Saturday, May 26

  The Valiant Stadium

  Mission:

  - Win the Tryouts Game

  - Find Suspicious Mole Activity

  12:25

  I might as well have just started crying.

  We’d managed to score a couple of touchdowns… but CAMEO had scored more touchdowns. A lot more. They were up by four, and halftime had finally, mercifully, arrived.

  I kept scanning the stadium, trying to pretend I wasn’t watching our scoreboard slowly lose the will to live. My eyes always drifted back to Jamal and his duo of chaos, but they were just… cheering. Glazing at the field. Laughing. Holding up their ugly sign. Nothing suspicious. Nothing mole-like.

  I tried checking other sections. Same story. People watching the game. Screaming. Arguing with fans in the wrong colors. Taking pictures. Eating nachos. Absolutely nothing that screamed, Hey Connor, I’m the mastermind ruining your life.

  Even Agent D7 was struggling.

  If the guy in charge of “spy surveillance” was this lost, I could only imagine what my own life would look like once the game ended and we still had nothing.

  The players dragged themselves back to the bench, gasping, sweating, and spiritually deceased. Some flopped onto the seats. Some stayed standing like their pads were the only things holding them upright.

  Malachi started laughing. The tired, annoyed kind of laugh.

  “What in the world were you guys doing out there?” Danne demanded. “How are we supposed to catch up by the last quarter?”

  “Ask yourself that,” Avion replied, rubbing his shoulder. “You’re the one beating the senses out of everyone.”

  “No, no, no, this isn’t about strength. It’s about IQ,” Malachi said. “We should be alright—for the most part.”

  Coach Wallaby and the defensive coordinator walked toward us, and their faces said everything before they even opened their mouths.

  “That was embarrassing,” Coach Wallaby snapped. “Embarrassing. How do you get down four touchdowns? You’re playing against people that still watch Cocomelon and wear Paw Patrol backpacks!”

  “Paw Patrol was my thang, though,” someone muttered.

  That pushed him over the edge.

  He shoulder-checked a random player out of the way and stomped closer.

  “All of you are gettin’ on that field,” he growled. “Andre—you stay. I need Malachi at wide receiver. Connor—”

  I jerked my head up, heart pounding.

  “—think you can be running back?” he finished.

  Cymbals were banging in my head. My brain short-circuited so hard I forgot how English worked for a second.

  “Connor?” he repeated.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I got it,” I blurted. “Hand me the ball and I’ll take it far.”

  Coach Wallaby actually smiled. “I like that. You’ll replace Mikey. Mikey—you’re on defense.”

  “Yes, sir!” Mikey called.

  “Alright. Jackson—wide receiver. I need you getting far and open. Connor—stay close. Malachi, you live in the middle of the field, got it? Be a distraction. If Jackson isn’t open, you take the play—or you keep Connor protected. Mike, you help with Malachi.”

  We all nodded, some more confidently than others.

  “Make me proud,” Coach Wallaby said. “And get us that win.”

  We jogged back onto the field, the world feeling both too loud and too distant at the same time. I stayed close to Andre at first, but before I could say anything, I noticed he wasn’t exactly in the huddle.

  He was talking to Malachi instead, about twenty yards away while the rest of the team shuffled into formation to receive the kick.

  I couldn’t hear what they were saying—if I’d brought my MP-issued earbuds, maybe—but I watched their faces. Andre said something, Malachi frowned, Andre answered, and then Malachi nodded.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Andre walked off, and Malachi turned, immediately spotting me.

  “Andre and I are switching,” Malachi said, gesturing between himself and Andre. “Tell the rest of the team.”

  I nodded, curiosity burning. Andre switching? He wasn’t a bad quarterback. He just had crumbs for options most of the time. Still, switching now felt… weird.

  I shrugged off the feeling and turned to relay the message to Mikey, who then carried it down the line like gossip.

  A tap landed on my shoulder. I turned to see Jackson.

  “Why is Andre switching?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “He just is.”

  “Well, I don’t need him trying to steal my shine,” Jackson muttered. “I’m trying to pass these tryouts too.”

  “If we don’t win,” Danne cut in, stepping up behind us, “nobody’s going anywhere. Andre threw like a hundred picks.”

  “No one intercepted,” Jackson said flatly.

  “Don’t challenge my knowledge,” Danne snapped. “Andre shouldn’t even be on this field, let alone changing positions. We need Malachi to save us.”

  “Danne?” Jackson said.

  “What?” Danne barked.

  “Malachi is, at best, on the same level as Andre,” Jackson explained. “If anything, he might be worse. The problem isn’t just them—the entire team needs to level up.”

  “I don’t know about worse,” I muttered. “He’s pretty dang good.”

  Before we could keep poking that debate, Malachi himself called out, “Come on, everyone—positions!”

  I swallowed hard and jogged to mine.

  I took a deep breath and let the stadium noise wash over me. The crowd roared. Lights shimmered off the raised metal walls. Confetti fluttered through the air like lazy snow. The other team’s kicker tugged his pants up and retied his shoe, like this was the most casual thing in the world.

  Every minute, every second, every moment had led to this.

  The whistle blew.

  The kicker stepped, swung—

  —and the ball launched into the air, spinning up into the sky like a meteor in reverse. I tracked it, my eyes locked. Each slow rotation felt heavy, like it was falling toward me and only me.

  tut—tut—tut.

  The ball bounced on the turf.

  Then, like a Viking army storming the shore, we exploded forward.

  Their fastest men raced toward us at the front, legs driving, lights flashing off their helmets. Behind them, their bigger guys thundered forward like a wall of muscle and bad decisions. Our own front line surged to meet them, every collision echoing through the field.

  I activated my Perk—just a bit—not enough to be obvious, but enough for every step to hit harder, push farther. My stride lengthened. The ground shrank beneath my feet. I felt myself pulling ahead of the others.

  The crowd reacted with a rising wave of noise—oohs and ahhs merging into a single roar.

  I reached down, hand snapping out, and snatched the ball off the bounce.

  “Connor, jump!” Jackson yelled.

  I didn’t think. I just jumped.

  A massive wave of water crashed into the field right where I’d been. It slammed into the frontline, bodies colliding, magic colliding, the world turning into a war zone beneath me as I soared over the chaos.

  As I came down, a path of earth rose to meet my feet, lifting itself into a ramp under me.

  I looked down along the path and saw Tisiah at the far end, Mage-glove extended.

  “Just keep running!” he shouted. “We need to make it at least halfway!”

  I barreled forward, eyes on the open field ahead—

  —and then an enemy player launched himself at me in midair, rocketing toward my chest like a human missile.

  Before I could brace, Danne came flying from the side and tackled the guy out of the air, smashing him into the turf in a collision that sounded like a car crash.

  That’s what I’m talking about.

  Unfortunately, watching them cost me my balance. I slipped off the elevated earth path and started dropping.

  But Mikey bailed me out.

  An icy ramp materialized under me, forming at the last second so I landed and slid down sideways like a sled. I pressed into it, used my Perk to absorb the speed, then launched forward as soon as my feet hit the ground again. The ice shattered behind me.

  “Don’t worry!” Mike yelled. “Run behind us—we’ll defend you! Jackson’s on your back!”

  I glanced over my shoulder. Jackson was absolutely cooking people with flaming whips, clearing the path behind me as he spun and snapped fire through the air.

  The crowd went ballistic. Screaming. Jumping. Losing their minds.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Coach Wallaby on the sideline, moving in ways I didn’t think his joints allowed. Pointing, yelling, hopping, fist-pumping like a toddler on a sugar rush.

  For a second, despite everything, I felt it:

  This was the happiest I’d ever been in my life.

  And then it shattered.

  From ahead, a cluster of CAMEO players surged toward us—and before I could change direction, Mike and Mikey both got annihilated by a barrage of flying boulders.

  One second they were in front of me.

  The next, they were airborne, then gone.

  “No!” I shouted.

  CAMEO players closed in, gloves glowing, eyes locked on me like I was the last gazelle on the savannah.

  I had to move now.

  But how? How do you cut through a collapsing defense and a pack of mages ready to erase you?

  Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe—hmmm.

  Blue streaks of lightning burst from my hands as I swung my arms like a windmill, channeling everything. Bolts slammed into the turf, erupting chunks of dirt and earth into the air. A shockwave of soil rolled outward, kicking up clouds of dust and blasting opponents backward.

  For a heartbeat, the stadium fell nearly silent, like everyone sucked in the same breath.

  I bent my knees and used the rising earth to launch myself up and over the chaos, leaping above the wave of dirt—

  —and got nailed in the head by a wave of water.

  It slammed into me like a truck. The ball flew from my hands. My body twisted, collided with someone else, then someone else again. I hit the ground, bounced, and rolled like a rogue tire flying off a freeway.

  Everything hurt.

  It felt like my bones had been shattered and then glued back together with discount Gorilla Glue.

  I groaned and pushed myself up, my Perk killing the worst of the pain but not the ache.

  The crowd exploded into cheers.

  Obviously, we’d fumbled. CAMEO had probably recovered. Of course their fans were hyped.

  Except… that wasn’t what I was hearing.

  The cheers were coming from our side.

  We sounded like a pack of hyenas that had just found an all-you-can-eat buffet.

  I turned slowly toward the end zone, neck protesting every inch.

  Andre was standing in the touchdown paint, spinning the football casually in his hand like he’d just picked it up off the ground.

  Our team swarmed him, shouting, shoving, grabbing his helmet, hyping him up like he’d single-handedly saved the universe.

  “Andre!”

  “Andre!”

  “Andre!”

  My blood boiled so hot I was surprised I didn’t spontaneously combust.

  I did the work.

  Yet, he got all the glory.