Page 216 of Wicked Savage Wolves
“Fuck no, it’s not. D, you haven’t told her about practices, man.”
“Shut the fuck up, bro,” he grinds out. But Reed is drunk, making him oblivious to Deacon’s warning.
“What’s going on in practice?”
It’s Reed who answers. “Deacon is getting his ass handed to him. All day, every day. Desmond is putting him through the ringer and defense isn’t protecting him. He’s getting sacked damn near every play he runs. It’s fucking brutal.”
My eyes widen. “You’re kidding?” Why wasn’t his team watching his back? Deacon and Desmond both played Reaper, which is the most vital position on the field. If your Reaper is taken out, your chances at winning plummet, and you have to score three times as often to make up for the loss.
Anyone can score in Infernum, but a Reaper scoring counts for three points, whereas everyone else's only counts for one. The Reaper is the primary scoring player. Wolfbacks and Bloodhounds are the offensive players. Their job is to clear the field for the Reaper through tackles, and also try and get the other teams Reaper out by pegging them with a death ball.
“No. And we’re not practicing with death balls so …” He lets the sentence trail off and I inwardly flinch. If defense isn't protecting him and they’re not practicing with death balls, probably to build up strength and stamina, then that means he’s taking a lot of physical punishment.
Wolfbacks and Bloodhounds have one death ball a piece—a baseball sized sack filled with a fine red powder that explodes on contact to mark whoever is hit. They can throw them at other teams’ players at any time, but they only get the one the entire game, and if they fail to hit their mark, the death ball is lost. It’s the only way to eliminate other teams’ players during the game, and the fatality in Infernum only lasts one quarter, so it’s usually smartest to use them on a Reaper since that's each team's most valuable player. And when those run out or are being saved for later use, the next best bet is to tackle the Reaper again and again until he stops getting up.
With that in mind, they’re supposed to be the most protected. Each team plays with eight players on the field. Two Wolfbacks which play forward. The Bloodhounds which keep to the middle of the field. Your Reaper. And three Lion guards. They’re your pit and Reaper defenders. Two usually stick close to the Reaper and the third lingers back by the pit—A one foot by one foot hole in the ground that acts as the Infernum goal. To score, you have to sink your ball into it. And at the start of the game, a new ball shoots skyward out of it. The pits are magically enchanted, so the kind of ball that is ejected each quarter varies and is meant to challenge all factions at different times. There are silver balls which are coated in silver alloy poisonous to shifters. Fire balls which are ringed in green fire. They burn like hell but unlike traditional fire, won’t engulf a vampire on contact, making them not safe per se, but safer for a vamp to handle. Earth balls are made of solid stone and are said to weigh two hundred pounds. And bright balls are spheres of magical light that blind anyone within three feet, making the player rely on their other senses to make it to the pit.
“So you’re getting sacked a lot?” I ask.
Before he can answer, his friend jumps in for him again. “He wishes it were just sacks.” He chuckles darkly. “Five plays in on day one and it dawns on Deacon that protection is bad and it’s staying bad. He starts to scramble when he gets the ball. Man doesn’t want to get hit and he’s fucking up the score, which is pissing everyone off even more. They’re hitting him with magic attacks now or using the full strength of their faction.”
Deacon is rigid, every muscle in his face drawn tight. He doesn’t like hearing this.
“This shit goes on for three days,” Reed says, waving three fingers in the air. “And then out of nowhere, Pierce takes to the field, smacks our boy here upside the head, and tells him, ‘You’re fast. Play faster. Trust your feet.’It was solid advice, but Deacon isn’t having it. He’s pissed.”
“Can you blame me?” Deacon snaps.
Reed lifts both hands in the air. “Nope. I’d be an asshole, too. Maybe not to the dude’s face like that, but...” He shrugs. “Anyway, Hunt is mouthing off. He tells Pierce he’s playing dirty, fucking with his protection, and damn, you should have seen the look on Pierce’s face. He told Deacon if he wanted protection, give them someone worth protecting. And if he doesn’t like getting hit, then go play fucking tennis with the humans.”
I wince. Desmond’s never been one to mince words. “That was harsh.”
“But effective,” Reed smirks.
I turn to Deacon, who’s still glaring, but when he sees me looking, he nods. “It did the job,” he sighs. “Got my head out of my ass and back in the game.”
“And made you a damn better Reaper. Deacon learned in three days what takes most Reapers years to figure out, and he’s not buckling under the pressure. He’s playing smart. He’s not relying on anyone else to save his ass either.”
“Has Des backed off? Are the lion guards helping you out now?”
Deacon snorts. “No. I’m still on Pierces’ shit list. But now,” he shrugs, “I do my part to not get taken out.”
“So, he’s still getting hit a lot.” Reed supplies, and Deacon shoots him another glare. “Hey, don’t get pissy with me, my friend. You’re just mad because that asshole made you a better player and you don’t like it.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Deacon finishes his beer and stands. “I need another drink. You?”
“Uh, sure.” He nods, and I watch as he heads over to the coolers the girls placed near the pool. Once he’s out of earshot, I turn back to Reed and ask, “What’s he going to do? Getting sacked in practice is one thing, but he can’t be left defenseless in a game. He’ll end up seriously hurt.”
Reed gives me a sobering look. “I think he’s hoping you can help him out with that.”
Me? What the hell was I supposed to do?
92
Desmond
Zheng’s riding the line again, his beast fighting him from the inside to break free. He isn’t sleeping and he’s jumping at loud sounds. I know what’s coming and I’m trying to head it off, but the asshole standing in front of me isn’t making that easy.
“Bro, we had a deal?”
