Chapter Three
I vault from the couch, hands splayed by my sides, living proof that the concept of holy fucking shit can be a religious experience.
He’s here.
He’s in baggy black joggers and an orange Hellhounds jacket over a white shirt with writing in sparkly black letters that’s hard to read as he tugs the jacket over his chest. He’s forgone glitter and makeup, his face clean but still dusted with brown freckles.
The bar lighting made his hair more strawberry blond than what it is now, a definite soft pink color.
He’s alert, if a bit tired, but more important, he looks healthy—no bruises, no cuts.
That guy left him alone after he got home, then.
Alexo surveys the room. “Um, I was told to—” He hooks his thumb toward the closed door before his eyes flick up to me and lock in.
With a pulse of his eyebrows, his lips form a little O, and I don’t breathe at all, don’t move until I see whatever his reaction is to me. Is he going to freak out? He was cordial to me last night, but that could’ve been his way of diffusing the situation.
But—how is he here?
And wearing a Hellhounds jacket?
Roesia waves him in. “Please have a seat, Mr. Warden. I believe you know Orok Monroe?”
Alexo snaps his mouth shut. Shoulders stiff, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket, he clocks Drach’s Urzoth insignias.
His face goes the tiniest bit slack before he considers the closed door behind him.
But he makes a decision, throwing his head back, and defiance gleams in those midnight black eyes. He rounds the chairs and lowers himself to sit on the far end of the couch.
As I sit back down, there’s one full cushion between us.
He’s here.
“Hi,” I can’t help but say, breathy and desperate and idiotic.
Alexo looks at me in surprise. And confusion. Yeah, my tone was weird. Shit.
“Mr. Warden is an intern in our cheerleading department,” Roesia says. That demands all my attention—he’s an intern here? But when I face Roesia, she’s talking to Alexo. “Are you aware of your sudden stardom?”
He stiffens, the muscle pull of preparing to run, and when his mouth opens, he doesn’t respond. I stop myself from reaching out to him; he looks in desperate need of comfort suddenly, apprehension gleaming in his eyes.
Roesia carries on without his answer. “I’m sure you’re aware last night’s event was photographed?
The internet was quick to sleuth out your identity after Mr. Monroe rescued you.
It didn’t take long for eager fans to go through our rosters and figure out who you are, since apparently the Silver Hound is rather popular among the team and staff. ”
That’s how I had heard of that bar, through the grapevine of people talking about the best places to have a fun evening. Is that why Alexo was there, too?
Alexo’s lips roll shut. But he stays quiet.
Roesia gives him a longer beat to say anything, but when he doesn’t, she makes a soft hm before continuing. “I believe the correct term is that the internet is shipping you two.”
“I—shipping?” I ask, numb.
“Yes. I’ve been told it’s when two people make a cute couple.”
“I … I’m familiar with what it means,” I stammer. “I’m—what does this have to do with—” I point at Drach.
Who grins at Alexo, and my hackles rise.
Fuck this possession. Alexo isn’t mine in any sense of the word. Down, boy.
“Given the reaction fans are having to your rescue of Mr. Warden,” Drach says, “and the positive spin it’s putting on Urzoth, our proposition is that the two of you enter into a PR relationship for the season.”
My jaw plunges open.
“Excuse me?” I demand at the same time Alexo goes, “I beg your finest pardon?”
I dig my fingers into my knees to stop myself from looking at him. I don’t need to see what his dark eyes are doing, don’t need to watch for anger or hurt.
“It would only be for the season,” Roesia says before Drach can jump back in. She flips through her tablet again, this time showing both Alexo and me what’s clearly a contract. “You’d both sign a standard NDA, along with stipulations we’ve worked out for event attendance, appearances, dates, PDA—”
My brain stalls out.
PDA.
“I—ma’am, this is all—but can we—” Form a sentence, gods, any sentence.
It’s Alexo who leans forward. “I was told this meeting was about advancing my career, but this? This isn’t—no. I can’t do this.”
I wait to feel offended that he’s so quickly shutting down the idea of pretending to date me, but all I feel is a swell of pride, and I throw him a smile. Good. Don’t let them fuck you over. Don’t let anyone fuck you over.
Alexo’s eyes are aflame, his brow set in determination, and he turns on me, maybe expecting me to be insulted. But when he sees my smile, he blinks quickly, his mouth going to that little O again. Only this time, his cheeks stain the faintest shade of red.
Back up. Back allllll the way up.
“This is about your career, Mr. Warden,” Drach says. “The Church of Urzoth Shieldsworn is prepared to sponsor you in a position with the Hellhounds cheerleading squad.”
Alexo frowns at Drach. “I already have a position with the cheerleading department.”
“You misunderstand me—we are sponsoring you on the squad.”
The room hangs quiet for a beat.
I watch the side of Alexo’s face, haven’t been able to look away, so I see the exact moment he transitions from flat-out refusal to—interest.
“I’ve been speaking with Ms. Sombercrown all morning,” Drach says, gesturing at Roesia.
“The Hellhounds have also had their PR team hard at work crunching preliminary numbers, and the best forecast of public image approval comes by further leaning into what the internet has already begun shipping. So we are playing up the star athlete and cheerleader optics by sponsoring you to become a starting member on the cheerleading squad.”
Alexo’s whole face slackens. “What?”
“The heads of the cheerleading department say you’re quite talented.” Roesia taps a long nail on her knee. “They said they asked you to audition, but you preferred to stay in a support role. Why is that?”
Alexo folds his arms over his chest. “What would sponsoring entail?” he asks. Very obviously avoiding Roesia’s question.
Drach opens his folio and reads from a list. “Your salary, uniform, and travel would be paid for by the Urzoth Church.”
“Which is similar to the situation players find themselves in when they have a patron god,” says Roesia. “But the Hellhounds, at least, have never had such an arrangement for a cheerleader.”
No one points out that Urzoth’s church isn’t paying for any of my stuff. Not for lack of offering on their part; I declined their support once I went pro.
I think I knew even then that I’d back out one day.
Alexo huffs a breath. “And in exchange I’d, what? Have to swear an oath to your church? Be required to beat people up on a regular basis?”
Drach’s lips flatten, the muscles by his ears bulging and his hands fisting on his folio. I scoot to the edge of the couch, angled toward Alexo, bracing.
But Drach merely cocks his head, though he does nothing to hide his offense.
“That attitude is what we are hoping to offset. While we do place value in physical prowess, the true tenets of our religion are in multifaceted strength. Our god is made of stone, but he moves and breathes and loves. Strength is only truly effective when it moves, breathes, and loves, too.”
I sag back. Just a little.
That’s what I always believed. Or tried to believe.
Even as my mother pushed me to display my strength in as many physical ways as possible, I’d counter with how real strength was rarely so simply defined.
No one in Urzoth’s church would argue that, but most have come to uphold the easy definitions of strength—strong as stone, hard as rock—more than anything requiring nuance.
It’s nice to hear someone high up in the church professing healthier ideals.
Drach’s still a dick, though.
“But to answer your question, no,” Drach carries on.
“Our requirements for you would be minimal. You would wear an Urzoth symbol on your uniform, but you are not obligated to join our church unless you feel called to. Our sponsoring of you is more a … charity. This arrangement is to complement Mr. Monroe’s standing as a current and active member. ”
“I’d just—” Alexo stutters, and my eyes slip shut in a beat of gathering resolve, but it’s obsolete. The moment I look at him, the strongest wall of resolve wouldn’t be enough to keep back the dam of my own stupidity.
He’s staring at Drach, those dark eyes narrow in disbelief. “I’d be a cheerleader? Just like that? And I’d get to perform?” Almost to himself, he adds, “As a follower of Urzoth?”
Drach hands him a piece of paper out of his folio. “And you’ll make real money, kid. Just like that.”
Roesia’s watching Alexo curiously, her chin propped in her hand, but she doesn’t ask him again why he didn’t audition this year. Doesn’t push him as he takes the paper from Drach and sees something—a salary number, likely—that makes his eyes bulge.
He puts his fingertips to his mouth and gasps, “Oh.”
Part of me dive-bombs even deeper into stupidity, pretending he’s saying O, my name, and I keep digging my fingers into my knees so hard pain radiates up my thighs.
Tell them.
Tell Roesia and Drach all this is moot because I’m not claiming Urzoth as my patron god anymore.
Tell Roesia I’ll happily figure out another way to improve my public image before the championship game.
TELL THEM.
Slowly, Alexo looks from the paper to me.
He swallows roughly, throat bobbing, and I’m stuck staring at that spot, remembering the sheen under the bar lights when he was on stage, the way his neck bent as he crooned about dreams and believing and feeling.
All those emotions he spouted last night are radiating from him now. All the hope he emitted like light beams, and there I was, photosynthesizing each and every one of them.
Before he can speak, I ask him, “Do you want this? If you don’t, we can walk out that door.”