reception desk in a vaulted space done in polished hardwood. Behind the desk is the Hellhounds logo, and when I give my name to the receptionist, he waves me toward the last door on the right.
My palms break out in a cold sweat as I knock.
It’ll be fine. Even though I haven’t gotten a feel yet for this team’s management and have no real idea where they land on the polarizing opinions of me. But they accepted my trade even with my public testimony during the lawsuit, didn’t they? They can’t hate me too much.
A gruff voice calls, “Enter.”
This office is as dark and imposing as the reception area, the same polished hardwood making up the floors, walls, and ceiling. Massive windows at the far end make the space not quite so cave-like, presiding over a desk and shelves displaying more Hellhounds memorabilia.
Near the door is a long leather couch and two chairs in a formal seating area, and both chairs are occupied.
The Hellhounds head manager, Roesia Sombercrown, is a werewolf who made her name as an offensive rogue twenty-ish years ago.
From the few times I’ve met her, she’s fair but cutting, no time for bullshit.
I want to like her, but I’m still so hesitant after management turned on me in Vegas that I don’t trust my own instincts.
Roesia stands from her chair, and the person sitting in the one next to her shifts to look at me.
I freeze, the door swinging closed behind me.
It’s a guy, human by the looks of it, broad-shouldered and heavyset, with hair gone white from age and a pale face lined in wrinkles.
He’s in a simple black suit, but what has everything in my body shuddering to a halt is the symbol stitched on the pocket of his coat.
And on the briefcase next to his chair. And on the folio in his lap.
An axe speared into a stone.
He’s a rep for the Urzoth church.
What the fuck.
I clamp my jaw shut to avoid gaping and giving myself away.
I did not tell the receptionist what this meeting would be about when I set it up weeks ago—I just said I needed something on the books with at least Roesia, if not the whole management team.
I’m new, still getting my footing here; it wasn’t unexpected that I’d want to check in.
No one would’ve been able to guess my real purpose.
So, again, what the fuck.
Roesia smiles, the most she ever gives: a quick pulse of her thin lips and a flash of her orange eyes. Her brown hair’s pulled back in a severe bun and she’s in a sleek maroon pantsuit, her hands clasped in front of her.
“Mr. Monroe,” she says. “Thank you for joining us. Please.” She waves at the couch across from them.
Forget my palms sweating; I’m pretty sure I’m fauceting through my shirt.
What the fuck what the fuck what the—
But I cross the room to sink into the middle of the couch. At least it’s not one of those dainty decorative ones a lot of offices have; Roesia’s clearly used to hosting rawball players of massive size, because the couch doesn’t so much as groan under my frame.
“Uh,” I start, ever so eloquently. “I mean—”
Roesia sits, her hands poised on the armrests, those intense, predator eyes whipping from me to the man next to her.
“Oh,” she says. “I assumed you knew each other; my apologies. This is Maddock Drach, the head priest of the Church of Urzoth Shieldsworn in Philadelphia. Reverend Drach, this is Orok Monroe, our newest defensive tank.” She pauses, a small quirk to her lips as she looks at Drach.
“Though you probably don’t need that introduction. ”
“No, I certainly do not.” Drach shifts forward to extend his hand. “Strong as stone,” he says by way of greeting.
I take his hand. He’s smaller than me by luck of his lineage, but his grip on my hand is unnecessarily tight. Asserting dominance. Or trying to.
I shake back, squeezing enough to let him know I recognize what he’s doing. “Hard as rock,” I finish, the words tasting like dust.
Drach holds my gaze for a beat. And when I think this is going to turn into a stare-down pissing match and I bite my tongue to keep from rolling my eyes, Drach drops my hand and sinks back in his chair.
His stare is assessing. “I’ve been following your career since the Manticores, son. You’ve always been one of our most beloved players.”
The Manticores—my time in college. I met a few Urzoth reps while I was there, but never this guy. Either he’s new to the local branch or they sent in the big guns because I’m really, really screwed.
No. I’m not screwed. Once I part from Urzoth, I won’t be subject to any of the church’s authority. Whatever Drach’s here for won’t matter.
I swallow, throat grating on itself. “Thank you, sir.”
Roesia crosses her long legs. “I know you arranged this meeting with my assistant some time ago, so forgive me for hijacking it, but the timing was rather kismet. Before we get started, Mr. Monroe, what did you want to talk about?”
She watches me patiently.
So does Drach.
And my brain undergoes a full system reset in two short breaths as I piece together that they do not, in fact, know what I want to talk about. Roesia has an Urzoth rep here for some other reason, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out what it could be.
But I’m not about to renounce my patron god in front of one of his priests.
That’s like breaking up with your significant other in front of their parents.
Plus, with him present, he’d take my renouncing as a challenge and demand we fight so I could have the honor of earning my way out of Urzoth’s graces.
It’ll be way less confrontational to renounce Urzoth to only Roesia. Maybe we can take care of whatever business they have, then Drach’ll leave and I can be all actually, funny story, I’m done with that god.
I shake my head. “Oh. That can wait. What can I do for you, ma’am?”
Roesia smiles like that was the right answer. Of course it was. She controls my team; she gets what she wants, always.
“As Reverend Drach said,” she begins, “you’ve always been a beloved player.”