His gaze looks as distant as mine feels.
It’s not just the fight that worries me. We’ll definitely both be called up today—I no longer believe the executives are hands-off in the bracket building department—but just like the first time, Graham will be called first. I’ll be alone, without even Hardy to come to my aid.
If anyone’s planning to attack me, today represents the best chance for success.
After the first tier names are announced, the tier two bracket appears on the screen, and sure enough, I’m listed in the last bout against a man named Tony Yost.
I know Yost by sight, but I don’t know much else about him, except that this’ll be his third fight. If he beats me, he’ll advance to tier three.
“He’s not a grappler,” Graham whispers, as they post the tier three bracket. “So just like with Lincoln, take him to the ground as soon as you can. But watch out. He has martial arts training, and he loves to kick. High.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I really am listening. But I’m also staring at the screen, waiting. Finally, the top tier bracket appears. Graham has been pitted against Wallace Monfort.
I know Wallace. He’s big, and he’s fast. He runs almost as often as I do. And I’ve seen him grapple. He doesn’t have many weaknesses.
“Hey.” Graham takes my hand under the table, and I try to ignore the gazes focused on us. “It’s okay. I’ve studied him. I’ll be fine.”
“I’m sure he’s studied you too.” Since we killed Roth, Graham has become the man to beat, both on the sand and in the bullpen.
“Listen, I want you to come with me when they call my name,” he whispers. “Even if they won’t let you in the arena yet, waiting at the gate, is much safer than waiting out here in the yard. They won’t be able to surround you, and if anyone comes in after you, they’d have to be stupid to try something with the guards right on the other side of the gate. And if Kaya finds out you’re there, she’ll probably try to pull you in for an early interview or something.”
“Okay.” We stand and grab our bags, watching the screen, but Graham’s plan turns out to be unnecessary. They call me at the same time they call him and Wallace, even though my opponent’s name does not appear on the screen.
Wallace walks ahead of us without speaking, as if he can’t even hear us behind him. If we were back on my homeworld, I’d assume he was listening to music; my brother always had something playing while he trained, or when he was trying to focus.
When the gate opens, six of the eighteen guards escort Wallace to the right, while the remaining twelve lead Graham and me to the same greenroom we used last time. I open the door, wondering what they’re serving to eat today, but the moment I step over the threshold, I forget about food entirely.
It takes me a second to process what I’m seeing.
“Sebastian!” I race across the room and throw myself at my brother, tears already forming in my eyes. “What are you doing here? How did you get here? What’s going on?”
“Hey, Sylvie.” He hugs me so tight I can hardly breathe. “Are you okay? I’ve seen some of the footage, and—”
“Yeah. I’m good.” I shrug out of his hug so I can see his face. “Don’t watch, Seb. Seriously. Don’t watch. Not the fights or anything from the bullpen.” But I can tell from the flash of fury across his features that he’s already seen…something. “Don’t let Dad watch either.” My mom won’t. She can’t even watch Sebastian’s fights. “What are you doing here?”
“It was Kaya’s idea.”
“And it was brilliant, if I do say so myself.” Kaya beams at me from across the room, where she’s evidently been consulting with Renee about my hair. “I thought it would be good—both for the ratings and for your state of mind—if you got to see your brother before the fight. And your sponsors got into a bidding war over who would pay to bring him out here.”
“I’ve been on a high-speed transport for a week and a half,” Sebastian says.
“Yes, but he traveled in style,” Kaya assures me. As if I might be offended if my brother’s accommodations had only been business class. “We’ve got interviews lined up for him, and we’re going to film him watching the fights, hoping for commentary from a genuine expert in the field.” Her gaze rakes over my brother, and I realize my sponsorship liaison has a crush.
A big one.
“And, of course, we’ll get some footage of the two of you together,” she continues. “Your reunion. And maybe reminiscing about training.”
“Sylvie?” Graham calls, and I turn to see him waiting for an introduction. Because my brother obviously doesn’t remember him.
“Hey. Sorry. Graham, this is my brother Sebastian. Sebastian, Graham is—”
“Sylvie, can I speak to you a moment?” my brother interrupts, eyeing Graham with an expression I can’t quite interpret. “Privately?”
“Um…yeah.”
“Well, no actually you can’t,” Kaya says. “We brought him here on the condition that all of your interactions would be on the record. For the feeds.”
“Fine,” Sebastian growls. Then he turns to me as if none of the rest of this exists. As if it were just the two of us, training in the backyard, like it used to be. “On the feeds, they make the two of you look like some kind of fairytale shit. Like a prison romance.” He’s switched into our local dialect, assuming that no one else here will understand. At least until they can bring in an interpreter to slap some captions on the footage before they air it. “Is that shit for real, or is he taking advantage? Demanding payment for protection?”
“I don’t think you can truthfully describe anything in the bullpen as a fairytale,” I hedge, uncomfortable discussing my sex life with my brother. Even if he’s only trying to protect me. “But Graham’s not demanding anything.” And that’s as much as I’m willing to tell him about my private life. Even if it’s all been captured on camera.
“Are you sure? Because I’ll kill the fucker right here and now,” Sebastian growls with a glance over my shoulder at Graham.
Graham laughs. “Sylvie doesn’t need my protection,” he says. In our dialect. “No more than I need hers, anyway. In case you haven’t seen the feeds, she took down the champion.”
Sebastian’s eyes widen, betraying his surprise for just an instant. Then he smiles. “I knew I fucking recognized you. Galactic Gloves Youth Championship. Heavyweight division. Must have been… What, ten standard solar units ago?”
“Eight,” I correct. And suddenly I understand. Graham and I are from the same homeworld, which is how he faced my brother in the ring all those years ago. Of course he speaks our dialect.
“Wait, you two fought each other?” Kaya glances from Graham to Sebastian, and I can practically see her plotting a new coverage angle.
“Hell of a coincidence,” Sebastian says.
“Not really.” Kaya beams at all of us, as if this were a normal family reunion, and she were a part of it. Which feels a bit incestuous, considering her obvious crush on my brother. “Sebastian’s here because Sylvie’s here.” She turns to Graham and me. “And the chances of two death row convicts with fighting experience both winding up in zone one are actually pretty good. It’s the fact that Sylvie and Graham both committed murder that I find interesting.” She shrugs. “But then, maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe the fact that you could kill someone—because of your training—made you more likely to solve problems with the very violence that got you sent here.”
When she realizes we’re all staring at her, Kaya laughs. Then she glances from Sebastian to Graham, and back. “Who won? When you two fought as kids?”
“I did.” They say it in unison.
I burst into laughter, and a second later, both men join me. Kaya motions like mad to the cameraman, to make sure he’s getting all of this.
“But seriously, man, no matter what you saw on the feeds, I would never hurt your sister.” Graham slides one arm around me. “I’m a little scared of her left hook.”
Sebastian grins. “Y
ou damn well better be. We worked on that for years. That, and those damn anatomy classes.”
Kaya pulls my brother closer to the camera, her hand wrapped around his bicep, for some impromptu commentary. “You took anatomy too?”
“Yeah,” he says with a glance over his shoulder at me. “You can’t expect to hit the spleen—or nick an artery—if you don’t know where they are.”
“Holy shit,” I whisper when they’re out of earshot. “I can’t believe he’s here.”
Graham snorts. “I can’t believe that skinny kid I beat in the ring nearly a decade ago grew up to be Havoc.”
“Yeah, well don’t be too impressed. You have a much higher kill count.” But then, so do I.
“I’m not sure that’s anything to brag about,” Graham says as we step up to the buffet.
We eat a light breakfast—nothing heavy until after the fight—then I take a scented bubble bath, alone this time, so Charles can interview Graham and Sebastian about their pre-Rhodon connection.
By the time I’ve been primped and prepped and have given my interviews, I’m as desperate to talk to my brother as I am to see Graham. Sebastian has been here for hours, but the fights are about to start, and if I don’t make it off the sand…
To my surprise, however, both men are waiting for me in the dugout, completely oblivious to the fact that the other fighters are glaring daggers at them both, for interrupting everyone’s concentration.
I know I should be focusing. Visualizing the fight. Going over Yost’s strengths and weaknesses and making plans to exploit them. But if I don’t survive this fight, I’ll never see either Graham or my brother again, and there are things I need to tell them.
Sebastian first, because the guards are already trying to get him to follow them somewhere else, for his live commentary. “Hey.” I stand on my toes and wrap my arms around him, treasuring the feel and the smell of home. I’ve never realized before how little my homesickness has to do with my homeworld, or my childhood house, or all my things, and how much it has to do with the people. With my family. Skye is gone, and my parents aren’t here, so Sebastian is all I have left of my old life.
“I need you to tell Mom and Dad something for me.” I’m whispering, but I’m sure the cameras can hear every word. “Tell them I’m sorry about what they’re seeing on the feeds. I know that can’t be easy. But I had to do it, and I’d do it again. For Skye.”
“No,” Sebastian growls into my ear, holding me so tight I can hardly breathe.
“What?” I push him away.
“I’m not going to say goodbye for you, sis. Because you’re not going to die. Not today. Tell me whatever you want to say after your fight.”
“But what if I—”
“You won’t. You’ll be fine.” He puts both hands on my shoulders, mimicking the pep talks I used to give him before a fight, when we were kids. “Your body knows what to do, so just let it do its thing. Don’t overthink things. Press your advantages without giving up any. And I’ll see you in the greenroom. Okay?”
“Okay.” I give him one more hug. Then I have no choice but to watch my brother walk out of the room without giving me a goodbye.
I feel like someone just sucked all the air from the room.
“Sylvie.” Graham wraps his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder. “Your brother loves you. And you’re lucky to have seen him again. Most of these guys—even the coldest, hardest bastards in here—would give anything for that chance. But Sebastian’s right. No more goodbyes.”
I twist in his embrace until I can wrap my arms around his neck. “I don’t want to say goodbye. But it seems arrogant not to. To just assume I’ll see you again.”
“You’re thinking like a girl again,” he whispers into my ear, running his hands down my back, over my slick new silver and red gladiator-wear. “In case you haven’t noticed, this is a man’s world. So put your game face on, Wolfe, and go take what life owes you. I’ll see you in the greenroom when this is over.”
18
SILVIE
“Ladies and gentlemen, debuting in tier two against Anthony Yost is the only woman ever to take the sand here on Rhodon! Ms. Sylvie Wolfe!”
I step into the arena as the announcer calls my name, and all around me, screens begin playing clips from my background reel. Most of them are from my first fight and my first week in the bullpen, but there are several new ones, including the footage of Graham declaring me the de facto champion in the yard, and my brother telling the world about how I once took him down—hard—when I was fourteen years old.
That one’s new to me, and it was obviously just recorded this afternoon.
“You’re going down, bitch,” Yost growls when I stop several feet away from him, and I’m suddenly struck by the difference between him and Lincoln Gray. Link may have been more interested in protecting himself than helping me fight off a gang of rapists, but he wasn’t actively an asshole.
Most of the inmates in the bullpen are more like Yost.
I say nothing as I take in the stocky, muscular build on display in his shiny, olive green athletic pants and snug top. All I can think about is that my brother is watching. And that if they know he’s here, my parents might also be watching, from home.
My father, anyway.
The buzzer goes off, and Yost and I begin circling each other. He’s light on his feet, for his size, and his stamina is good enough that I’m pretty sure we could dance around each other all night. But he doesn’t grapple. I remember Graham saying that. So I lunge in to take him down, but he spins out of my way and kicks me in the back. Hard.
I forgot about the kicking.
I stumble forward, desperately trying to regain my balance on sand that shifts beneath my feet, but he lands another kick—right to my kidney.
Paralyzing pain lights me up from the inside, and I go down with a grunt, struggling to breathe. But Yost comes at me, so I roll onto my hands and knees, then force myself to my feet, clutching my left side. We circle some more, and I manage to dodge a couple more kicks, but the blow to my kidney is a problem. I can’t shake it off.
My feet feel like lead. Like I’m trying to dance in shoes made of cement blocks. I fend off another kick and follow that up with a left hook my brother would be proud of, but then Yost kicks me square in the sternum.
My breath explodes from my body and I stumble backward, then go down on my ass. He’s on me in an instant, kicking me in the side while I try to block blows to my ribs. I roll away as fast as I can, eyes closed to keep sand out of them, but that means I can’t see Yost.
Finally, I make it to my knees, but I don’t see him. I twist as I try to stand, and I feel his warmth against my back. His right arm clamps around my neck in a choke hold. Yost is tall enough that when he pulls me up, my feet don’t touch the ground, and I’m left hanging in his grip. Clawing and flailing.
Gravity works against me, helping him compress my carotid arteries. He’s cutting off the blood flow to my brain.
I slam my elbow back, into his side, and Yost grunts, but his grip doesn’t loosen. I kick his shins and claw at his arms with the same result.
In seconds, the world starts to fade right in front of me. The pressure in my head is enormous. My ears roar with a sound I can’t even identify.
In class, this is when I would tap out. When he would have to let go. Here, all he has to do is maintain his hold until I lose consciousness. Then he can kill me however he wants.
Dimly, I hear the crowd roar all around us. Darkness encroaches from the edges of my vision. My arms feel too heavy to lift. My legs hang useless.
I’m going to die. Right now. Right here.
Then the blackness swallows me…
Men are chanting. Stomping their feet. Demanding something. But I can’t tell what they’re saying.
The announcer’s voice blasts from all around me, and the echo rings in my ears, but I can’t understand him either.
I suck in a breath, and sand flies
into my mouth. I blink, and sand scratches at my eyes like tiny claws made of glass. I can’t move my arms, but my fingers twitch, and yet more sand digs beneath my nails. I’m still in the arena. Flat on my face. And somehow, I’m still alive.
“No!” Yost roars behind me—above me—and that I understand. “I fucking earned this! She’s mine, one way or another!”
I lift my head just as his shadow falls over me, and hair tumbles into my face from my ruined braid. Then I hear a short, soft buzz, followed by a thump. Yost’s shadow disappears.
I push myself upright with arms I can’t feel, and I see my opponent lying on his side next to me. Breathing so shallowly that at first, I can’t even tell he’s alive. Behind him stands a line of guards, all aiming guns at us. They’ve just stunned him, and they’re prepared to do the same to me.
That’s when I realize I can feel the breeze much more intimately than I should be able to.
I look down. My breasts are bare and flecked with sand. My one-piece gladiator-suit hangs loose around my hips. I pull the material up and shove my trembling hands through the sleeves. I don’t understand what’s happened.
“Ms. Wolfe, please exit the arena!” the announcer calls. So I push myself to my feet, and the guards adjust their aim to follow me. I put one foot in front of the other, stumbling toward the gate already sliding open to let me out. But then screens all around the arena light up, and I stop when I see my own face.
I turn, and my own eyes stare back at me from dozens of screens, all playing the same footage.
It’s the replay.
The shot zooms out as my face reddens, revealing that Yost has me in a brutal choke hold—a blood choke. My body hangs against his chest. My eyes close as I lose consciousness. I am at his mercy—two minutes from death, at the most, if he maintains the choke.
The thought sends a wave of chills over me.
Champion Page 19