Chapter Thirteen #3
But what I care about, what has me stuck in that numb sensation, is that Bel was right.
I can’t take down an entire cult, can I?
Some things are inevitable. When people’s actions are based in rigid belief, no amount of us doing the right thing will alter their course. Bad things happen, and we’re left in the aftermath even if it isn’t our lesson to learn.
How do you handle preordained failure?
How do you function when the rules you’re playing by don’t apply to the people you’re fighting against?
Phei gets to work on spells to reset my shoulder, and I distract myself by looking up at one of the screens. After a few seconds, it flashes back to Bel and the cheerleaders. He still looks concerned, but he’s dancing, his smile performative.
Are his cousins watching? Have they recognized him? Do they know he’s okay?
It’s one thing to accept the Chimeras targeting me because of their hatred.
It’s another to accept Bel getting killed because of cultists’ beliefs.
Fuck the rules.
He’s going to survive this.
Of course this is the game my parents come out to see, one where I not only spend most of it on the sidelines with an injury, but one we lose.
The score ends at 15–13, so it’s close, but still a loss that bumps down our odds of making it into the championship.
A publicist informs me that even though Bel tried to get to me on the sidelines after the game, they didn’t want that kind of photo op again because it would focus too much on weakness, aka, my injury.
The publicist isn’t Treva, and it confirmed that she hasn’t spread news of mine and Bel’s relationship being real; either way, I make sure the publicist knows to tell the others that if Bel ever wants to get to me, he gets to me, photo ops be damned.
I don’t feel bad when I make that publicist pale. They kept Bel from me; that shit doesn’t fly. He hasn’t activated the charm that alerts me to trouble, though, so I know he’s fine.
In the locker room, my teammates apologize like they let me down somehow.
Marlow, who was so livid with the Chimeras that she ended up getting another penalty before the game was done, is still beyond furious.
I can’t catch half of what she says between her angry gestures and repeated use of the word fuck.
I promise her that I’m fine. I promise all of them that I’m fine.
Because, weirdly, I am. In no small part thanks to their support, and as I leave, I thank each of them, making sure they know how much I appreciate them having my back.
We lost to the Chimeras. My arm’s in a sling. I have to get through a staged lunch with my parents and Bel after I meet them by the player lot.
But I feel more centered than I have in a while, like this game was a tipping point I hadn’t even known I needed.
Everyone else can change the rules to fit their own agendas. Why can’t I?
When I’m prepping for a game, no matter what play I study, I know I have to operate within the bounds of general rawball rules. Which, to be fair, aren’t many; it’s a pretty brutal sport. But all told, the rules are so ingrained in me that I unconsciously don’t question them.
And I’ve been approaching the Galaxrien cult the same way, keeping general rules of logic as a self-imposed restriction.
I’ve been hoping I can figure out a way to prove their beliefs wrong, but that wouldn’t stop them from acting on their beliefs, would it?
It wouldn’t free Bel from the danger of his demonic ancestry.
I’m going to come at it from a different angle. No fucking around this time, no keeping myself within set parameters. Fuck the rules, right? Bye-bye, logic; hello, demented.
I’ve got a sense of peace coming down the hall, my bag over my good shoulder—right up until I approach the turn that’ll take me to the player chute, where I’m supposed to meet Bel and my parents.
There’s a publicist waiting for me, the one who told me they kept Bel from getting to me; he shuffles in place, still looking cowed, and thrusts a paper toward me.
“Talking points,” he says and motions to the corner behind him.
People usually clog that hall, a clash of journalists and families, so outlets get the fluffy pictures of partner hugs or parent tears.
I frown at the publicist until my eyes hit the paper.
It’s a list of things to say to reporters. How I’ll keep fighting despite my injury; this setback won’t hold me down; Urzoth makes me unstoppable.
My shoulder throbs along with the sudden sinking of my heart.
“The Urzoth church requested it,” the publicist says, looking uncertain at my silence. “I assume this is all right? It seems in keeping with their doctrine.”
“Yeah. It’s—it’s fine.” I shove the paper back at him. “I got it. Thanks.”
He nods, relieved, and hurries off.
I’m lucky none of the cameras picked up Naell’s taunting. If they had, I’d …
What? Be outed as someone who’s given up on Urzoth? Would that really be so bad?
Yes. Because Bel needs this cover to stay safe.
I take a deep breath as I round the corner and pull up my best smile. It’s plastic and doesn’t reach my eyes, but no one calls me on it; of course they wouldn’t.
Every time a reporter stops to ask me about the game or my injury, I recite one of the canned responses like a good little prop, meditating on my mantra of this will keep Bel safe.
It doesn’t matter that I credit Urzoth for my healing. That I talk about how much strength he gives me to push on. It doesn’t matter how much I lie, because it’s all for Bel, and I’ve made my peace with that.
Peace.
Undeniably peaceful.
So peaceful my good hand is digging crescent moons from my nails into my palm by the time I get through the gauntlet of reporters and notice Treva standing by the player exit with Bel at her side.
Tension bleeds out of me, a breath releasing, my fist unclenching.
Bel spots me. With a relieved cry, he shoves his bag to the floor and sprints forward. I reach for him and wince when my shoulder pulls, the sling reminding me not to move it too much.
“Fuck, Orok.” Bel stops in front of me, hands hovering between us, like he’s afraid to touch me. “What—”
I grab him with my good arm and haul him up to me, dropping my head to burrow down into him as much as I can. He only has a moment of resisting, a feeble protest of “I don’t want to hurt you,” before he throws his arms around my neck and nestles into me.
Even more of my strain vanishes, swept away by his body against mine.
My thumb trails along the small of his back, and I push my face into his shoulder until I feel that his necklace is still on. It’s covered by the illusion magic.
“Gods,” he whispers. “Are you okay?”
“Phei bandaged me up.” I kiss behind his ear because I can, because doing it makes both of us relax. “They said the soreness will wear off in a few hours. I’m okay.”
“What happened?”
I hesitate.
He catches it and shoves back with a glare.
“It was your old teammate, wasn’t it?” Stark, unbridled fury fires over him; I have a disconnected thought that he and Marlow could scorch the earth together. “No one saw exactly what happened, but someone said that tank—Naell?—they said he was talking shit before the game.”
Bel looks around like Naell might appear in this hall, his jaw bulging by his ears.
“I’ll kill him,” he growls. “He’s fucking dead—”
“Glad to see one of you is honoring our god.”
My eyes slip shut.
I allow myself one more second of Bel in my arms before I lower him to the floor and look up to see my parents next to Treva.
My mother is taller than I am, the giant ancestry undeniably from her side, with the same black hair as me, only hers is always styled in a huge arch of curls that makes her even taller.
She’s got a Hellhounds sweatshirt on, a massive leather purse on one shoulder, and a frown of disappointment on her face.
My dad, on the other hand, is all human, nearly half her size.
His receding hairline makes his pale scalp shine in the harsh hall lights, and he looks like he just came from the office even though it’s Saturday, wearing a button-down shirt and pressed khakis.
He’s behind my mom, deferring to her, eyes on his phone.
“Hi, Mom,” I say. “Dad.”
Dad nods at me. “Good game, son.”
“No,” my mom snaps. “It was not a good game. Weren’t you watching? Orok let himself get hurt!”
Bel, one hand still in my shirt, tightens his grip. “Excuse me—”
But I jerk him closer to me and his eyes flip to mine in question.
I give a subtle shake of my head. He looks like he’ll argue, but he nods, lips pursing.
Treva, next to my mom, cringes and mouths I’m sorry. “Your mother demanded to speak with you,” she says. “I tried to keep her outside, but—”
Mom pushes forward, shutting Treva out of the conversation. I’m reminded of how I treated Treva after the first home game, throwing my size around the way Mom is.
I know my expression drops, but I can’t stop it, and Mom zeroes in on it.
“We do not linger on weakness, Orok,” she says, sizing up my sling. “Do you have to wear that to lunch? Aren’t there going to be photos?”
“I have to keep it on for a few hours.”
“A sling does not honor Urzoth. Why did you let this happen?”
Bel stiffens again. “He didn’t let anything happen,” he says through his teeth. “He got injured.”
Mom’s whole countenance changes. From accusatory to fawning, like she’d forgotten Bel was here.
“You must be Alexo? I’ve heard so much about you. What was it you were saying about going after whoever was responsible? That’s exactly the sort of thing that will bring honor to Urzoth—a challenge of strength. Isn’t that right, Dave?”
“Yes, dear,” my dad says to his phone.
Mom eyes Bel again, head to toe, and grimaces.
“You are … capable of fighting, aren’t you?
The Chimeras players are awfully large, and you are—not.
We can’t have you losing this challenge, not after Orok’s injury.
We need a win. I’ve spoken at length with Reverend Drach—now that’s a strong man—and I have so many ideas about ways to enhance how you two are portraying Urzoth—”
“Mom.” I lean a little more heavily on Bel than I normally would. I’m just so tired suddenly. “Maybe we can have this discussion over lunch?”
“Not if Alexo is going to challenge a Chimeras player before we go. Can your publicist arrange it?” She turns to where Treva has since fled.
Bel does, in fact, pause, a flicker of consideration passing over his face.
“No,” I snap. “No, he’s not fighting anyone.” For fuck’s sake. “I’ve already handled the press. We’re good to leave. It’s done.”
Bel looks up at me, defiant. “Someone hurt you. On purpose. Maybe I want to hurt him. On purpose.”
I swear lovebirds circle my mom’s head.
“Oh, Orok,” she coos. “You’ve picked a good one.”
I clamp my jaw shut.
Well.
I wanted my parents to like the first person I ever introduced them to, didn’t I?