I shoot her a questioning glance, and she scowls. “They wouldn’t let me in. I was stuck waiting in the foyer with Pierce’s awful sister for a full hour—and she wasn’t exactly talkative.”
No. Given Anthea’s disdain for weak arcanists and liminals, I can’t imagine she would be.
“Watch the game,” I tell them both. “You’re safe here, and you can stay as long as you need to. Tonight, I’ll search the records for cases where a vicegerent was removed. There must be something we can do.”
Our options may be limited with Rector Talcott on Mathias’s side, but perhaps one of the other parriarchs might be able to sway him.
My focus drifts to the screen without meaning to. The cameraman really loves Lambert. I don’t think I’m imagining the way they’re focusing on his intent gaze as he huddles with his team.
I dread to think what he’s saying. Probably something like, ‘Hey guys, please help me win my blowjob by playing well today.’
The huddle breaks up, and I flick my gaze down to Lambert’s crinkled contract as the teams take their places.
He’s written the date in the American format, which confuses me for a half-second. I skim quickly over the front page again, then inevitably land on the second.
Magic, he’s added more boxes, and drawn little arrows to notes on some of the existing ones. This has to be the most heavily annotated contract I’ve ever seen.
Many of them aren’t even sexual.
One is just a winky face.
A tiny, scribbled line from ‘food in the bedroom’ leads to a note requesting no strawberries as he’s allergic, and he doesn’t like sleeping with crumbs. ‘Massages’ has a note stating he gives great foot rubs but doesn’t enjoy receiving them because he’s too ticklish. Then, under additional acts, he’s written ‘Jar opening…because it makes me feel manly.’
A tiny snort escapes me, but it cuts off as a roar erupts from the television. My eyes snap up, jaw dropping as I realise Eddy is on her feet, hands in the air.
The scoreboard on the screen now shows a hundred-nil to UAA. Lambert’s jubilant team have hoisted him onto their shoulders, raising him towards the ceiling as the commentator yells about what a once-in-a-lifetime shot the Winthrop heir just made.
“What are the odds?” I whisper, jaw slack.
“You weren’t even watching,” Leo mutters.
The footage cuts from Lambert blowing kisses at the camera to showcase the winning strike. I watch agape as it replays his kick from every angle.
They can’t have been playing for more than two minutes.
“Unbelievable.”
Twenty-Three
Lambert
The sweet high I’m riding as I return to the Arcanaeum makes me feel like I’m floating. Honestly? I doubted I could do it. Sure, I knew from watching the Arcane University of Oceania’s other games that one of their reapers was weaker on his right side, but it was a fluke that the gamma exploded as he dived to hit it back.
I really hope they can regrow his arm…
Probably unsportsmanlike to take advantage, but eh, if he were in my shoes I’m sure he’d do the same.
I grin as my gaze lands on the books that have been arranged so the spines spell ‘Well Done.’
“Thanks, man!” I offer the building a high five, which it accepts by zooming a book up to smack against my palm. A second later, the tome drops. I catch it, glancing at the title, hoping for a little more praise. “Wait, dude. Come on, I don’t need this.”
Who on earth wroteMagic in the Bedroom: A Guide for Male Arcanists with Performance Anxiety, anyway?
Eh. Some dude called Shane Bruce, apparently.
Then again…Kyrith is special. Maybe I should’ve done some research? This book will take me hours to get through, even if there are pictures.
The shelves around rustle with almost-laughter, and I shake my head. I don’t have performance anxiety, but just in case, I cast a breath-freshening scrap from my pocket.
