Page 96 of Prey It By Ear

“I love you, too, Baby Girl,” I say, matching her stride as we approach the arena.

She gives me a look that I would bottle and use as cologne if I could. “Don’t get caught doing this stuff. I would never forgive myself if any of you got hurt or whatever because you’re doing illegal shit to protect me.”

“I would never,” I say earnestly. “I’m far too good for that, and I have four back-up dancers who will help cover my tail if need be. You do not have to fret about that at all.”

For a short stretch, we walk in a bubble of silence, the world fading to a hum. I see her prepping her mind for the controlled violence of Pred Games practice. She’s got this calm before the storm thing, where she pretends to not care, but I know she’ll spend the rest of the day replaying every mistake and trying to out-think her own instincts.

It’s hot AF and watching it makes my dick stand up to take notice.

I break the silence: “What’s the plan for practice today?”

She shrugs. “Coach Z is rotating partners again. Priya’s going to try to break my nose, and if she doesn’t, the hyena girl probably will. I’m just hoping to get through three matches without a bloodstain on my shirt.”

“If you do, I’ll buy you ice cream.”

“If I don’t?”

“I’ll buy you a whole damn parlor,” I say, and she finally laughs for real, a bright flash that almost makes me trip over my own feet.

We cut left towards the locker room that is looming like a concrete bunker. I point up as casually as I can. “See that? New cam housing. Looks just like the old one, right?”

She squints. “Did you seriously print that?”

“3D resin, double-dipped in anti-corrosive, and installed at four a.m. while the canine morons were asleep. No one else will ever notice.”

She reaches over, tugs at the sleeve of my hoodie, and gives it a little twist. “You are so fucking weird, Fitz. I love it.”

“Good,” I say, savoring the words. “Because I’m just getting started.”

We stand at the edge of the practice field. The faint scent of cold turf and gym sweat drifts out from the open doors. Dolly lingers, her eyes on the ground, and I see there’s more she wants to say but isn’t sure how to start. I decide to make it easier for her.

“I’m staying for this practice, you know. I’ll make sure I see if some chick needs to pay for her mistakes later on.”

Dolly gives me that long look, the one where she weighs the odds of me being involved in something questionable, and decides it’s better not to ask. “You’re a bad, bad man,” she says.

“Only for you and Chessie,” I reply with a wink.

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a soft edge to it. “I’ll see you after practice.”

“Try not to bite anyone unless it’s sanctioned,” I call after her.

She flips me off without looking back, and it’s the hottest thing I’ve seen all week.

I stand on the chilly concrete apron for a second, watching her blend into the flood of other players, and think to myself that if I ever lose her, I’ll take the whole damn campus down. I pivot toward the primary field, where I can hear preds getting ready to begin. On the sideline, standing at parade rest with a clipboard and an unopened can of Monster, is none other than Zhenga Leonidas. She has her hair slicked back in a severe bun and an expression that says she’s calculating your net worth and whether you’re worth the calories it would take to verbally destroy you.

I saunter over with hands in the hoodie, my best ‘just an idiot, don’t mind me’ smile engaged. If I catch the lioness off-guard, I might wheedle her problem out of her so my twin stops worrying about it. He couldn’t do it, but if I do, I can also hold it over his head forever.

It’s time for my whack at Zhenga and her bullshit, since Felix couldn’t get it out of her.

You Never Can Tell

Delores

The walk back from the building where my law class is held goes slower tonight, and it’s not just the ache in my thighs or the bruised rib from the last round of Games practice. I’m so low on energy that every step feels like it requires a full-body commitment. Fitzy walks beside me, matching my pace exactly, and every time I think he’s about to say something snarky about my limp, he just grunts and keeps his eyes straight ahead. It’s weird, and I’m too tired to poke at it. I know he’s stewing on something, but I have the emotional bandwidth of a spent battery, so I let the silence ride.

I’ve figured out that sometimes men require brooding time before we discuss their issues, especially mine.

At the annex door, he digs around in his hoodie pocket for an eternity, then in his backpack, then checks his pants as if he needs to find something. I don’t point out that he just needs to wave his arm because it would require effort and also because I can see in his face that he’s running the world’s longest process in the back of his head. Eventually, he figures it out on his own, unlocks the door, and holds it open for me. He’s still stuck in whatever is consuming his brain, and it’s affecting how he relates to the world externally.