Chapter 15
The school handbook informed me that the twice-weekly physical fitness classes were designed to promote stamina, body awareness, and focused muscle control.
All things I could do with. Additionally, the classes were integrated, meaning students from all age grades and houses were mixed together. This, I wasn’t so sure about; what with being the bottom of the pile and all.
Outside the girls' locker room, Willow puts a hand on my arm. “However bad this is, it will only last ninety minutes. Let’s hold on to that.”
“We can do anything for ninety minutes,” I reply, not believing it for a second. Willow smiles brightly back at me. “Of course we can.”
A bunch of students are gathered in the center of the cavernous gymnasium; a mix of Elite and Ordinarii kids plus half a dozen remedials.
Unlike me and Willow, the majority of the girls are dressed in cute leggings and crop tops that show acres of tanned and toned stomach.
“This already sucks,” I hiss at my friend.
She doesn’t reply, just gives my hand a quick squeeze.
In the center of the group is a man wearing black sweatpants and a tee-shirt with torn-off sleeves.
One arm is covered in terrible scars, all the way from wrist to shoulder.
When he turns, I recognise Professor Feniks.
Our eyes meet for a second, then he brings a whistle to his lips. The chatter in the gym dies away.
“Alright, students. This is a new term of Integrated Physical Fitness—welcome and all that. As you know, Coach Oliver is still on sabbatical, so I will be standing in for him.”
A couple of the Ordinarii girls give a giggly cheer, but Professor Feniks shuts them up with a cold look, hissing a powerful, “Shut it.”
The girls focus, then he continues. “The way I structure these classes is going to be different from what you’re used to.
Instead of working in your house or year groups, we’ll be mixing grades and levels.
So first, I want the Freshman over here.
” He points as his deep-accented voice echoes around the space.
The Defectivum kids and a dozen or so Ordinarii head toward the professor.
“Now sophomores to my left.”
This continues year by year, until Professor Feniks begins mixing the new students with the older classes in groups of four. Willow is put in a group with the ginger-haired Defectivum girl, who we’ve learned is called Teresa. Teresa and Willow are paired with two Ordinarii Junior girls.
Professor Feniks narrows his eyes at me and frowns. “Wilson. Hmm, let’s put you with senior Elites, maybe that will pull something out of you.” He snaps his fingers, and three men step forward. They look like Olympic athletes with their polished muscles and intimidating frames.
“What do you want us to do with her, coach?” one smirks. Oh, shitballs. I suddenly recognize the seriously creepy guy from Cosmo’s suite—Manu. I’m going to be in a group with him? This will not be fun.
“It’s professor, not coach,” Feniks snaps, but Manu doesn’t notice; he’s staring at me. I work hard to close out the slimy thoughts seeping from his brain by boggling the word ‘professor’.
Rose, pose, poser, press, poof.
“Wilson! Are you paying attention?” Professor Feniks growls, snapping me back to the present.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” I mumble.
He shakes his head, muttering, “Give me strength,” then raises his voice to let it once again fill the room.
“This may be a generalized fitness class, but today we are going to be working on Fateball fitness. The season is about to start, and obviously, you already know if you’ve made the team or not… ”
Manu and the other two Elites in my group do some high-fiving. Professor Feniks ignores them.
“...but, the team has not been good enough recently; losing last year's inter-academy tournament was embarrassing.”
The Elites quickly drop their showboating, and I’m not the only student stifling a smirk. “And why did that happen?” the professor asks. “Some might say because you’re over-confident, vainglorious narcissists.”
The shock on the Elites’ faces is wonderful.
“I obviously can’t say that,” Feniks continues, “because I’m your professor, so instead I’m blaming Coach Oliver.
He didn’t have a deep enough bench. Fateball gets players stretchered off faster than any other sport.
It’s no good just having a dozen great players; a team needs at least twice that and more.
Now I know that for you lot, Fateball is all tied up in family status, blah, blah, blah, but this year I’m going to be looking for talent outside the norm.
This year, we are going to hone every single student into a potential Fateball player. ”
The three Elites that surround me burst out laughing. “Even her?” the one with a buzzcut asks, pointing at me.
“Even her,” Feniks replies, a grim expression on his face. “I want to believe that anyone, even the weakest students, can benefit from this—though I’ll probably be sadly disappointed.”
Why is he glaring at me when he says that?
The professor continues his rant. “Fateball is a mix of agility, stamina, strength, spellcasting…and teamwork. Something you all,” he glares at the Elites, “can improve on. There is no i in team, and all that bullshit, but there is an i in incompetent, inadequate, and imbecilic.” He frowns, like he realizes he’s lost the plot somewhere. “OK, no more chit-chat.”
Feniks blows his whistle again. “Each group starts with the warm-up of your choice, then on to drills. Whichever student has the highest ranking in the quad can lead.”
Well, this is going to be a bundle of fun.
Fateball has been the number one sport on the Academy circuit for years.
It’s a little like basketball, but with more players and a ball that detonates.
It’s entertaining as heck to watch, but to a play?
Yikes. At least you can only use the Fateball-approved list of spells against your opposition, nothing that will do permanent damage.
I’ve watched matches where teams were decimated by icy blasts, fireballs, paralysis spells, and all manner of ‘gameplay’.
It’s not a game for the weak. Being short doesn’t help either.
I side-eye the Fateball practice nets that hover around the gymnasium at nearly three times my height as the three male Elites surround me, like sharks circling a thrashing swimmer. “If Feniks wants us to shape you into a Fateball player, we’d better get to it,” one of them grins.
“What warm-up shall we choose, little dud?” Manu asks. “I can do some one-on-one if you like.” His mind is awful, and I’m doing my best to keep my shields up.
His friend places a heavy arm on top of my head. “I think this dud needs dunking practice, don’t you?”
“She’s gonna need a boost to reach the basket,” Buzzcut says, not taking much interest in what’s going on.
The next second, Manu lifts me off my feet and charges me to one of the hovering hoops.
He’s fast and strong. My stomach lurches as suddenly I’m weightless, being thrown through the air towards the basket. Shit.
With no time to think, I reach out, smacking my hands against the rigid metal rim, then cling on for dear life. Gods.
I brave a look down. There is at least a seven-foot drop between me and the floor—not too terrible, but I could still break an ankle if I land wrong.
I swivel my head around and search for help.
Some other students look in my direction and laugh.
“Working on your upper body strength?” one of them calls. “Keep it up.”
Professor Feniks is on the far side of the gym with his back to me, but the rest of the gymnasium is waiting for me to go splat.
My fingers and palms are cramping, and I only have seconds until I drop.
Willow is busy working out with her group, and even if she wasn’t, how could she help?
Manu and the other guy are high-fiving each other.
The third member of the group is ignoring us to do some deep lunges.
It’s got to be better to drop than to fall, right? Shit, here goes. I release my hands and begin to plummet. This crash is going to be hard.
But the hit never comes. For the last few inches, I’m lowered slowly to the ground by an invisible force.
“What the fuck is going on?” Professor Feniks roars.
Twisting in his direction, I see him lowering his hand as he stalks across the gymnasium floor towards our group.
“No torturing the fucking remedials,” he snarls.
“I won’t have bullies in my gym. I’m talking to you, Manu, Troy.
” He points an angry finger at the two guys.
I knew Manu was to be avoided, but now I’ve added Troy to the list.
“You, OK, Wilson?” The professor asks.
“Yes,” I reply as I shake out my arms. “Thanks,” I add, but Professor Feniks has already turned his back and is walking over to another group.
Wishing he’d switch me to another quad, I resign myself to more Manu and Troy-induced torture.
They are currently doing stretching with the third Elite, which is a relief—something I can do.
The comparative peace of squats and burpees doesn’t last long, and I brace myself for whatever’s next.
Willow’s group has moved on to ball passing drills.
I watch as she and Teresa vainly try to catch a Fateball flying hard and fast over their heads.
A group of cute Ordinarii girls jog past us on the running track. “Let’s do laps,” Troy says instantly. “I can run behind Elena’s ass for miles.”
OK, going for a jog doesn’t sound too bad.
Manu and Troy take off, howling and growling at the girl group, who giggle in response.
“Ready to run, dud?” the third member of my group says. “I’ll help you keep up.”
Is one of these guys actually decent? He wasn’t involved in the hoop incident after all. He takes hold of my upper arm as we start to jog around the gymnasium. “You don’t remember me, do you?” he asks.