Page 79 of Prey It By Ear

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.

Coach calls for another rotation, and I groan but keep moving. I must not be the only one suffering, as there’s a lull before my next fighter steps up. Using that minute, I quickly shake my arms out, roll my neck, and get my breathing under control. Sweat is running down my spine, pooling in the hollow just above my tailbone, and I want to collapse, but I know what’s coming. The senior class has a hyena girl, and it’s my turn to fight her. I haven’t seen her with the Heathers, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t hanging out with smelly dogs, so I have to be cautious.

Hyena chick is already on the mat, hands on her hips, grinning like she can’t wait to break something. She’s about two inches shorter than me, but maybe twenty pounds heavier, and I can tell from her stance that she’s not here to play nice.

This is going to suck.

“Try not to die, little bunny rabbit,” she says in a fake-sweet voice.

The words carry, and a cluster of people in the first row that I didn’t notice until now all laugh. For fuck’s sake, it’s the remaining Heathers and a bunch of canine acolytes they’ve somehow gathered. I want to scream, but I bare my teeth right back at her. My hands shake, but it’s not fear—no, this is fury that no matter what I do or where I am, I cannot shake these asshat women who get their jollies from tearing others down.

It makes me want to unleash on this unknown doggy to show them what just might happen if they don’t back the fuck off me this year.

But I don’t get to, because Z blows the whistle, and the hyena comes at me low and fast. I do what I can, but she’s locked onto my left side where I’ve got a bruise. She jams her fist into it as if she knew ahead of time. It’s a clean hit, but she puts her entire weight into it—and I see stars for a hot second. The wind leaves my lungs, but I don’t go down. Instead, I pivot, grit my teeth, and aim an open-handed slap at her ear. It connects, makes a sound like someone slapping a raw steak, and she stumbles. Now I’m in it, and the adrenaline spikes so hard I’m almost laughing like Fitz when he’s manic.

She goes for the same side once she’s moving. Unfortunately for her, I know it’s coming, and I dodge the rib shot by hitting the ground. It hurts, but I roll, tuck, and spring back to my feet before she can celebrate. The pain in my side sucks, but I ignore it. I can’t see Felix because my eyes are on my bitchy opponent, but I feel his eyes on me like a hand at my back, steadying me.

That helps more than he’ll ever know, and I’ll thank him for it later.

We’re both inches from feral now, but the hyena doesn’t slow. Coming in for a clinch, the canine growls in victory when I let her in for a second. That’s a trick, though, because I twist, drop my center of gravity, and use every ounce of stubborn left to drive her backward. She doesn’t expect it, and I hear her feet skid. I press in, lock her elbow, and pivot hard enough to make her squeal. There’s a pop as her knee hits the grass, and then she’s down, trapped under my body weight in a hold I learned from Fitz.

The arena goes quiet for a breath.

Then Coach Z says, “Release her, Drew!” She walks over, inspects the position, and actually cracks a smile—a real one. “Nice one. That’s not a standard move, and I bet I know who taught you that.”

Because she’s got fewer brain cells than a rock—apparently—the hyena girl sneers, “You got lucky, rabbit. I was going to destroy you and win my spot.”

“No, you’re lucky I wasn’t allowed to shift,” I shoot back with a dark glare. I back away, and the pain in my side flares as if it’s laughing at me for winning. I have no idea what ‘spot’ she’s talking about and I do not fucking care. If attacking me is the new ‘gang’ initiation for the plastic pooches, I’ll deal with that like I have every other fucker who has come after me.

Fitz would love it if I brought home more body parts; it makes him horny as hell.

When Z finally blows the whistle after checking out my opponent, it’s like the entire field exhales. Obviously, she’s taking the hyena to the medic, and that’s putting a stop to the practice.

I’m dripping sweat, my shirt sticking to every surface, and my lip is oozing just enough blood to make it dramatic. It’s not painful, just annoying, and I’ll have to deal with it when I go change before this last bullshit law class that’s preventing me from having dinner now. Felix is still on the sidelines, his arms crossed and jaw tight. I want to go over and say something snarky, but I can’t trust my legs to get me there, so I just settle for an exaggerated wink and a thumbs-up.

The pain is everywhere, but so is a sick pride. I’m still standing, and next time they’ll know not to underestimate the bunny. I needed that, with all the new team members, and I also wanted those dummies in the stands to see me fighting through injuries to know that an ambush still might not work out for them in the end—not anymore.

Zhenga walks by as she calls the infirmary to come transport the girl, gives me a nod, and says, “Good work, Drew. You’re really coming along this year.”

Hell yeah, I am. No one gets away with fucking with Dolly Drew this year—that’s my motto and I’m sticking to it.