Page 86 of Fatality on the Field

I study him. “If you cut the cord, you lose nothing but the illusion of approval and some social status. Your friends and family here aren’t going anywhere. However, if you stay attached, the price is being blackmailed forever. Neither is good, but one is less bad.”

He rubs his thumb along the edge of the desk. “We had the same thoughts, I see.”

“Can I ask if you’ve actually planned to leave eventually? Like, have you done the things you need to so that if the old fart casts you out, you won’t be flailing around with nothing prepared?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Slade. Of course I have.” Iggy rolls his eyes as he sighs again. “I’ve been working on it since I first stepped on State U’s campus. I’m not actually worried about inheritance and shit. Just the fallout from being exiled off Briarton Island, you know?”

“So money isn’t his leverage,” I say thoughtfully. “Are you worried about your siblings? The ones you know about—not the fake incest ones.”

“Ha, ha,” he grumbles. “Do you ever wonder why people like our parents even have kids?”

“Only my entire life, but I also know the answer.”

He pushes the stone back toward me with one finger. “The irony is that I probably would have been happier as a bastard; it’s less pressure.”

I pick up the stone again, and this time, when it hums, I let it. “You’d be happier as yourself, all the time, even if you’re a pain in the ass.”

“Thank you, Slade.”

“Easy to say when I mean it,” I say with a shrug. “Also, you should eat something. You look like you’ve been living on espresso and spite for two days.”

He stands, walks to the door, and, with a flick of his wrist, seals it with a quiet word. Then he gestures for me to join him. The desk chair is wide enough for both of us, if we sit close.

I cross the room nervously, but once I’m close, I settle in beside him without another worry. There’s no big declaration, no awkward scramble. We just… sit, together, with the hum of old magic and the faintest hint of genuine possibility.

“This damn event is going to suck,” I say, after a minute. “I feel it in my bones and we’re only two days away.

He bumps my knee with his. “Yeah, it is. But if we stick together, maybe we can survive it?”

Smiling, I nod. “Hope so. I’ve got a lot of plans and we don’t have time for them all beforehand.”

However, I might be able to slip in one or two small ideas if he lets me keep cuddling him like this—we shall see.

fifty-two

MORGANA

One day before the Tantalus Bowl, my office smells like five different kinds of panic. Coffee, highlighter ink, and the faint edge of a mix of various supe scents from all the visitors. I can also smell everyone’s stress pheromones wafting up through the vents, as the tension ratchets up everywhere.

This place is a powder keg in more ways than one and I’m supposed to keep it from getting lit.

I’m perched on the edge of my desk with my arms folded so tight it’s practically a Heimlich maneuver. My jaw aches from the amount of teeth grinding this week, as I watch the clock on the wall tick at a pace designed to enrage me. I check it for the third time in ten minutes and resist the urge to take it off the wall and throw it into the quad. There’s still way too much to do to wait around for people who can’t be bothered to show up on time.

Des has coiled herself around my jaw, her scales pressed flat and eyes narrowed to slits. She’s as agitated as I am, and since my mood is the tuning fork for her, that means we’re well past mildly annoyed and squarely in awaiting detonation mode. She flexes and refines her spiral every minute or so, as if she’s going to snap at the next person who enters.

Channing is set up on my couch again, her tablet on her right leg and my phone in her other hand. She’s managing calls, texts, emails, and three conference apps simultaneously. She fields every call with the tone of a parole officer running out of patience with their unwilling clients.

“—yes, I’ll confirm that with stadium logistics,” my assistant says without missing a beat as she flicks an alert away with the tablet. “No, your credential packet isn’t lost, it’s at the VIP desk. Yes, I have the seating charts. No, the Dean can’t move your box assignment closer because you’re not the only important sponsor.” She yanks the phone away from her ear to hang up and sighs so deeply I feel it from my desk. “Fucking aristocrats,” she mutters, then composes herself and punches in the next number.

Man, Jackson and his buddies are lucky they snatched her up; Channing Oswald is pure competency porn in action. I’ll kick their asses to the coast if they fuck it up.

There’s a reason I’m not doing any of this myself, by the way. It’s not that I can’t handle stress; it’s that if I hear one more question about the Bowl menu, or the weather, or what designer X sponsor is going to wear, I’ll commit an act of violence so unignorable that it will trigger a firestorm. Everyone is asking the most useless questions and wanting comments on idiotic rumors, which I have no more patience left to deal with. This a damn football game, not the fucking Met Gala; none of that shit matters—only who wins is important in the end.

Plus, I’m waiting for a specific person right now. Not for the game or the donor dinner or the next crisis, but for a Fae designer—an artisan, as I’ve been told—who was supposed to be here twelve minutes ago. Li arranged the whole thing, which means I’ve been forbidden to even ask what the cost is. This is a gesture of love, he said, but I’m not usually involved in gestures that require four days of phone calls, three background checks, and, apparently, a security escort from the portal she’s emerging through.

Why do I need a Fae clothier? Because, in the estimation of my entire household, the wardrobe I selected for Bowl day was tragically underdressed for the occasion. I argued that my suits are expensive, couture, and tailored for my shape, and my leather trench coat is not only timeless but also doubles as something that keeps me from freezing my wings off.

Apparently, that is not good enough for this stupid game.