Page 94 of Fatality on the Field

“That’s not at all excessive,” I say with an eye roll. “Magnus set this shit up like he was the fucking king of an empire and not a single person stopped him. I can not wait to unravel everything to prepare next year’s budget.”

Liam snickers and even Iggy lets out an amused snort as he checks the event packet that was sitting on our seats. My siren catches my eye from two seats down and gives me a tiny smile as he settles in next to the mage and I catch Iggy leaning against him when he thinks no one is looking. That makes my heart swell, so I blow a kiss at my musical mate followed by a wink, loving how he flushes.

Never one to let a quiet moment last, Lucas leans in and gestures at the field below. “You want the crash course or the full playbook, Lady M? I know you don’t follow this sport, so I can spare you the dumb stuff and just tell you what actually matters.”

For a half-beat, I consider telling him to shut it, but the honest truth is that I have absolutely no clue what the hell is going on in this version of football. I’d rather not be caught out by anyone when we have to mingle during breaks. “Give me the cheat sheet, but keep it simple. I only need to know enough to understand how it works, not the complex shit.”

He lights up, instantly in his element. “Okay, so, this league uses supernatural and human players on the same team, but there are, like, different slots for which species can be on the field at the same time. You can’t have more than three shifters or two magicals in play, or the refs will flag you for illegal formation. The quarterbacks in this league are almost always magicals, because the supe ones can throw the ball too hard and it’d just be a contest of who can break the scoreboard first. Other than that, it’s all about exploiting the species' advantages without drawing penalties. Oh, and every single ref is a neutral species that neither team has on their rosters. Otherwise, the fights would start by halftime.”

I process all this, arching a single brow. “That explains the thickness of the rules packet, but I appreciate the summary. I assume you’ll be giving live commentary as needed?”

He grins, then nods. “Absolutely. I’ll commentate the fuck out of this shit.”

Kaspar, who’s still methodically casing the suite, pauses long enough to catch the exchange and then turns back to the glass. He’s got a look on his face that says he finds this entire production hilarious and I can’t resist asking him why.

“What’s so funny?” I ask curiously. “Did he explain it wrong?”

He shrugs, his storm-grey eyes dancing. “Just picturing you trying to talk sports with true fans. It feels like it would be a hoot.”

“Are you kidding? I’d be terrible at that,” I reply. “I only asked him to explain so if they talk about it, I have a vague idea what the hell they mean. Mostly, I’ll nod, smile, and repeat things I hear you guys talk about. My give-a-fuck about this game only extends to hoping the event goes well so I’m not jailed and hoping the kids get a win because it means something to the players. That is it, buddy.”

Lucas butts in, “If you need help with an avid fan, I can jump in, M.”

“I don’t know that it will be needed,” I say with a chuckle, “but thanks, Lucas. At least you made sure I have a clue what the hell we’re watching without being asked.”’

That statement lands like a grenade amongst the men and it’s kind of funny.

Iggy protests immediately, “I’ve been reading up on the statistics and roster since yesterday. I could’ve helped.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t,” I say, all sweetness. “That’s the difference between the MVP and the rest of the lineup.”

Slade, Liam, and Kaspar all mumble similar things, and I roll my eyes, turning my focus back to the field as the pregame show kicks off.

The marching band is out in force, and from up here, the formations are so precise it makes my inner creative tingle. Below them, the cheerleaders are running through a high-energy routine as well. The student section is a huge, screaming unit across and below us, and the field itself is so over-the-top with graphics and logos that it looks like a designer threw up on it.

I can’t help but feel a surge of pride in the place, despite all the shit that’s gone down to get here. Des, picking up on my mood, relaxes a little and lets her tongue flicker in and out at half-mast. I scratch her head with one finger and she arches, content.

Maybe this won’t be so bad? Maybe?

I glance over at Channing, who has two screens glowing in tandem as she coordinates god knows what. The student guide is still standing at the front of the box, trying not to look at anyone, and I can’t decide if she’s waiting for instructions or just frozen in terror. I nudge Channing with my elbow and nod in the guide’s direction.

“She can go,” I say quietly. “I think she’s sharper than her nervousness indicates and we do not need her picking up on anything in here she shouldn’t.”

Channing makes a noise in her throat, then says, “Yeah, okay, maybe. I’ll go chat with her. After the last helper, I just thought⁠—”

I frown at my assistant and she laughs, rising to go send the student packing. Channing’s statement does not go unnoticed, and the guys turn to watch Chan with a confused expression.

“Wait, what’s this about a student helper? Did something happen?” Lucas says. “When was this?”

When she returns, my friend sighs, setting her tablet down for a second. “It’s nothing, but I’ll tell you. The other day, Morgana figured out that the Bowl committee was substituting paid labor with volunteer student ‘ambassadors’ to save money. I thought the cheerleader they sent was a ditz, and M figured out that she’s smart as hell and if you look at the field, a great athlete. Our tour guide was the captain out there shaking her moneymaker for the ESPN cams at the moment.”

Slade turns around in his seat, grinning. “Do you get proven wrong like that a lot, Chan?”

“Never before Morgana came along,” Channing mutters. “But it taught me a valuable lesson about how oppressed all the females were under her predecessor, even the ones I thought got special perks.”

Kaspar, who’s still hovering by the glass, says, “At least it’s not your actual job to wrangle all these idiots. I wouldn’t last a day having to deal with today’s folks, much less variants of them every single day in an office.”

Channing gives him a grateful look, and then pivots to me. “That’s not saying I don’t appreciate everything you’re teaching me, of course.”