Page 4 of The Fake Divination Offense
I pause, analytical eyes sweeping over him, and my emotions take a one-eighty. “Unlessyouwant to leave?”
One corner of Seb’s mouth lifts. He leans back again, where Thio, in conversation with Marlow and Darian, automatically threads an arm around his waist.
That’s one of the main reasons I was able to get some much-needed healthy distance from Seb over the past few years: I knew he had Thio. I knew my best friend was taken care of.
“I’m good,” Seb says with a helplessly content smile. “I’m engaged. Wewon. You’re back in Philly. Everything’s great.” His smile dims. “Right?”
Right.
Say it.
Right, Seb. Everything’s great.
Except I didn’t get traded due to my stats—which is the reason Seb thinks I’m on a brand-new three-year contract with the Hellhounds. I got traded because my old team turned on me for daring to bring down the camp that almost killed me.
And my new team seems to have the same opinion on the matter.
Yes. We won the lawsuit. That era of our lives can finally be put to rest.
It’s this new era that terrifies the shit out of me.
I lean forward to peck Seb on the cheek. “I’ll be back. Cheer for me.”
Seb still looks like he wants to keep asking if I’m okay, and I love him for it. But he relents and gives me a thumbs-up as Alexo the Magnificent’s song kicks on: Journey. A pretty standard karaoke pick.
I bop Darian on the shoulder to get his and Marlow’s attention. “Tab’s open under my name. Go crazy.”I sure as hell will.
Marlow cackles. “Famous last words.Drink like a fishis a cliché for a reason.”
I grin, relieved at the feel of it, the flash of camaraderie I’ve been starving for.
Unease wiggles its obnoxious little way into my thoughts, reminding me not to get too attached to all this. Healthy steps. Boundaries, compartmentalization. I need to keep everyone at a distance until I can figure out my place here.
Seb gives me a probing look, but I shove off the stool with a reassuring smile, a long breath escaping as I peel farther away from my group.
A large portion of the crowd has pressed around the small stage at the back of the room, but I lumber through and score a spot right up against the edge near the wall, so I’m not blocking anyone. Alexo the Magnificent croons the first lines of “Don’t Stop Believin’” and a cheer goes up, but I’m pathetically scanning faces in the Silver Hound’s dim light for anyone else from the team.
If they’re going to believe the fuckers saying that our claims about Camp Merethyl’s cruelty were lies, that I should’ve handled any perceived slight through stone-cold aggression, I don’t want them here.
I’d hoped this team would be different. That I could be back home in every sense of the word. No one on the Hellhounds has spoken to me about the trial yet, and everyone’s been welcoming and kind, if overly formal. I knew once the verdict landed that it’d all come to a head, and I’d hoped I could get in front of it, invite everyone out, play it off as something positive before they had a chance to believe the worst of me.
We’re a team. Spells, explosions, obstacles—all that and more get thrown at us every time we step onto a rawball field. Trust is what keeps us alive.
The Hellhounds don’t trust me, do they? It’s gonna be the Chimeras all over again.
I stretch my right arm instinctively, phantom pain radiating from the hairline fracture I got in my elbow during the championship game.
Weak. Weak to worry about all this. To be disappointed. All this, just—gods,weakness.
I shake my head, hard, as Alexo the Magnificent takes the midnight train going anywhere. His voice is smooth, flowing over me in a crooning wash.
My eyes drift to the stage—
And my jaw drops.
Holy.
Shit.
