Chapter Five
Morning News: “Welcome back to One Shot, your number-one source for the latest in pro rawball news. I’m your host, Diamanda Blacktalon.
My cohost, Vaknox of the Lizard People of Tesh, is on his biannual sojourn to molt his skin in the Teshen Temple of Chaxloakka.
We miss him and wish him a speedy ecdysis.
Filling in for him is Luxo the artificer and his automaton, Ratchatron. Pleasure to have you, Luxo.”
*robot beeping noises*
“Oh, Ratchatron will be speaking with us today? Wonderful. Ratchatron, things seem to be heating up between a certain couple! Alexo and Orok, our very own Beauty and the Beast, were spotted on another date, this time at the super romantic Hilliard restaurant.”
*robot beeping noises*
“Um. That’s awful, Ratchatron. I’m sorry your—uh, Luxo’s wife left him at that restaurant.”
*aggressive robot beeping noises*
“Well … in returning to Orok and Alexo, let’s bring up the image for our viewers of Orok helping Alexo into his seat—yep, that one—”
*even more aggressive robot beeping noises*
“That’s awfully jaded, Ratchatron. Our viewers certainly believe in love. Just look at how cute Orok and Alexo are! Oroxo—I prefer Beauty and the Beast—have definitely secured their spot as the new It couple of rawball—”
*one long shrieking robot beep*
“Oh dear. I apologize for my cohost’s language. I—I think we’d better go to commercial.”
“Thio and I will be at your game tonight.”
I tap a rhythm on the steering wheel as I wind through traffic on the way to the stadium. “You know where to go to get the family tickets?”
“Yeah,” Seb says through my car’s speaker. “This is the one and only instance of me going raw for you this season, so make it good for both of us, will you?”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
“Crazy weather we’ve been having.”
I look out the windshield at the blue sky. “Is it?”
“No. No, fuck this, Orok Monroe. I didn’t even get an annoyed groan at my rawball joke, and you’re okay talking about ticket mundanity and the weather?”
I slow to a stop at a red light, grip clenching on the gearshift. “I appreciate you coming to the game. It’s been a busy month; sorry I haven’t seen you much.”
At all.
I haven’t seen Seb at all.
I’m on lockdown. Self-imposed emergency preventative maneuvers.
Which includes, always does, keeping my distance from Seb. The last thing I ever want to do is glom on to him again, make him my safety net even if he swears it’s fine. It’s not fine.
But the biggest preventative maneuver: no excess contact with Alexo either.
Matching the two other games this month, while traveling and home, we had two more dates.
One was dinner, one was another coffee meetup at a spot downtown.
I was cordial for the cameras I knew were beyond the windows both times, and I paid like a gentleman, but I kept conversation surface level.
And I did not look at him too long, did not note how he wore a turtleneck crop top to the dinner date, and it showed his flat stomach and a gold belly chain.
A gods-damned belly chain.
It got easier to keep the boundaries up when, at the end of both dates, that guy was nearby, for the away game, too, waiting to whisk Alexo off.
And each time, as they were leaving, that guy was clearly berating Alexo, and Alexo slumped and just took it. And I couldn’t do anything. Because he’s not actually mine.
That’s the motto of this lockdown. He’s not mine and I’m not obsessed with him, or anyone, and I am perfectly capable of functioning like a normal, healthy adult because I put in the work, gods damn it.
I hate this.
All of it.
The seeing him, the not seeing him, the letting him leave with that asshole, the self-imposed restraint. I’m clinging to my hard-earned composure by the skin of my teeth, and said teeth are about ground down to nubs.
Seb huffs into the phone. “You’re doing it again, aren’t you?”
“Doing what?”
“Honestly? I’m not sure. Pushing me away?
Putting me in a box? You did it in Vegas but it took me a while to realize you weren’t busy.
We live in the same city now, dude. You aren’t this busy.
After the game tonight, I’m going to see you.
Face-to-face. For longer than an affable hello.
I’m not letting you go all distant and formal with me, O. Not again.”
A car behind me honks when I miss the light change, and I slam on the gas, knuckles white.
No, I want to tell him. I’m not strong enough to see you yet.
I need to get my shit together. I need to not be so gods-damned needy.
But I miss him. I moved back in large part because of him, because he’s still half my soul, even when I try so hard to wedge space between us.
“All right,” I concede. “Yeah. That’s—that’ll be good.”
“Try to sound more like you’re getting a root canal.” On Seb’s end, someone calls his name. “I gotta get back to work, but I will see you tonight. Asshole.”
I crack a smile in spite of myself. “I do want to see you. I—” My hand stretches, the leather of the steering wheel groaning. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Love you.”
The slightest pause. It’s minuscule, but I feel it, wide and gaping. “Love you, too.”
Seb doesn’t disconnect right away. “We’re going to talk about this, O” is the last thing he says before he hangs up.
I pull into the player lot at the stadium and sit in my car for a beat, staring at the river in the distance.
I was arguably at my most mentally healthy in Vegas.
On paper. Everything was organized just so—until the trial blew up the carefully sculpted box I kept my Chimeras teammates in.
And it made me realize I’d never actually gotten to know any of those teammates, because when the smoke cleared as all the details of the case came out, they didn’t feel fuck-all loyalty to me.
Why do I think doing the same thing here is the healthier option?
Because I’m terrified of being a codependent, out-of-control, self-sacrificing mess again.
I already have been—that incident with Treva was just the most jarring.
But every PR update reminds me that the Urzoth church is thrilled by the positive press I’m bringing them, when I shouldn’t be bringing them any press at all.
The Hellhounds are thrilled, too—we’ve won two of our first three games, on top of the Oroxo/Beauty and the Beast discussions overshadowing the remaining negativity around the lawsuit.
Like Vegas, everything looks great on paper.
I pull up today’s schedule and recheck the interaction Alexo and I are scheduled for. It’s a home game; we’re supposed to meet at the player exit afterward and be seen walking out together.
Innocent enough.
That’s it though—it’s not nearly enough.
I toss my phone into my bag and shove out of my car, all this wanting doing its best to rip me right in two.
We barely eke out a win against the Detroit Dragons, 17–15.
They chose a pretty basic field, jagged rocky peaks and hidden caverns, but even with that simplicity, they were an intense opposition.
It was my fourth game playing with the Hellhounds, and I’m starting to trust the team dynamics; they’ve got my back and I’ve got theirs.
No ill will. Perfectly cordial. If we can keep this up, we’ve got a real chance of hitting the championship; well-oiled machine and all.
That’s the most I wanted out of this trade. The most I hoped for.
Not anything more than cordial.
Alexo was stunning tonight. The way he dances is sensational, hypnotic; I don’t know how the whole stadium doesn’t drop everything to ogle at the screens every time he’s on.
He comes alive in this vivacious flow, and I wanted nothing more than to charge off the field and repeat our kiss, no tongue, from weeks ago.
But I didn’t. We’re meeting at the player exit. And then I’m going out with Seb. And it’s all still perfectly contained.
After I’m showered and dressed, I head out, palms sweating, bag over my shoulder. The hall outside the locker room is packed with security, reporters, assistants, and family members, and the first person I see is Seb.
Thio’s next to him, and they’re both decked out in Hellhounds gear—orange shirts and baggy orange pants with the demon dog logo, and Seb’s wearing a gods-damned demon dog foam hat with the dog’s mouth opening around his face, while Thio’s got a temporary tattoo of the Hellhounds H on one cheek and the twenty-sided rawball shape on the other.
Seb throws his arms out wide and screeches over the hallway’s din, “My baby!”
“You’re the worst,” I grumble through a smile as he yanks me down for a hug.
He pulls away before I’m done and I cling to him against my better judgment. The tension has him melting back against me and he retightens his grip on my shoulders.
“Hey,” he prods, knocking his head against mine. “What’s up? For real?”
I blow a breath into his shoulder and—hold here. I know I should pull away, because this is the exact behavior I don’t want to let myself need.
After one more breath, I lift back and flick the foam dog on his head. “I’m sorry I’ve been a jerk. I’ll be around more. But—” I look at Thio, behind us, hands in his pockets, and when my eyes meet his, he shifts a little closer. “You’re engaged now, and I don’t want to impose.”
Thio cracks a smile. “I knew you were a package deal when I proposed. Don’t worry about it.”
Seb flattens an offended hand to his chest. “I think you mean when I proposed, since mine was first, but—he’s right.
” Seb swats that hand at me. “You’re never too much, O.
Tell that voice in your head to shut up.
I want you around. You being gone these past four years was miserable for me. I kind of need you, you big oaf.”
And that doesn’t scare the shit out of you?
I adjust my bag. “All right. I—”