Page 16 of The Fake Divination Offense
Seb cackles.
Thio finally loses it, too.
And I stare down at the three bucks Thio threw me—wow, I must’ve been bad at stripping; which is some bullshit, I look amazing naked—and rethink every choice that led me to this moment.
Demolishing the stack of pancakes kicks the rest of my hangover. I should be more conscious of my carb intake with the season around the corner, but that ship sailed, sunk, and turned into a coral base for marine life with all the champagne I had last night. The pancakes are just, like, an exploratory submarine at this point.
When Seb and Thio head to work, I peel out of my condo’s parking garage toward the Hellhounds HQ in the southern part of the city. Right off the river, a hop, skip, and a jump from Bwararax Stadium, the whole complex is tricked out in orange-and-black Hellhounds colors, with our mascot, a brown demon dog, snarling on everything.
The parking lot is half full; our practice is in the evening today, but with our first game in two weeks, most of the team will be hitting the gym or getting in extra specialty drills while they can.
I make my way through the massive glass-and-concrete building, passing shrines to players and wins. There are several cases full of trophies, including one giant display for the three rawball championships the Hellhounds have won over their sixty-year existence. Those trophies are each half my height, shining gold, with a gilded rawball, the iconic twenty-sided icosahedron shape, right on top. It’s always a bit humbling walking past these displays—this is what every player wants. More trophies, more wins.
There’s a new trophy in Vegas now, the Chimeras’ fourth.
Shoulders straightening, I stuff my hands in the pockets of the nice slacks I changed into. A blue button-down, a navy tie, sleek shoes; my black hair’s buzzed short so there’s not much to do in the way of styling it, but I trimmed my beard and facial hair, trying to be as respectful and professional as possible.
The pro rawball league’s official stance on having a patron god is pretty fluid. Players aren’trequiredto have one, and if they do, gods don’t always intervene with the mortals who claim them. Sometimes, like with Darian, players get magic boosts from their gods the way wizards get boosts from familiars. Urzoth’s never had that kind of a relationship with any of his followers; he doesn’t talk to me like Darian’s god talks to him, doesn’t give me divine assistance. It’s been a formality only.
Taking on a god or stepping away from one is seen through a lens of what’s best for each player. Does their patron god contribute to better performance on the field? No? Then why are we talking about it?
The pro rawballcommunity, though, hasverystrong opinions on patron gods, discussing them with zealous aplomb, mostly because a lot of the fans hold to various religions themselves.
The biggest fallout will be with my public perception, which is already in the hole thanks to the lawsuit. Why not keep digging, right?
I hope team management shares my totally flippant, completely at ease attitude.Oh, you want to renounce Urzoth? That request could’ve been an email, Monroe. Get out of my office.
The manager suites are on the third floor, a few towering doors centered around a reception desk in a vaulted space done in polished hardwood. Behind the desk is the Hellhounds logo, and when I give my name to the receptionist, he waves me toward the last door on the right.
My palms break out in a cold sweat as I knock.
It’ll be fine. Even though I haven’t gotten a feel yet for this team’s management and have no real idea where they land on thepolarizing opinions of me. But they accepted my trade even with my public testimony during the lawsuit, didn’t they? They can’t hate me too much.
A gruff voice calls, “Enter.”
This office is as dark and imposing as the reception area, the same polished hardwood making up the floors, walls, and ceiling. Massive windows at the far end make the space not quite so cave-like, presiding over a desk and shelves displaying more Hellhounds memorabilia.
Near the door is a long leather couch and two chairs in a formal seating area, and both chairs are occupied.
The Hellhounds head manager, Roesia Sombercrown, is a werewolf who made her name as an offensive rogue twenty-ish years ago. From the few times I’ve met her, she’s fair but cutting, no time for bullshit. Iwantto like her, but I’m still so hesitant after management turned on me in Vegas that I don’t trust my own instincts.
Roesia stands from her chair, and the person sitting in the one next to her shifts to look at me.
I freeze, the door swinging closed behind me.
It’s a guy, human by the looks of it, broad-shouldered and heavyset, with hair gone white from age and a pale face lined in wrinkles. He’s in a simple black suit, but what has everything in my body shuddering to a halt is the symbol stitched on the pocket of his coat. And on the briefcase next to his chair. And on the folio in his lap.
An axe speared into a stone.
He’s a rep for the Urzoth church.
What the fuck.
I clamp my jaw shut to avoid gaping and giving myself away. I didnottell the receptionist what this meeting would be about when I set it up weeks ago—I just said I needed something on the books with at least Roesia, if not the whole management team. I’m new, still getting my footing here; it wasn’t unexpected that I’d want to check in. No one would’ve been able to guess my real purpose.
So, again,what the fuck.
Roesia smiles, the most she ever gives: a quick pulse of her thin lips and a flash of her orange eyes. Her brown hair’s pulled back in a severe bun and she’s in a sleek maroon pantsuit, her hands clasped in front of her.
