For The One (Gaming The System Book 5)

by Brenna Aubrey

  Gritting my teeth, I narrow my eyes and swing—hard—the minute the flag lifts again. Before Doug can react, I clip him on the top of his bracer, just below his elbow. He shouts the f-word and the whistle blows. My hit is registered, and Doug is warned about his language.

  Meanwhile, I’m noting that I hit him on his left arm. In this first bout, where we are both wielding a weapon with each of our hands, it’s not an issue. But I wonder if I clipped him enough to cause some pain for the next bout. He swore, so that tells me that it hurt. He’d never risk a warning otherwise—not even in anger. So it likely came from pain.

  I’ll use that to my advantage.

  But while I’m working it out, Doug comes at me again, pushing me back. I’m beating off his blows, but he’s not relenting in his offense. Soon he’s scored another hit, this time on the greaves of my armor, which covers my upper thigh. I note that he’s left a slight dent, though my padding underneath has protected me.

  After the flag lifts again, Doug starts with a low feint, pointing the tip of his sword directly at my codpiece, like he wants to chop my dick off. Asshole. I think it without actually saying it, fortunately.

  I swing low to push his sword away from my crotch, and he starts laughing loudly behind his helmet. This just pisses me off more, so I swing around in a wide arc to land on his favored arm, but he deflects it just in time.

  I’ve studied Doug’s style. Due to my ability to recall things in great detail, I can slow things down in my memory and analyze them. Therefore, I have a good handle on his strengths and weaknesses. His advantages are speed and short bursts of energy, while mine are stamina and consistency. Also, my hits land harder than his, so I beat him in the strength department, too.

  But my overanalysis of his approach has worked against me. I have anticipated a move and he makes a very convincing feint, only to quickly shift and swing up, landing a hit squarely in the middle of my chest piece. That’s his third, and now this first bout is over.

  Doug has won. For now.

  I inhale and close my eyes, taking a moment while Adam switches out my long sword for my buckler and one-handed sword. I don’t want to look at Jenna right now. I know what her worried face looks like, and I don’t want to see it. She’s thinking she might lose her tiara—that she shouldn’t have put her trust in me to win it for her.

  Doug is trying to rile the crowd again under the pretense of grabbing a drink from his water bottle, just like last time. Adam, on the other hand, is muttering encouragements to me. Neither one of them is helping the situation.

  I wish that I could erase the crowd—I don’t even want to look at them. Then I recall being at the mall last week, imagining the people as a rushing river of water. I imagined people in the lunchroom at work as a herd of animals, munching popcorn like those zebras or gazelles munched on dry savannah grass.

  It occurs to me that I do have the power to erase this crowd. I can tune them out and picture something else in their place. So instead of a roaring crowd, they suddenly become a roaring dragon. An evil beast that threatens to destroy the countryside. Doug is the dragon’s defender—a dark knight. And I have to get through Doug in order to defeat the dragon and save everyone. It’s actually a lot like playing D&D, except I have a sword in my hand instead of dice and a character sheet.

  With every bit of concentration and imagination that I have, I visualize that dragon, steam rising from its nostrils, claws scraping the air, wings generating a mighty wind that threatens to blow me back, were I not the strongest, bravest knight of the land.

  Pretend isn’t just a game for kids. I can do this, too. And I have to. Because she believes in me, and I will not let her down.

  I finger the red ribbon tied just below my cross-guard and focus all my attention on Doug as I wait for the referee to start the second round.

  I will prevail.

  When the fighting starts again, Doug becomes more and more winded and is practically wheezing through his helmet by the time I land my first blow. I’ve let him dance around and swing wildly for almost two full minutes, staying just out of his range. I step around him like a boxer and fend off his blows; I’ve become an impenetrable wall.

  When I finally land the blow—on his left elbow again—I can tell by the way he sucks in his breath that it hurt. This time, he at least has the self-control to curb his tongue. But I’ve struck his wielding arm with two good blows, and it’s going to weaken him. I wonder if I can sweep this round. I just need two more hits…

  Doug’s sword crashes down on my buckler the second the yellow flag between us is moved away. I shove it back toward him, forcing his arm at an uncomfortable angle, and he gives an audible grunt about a millisecond before I catch him on the side of the breastplate. Another hit for me.

  He does manage to get one hit in on me just before I land my third on him. I take the buckler round with ease, noting the minute it’s finished how he immediately drops his left arm and hands his sword off to his squire while we re-equip for the last round.

  I have a full-sized oblong shield—harder to wield due to weight, but provides more coverage. Doug wields his round shield, which looks much like his buckler, only bigger—complete with the heraldry, a rampant black lion on a field of red, poorly painted on it.

  I also note that he’s switched to his lighter sword for this round. It will be easier for him to maneuver, but that sword doesn’t have as long a reach. Therefore, I calculate that if I keep him at a distance, he will have difficulty reaching me in order to make a hit. So not only is my sword longer, but my shield’s coverage is superior. Together with the fact that he’s obviously favoring his wielding arm, I estimate that I have at least a three-to-one advantage on him. Possibly more, if I play this smart.

  Doug is no longer playing to the crowd as we face each other for the last time. We stare through our visors, yet are unable to see each other’s eyes. I briefly muse that it would be great if everyone wore helmets and visors in real life so that eye contact wouldn’t be as important to neurotypicals as it is now.

  The flag comes up and Doug charges at me with a roar. He gets close enough to crowd me, so I leverage my big shield against him, giving him a mighty shove. He’s thrown off balance, and having difficulty finding his footing, so he falls to a knee. I’m allowed to get in one hit in a case such as this—when the other knight has fallen. So I take the opportunity and sweep down on his shoulder with a harder-than-necessary hit. He rewards me with a grunt.

  That was for making her cry, douchebag.

  And I have plenty more where that came from. For making her worry about her tiara. For making her doubt herself and believe those horrible things you said to her.

  This third round will be all about payback—Doug has it coming to him.

  The yellow flag is again lowered between us, and I step back as Doug lumbers to his feet. He’s dropped his shield, and his squire scrambles to pull it out of the dust and settle it back on his right arm. Something occurs to me…since we are mirror opposites—because he’s left-handed and I’m right-handed—I can shove my shield against his to upset his balance again.

  The minute the flag comes up between us, I test this maneuver out on him. He is visibly shaken by it and steps back, lowering his weapon-bearing arm just slightly. Then he hesitates as if he’s trying to figure me out. So I use his uncertainty to my advantage, pushing forward again with a burst of speed he hasn’t seen from me before. I give him another shove, and this time, before he can find his footing, I acquire another hit.

  Doug throws down his weapon and the flag comes down again. One more hit and I will have swept him in the third bout. More importantly, the duel will be mine.

  His squire is pressing the sword back into his gauntlet, trying to encourage him. I can’t hear what they are saying, but Doug’s voice sounds tight, like he’s talking through his teeth. He’s no longer bothering to rile up the crowd.

  Oh yeah, the crowd. They’re still there, but I’ve completely forgotten about them.
I’m in the zone, a place I never could have imagined attaining—that place of ultimate focus, like when I’m painting in my studio or working at my forge.

  As the flag comes up again, it’s obvious that Doug’s anger has gotten the best of him. He’s swinging wildly, every way he can, chopping through the air, probably hoping to overwhelm me. In my focused state, I block each hit with either my shield or my sword, and in seconds I see my opening and take it, slamming the blade down near where his collarbone would be under his armor. My third hit.

  I’ve swept him in the final round, but suddenly the chinstrap on my helmet is feeling very tight. As the flag comes down and I’m declared the winner, I yank the chinstrap free to alleviate that feeling. I’m coming back from “the zone,” and I’m all too aware of the crowd again.

  Everyone is cheering loudly, waving their hands and stomping their feet. “Huzzah!” they shout, and the ground starts wavering beneath my feet. I turn toward Jenna to find her gaze, and our eyes meet through my visor before her head jerks to the side. She’s looking off to my right and her eyes widen. Before I can even guess what’s happening, a weight slams into me from behind, knocking me to my knees. “Stupid fucking retard!” I hear Doug yell, just as he lands a blow on my head, one that knocks my helmet completely off.

  I turn to see what’s happened, and now the refs and my cousin are on top of Doug, wrestling him to the ground as he continues to shout obscenities. I make a wobbling attempt to get back on my feet, but suddenly the world goes fuzzy and the ground feels like it’s buckling.

  There’s stickiness across my forehead and moisture running into my eyes, stinging them. I’m overheated, but it’s too much to just be sweat.

  And before I have another thought, everything goes black.

  Chapter 33

  Jenna

  The whole crowd gasped as we watched William go down. Instead of shaking hands and walking away like a gentleman, Doug had charged William the minute his back was turned…to look for me.

  My heart stopped as William fell over, lifeless, like a bag of sand. Blood streamed down his forehead and into his eyes. So much blood…

  And he wasn’t moving. He was as still as that bag of sand.

  With a curse, Mia jumped up from her spot beside me and hopped the short fence to run to him.

  But I couldn’t move. I was frozen where I sat, aware only of the racing heartbeat in my throat, the ice invading my limbs, the shallowness of my breathing.

  Absurd. That word once again invaded my thoughts, and I almost laughed—laughed—to stave off the cold panic.

  I tried to get up and follow after Mia, because somewhere in the midst of this strange, outside-of-myself sensation, I knew that’s what I should do. But my legs wouldn’t obey and my arms were like dead wood. The sounds of everyone around me echoed as if from a vast distance.

  I was in the middle of a dream—no, a nightmare—willing myself to wake up. Every cell in my body weighed more by a factor of at least a hundred, or maybe even a thousand.

  Mia and Adam crouched over William’s unconscious form. People in the crowd were on their feet, watching it all, discussing amongst themselves what had just happened. Mia cupped a hand around William’s neck and gently rolled him onto his back while checking his vital signs. Adam pulled out his cell phone, presumably to call 911.

  And all I could do was sit here and stare, as if I was watching a news report on TV.

  “Holy crap, what the hell just happened?” Alex said at my shoulder as the two refs dragged Doug out of the ring. Several people from the clan council quickly crowded around him just outside the arena.

  Someone ran up to Mia with what looked like a first aid kit, which she quickly sifted through before pulling out a package of gauze. As I watched her tend to William, saw the blood begin to soak through the white bandage, my numb fists knotted so tightly that my fingers cramped.

  I closed my eyes as a massive shudder wracked my body. My throat constricted at the recollection of that horrible night when Helena woke me up, sobbing, telling me there’d been an accident. That Brock had been killed.

  I wanted to cry, but no tears came. Everything within me was lifeless and cold as the Moon.

  Was it happening again? Could Fate really be this cruel?

  When I was six, Aunt Beti sat my sister and I down next to each other on the couch of the tiny apartment we lived in when we first came to the US. Mama and Papa were due to arrive next month, so I couldn’t imagine why Beti had tears in her eyes. I recalled her gripping her hands so tightly that the skin turned white, and I’d focused on them as she told us she had news.

  Papa would not be coming. He’d been hit by a sniper’s bullet on his way back from getting the water for the week. Beti said he’d been pulling the big tanks in a wagon behind him, like he did every week since the beginning days of the siege. There hadn’t been running water or electricity in Sarajevo for months—years.

  But I was six and I didn’t understand any of that. What I did understand was that I was never going to see my papa again. I’d never again hug him around his neck and feel his whiskers tickle me when he kissed me. I’d never listen to him tell me another one of those wild and outlandish bedtime stories. I’d never sneak another piece of halvi from him when Mama wasn’t looking. I’d never again get to look in his eyes.

  And I couldn’t even go back for his funeral.

  That night before bed when I said my prayers—the way Aunt Beti always told us to do—I told God I wouldn’t speak to Him again after that day. That I would always be angry at Him for taking my Papa away.

  But I wasn’t just angry at God. I’d polished that tiara and cried as I thought about Papa’s words to me—his promises that we’d all live together in America and be a family again.

  Lies.

  And here I was in the present, watching my future threatened yet again. As always, a helpless observer of my own life.

  I couldn’t breathe. And I couldn’t cry. I could only sit and stare, tracing the scattered threads of thought as they slipped through my mind.

  William was not coming to, despite Mia’s best efforts. In the distance, I picked up the faint sound of a siren. Paramedics.

  The blood was pooling around William’s head now. Mia applied pressure to the wound and appeared to be giving instructions to Adam.

  Alex nudged my arm. “They’ll let you ride with him to the hospital, I’m sure.”

  My nails dug into my palms, drawing blood. Adam was on his feet calling to Jordan, who hopped the fence and was beside them in seconds.

  By this time, the ambulance was already pulling into the parking lot, red lights ablaze.

  “Wow, they got here fast,” Alex said. “There must be a fire station nearby. The closest hospital is in Bakersfield, about thirty minutes away. I just checked it on my phone. We can follow them over.”

  I didn’t move. I didn’t answer her.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off the prone figure lying on the ground. After conferring with Adam, Jordan took off running toward the paramedics while Mia and Adam stayed with William.

  “Jenna, are you okay?” Alex asked, her voice squeaking.

  I shook my head, my hands clamping tighter around the seat beneath me. The paramedics wheeled in a stretcher and surrounded the figure lying in the dust. Everyone crowded the railing, gawking as they worked on William. Soon, they were strapping his head and neck to a board and putting him on the stretcher.

  “He’s coming to…I think he’s conscious!” Alex said. She stood up on tiptoes to look over the rest of the crowd. I buried my face in my hands, unable to look.

  I could hear Mia at the railing, calling up to her mom, informing her that she and Adam were going to ride in the ambulance to the hospital. I looked up as Adam threw his keys to Jordan. Then they were gone, following the stretcher to the parking lot and the waiting ambulance.

  The bleachers around us started to empty, everyone talking excitedly about what had happened. As far as I knew, there
were more events scheduled, but they had either been canceled or postponed to deal with William’s emergency. I even heard someone mention an impromptu clan council meeting, probably to address Doug’s asshole move. Maybe I should attend…or maybe I’d grab my stuff to—

  “Jenna!” Alex said loudly. I stood up, brushed off my skirt and started for my tent. She called out again, but instead of turning to face her, I kept walking in the opposite direction of the parking lot.

  A breeze blew and my cheeks were cold and wet. I marveled at that. Was I really crying? Tears trickled out of my eyes, but it didn’t feel like I was crying. I just felt freezing cold. Numb.

  Alex’s arm wrapped around my shoulder, attempting to redirect me toward the parking lot. “William will want to see you. Come on, we can follow them.”

  I shook my head, my unsteady legs pulling me back on my intended path. “Can you wait for me? I’m going to pack my bag and I’d like to go home.”

  She frowned at me. “Uh, did you two have a fight or something?”

  I shook, from my scalp to my toenails. But I remained silent, unable to talk about this with her…or anyone, for that matter. This pure, icy terror pulsing through my veins was muting everything. It was all I could think about, all I could feel.

  This powerful sense of loss. This pain. This panic.

  Brock can’t be dead. He’s not even eighteen years old! This isn’t fair. It’s not!

  I remembered the day they put him into that cold, hard ground at the cemetery. I’d fallen to my knees at his graveside and wept, wishing they could put me in there, too. It had been my fault. My fault. I hadn’t driven him home from the party. Josh had—and Josh had had too much to drink.

  And now here was William, injured and possibly permanently impaired because of me. He would never have been fighting the second duel if it hadn’t been for me…

  What if he had a concussion, or worse, a brain injury? What if he was hemorrhaging? What if…

  But William won the fight. It’s not fair. It’s not!