Page 73 of The Bonding Games: Part 1

But I’m more thirsty for Ezzy and more of her praise.

Oooooooh . . . Ezzy! I love that!

“I agree,” Ezzy says impassively, and Coops does a double-take. In fact, all the other guys in the room glance over, too, each attuned to her every move and having been paying acute attention to her words even while sparring—Tate with Scotty and Cooper with Alby.

It’s just that she’s never interacted like that before. Her typical is silence unless she’s barking orders or criticising us. She doesn’t entertain comments like that even when they’re aimed directly at her, and she certainly doesn’t compliment. Which is another reason, other than the obvious, why I’m stuck on those two beautiful words:

Good boy.

I shudder.

“Okay, Ezzy—”

“Do not call me that.” Her voice cracks through the air like a whip.

“Okay . . . Ez?” I hedge. Then decide to bite my lip in that way that’s meant to be seductive.

She stands there, that intense stare boring into me through her visor.

Yay! I can call her Ez!

“Stop eating your lip like that.” Coops pisses on my artwork like always.

“It’s called seduction—something you could never understand or attempt with your grouchy-ass face.”

“It’s meant to be more subtle.”

“Okay, Coops-The-Seduction-Police—”

“Stop talking.”

My spine snaps straight. “Yes, ma’am.”

Whoops, that just slipped out.

Making no comment, Ezla only says, “Show me what you have learned. Show me you can follow my instructions, Player 35.”

Determined to please her and receive more of her glorious praise, I do as she says.

***

Sadly, I don’t receive another “good boy” before I collapse in a heap on the floor five hours later.

Ezzy—though I’ll have to take care to never say the full nickname out loud so that my tongue isn’t yanked from my mouth—has had us training every day since she became our mentor from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m., and I can definitely see a difference in my skills already. It makes each gruelling day worth it, even more than it already is when it means spending twelve hours with Ez every single day; that time’s only broken up by the half hour she gives us for lunch, which she disappointingly never has with us. I’m pretty sure I could be a higher 80 now, maybe with a Score of 86, but I won’t know for certain until after Game 2 tomorrow, where the judges watching us from that mammoth viewing box in The Dome’s stands may pick up on the advancements and increase the current number.

Shit . . . Game 2 is tomorrow. That’s really hitting me now, especially when Ezzy says, “Gather around. We need to speak.”

Like obedient lion cubs, all her Bonds head over, me peeling my back off the floor with a groan, only to crawl towards her on my hands and knees.

I seem to be on the floor a lot lately, and I think back on one of our first training sessions with Ez where I was in a similar way:

I execute my trusty double thrust with an unmanifested armoury stick, feinting a strike at her chest before rapidly redirecting the attack to her side, knowing she’ll be so impressed—

“AHHH!”

Ezla has easily deflected and slammed her baton into my stomach.

I double over, knowing my death is coming soon. My knees hit the unforgiving ground as I look up at my Bonded in betrayal. “I . . . trusted . . . you . . .” I rasp.