Friday, May 25

  Entrance to Football Field

  Mission: Intel Dump

  08:00

  Today was the day.

  The day we would board buses to Vallant Stadium—or, more accurately, to a hotel near Vallant Stadium, because teenagers with magic and combat training still need hotel breakfast. It was also the day I would have actual licensed agents in my ear, whispering commands, paranoia, and useless commentary. The only thing missing was a pair of government-issued goggles they could see through. I’m honestly surprised they didn’t think of that—or worse, maybe they did and are waiting for an upgrade.

  The hardest part wasn’t boarding the bus. It was explaining to Mom and Dad why I was leaving home after school had already ended. Luckily, about three days ago, Mom got an email saying our “Chess Club” was going on a School’s Out Retreat to California.

  She was sold. Believed every word. Packed me two suitcases, a duffel bag, and a portable sewing kit in case my "knight fell off the board."

  Now, I was dragging those suitcases across the pavement toward the buses, trying to look casual while possibly being surveilled by a whole intelligence branch.

  “All your football equipment is already packed in separate suitcases!” one of the coordinators yelled, clipboard waving like he was directing an airplane.

  Three buses lined up like they were auditioning for a military-themed school musical. Smart. The last thing we needed was TSA or some rogue organization spotting us just because the buses had a fancy mage-football logo.

  I placed the earbud in my right ear.

  Immediately, it clamped onto my ear like a tiny crab with abandonment issues.

  “Ow—”

  “If you attempt to remove it,” a voice said in my ear, “you will experience a pain response. We need to keep communication at all times.”

  “Love the enthusiasm,” I muttered.

  As I crossed the lot, someone jogged up behind me.

  “I thought—I thought—thank God,” Tisiah gasped, clearly having sprinted across campus like he was being chased by ninjas.

  “Where’s Malachi?” I asked.

  No answer. Instead, a woman in a neon vest pointed us toward the middle bus.

  We headed that way. Then Agent Voice returned.

  “Step back from him a little.”

  I hesitated, then stepped back.

  “Who was that?” the agent asked.

  “Tisiah. Good friend of mine,” I said carefully, hoping the agent wasn’t judging my social circle.

  “Does he have a last name?” the agent asked.

  “Is there another Tisiah?” I hissed quietly.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “We’ll see,” he replied.

  I rolled my eyes.

  The inside of the bus looked less like transportation and more like a zoo. No one was sitting. Everyone was standing, yelling, laughing, tossing bags, and talking like they were competing for 'loudest mouth' award. The bus wasn’t moving, but the chaos had already taken off.

  I scanned the crowd.

  Good news: Mike, Mikey, Malachi, and Jackson were there.

  Bad news: Danne, Andre, and all the background NPCs with protein shakes for brains were there too.

  “Are you currently inside the bus?” Agent Voice asked.

  “Yeah,” I muttered. “In the middle of a circus.”

  “Anyone you can identify by full name?”

  “Yes and no. Danne Livingston, Mike and Mikey—I don’t know their last name—and Jackson. Andre. But I’m assuming there’s a list of football participants somewhere?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “But there could be more than one Jackson.”

  “Okay, fair. What’s your name?”

  Silence.

  “Well, can I call you something?”

  Pause.

  “Agent D7,” he said. “Just D7 though. Don’t call me Agent. Kind of defeats the point.”

  “Cool,” I whispered, though I’m pretty sure he couldn’t see me nodding—or maybe he could.

  I took a seat near the back with Tisiah (terrible idea), and Malachi sat across from us. A second later, Danne and Andre sat in front of us, which ranked top-tier in “Worst Seating Chart Imaginable.”

  “You excited?” Malachi asked Tisiah.

  “Stressed and nervous. I’m not even sure if I’m going to make it,” Tisiah admitted.

  “Wanna know my honest opinion?” Malachi asked.

  “No.”

  “Good. Because I don’t have one," Malachi chuckled.

  Andre’s eyes flicked up. Danne’s expression soured—like someone just insulted his eyebrows.

  “You excited to sit on bench?” Danne asked me.

  “Nobody is sitting on the bench,” Jackson cut in. “They’re rotating everyone.”

  “Does it even matter if we win or not?” Malachi asked. “Not that I care.”

  “I mean,” Jackson shrugged, “if we win, I assume it means we’re actually good?”

  “There’s gotta be someone they cut,” Danne argued. “They won’t replace the whole roster.”

  “That’s why you fight to be the best,” Andre said, sounding like he was narrating a movie trailer. “To stay on top.”

  Everyone went quiet.

  Danne snorted. “Your mouth runs a lot for somebody saying nothing.”

  “Try talking less,” Andre snapped. “People might think you’re smart.”

  A few gasps.

  Someone whispered “oooh.”

  Danne stood, ready to lunge—but Malachi grabbed his shoulder and calmly forced him back into his seat, without even looking at him.

  “You seriously need better friends,” Agent D7 whispered in my ear.

  “Who said those were my friends?”

  “Fair point.”

  Mike jumped in, trying to change the subject. “I think most of us are gonna make the team. We were solid in practice.”

  “I already know who won’t make it,” Danne muttered.

  “Oh, you definitely won’t,” Mikey said with an innocent smile, accidentally committing social homicide.

  Danne turned into a tomato. Tried to stand again. Got shoved back down.

  “Who’s arguing?” D7 asked.

  “The same clowns I mentioned before. Danne’s currently the main sideshow.”

  “Ah,” D7 replied. “Makes you feel better about yourself?”

  “You’re funny,” I said.

  “At least when people think you’re the mole, it gives you a sense of mystery,” he replied.

  “You're wrong.”

  Before I could say more, Coach Wallaby climbed aboard, rocking a yellow YMPA hat and the most aggressively ironed khaki pants known to mankind.

  “We’re rolling out,” he announced. “If someone isn’t here, too late. Send them chocolates and therapy.”

  Then, the driver—a tall, bearded ginger wearing a baseball cap—turned around, cleared his throat, and said in the calmest voice possible:

  “In case of emergency, there are four exits on this bus. There are also explosives mounted on the roof and turrets at the back. Don’t exit unless told to, or you will get shot or kidnapped. Any questions?”

  Silence.

  “Good,” he said. “Enjoy the music.”

  And with that, loud, bass-heavy rap music exploded through the speakers, sending the bus into instant chaos as players started shouting, hyping each other up, and pretending to mosh in the aisle.

  Then, Tisiah’s phone rang.

  “Hello—yeah—we’re on the bus now. Heading to a hotel near Vallant Stadium… yeah, I hate the ride… yeah… Mari’s not with us—wait, Connor’s right here—”

  He shoved the phone into my hand.

  “Nikki?”

  “Yeah—hey,” she replied. “You doing okay?”

  “As okay as someone wearing FBI-grade AirPods on a bus with explosives,” I muttered.

  “Are you nervous?”

  “I’m not even sure what the best-case scenario is anymore.”

  “Best case scenario,” Nikki said softly, “is that something actually happens.”

  “That’s not a good scenario,” I groaned.

  “Doesn’t make it less true,” she replied.

  From the seat ahead, Danne leaned back slightly.

  “Who you talking to, Bartt?” he asked.

  I closed my eyes.