Page 105 of The Fake Divination Offense
Riprak curses. I’d echo the sentiment but I’m suddenly locked in this weird amorphous numb state, all emotion dulled. Am I in shock? Maybe.
“My fault, coach,” I say. Riprak’s busy scratching notes on his game plan clipboard.
Phei should be able to heal me, but no way will I be recovered enough to make the rest of the game.
Riprak scowls down at me. “Huh?”
“I should’ve been ready for them to pull something like that,” I say, eyes on the field. My teammates are getting into position for the next play. “I should’ve known they’d go dirty.”
Riprak’s anger deepens. “Don’t blame yourself, Monroe.Ishould’ve known and put more people on you. Fucking Chimeras. They’ve always been vindictive bastards.”
I nod stiffly and he pulls away to talk to the other coaches.
The shitty thing is—it wasn’t anyone’s fault. There was nothing anyone could’ve done to prevent the Chimeras from wanting one last bit of reprisal, especially Naell. More defenses, better plays; hell, even if I had managed to renounce Urzoth before the season, they would’ve piled that onto the list of reasons they hate me.
But what I care about, what has me stuck in that numb sensation, is that Bel was right.
I can’t take down an entire cult, can I?
Some things are inevitable. When people’s actions are based in rigid belief, no amount of us doing the right thing will alter their course. Bad thingshappen, and we’re left in the aftermath even if it isn’t our lesson to learn.
How do you handle preordained failure?
How do you function when the rules you’re playing by don’t apply to the people you’re fighting against?
Phei gets to work on spells to reset my shoulder, and I distract myself by looking up at one of the screens. After a few seconds, it flashes back to Bel and the cheerleaders. He still looks concerned, but he’s dancing, his smile performative.
Are his cousins watching? Have they recognized him? Do they know he’s okay?
It’s one thing to accept the Chimeras targeting me because of their hatred.
It’s another to accept Bel gettingkilledbecause of cultists’ beliefs.
Fuck the rules.
He’s going to survive this.
Of course this is the game my parents come out to see, one where I not only spend most of it on the sidelines with an injury, but one we lose.
The score ends at 15–13, so it’s close, but still a loss that bumps down our odds of making it into the championship.
A publicist informs me that even though Bel tried to get to me on the sidelines after the game, they didn’t want that kind of photo op again because it wouldfocus too much on weakness, aka, my injury.
The publicist isn’t Treva, and it confirmed that she hasn’t spread news of mine and Bel’s relationship being real; either way, I make sure the publicist knows to tell the others that if Bel ever wants to get to me,he gets to me, photo ops be damned.
I don’t feel bad when I make that publicist pale. They kept Bel from me; that shit doesn’t fly. He hasn’t activated the charm that alerts me to trouble, though, so I know he’s fine.
In the locker room, my teammates apologize like they let me down somehow. Marlow, who was so livid with the Chimeras that she ended up getting another penalty before the game was done, is still beyond furious. I can’t catch half of what she says between her angry gestures and repeated use of the wordfuck.
I promise her that I’m fine. I promiseallof them that I’m fine.
Because, weirdly, I am. In no small part thanks to their support, and as I leave, I thank each of them, making sure they know how much I appreciate them having my back.
We lost to the Chimeras. My arm’s in a sling. I have to get through a staged lunch with my parents and Bel after I meet them by the player lot.
But I feel more centered than I have in a while, like this game was a tipping point I hadn’t even known I needed.
Everyone else can change the rules to fit their own agendas. Why can’t I?
