The timer freezes above us.
Not terrible.
Not good.
Middle of the pack so far.
Bron bends forward, hands on thighs, then straightens with a grin born straight out of adrenaline. “Well, that was fun.”
I stare at him, chest heaving. “Fun.”
“Objectively.”
“Objectively, you nearly cost us twelve seconds because you think rules are a genre suggestion.”
He wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. “And you’d have us moving like we’re filing tax disputes.”
“Tax disputes require precision.”
“So does not falling off a rotating death tube, sweetheart—sorry.” He stops himself fast enough to almost make me laugh, which is unacceptable. “Sorry.”
The trainer strides over, slate in hand. “You two.”
I turn toward her.
“Strengths,” she says. “Fast adaptation. Strong recovery. Good physical complement.” She looks at Bron. “Weaknesses: ego.” Then at me. “Rigidity.”
I blink.
Bron makes a deeply offended sound. “That feels asymmetrical.”
She ignores him. “You don’t trust each other. Fix it by morning or you’ll bleed time.”
Then she walks off to ruin someone else’s self-esteem.
I stand there in the arena light, sweat cooling on my skin, fury and adrenaline and a far more dangerous awareness tangled together in my chest.
Bron looks sideways at me. “Rigidity.”
“Ego.”
He snorts.
I do not.
Because she’s right, and that’s the problem.
We don’t trust each other.
And in every way that matters, I absolutely cannot afford to.
CHAPTER 10
BRON
Morning on Fratvoy One arrives with too much light and not nearly enough mercy.
I’m awake before my alarm because stress has apparently decided to become an internal percussion section. For one bleary second I stare at the ceiling of my assigned room and forget where I am. Then the memory lands all at once—Tilda, the reveal, the course, the cameras, the deeply cursed phraseLast Chance at Romance—and I groan into the pillow.
