Page 93 of Fatality on the Field

“Nothing worth building comes without pain,” Morgana shoots back sharply. “And some pain is necessary, especially when things are rotting beneath the surface.”

The second woman, who, up until now, has been staring at our shoes, pipes up. “It’s interesting how the event’s structure has changed from last year. Some of our guests felt that the placements… that the box assignments, I mean… were less optimal. Perhaps not quite what’s been standard in the past.”

There it is—the real issue isn’t who’s running the show, or even the optics—it’s the status math of who gets to sit where and why. I watch Morgana’s jaw pulse; she doesn’t trust herself to reply without a war crime, so I cut in.

“I assure you,” I say, “Daybreak was also told that the Dean’s arrangement of the boxes reflects both the evolving composition of the university’s stakeholders and a desire to avoid the, ah, social friction that so often undermines these celebrations. In Faerie, we find that public seating is a direct reflection of private alliance. I trust their choices here are no different.”

For a second, I think the portly guy might rupture a blood vessel. He’s about to retort, but the dark shadow woman beats him to it. “It’s just… the donors are accustomed to certain courtesies. Some of our guests were, understandably, surprised to find themselves in a less… prominent placement. We hope that’s not a sign of, um, greater changes to come.”

Morgana grins as she looks them each in the eye. “No one likes being moved down in the pecking order, but you’ll find that as the prince said, times change. Nothing lasts forever, even the dinosaurs, and State U is known for adapting, I’ve been told.”

The woman with the dark eyes realizes they won’t get whatever they want in this situation. “Well, we won’t keep you from your guests. Good luck, Dean. And… welcome, Prince. We’re all on the same team here.”

Her voice is the least convincing thing I’ve heard all week. They withdraw, their departure perfectly choreographed, the click of their shoes muffled by three inches of premium carpet.

The moment they’re gone, Morgana looks at me with a murderous glare. “You handled that better than I would have. They’re obviously goddamn species-ist scum. I hate that shit, Li.”

I brush invisible dust from my sleeve with a small grin. “Nothing I haven’t heard or seen before, Morgana. There are assholes in every realm, but the ones here are extremely well-funded, yes?”

Kaspar lets out a low laugh as he comes closer. “He’s right, you know. Your home is actually the fucking worst and you saw what Hell looks like.”

“I fucking hate this job sometimes,” Morgana murmurs as her hand squeezes my arm lightly. “It’s the epitome of everything I dislike and I can’t get away from any of it.”

“That’s because you’re doing it right. The alternative is to let people like Magnus set the order for the next century.”

She lets that hang before she murmurs, “When did you get so good at this mate thing, Li?”

“The second we bonded, apparently.” I smile at her a bit, my eyes warm. “It shocked me, too.”

Nodding, she sighs and looks around before she whispers, “The next one who mentions my ex? You have permission to unleash the dragon.”

I smile, feeling the tension bleed out of both of us. “I think he’d enjoy that.”

“Let’s get to the suite. I want at least thirty minutes of peace before the next marathon begins.”

We move, this time at a slower pace. There are no more Board members waiting, just the distant noise of the stadium and the promise of a quiet room at the top of the tower.

Only three more hours until the game starts and this thing is almost over.

fifty-six

MORGANA

Another student guide appears in the doorway of our suite, her expression a weird mix of terror and deep longing to be anywhere but at this door. She’s so nervous that for a second, I think she’s about to ask if we want her to bow before we finally head to our box. When we all get up and ready to go, she fidgets excessively, which makes Kaspar snort as he moves to the back of our group. The quaky girl leads us up the velvet-carpeted staircase with the solemnity of a funeral procession, pausing every few steps to check her printout and make sure we’re following.

I wonder who filled her head with stories so outrageous that she thinks my family will beat the hell out of her, hmm?

The door to the Dean’s box suite is guarded by two guys in blazers that are not campus security, so they must be Society dicks. One of them glances at my crew, then at my face, and then at Kaspar’s before he rolls his eyes. I doubt these guys are Guardians or the other Ouroboros assassin types; they wouldn’t send those for me, so they might be off-duty super-max guards. The second dude doesn’t blink as we enter, so I figure he’s the one who’s going to follow us in and hover at the bar just in case.

Spoiler alert—I am not wrong. Both idiots come inside to pretend to check something, but they’re definitely looking for free food and drink from the big boss’ box.

Speaking of that, this space is a fever dream of new money and old insecurity. The suite is front row, floor-to-ceiling glass, the view so high up that it will make non-avians’ stomachs lurch when they look down. The seats are black leather in a perfectly curved arc, with another two rows set behind ours for the overflow. Every surface is gleaming, including the bar, which has been built to resemble a cathedral altar but stocked with every top shelf liquor imaginable, especially single-barrel bourbons. At the far end is a semi-open kitchen, where someone in a State U emblazoned chef’s coat is already slicing up tiny squares of brisket like we’re about to judge an artisanal meat contest.

Obsequious wait staff materialize before I even reach my seat, two of them flanking me and one hovering in the background ready to take our orders. Their black-on-black uniforms and the way they move in total silence suggests they were trained by a branch of government no one wants to talk about. I half expect them to ask if we want to be kidnapped for the next phase of the experience, but instead, they just offer drinks.

Lucas slides into the chair at my immediate right, and then starts patting the seat on his other side for Slade to join him. Kaspar ignores them both and takes up a post near the glass, his hands clasped behind his back in a way that suggests he’s preparing for a possible sniper attack. The rest of my men filter in, each picking their seats by some unspoken hierarchy that puts Liam at my left and Iggy on the right next to Slade, with Channing orbiting us like a moon made of sarcasm and spreadsheets.

I’m about to snark about this absolute insanity when Channing leans across and says, sotto voce, “There’s a chef assigned exclusively to our box, Morgana. The staff outside said he’s a James Beard finalist and that there will be five courses at minimum.”