Page 21 of The Fake Divination Offense
Alexo’s eyes are aflame, his brow set in determination, and he turns on me, maybe expecting me to be insulted. But when he sees my smile, he blinks quickly, his mouth going to that little O again. Only this time, his cheeks stain the faintest shade of red.
Back up. Back allllll the way up.
“Thisisabout your career, Mr. Warden,” Drach says. “The Church of Urzoth Shieldsworn is prepared to sponsor you in a position with the Hellhounds cheerleading squad.”
Alexo frowns at Drach. “I already have a position with the cheerleading department.”
“You misunderstand me—we are sponsoring youon the squad.”
The room hangs quiet for a beat.
I watch the side of Alexo’s face, haven’t been able to look away, so I see the exact moment he transitions from flat-out refusal to—interest.
“I’ve been speaking with Ms. Sombercrown all morning,” Drach says, gesturing at Roesia. “The Hellhounds have also had their PR team hard at work crunching preliminary numbers, and the best forecast of public image approval comes by further leaning into what the internet has already begunshipping. So we are playing up thestar athlete and cheerleaderoptics by sponsoring you to become a starting member on the cheerleading squad.”
Alexo’s whole face slackens. “What?”
“The heads of the cheerleading department say you’re quite talented.” Roesia taps a long nail on her knee. “They said they asked you to audition, but you preferred to stay in a support role. Why is that?”
Alexo folds his arms over his chest. “What would sponsoring entail?” he asks. Very obviously avoiding Roesia’s question.
Drach opens his folio and reads from a list. “Your salary, uniform, and travel would be paid for by the Urzoth Church.”
“Which is similar to the situation players find themselves in when they have a patron god,” says Roesia. “But the Hellhounds, at least, have never had such an arrangement for a cheerleader.”
No one points out that Urzoth’s church isn’t paying for any of my stuff. Not for lack of offering on their part; I declined their support once I went pro.
I think I knew even then that I’d back out one day.
Alexo huffs a breath. “And in exchange I’d, what? Have to swear an oath to your church? Be required to beat people up on a regular basis?”
Drach’s lips flatten, the muscles by his ears bulging and his hands fisting on his folio. I scoot to the edge of the couch, angled toward Alexo, bracing.
But Drach merely cocks his head, though he does nothing to hide his offense. “That attitude is what we are hoping to offset. While we do place value in physical prowess, the true tenets of our religion are in multifaceted strength. Our god is made of stone, but he moves and breathes andloves. Strength is only truly effective when it moves, breathes, and loves, too.”
I sag back. Just a little.
That’s what I always believed. Or tried to believe. Even as my mother pushed me todisplay my strengthin as many physical ways as possible, I’d counter with howrealstrength was rarely so simply defined. No one in Urzoth’s church would argue that, but most have come to uphold the easy definitions of strength—strong as stone, hard as rock—more than anything requiring nuance.
It’s nice to hear someone high up in the church professing healthier ideals.
Drach’s still a dick, though.
“But to answer your question, no,” Drach carries on. “Our requirements for you would be minimal. You would wear an Urzoth symbol on your uniform, but you are not obligated to join our church unless you feel called to. Our sponsoring of you is more a… charity. This arrangement is to complement Mr. Monroe’s standing as a current and active member.”
“I’d just—” Alexo stutters, and my eyes slip shut in a beat of gathering resolve, but it’s obsolete. The moment I look at him, the strongest wall of resolve wouldn’t be enough to keep back the dam of my own stupidity.
He’s staring at Drach, those dark eyes narrow in disbelief. “I’d be a cheerleader? Just like that? And I’d get to perform?” Almost to himself, he adds, “As a follower of Urzoth?”
Drach hands him a piece of paper out of his folio. “And you’ll make real money, kid. Just like that.”
Roesia’s watching Alexo curiously, her chin propped in her hand, but she doesn’t ask him again why he didn’t audition this year. Doesn’t push him as he takes the paper from Drach and sees something—a salary number, likely—that makes his eyes bulge.
He puts his fingertips to his mouth and gasps, “Oh.”
Part of me dive-bombs even deeper into stupidity, pretending he’s sayingO, my name, and I keep digging my fingers into my knees so hard pain radiates up my thighs.
Tell them.
