The players scurry into other positions, and after a beat, another whistle blast sets them into motion.
A handful of people watch from the stadium seating. It’ll be mostly filled on Sunday; even for a training game, there’ll be an outpouring of school spirit for the Manticores. For now, I take one of the lowest seats, hunched over, hands stuffed in my pockets. But the longer I sit, watching the team run drills, the more I realize…
I don’t feel that panicky.
Even though I’m still rather exhausted and can’t remember the last time I had real food, I’m not as jittery as I’d been only an hour ago. I’m not blacking out with the drive to feel something else as a counterbalance to feeling too much, and what Iamfeeling is—okay? Foolish. Embarrassed. Dumb. But I’m not freaking out, and I think I only ran out of the lab because Iexpectedto freak out.
Why am I not freaking out?
The coach calls a water break, and as players pour off the field, most heading for the metal benches stacked with towels and water bottles, Orok takes off his helmet and spots me, his eyebrows popping.
He snatches water from his duffel bag, jogs over, and plops on the seat next to me.
“What’d you do?” he asks, guzzling half the bottle in one go. He’s drenched in sweat, his practice uniform covered in grass stains and what has to be remnants of a magic blast.
“Who says I did anything?”
“You’re watching my practice.” He motions at the field. “You’ve either had a complete personality change and taken a sudden interest in rawball, or—” He twists to eye me, then looks at his teammates by the benches and groans. “You’re not still trying to get with Crescentia, are you?”
I blanch. “What? No. That was months ago, and—how do you remember that? You were shitfaced. But no. I’m not here for—forthat.”
My tone warbles. I am here forthat,sort of. Just not involving Crescentia.
All that calmness, all thatnotpanicking, screws up tight. I can’t get my throat to work right.
Orok’s eyes narrow in concern. “Seb? You—”
“I kissed Elethior,” I whisper. It barely comes out at all. A hiss of sound, and I sit there, frozen, reliving that moment.
The softness of his mouth.
The contrasting bite of his lip rings.
The way he’d groaned. The clench of his fingers in my hair. How he’d seemedrelievedI’d kissed him, like he’d… like he’d been wanting it.
My knee bounces hard and I watch Orok. His reaction is all that matters.
He stares at me, his eyes round, his lips parted.
“It was fucked up,” I say, and here comes the panic, racing in like a mudslide. “It’s a complete betrayal of everything that happened, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Gods, say something?”
The water bottle crinkles in his grip and he downs the rest of it before carefully screwing the lid back on. He’s studying me in a way that feels too levelheaded. He’s always been too mellow, and I need him to bemad at me.
Orok cocks his head. “You like him?”
“I—what?” I flinch. “He’s aTourael.”
Orok rolls his eyes. “That’s your hang-up, not mine. All I know is, you’ve been talking about this guy pretty much nonstop. For someone you claim to hate, you spent alotof time going on about those treats he bought Nick.”
My face burns. This isn’t how he should be reacting.
“I kissed Elethior. You’re not—you should be angry with me. I fucked up. Again.”
His face collapses. He looks heartbroken for some reason, and before I can figure out why, he shifts to face me fully and grabs my shoulders.
“You are not a fuckup, Seb,” he tells me. He sighs, hands lowering to his lap. “I’m kind of hard on you, aren’t I?”
“No, you’re—I mean, I need it, right? I appreciate you lookingout for me. Gods know what I’d get up to without you reining me in.”
