Smooth Criminal
Delores
The Pred Games warm-up uniform is supposed to fit all, but all is defined by whoever ordered them for the year, and this season whoever ordered it sized everything like the entire team was made of husky linebackers.
I look like someone’s snack-sized body double in a suit meant for three times my mass.
I know Coco will have the actual competition uniforms looking and fitting swag, but this school-provided shit is insane.
It definitely wasn’t Zhenga or my tigers who did this, and I’m sure it was on purpose, although the girls’ team outshines the boys by every measure since we arrived.
That’s not the fault of Felix or Fitz; it’s the materials they have to work with, so I don’t blame them.
I don’t have to look amazing during practice, but we could look more professional, and it irks the shit out of me.
However, being the terrifying bunny on the team is still an upgrade to the past, even if it means running drills in a uniform that makes me look like a younger sibling playing dress-up.
I yank my disastrous end-of-day hair into a much tighter bun and bolt for the arena before the last call for warm-ups.
Zhenga starts calling out the sequence of matches just as I arrive.
She’s already prowling the sideline, a clipboard in one hand and an energy drink in the other, her eyes flicking across the team with knowing intensity.
If there’s anyone on campus more calculating than Zhenga Leonidas, I haven’t met them yet, and I’m not eager to.
She doesn’t bother with a whistle—her voice is enough to bounce off concrete and get the entire squad bending into hamstring stretches without complaint.
I drop into position, legs straight and fingers reaching for toes that are laughing at the very concept after my day.
It’s only then, bent in half and pretending I’m not still vibrating from the earlier dance classes, that I spot Felix still on the sideline.
He’s standing with his arms folded, talking to Zhenga in low tones.
It’s one of those conversations where neither party breaks eye contact because the subject just might be a list of people they’d like to disappear.
Wonder what they’re on about in such an intense fashion?
Felix doesn’t look up, not even once, during the entire first set of stretches.
That doesn’t fool me; I know he’s keeping tabs in his periphery, like a big cat pretending not to care that the mouse is loose in the living room.
The realization that he stayed to watch me hits me in the sternum with a sharp, traitorous little warmth.
I hate that I’m grateful for it, but I hate it even more that he knows, and would tease me for a week if he caught the look on my face.
Balancing the happiness from my guys caring so much for me and wanting to stand on my own two feet is hard as hell and I struggle with it constantly.
Zhenga’s warm-up is a meat grinder—hip flexors, groin stretch, and then into a standing quad pull that torches both my thighs at once.
My legs are fried from tap and hip-hop, so the first time I try to balance, my whole body wobbles so hard I have to grab the shoulder of the girl next to me.
That would be Priya, a wolverine shifter who probably weighs twice what I do.
She gives me a dirty look, and I sigh internally at the ingrained competitive shit the elite practically engineer into their kids.
We’re on the same fucking team, after all.
“Don’t pass out. You get blood on the ground, and Coach will make us clean up the field before we go,” she mutters as we shift to the next stretch. “Some of us have lives that aren’t being railed by professors who get us special treatment, Drew.”
Ignoring the dig—because obviously that’s jealousy talking—I focus on the quad stretch again.
It’s murder, but I grit my teeth and yank my ankle up behind me anyway.
My lungs are settling into a rhythm—inhale, count to three, exhale, then pretend nothing hurts.
Zhenga is circling the team now, her eyes moving down the line to correct posture and bark out minor adjustments.
She hits our row, clocks me, and says, “Delores, if you don’t want to blow your knee up, you better keep your back straight. ”
I snap into place, feeling every vertebra lock down like a safe. “Yes, Coach.”
“Again.” She’s in the next cluster, but I can hear her words like a sniper round. “Nobody’s getting benched this close to the first match, so if you have to tape your damn joints, do it now.”
My dance teachers would lose their goddamn minds right now if they could see some of their students, but I definitely do not say that out loud.
The ritual humiliation of warm-ups continues with our upper bodies next.
Z has us do arm circles, shoulder rolls, and then a squatting wall sit that turns everyone’s faces the same pained shade of red.
I see Felix in my periphery, still arms-folded as he pretends not to watch me, but every once in a while his eyes flick over quick as a pulse.
I pretend not to notice and focus on not dying on the grass like a wounded bison.
Wall sits finally end, and I stand, my blood thumping in my ears.
If you look closely, there’s a second, quieter stretch sequence that’s more about social pecking order than actual flexibility.
The older students at the front make little grunts of effort, but they’re barely trying.
Newer recruits in the back go too hard, and I’m dead center, which is where people are trying but don’t want to be noticed.
It’s perfect for me because I only need attention when I’m fighting, not constantly, and there’s enough bullshit flying around attached to my name as it is.
By the time we finish the last stretch, I’m buzzing with pain, but it’s a good kind.
My muscles are reactivated from sitting in lectures, and I won’t be as likely to pull something when I go hard in my practice matches.
As the team shuffles into the next drill, I catch Felix’s gaze again, and this time he gives a half-smirk—tiny, but it’s there.
It’s not approval, not exactly, but a challenge.
I don’t know what he’s challenging me to, but I square my shoulders and step to the starting mark, anyway.
Every fiber of my being loves bucking his commands, and if my smug Raj wants to play, I’m always game.
Zhenga never announces the sparring order ahead of time.
She just starts calling names, as if she’s reading off a grocery list and can’t be bothered to check if the items are in stock.
I barely have time to shake out my arms before I’m up first, paired with Priya, which is not great.
The wolverine is built like a pro wrestler, and her hands are the size of small loaves of bread.
She steps into the ring, tossing me a look that says she isn’t impressed, and then falls into a ready stance that’s full of intimidation.
It won’t work on me because I’ve beaten preds much bigger and meaner, but she’s new and doesn’t know that.
The first round is a blur. Priya leads with a feint—right shoulder dip, then a quick grab for my wrist—and I sidestep, shifting my weight to keep her off balance.
We trade a few shoves, circling, and then she goes for the leg sweep.
I see it coming and, instead of hopping over, I drop and roll, using the rebound to scramble around her back.
The world tilts, my heart sprints, and I tag her shoulder before she reverses, pins me for a half-second, and then lets go.
“Hmm,” she grunts, pushing off and resetting.
Z calls for a second round, and the wolverine deliberately lightens her grip.
I don’t know why, but I won’t trust it. This time, I go low, aiming for her knees, and for a heartbeat I think I’m about to get folded like a lawn chair, but I slide through and hook her ankle.
Priya topples, lands on her back, and she freezes for a split-second when I let my claws slip to hold her in place for the call.
Our coach’s voice shouts, “Again!”
We roll up, dust off, and reset immediately. Neither of us wants to piss her off, and these short bursts aren’t really tiring. At least, not as bad as genuine matches would be.
By the third time, though, my arms are burning and my vision is tunneled to just the shapes in front of me.
I hear the rest of the team yelling, but it’s muffled, like there’s glass between us.
I throw everything into a last scramble and get Priya in a hold long enough for Z to bark, “Point. Rotate to new partners!”
My opponent grunts and gives me a shrewd look. “You’re not as soft as you look.”
“Not even a little,” I say quickly as I smirk. “And it’s much more dangerous when we’re allowed to shift.”
The next opponent is a serval—slender, with legs up to her ears and a mean streak just as long. She’s faster than most, but she telegraphs her moves because she thinks she’s a fucking anime ninja.
In the first bout, she tries a fancy overhand grab, but I sidestep and twist, slipping past her and catching her off guard.
I hear Felix let out one sharp, approving laugh before serval-girl throws a side-kick that almost gets my hip.
I block it, barely, and she pulls back, her eyes wide.
Round two is a different animal because she’s adjusted.
I fake a stumble, and when she goes for the kill, I slam up with my shoulder, catching her just under the ribs.
It knocks the wind out of her, and for a split second I taste blood.
It takes a minute to realize I bit my tongue, and I can ignore it.
In the third round, she wins by sweeping my leg out to plant me hard on the field.
I barely register the impact before I’m back up, dizzy but upright.