He propped his ass back on the side of the console where she was working, his arms crossed over his broad chest.
“The Summer League. It’s the biggest public stage in the Empire. It’s an open-registration celebrity event with wildcard entries, including the traditional masked solo player who enters against both teams. We call it the suicide slot. No one takes it seriously.”
“The suicide slot?” she asked, an eyebrow winging up. “Not surprised if it’s one player against two teams. It is suicide.”
He grinned, and the expression had a dangerous edge. “For anyone else, yeah. But if someone won it, if I won it, the unmasking would happen on the biggest screen in the Empire. It’s a live feed, with millions watching. I enter as the wildcard and win. Then I unmask and tell them everything on live feed.”
She froze with her hands still inside the panel. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”
“I’m the highest-rated player in three generations.”
“You’ve been in exile for months.”
He shrugged. “I’m a warball player. The warball player. Just because they took me off the pitch doesn’t take that away.”
She shook her head and closed the panel, wiping her hands on a rag. “Even if you could pull it off?—”
She pulled up one of the files they’d lifted from the Healer’s Hall and showed it on the screen in front of them. “Look at this. This player, Vaasiik T’Sevv, was set up to take a fall like you were. But he fought back. Filed formal complaints. Compiled evidence. He was going to testify.”
The file showed medical images, trajectory calculations, and security footage.
“He never made it to the tribunal,” she continued. “He died on the pitch mid-match. The official story was equipment failure during a tackle, but the file shows the angles are all wrong. Now look at this footage, taken by a fan.”
She played a quick clip, obviously taken from the stadium stands. It showed the moments just before T’Sevv fell, and a flash from the opposite stand just a second before.
“This was buried as well, but Fred found it,” she said. “The kill shot came from the stands. A sniper dressed up as a game-day accident.”
She folded her arms.
“This is what happens to the ones who try to talk. The moment you unmask and open your mouth on that live feed, they’ll put you down the same way they put T’Sevv down. A shot from the stands, lost in the crowd noise, pinned on whoever’s convenient… Purists, Terra First, take your pick. You’ll be dead before the cameras cut away.”
Raaze’s jaw worked. “Then we need a different plan.”
“No, we need to adapt the plan,” she replied, thinking on her feet. There was a way to make this work. Just one.
“We need two halves,” she said. “Your half is the field. You enter as the wildcard and win. You unmask, but you don’t spill the evidence on the feed. That’s just the hook that makes them all pay attention because you shouldn’t be there. The evidence is the hammer, but it doesn’t get swung from the pitch.”
She pulled up the Summer League database. “The R'Tev will be there. Their son is playing. While you’re on the field, I go to their box.”
His expression set, and he shook his head. “No, absolutely not.”
“Shut up and listen.” She told him, her voice sharp. “I make it clear that the evidence is on a dead man’s switch. If you don’t walk off that field alive, it plays on every screen in the stadium and every broadcast in the Empire. That’s what keeps you breathing.”
She leaned forward. “And while I have them in the room, I put terms to them. We don’t want silence, we want protection and compensation for the other players they’ve framed, the witnesses they’ve silenced, and all the families they’ve threatened. If they agree, then we don’t talk. We don’t expose them in front of the entire galaxy. If they refuse, the evidence plays and they’re ruined.”
“No,” Raaze stood, towering over her. “You’re not going anywhere near the R’Tev. You stay on the ship. Non-negotiable.”
“The plan doesn’t work without both halves,” she insisted, glaring up at him. “Without me in that box, that wildcard entry is a suicide slot. You’ll die on that pitch. And without you on the pitch, they have no incentive to take my terms seriously.”
His expression hardened. “No. You stay on the ship. Nowhere near their box. Find another way.”
“There isn’t one.”
“I won’t put you in a room with them. You have no idea what they’re capable of.”
“I have a pretty good idea after what we found in those files.” She didn’t back up. She couldn’t. Not when every cell in her body remembered how he’d felt moving inside her less than an hour ago. “This is the only play that gives us leverage. You know I’m right. You hate it, but you know it.”
They glared at each other, the air between them almost crackling with tension. She could see the moment he realized she was right. His jaw clenched, his eyes darkening with frustration.
