Saturday, May 11

  Football Field

  Mission: N/A

  12:30

  “Alright, everybody in line!” one of the defensive coaches shouted, his voice snapping across the field like a firecracker.

  Guys scrambled from every direction — some jogging, some power walking, some clearly regretting every meal they’d eaten this morning — trying to form a straight line in front of the bleachers. The sun was punching down on us at full strength, bouncing off the metal bleachers like a heat lamp in a chicken coop. I wiped the sweat from my forehead even though we had barely started. Classic.

  From his tiny office-building-sized shed, Coach Wallaby emerged like a grumpy bear leaving hibernation. He took one look at our crooked line and sighed like he was already tired of us.

  “Now,” he began, hands on his hips, “today we’ll be doing practice — real practice — so you guys actually understand how the whole shtick works in time for when we play against CAMEO.”

  “Camel?” someone asked from the back, genuinely confused.

  Coach Wallaby’s head rotated toward him like an animatronic owl. “CAMEO,” he repeated, slowly, painfully. “You dumb or somethin’?”

  The guy shook his head timidly, looking like he wanted to evaporate.

  “How many of y’all know who CAMEO is?” Coach asked, scanning us with the kind of expectation that said he already knew we were about to disappoint him.

  Everyone raised their hands except me and, like, three other unfortunate souls.

  Coach pointed at Malachi. “Alright, scholar. Who’s CAMEO?”

  Malachi straightened his back like this was a job interview. “The Canadian Academy for Magical Espionage Operations, sir.” His tone was so polite that even I had to double-take.

  Coach Wallaby grinned. “Love the attitude. Now — CAMEO’s part of EMO, so no, none of y’all are getting assassinated by TSA or any other MSTO group. This whole thing is just a fun, friendly event across EMO to help our spies get more comfortable using their powers.” He shrugged. “But CAMEO’s not that great, so this should be an easy enough tryout for you.”

  He let that sink in, then added with a pointed look, “But emphasis on tryout. Most of you are complete switcharoos from last year’s team — which, by the way, was my greatest team ever — so half of you don’t even know the basics of how Mage Football works.”

  “Isn’t it just football with powers?” another guy asked. He wasn’t huge, but his shoulders had “I do pushups and I’m proud of it” energy.

  Coach Wallaby opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Literally nothing. He just exhaled carbon dioxide like his brain had blue-screened. Then he shut his mouth again, slowly.

  “Alright then,” he finally muttered. “Since you geniuses are apparently experts on football philosophy… let’s play ball.”

  He split us into two teams.

  Tisiah landed on mine, thankfully. So did the fit guy, the twins, and a handful of strong guys that gave me hope that maybe — maybe — we wouldn’t die out here.

  Then I saw the opposing team.

  Six-pack behemoth.

  Six-pack behemoth.

  Another six-pack behemoth.

  Malachi.

  Andre.

  And two linebackers who looked like they ate dumbbells for breakfast.

  They were dapping each other up, smacking their wet chests together, and looking entirely too proud of themselves. I could almost feel my breakfast rising up my throat.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “Introduce yourselves to your teammates!” Coach Wallaby commanded.

  I turned to my team. Everyone was awkwardly silent for about five seconds until one of the bulky guys stepped forward. His hair was sweaty and clumped into spiky strands, his face narrow with a wispy mustache, and his teeth distractingly white.

  “I’m Avion,” he said confidently. “I’m a third-year student at—”

  “I’m Jackson,” the fit guy cut in. “What’s y’all names?”

  He stared at the twins like they were aliens who had never heard of introductions before.

  “I’m Mike,” the first twin said, raising his hand. “And he’s Mikey.”

  Jackson blinked. “Huh?”

  “I’m Mike,” the skinny one repeated, pointing to the birthmark on his wrist. “He’s Mikey.”

  At least we had a way to tell them apart now.

  The rest of the team introduced themselves too — names I would definitely forget by tomorrow. Finally, after everyone else was done, I said:

  “I’m Connor.”

  Jackson shrugged. “It’s better than Mikey.”

  “Hop off,” Mikey hissed.

  “Alright, alright,” Avion said, beaming at us with the energy of someone who drinks eight glasses of optimism a day. “Let’s just communicate and we’ll do great. Let’s go!”

  He clapped, and right on cue the whistle blew like a judge finalizing our death sentences.

  We scrambled into formation, though I still didn’t know which team had the first play.

  “Hey, Connor!” someone yelled. “Heads or tails?”

  My brain malfunctioned from panic. “Tails!”

  Coach Wallaby glanced at me like I had just teleported from a clown convention. Then he turned to Andre. “You’re tails.”

  “Aight,” Andre said, rubbing his hands together like a villain preparing his monologue.

  Coach flicked the coin. This man had Olympic-level coin-flicking skills — it spun forever and probably achieved orbit before falling back down.

  “Andre’s team goes first!”

  They cheered.

  Our team collectively groaned.

  Jackson muttered, “Nice going, Connor.”

  Someone behind him repeated, “Yeah…” like they wanted me to feel it personally.

  I sighed the sigh of a man who already regretted waking up today.

  Everyone activated their Thanos-looking gloves, which meant powers were officially fair game. Metal walls erupted from the ground around the field, and a section of earth rose like a stadium effect was just casually built into the terrain.

  “Okay, here we go,” Avion said, turning commander mode on. We scrambled into our positions.

  Our kicker positioned himself, wiped sweat from his face, and shouted: “KICKING!”

  The ball shot into the sky. Immediately Malachi and Andre sprinted downfield like two bullets with gym memberships. A shorter guy moved forward, and the defensive line collided like two earthquakes slapping each other.

  Andre broke free first. I hurled a blast of gale-force wind at him. He summoned a brick wall from nowhere — the wind cracked it but didn’t stop it — and he caught the ball cleanly before charging forward.

  He even gave a quick smirk, just to be annoying.

  Ice, earth, and fire attacks aimed at him in rapid succession. He dodged half of them, countered some, and parkoured over the rest.

  Then Avion slammed the ground. Smoke burst from his palms, rolling across the field and smothering everyone’s line of sight like we’d just been hit with a magical fog machine.

  I activated my Perk and charged. The moment I saw Andre’s silhouette, I tackled him with everything I had. He flew back about five feet but kept the ball glued to his hands like it was stitched to his soul.

  “1st down!” the quarterback yelled.

  We reset. Avion clapped my shoulder. “Nice work, man.”

  I smiled, feeling a tiny burst of confidence — which immediately disappeared the moment I thought about it too much. Classic me.

  “Set—hike!”

  Malachi and Andre blasted forward again, running a crossover route. The quarterback lobbed the ball high — ridiculously high — and Andre leaped like a skyscraper on springs. He caught it with one hand and sprinted two feet before getting tackled, but mid-tackle he launched the ball sideways toward Malachi.

  Malachi caught it, slammed his fist into the ground, and sharp stone ridges shot through the field like a geological horror movie.

  “WATCH OUT!” Avion yelled, but the warning came too late.

  Half our team got flattened by the shockwave.

  Andre then launched himself upward with a burst of fire, rising like a discount Iron Man.

  “Let me at him!” I shouted, activating my Perk again. I dashed after him, sending a shockwave that launched him upward. I jumped, firing lasers downward, charring the grass into pepper flakes.

  Andre dodged midair, bouncing off a rock pillar like a stuntman. Jackson fired metal patches at him — the same kind the TSA guy used.

  Malachi swooped downward on an ice slide he created under his feet, constructing ice walls midair like a frosty Minecraft prodigy.

  I sprinted ahead of him. Malachi panicked and fired a barrage of ice spikes at me. I blasted a laser so strong it shattered them — and knocked the football out of his hands.

  The ball spun through the air like it was in slow motion.

  “GET THE BALL!” Mike screamed.

  Everyone charged.

  I leaped like a frog with back problems — but Andre vaulted over me like I was a decorative garden stone and snatched the ball midair.

  Touchdown.

  “Yeahhhhh!” Andre roared, sounding like a werewolf discovering karaoke night.

  I bent over, breathing hard, hands on my knees as sweat dripped off my chin. Jackson ran his hands through his hair, which was now a sweaty mop.

  Here we go.