Turning Point 20
The buzzer ripped through the arena like a blade.
Kael’s team stood frozen at the edge of the court, their salvaged gear looking like garbage next to the Vipers’ chrome exosuits. The glass beneath their feet was so clear it seemed like they were standing on nothing—a hundred feet of empty air between them and the concrete floor below. The crowd above them was a blur of white faces and flashing jewelry, their cheers muffled by the thick arena walls.
Ryn was the first to move. She stepped onto the court, her skates scraping against the reinforced crystal. The sound echoed through the arena like a gunshot. The crowd went quiet for half a second, then erupted into laughter. Someone in the front row shouted, “Look at their shoes! Did they steal those from a dumpster?”
Spin flipped them off without turning around.
Kael followed Ryn onto the court, his ribs screaming under the fishing line stitches. He’d taped a pad over the wound, but every breath felt like a knife twisting deeper. He kept his face blank. The Vipers were already in position, their chrome suits humming with hydraulics, their helmets reflecting the arena lights like mirrors. Their star player, a man named Dravin with neural implants visible through his shaved scalp, stood at center court, arms crossed, grinning.
“Voss,” Dravin said, his voice amplified by his helmet’s speaker. “I watched your old matches. You were good. Shame about the fix.”
Kael didn’t answer. He walked to the sideline and picked up the team’s only ball—a scuffed leather sphere with duct tape wrapped around the seams. He tossed it to Ryn. She caught it one-handed, her fingers finding the grip points without looking.
The referee, a thin man in a black suit, stepped to center court. He held up a coin. “Vipers call it.”
“Heads,” Dravin said.
The coin flipped, spun, landed. Heads.
“Vipers choose possession,” the referee said.
Dravin pointed at Ryn. “We want her to start with the ball. I want to take it from her personally.”
The crowd laughed again. Ryn’s face didn’t change. She walked to the center circle, the ball tucked under her arm. Brick and Mira took their positions on the wings. Spin crouched at the back, his fingers twitching, ready to intercept. Pip stood at the edge of the court, her eyes scanning the Vipers’ formation, her lips moving silently as she calculated trajectories.
Kael knelt on the sideline, his hands on his knees, his eyes locked on the court. The medic had told him the Vipers’ dampeners were set to lethal levels. One hit to the head could kill a player. He’d told the team before they walked out. They’d nodded like they were agreeing to a weather report.
The buzzer sounded again. The match began.
Ryn passed the ball to Spin. He dribbled twice, then tried to pass to Mira. The ball never reached her. Dravin intercepted it mid-air, his chrome suit whining as he pivoted, his arm cocking back. He threw the ball at the goal with a force that made the glass shudder. The ball slammed through the net before Mira could even raise her hands.
One-zero, Vipers.
The crowd roared. Kael’s team reset. Ryn took the ball again, this time keeping it close, her eyes scanning for an opening. She faked left, then drove right. Dravin met her at the three-point line. He didn’t even try to block her—he just stood there, his arms spread, his grin wide. Ryn tried to jump past him. Her legs felt like lead. The dampeners were already working, slowing her reflexes, making her muscles scream with the effort of moving through invisible syrup.
She shot anyway. The ball arced, wobbled, and clanged off the rim. Brick grabbed the rebound, but a Viper player slammed into him from behind. Brick stumbled, his feet sliding on the glass. He caught himself, but the ball was gone. Another Viper scored.
Two-zero.
Kael stood up. “Time out,” he shouted.
The referee blew his whistle. “Time out, Undercity.”
The team gathered around Kael, their chests heaving, their faces slick with sweat. Ryn’s hands were shaking. Spin was hyperventilating. Mira’s prosthetic leg was clicking with every step, the junkyard socket grinding against her stump.
“They’re too fast,” Spin said. “I can’t—my hands won’t move fast enough.”
“It’s the dampeners,” Mira said. “I can feel them. Like someone turned up gravity.”
Kael looked at each of them. Then he looked at Pip. She was standing apart from the group, her eyes fixed on the Vipers’ formation, her fingers tracing patterns in the air.
“Pip,” Kael said. “What do you see?”
She blinked, as if waking from a trance. “They’re predictable. Dravin always passes to the left after a rebound. The tall one on the right—he telegraphs his shots. He looks at the goal before he throws.”
“That’s good,” Kael said. “That’s useful. But we can’t react fast enough to use it.”
“Then don’t react,” Pip said. “Predict.”
Kael stared at her. Then he turned to the team. “Close your eyes.”
“What?” Spin said.
“Close your eyes. All of you.”
Ryn closed hers first. Then Brick. Then Mira. Spin hesitated, then followed. Pip kept hers open, watching.
“You know this court,” Kael said. “You’ve played on glass your whole lives. You know the sound it makes when it’s about to crack. You know the feel of a shatter zone under your feet. You know each other’s movements—the way Ryn breathes before she passes, the way Brick grunts when he jumps, the way Spin’s fingers tap when he’s about to steal.”
He paused. The crowd was jeering, the Vipers were laughing, the referee was tapping his watch.
“Trust the muscle,” Kael said. “Not the brain. The brain is slow. The muscle remembers. When the dampeners hit, don’t think. Just move. Let your body do what it knows.”
Ryn opened her eyes. She looked at Kael. “And if we fall?”
“Then you fall,” Kael said. “But you fall moving forward.”
The buzzer sounded. The team returned to the court. The Vipers were already in position, Dravin at center, his arms crossed, his grin wider than before.
“Ready to lose?” he said.
Ryn didn’t answer. She took the ball, dribbled once, and closed her eyes.
The crowd laughed. Dravin’s grin faltered. He lunged at her, his chrome suit whining. Ryn didn’t see him. She didn’t need to. She heard his footsteps—the way the glass vibrated under his weight, the way his suit hissed with every stride. She sidestepped, felt the air where his arm had been, and passed the ball blind to Brick.
Brick caught it without opening his eyes. He pivoted, felt the glass beneath his feet, and passed to Spin. Spin caught it, his fingers finding the seams by memory, and shot. The ball arced, spun, and swished through the net.
Two-one.
The crowd went silent. Then a single clap echoed from the upper deck. Then another. Then a ripple of applause.
Dravin’s face twisted. He turned to the sideline, where his coach—Voss, Kael’s ex-wife—stood with her arms crossed. She nodded once. Dravin touched his helmet, and the dampeners hummed louder.
Ryn felt it immediately. Her legs turned to concrete. Her arms felt like they were wrapped in wet blankets. She tried to dribble, but the ball felt like it weighed fifty pounds. Dravin stole it from her, drove to the goal, and scored.
Three-one.
Kael’s team reset. Ryn took the ball again, her eyes still closed, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She passed to Mira. Mira’s prosthetic leg buckled under the weight of the dampeners. She stumbled, fell, and slid across the glass. The ball rolled away. A Viper scooped it up and scored.
Four-one.
The crowd was laughing again. Kael’s team was falling apart. Brick was swaying on his feet, his face pale, his heart condition straining against the dampeners’ pressure. Spin was on his knees, his hands trembling. Pip was still standing, but her eyes were wide, her calculations failing as the dampeners warped her predictions.
Kael looked at the scoreboard. First quarter, five minutes left. Twenty-zero.
He stepped onto the court.
The referee blew his whistle. “Coach, you’re not allowed on the court during play.”
“I’m not playing,” Kael said. “I’m coaching from the court.”
The referee looked at the rulebook in his hand, flipped through it, and shrugged. “No rule against it.”
Kael walked to center court. The crowd booed. The announcer’s voice boomed through the arena: “That’s Kael Voss, former champion, lifetime ban for match-fixing. He’s not allowed to play, but apparently he can stand there and watch his team get slaughtered.”
Kael ignored them. He stood next to Ryn, his hand on her shoulder. “You feel it?”
“Like drowning,” she said.
“Good. Now listen.”
He tapped his chest once. Then twice. Then three times. The team looked at him. He pointed at Brick, then at the goal. He pointed at Spin, then at the floor. He pointed at Mira, then at the Vipers’ formation.
They understood.
The buzzer sounded. Ryn took the ball, her eyes still closed. Kael tapped his chest once. She passed to Brick. Kael tapped twice. Brick passed to Spin. Kael tapped three times. Spin passed to Mira. Mira shot, her prosthetic leg screaming, the ball arcing through the air and slamming through the net.
Four-two.
The crowd gasped. The Vipers looked confused. Dravin turned to his coach. Voss shook her head. She touched her earpiece, and the dampeners hummed louder.
Kael tapped his chest again. The team moved like a single organism, their eyes closed, their bodies responding to his signals. Ryn stole the ball. Brick blocked a shot. Spin intercepted a pass. Mira scored again.
Four-three.
The crowd was on their feet now, the elites in silk suits cheering for the undercity rats. The Vipers were panicking, their chrome suits whining as they tried to keep up. Dravin was screaming at his teammates, his face red, his implants glowing.
Kael kept tapping. The team kept moving. The score climbed. Four-four. Four-five. Five-five. Six-five.
The first quarter ended. The score was eight-seven, Vipers.
The team gathered around Kael, their chests heaving, their faces slick with sweat, but their eyes alive. Ryn was grinning. Brick was laughing. Spin was dancing on his skates. Mira was adjusting her prosthetic, her hands steady.
“We’re winning,” Pip said, her voice small.
“No,” Kael said. “We’re surviving. Winning comes later.”
He looked at the scoreboard. Eight-seven. Twenty points behind at the start, now within one. The Vipers were rattled. The dampeners were still active, but the team had learned to move through them, to trust the muscle, to let the body remember.
But Kael knew it wasn’t enough. The dampeners would get worse. The Vipers would adjust. And his team was already exhausted.
He looked at Ryn. “You ready for the second quarter?”
She nodded. “I’m ready.”
“Good,” Kael said. “Because they’re going to target you. Dravin wants to break you.”
“Let him try.”
The buzzer sounded. The second quarter began. The Vipers came out swinging, their dampeners cranked to max, their chrome suits glowing with heat. Dravin charged at Ryn, his shoulder lowered, his eyes locked on her chest.
Kael tapped his chest twice. Ryn sidestepped, but the dampeners slowed her. Dravin clipped her shoulder, sending her spinning across the glass. She hit the floor hard, her skates scraping, her head snapping back.
The crowd gasped. Kael ran to her. “Ryn. Ryn, get up.”
She didn’t move.
The referee blew his whistle. “Medical timeout.”
The medic ran onto the court, his bag bouncing against his hip. He knelt next to Ryn, checked her pulse, her pupils, her neck. “She’s concussed. She can’t play.”
“She can,” Kael said.
“She can’t. One more hit and she’s done for the season. Maybe longer.”
Kael looked at Ryn. Her eyes were open, unfocused, her lips moving silently. She was trying to get up, but her arms wouldn’t hold her.
“Take her off,” Kael said.
The medic lifted her, carried her to the sideline. The team watched, their faces pale, their hands shaking. They were down to four players. The Vipers had six.
Dravin stood at center court, his arms spread, his grin wide. “Looks like your star is out, Voss. What now?”
Kael looked at his team. Brick, his heart condition straining. Spin, his hands trembling. Mira, her prosthetic leg clicking. Pip, her eyes wide, her calculations failing.
He looked at the scoreboard. Eight-seven, Vipers. Twenty minutes left.
He stepped onto the court.
“I’m playing,” he said.
The referee shook his head. “You’re banned. Lifetime.”
“I’m not playing for the league,” Kael said. “I’m playing for my team. That’s not in the rulebook.”
The referee looked at the rulebook again. He flipped through it, his brow furrowed. “There’s no rule against a banned player participating in an exhibition match.”
“This isn’t an exhibition,” Kael said. “This is the final.”
“The rulebook doesn’t distinguish.”
Kael turned to the crowd. “You want to see a slaughter? You want to see the undercity rats get crushed? Fine. But you’re going to watch me die trying.”
He pulled off his jacket. Underneath, he was wearing his old league jersey—faded, torn, stained with sweat and blood and regret. The crowd went silent. The announcer’s voice boomed: “That’s Kael Voss, wearing his old jersey. The same jersey he wore when he threw the match. The same jersey that got him banned.”
Kael walked to center court. He looked at Dravin. “You wanted to break her. You broke me instead. Congratulations.”
Dravin’s grin faltered. “You’re old. You’re broken. You’re nothing.”
“Maybe,” Kael said. “But I’m still standing.”
The buzzer sounded. The second quarter resumed. Kael took the ball, his ribs screaming, his stitches pulling, his hands shaking. He dribbled once, twice, three times. The dampeners hit him like a wall, slowing his movements, making his muscles burn.
He didn’t stop.
He drove at Dravin, his eyes locked on the goal, his body moving on memory. Dravin lunged. Kael sidestepped, felt the air where Dravin’s arm had been, and shot. The ball arced, spun, and swished through the net.
Eight-eight.
The crowd erupted. Kael’s team cheered. Dravin screamed in frustration.
Kael turned to his team. “We’re not done yet.”
The second quarter continued. Kael played like a man possessed, his body moving on instinct, his mind blank, his heart pounding. He scored again. And again. And again. The score climbed. Ten-eight. Twelve-ten. Fifteen-fourteen.
The Vipers were rattled. Dravin was furious. He charged at Kael, his chrome suit whining, his shoulder lowered. Kael saw it coming. He didn’t dodge. He stood his ground, his feet planted, his arms spread.
Dravin hit him like a freight train.
Kael flew backward, his ribs cracking, his stitches tearing, his head snapping back. He hit the glass hard, the impact sending spiderwebs across the surface. The crowd gasped. The referee blew his whistle.
Kael lay on the glass, blood pooling under his head, his vision fading. He heard Ryn screaming his name. He heard Brick roaring. He heard the crowd chanting.
He tried to get up. His arms wouldn’t hold him. His legs wouldn’t move. He looked at the scoreboard. Fifteen-fourteen, Vipers. Five minutes left in the second quarter.
He closed his eyes.
And then he heard it. A voice, soft and familiar, whispering in his ear. His sister’s voice. “Get up, Kael. You’re not done yet.”
He opened his eyes. He pushed himself to his knees. He stood.
The crowd went silent.
Kael wiped the blood from his mouth. He looked at Dravin. “Is that all you’ve got?”
Dravin’s face went pale. He stepped back, his hands shaking.
Kael turned to his team. “We’re not done yet.”
The buzzer sounded. The second quarter continued. Kael played through the pain, through the blood, through the dampeners. He scored. He blocked. He stole. He passed.
The score climbed. Sixteen-fifteen. Eighteen-seventeen. Twenty-nineteen.
The second quarter ended. The score was twenty-twenty.
Kael’s team gathered around him, their faces exhausted, their bodies broken, but their eyes alive. Ryn was standing now, her head wrapped in a bandage, her skates clicking on the glass.
“You’re bleeding,” she said.
“I know,” Kael said.
“You’re going to die.”
“Probably.”
She smiled. “Good. Then we’ll die together.”
The buzzer sounded. The third quarter began.
Kael’s team stood frozen at the edge of the court, their salvaged gear looking like garbage next to the Vipers’ chrome exosuits. The glass beneath their feet was so clear it seemed like they were standing on nothing—a hundred feet of empty air between them and the concrete floor below. The crowd above them was a blur of white faces and flashing jewelry, their cheers muffled by the thick arena walls.
Ryn was the first to move. She stepped onto the court, her skates scraping against the reinforced crystal. The sound echoed through the arena like a gunshot. The crowd went quiet for half a second, then erupted into laughter. Someone in the front row shouted, “Look at their shoes! Did they steal those from a dumpster?”
Spin flipped them off without turning around.
Kael followed Ryn onto the court, his ribs screaming under the fishing line stitches. He’d taped a pad over the wound, but every breath felt like a knife twisting deeper. He kept his face blank. The Vipers were already in position, their chrome suits humming with hydraulics, their helmets reflecting the arena lights like mirrors. Their star player, a man named Dravin with neural implants visible through his shaved scalp, stood at center court, arms crossed, grinning.
“Voss,” Dravin said, his voice amplified by his helmet’s speaker. “I watched your old matches. You were good. Shame about the fix.”
Kael didn’t answer. He walked to the sideline and picked up the team’s only ball—a scuffed leather sphere with duct tape wrapped around the seams. He tossed it to Ryn. She caught it one-handed, her fingers finding the grip points without looking.
The referee, a thin man in a black suit, stepped to center court. He held up a coin. “Vipers call it.”
“Heads,” Dravin said.
The coin flipped, spun, landed. Heads.
“Vipers choose possession,” the referee said.
Dravin pointed at Ryn. “We want her to start with the ball. I want to take it from her personally.”
The crowd laughed again. Ryn’s face didn’t change. She walked to the center circle, the ball tucked under her arm. Brick and Mira took their positions on the wings. Spin crouched at the back, his fingers twitching, ready to intercept. Pip stood at the edge of the court, her eyes scanning the Vipers’ formation, her lips moving silently as she calculated trajectories.
Kael knelt on the sideline, his hands on his knees, his eyes locked on the court. The medic had told him the Vipers’ dampeners were set to lethal levels. One hit to the head could kill a player. He’d told the team before they walked out. They’d nodded like they were agreeing to a weather report.
The buzzer sounded again. The match began.
Ryn passed the ball to Spin. He dribbled twice, then tried to pass to Mira. The ball never reached her. Dravin intercepted it mid-air, his chrome suit whining as he pivoted, his arm cocking back. He threw the ball at the goal with a force that made the glass shudder. The ball slammed through the net before Mira could even raise her hands.
One-zero, Vipers.
The crowd roared. Kael’s team reset. Ryn took the ball again, this time keeping it close, her eyes scanning for an opening. She faked left, then drove right. Dravin met her at the three-point line. He didn’t even try to block her—he just stood there, his arms spread, his grin wide. Ryn tried to jump past him. Her legs felt like lead. The dampeners were already working, slowing her reflexes, making her muscles scream with the effort of moving through invisible syrup.
She shot anyway. The ball arced, wobbled, and clanged off the rim. Brick grabbed the rebound, but a Viper player slammed into him from behind. Brick stumbled, his feet sliding on the glass. He caught himself, but the ball was gone. Another Viper scored.
Two-zero.
Kael stood up. “Time out,” he shouted.
The referee blew his whistle. “Time out, Undercity.”
The team gathered around Kael, their chests heaving, their faces slick with sweat. Ryn’s hands were shaking. Spin was hyperventilating. Mira’s prosthetic leg was clicking with every step, the junkyard socket grinding against her stump.
“They’re too fast,” Spin said. “I can’t—my hands won’t move fast enough.”
“It’s the dampeners,” Mira said. “I can feel them. Like someone turned up gravity.”
Kael looked at each of them. Then he looked at Pip. She was standing apart from the group, her eyes fixed on the Vipers’ formation, her fingers tracing patterns in the air.
“Pip,” Kael said. “What do you see?”
She blinked, as if waking from a trance. “They’re predictable. Dravin always passes to the left after a rebound. The tall one on the right—he telegraphs his shots. He looks at the goal before he throws.”
“That’s good,” Kael said. “That’s useful. But we can’t react fast enough to use it.”
“Then don’t react,” Pip said. “Predict.”
Kael stared at her. Then he turned to the team. “Close your eyes.”
“What?” Spin said.
“Close your eyes. All of you.”
Ryn closed hers first. Then Brick. Then Mira. Spin hesitated, then followed. Pip kept hers open, watching.
“You know this court,” Kael said. “You’ve played on glass your whole lives. You know the sound it makes when it’s about to crack. You know the feel of a shatter zone under your feet. You know each other’s movements—the way Ryn breathes before she passes, the way Brick grunts when he jumps, the way Spin’s fingers tap when he’s about to steal.”
He paused. The crowd was jeering, the Vipers were laughing, the referee was tapping his watch.
“Trust the muscle,” Kael said. “Not the brain. The brain is slow. The muscle remembers. When the dampeners hit, don’t think. Just move. Let your body do what it knows.”
Ryn opened her eyes. She looked at Kael. “And if we fall?”
“Then you fall,” Kael said. “But you fall moving forward.”
The buzzer sounded. The team returned to the court. The Vipers were already in position, Dravin at center, his arms crossed, his grin wider than before.
“Ready to lose?” he said.
Ryn didn’t answer. She took the ball, dribbled once, and closed her eyes.
The crowd laughed. Dravin’s grin faltered. He lunged at her, his chrome suit whining. Ryn didn’t see him. She didn’t need to. She heard his footsteps—the way the glass vibrated under his weight, the way his suit hissed with every stride. She sidestepped, felt the air where his arm had been, and passed the ball blind to Brick.
Brick caught it without opening his eyes. He pivoted, felt the glass beneath his feet, and passed to Spin. Spin caught it, his fingers finding the seams by memory, and shot. The ball arced, spun, and swished through the net.
Two-one.
The crowd went silent. Then a single clap echoed from the upper deck. Then another. Then a ripple of applause.
Dravin’s face twisted. He turned to the sideline, where his coach—Voss, Kael’s ex-wife—stood with her arms crossed. She nodded once. Dravin touched his helmet, and the dampeners hummed louder.
Ryn felt it immediately. Her legs turned to concrete. Her arms felt like they were wrapped in wet blankets. She tried to dribble, but the ball felt like it weighed fifty pounds. Dravin stole it from her, drove to the goal, and scored.
Three-one.
Kael’s team reset. Ryn took the ball again, her eyes still closed, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She passed to Mira. Mira’s prosthetic leg buckled under the weight of the dampeners. She stumbled, fell, and slid across the glass. The ball rolled away. A Viper scooped it up and scored.
Four-one.
The crowd was laughing again. Kael’s team was falling apart. Brick was swaying on his feet, his face pale, his heart condition straining against the dampeners’ pressure. Spin was on his knees, his hands trembling. Pip was still standing, but her eyes were wide, her calculations failing as the dampeners warped her predictions.
Kael looked at the scoreboard. First quarter, five minutes left. Twenty-zero.
He stepped onto the court.
The referee blew his whistle. “Coach, you’re not allowed on the court during play.”
“I’m not playing,” Kael said. “I’m coaching from the court.”
The referee looked at the rulebook in his hand, flipped through it, and shrugged. “No rule against it.”
Kael walked to center court. The crowd booed. The announcer’s voice boomed through the arena: “That’s Kael Voss, former champion, lifetime ban for match-fixing. He’s not allowed to play, but apparently he can stand there and watch his team get slaughtered.”
Kael ignored them. He stood next to Ryn, his hand on her shoulder. “You feel it?”
“Like drowning,” she said.
“Good. Now listen.”
He tapped his chest once. Then twice. Then three times. The team looked at him. He pointed at Brick, then at the goal. He pointed at Spin, then at the floor. He pointed at Mira, then at the Vipers’ formation.
They understood.
The buzzer sounded. Ryn took the ball, her eyes still closed. Kael tapped his chest once. She passed to Brick. Kael tapped twice. Brick passed to Spin. Kael tapped three times. Spin passed to Mira. Mira shot, her prosthetic leg screaming, the ball arcing through the air and slamming through the net.
Four-two.
The crowd gasped. The Vipers looked confused. Dravin turned to his coach. Voss shook her head. She touched her earpiece, and the dampeners hummed louder.
Kael tapped his chest again. The team moved like a single organism, their eyes closed, their bodies responding to his signals. Ryn stole the ball. Brick blocked a shot. Spin intercepted a pass. Mira scored again.
Four-three.
The crowd was on their feet now, the elites in silk suits cheering for the undercity rats. The Vipers were panicking, their chrome suits whining as they tried to keep up. Dravin was screaming at his teammates, his face red, his implants glowing.
Kael kept tapping. The team kept moving. The score climbed. Four-four. Four-five. Five-five. Six-five.
The first quarter ended. The score was eight-seven, Vipers.
The team gathered around Kael, their chests heaving, their faces slick with sweat, but their eyes alive. Ryn was grinning. Brick was laughing. Spin was dancing on his skates. Mira was adjusting her prosthetic, her hands steady.
“We’re winning,” Pip said, her voice small.
“No,” Kael said. “We’re surviving. Winning comes later.”
He looked at the scoreboard. Eight-seven. Twenty points behind at the start, now within one. The Vipers were rattled. The dampeners were still active, but the team had learned to move through them, to trust the muscle, to let the body remember.
But Kael knew it wasn’t enough. The dampeners would get worse. The Vipers would adjust. And his team was already exhausted.
He looked at Ryn. “You ready for the second quarter?”
She nodded. “I’m ready.”
“Good,” Kael said. “Because they’re going to target you. Dravin wants to break you.”
“Let him try.”
The buzzer sounded. The second quarter began. The Vipers came out swinging, their dampeners cranked to max, their chrome suits glowing with heat. Dravin charged at Ryn, his shoulder lowered, his eyes locked on her chest.
Kael tapped his chest twice. Ryn sidestepped, but the dampeners slowed her. Dravin clipped her shoulder, sending her spinning across the glass. She hit the floor hard, her skates scraping, her head snapping back.
The crowd gasped. Kael ran to her. “Ryn. Ryn, get up.”
She didn’t move.
The referee blew his whistle. “Medical timeout.”
The medic ran onto the court, his bag bouncing against his hip. He knelt next to Ryn, checked her pulse, her pupils, her neck. “She’s concussed. She can’t play.”
“She can,” Kael said.
“She can’t. One more hit and she’s done for the season. Maybe longer.”
Kael looked at Ryn. Her eyes were open, unfocused, her lips moving silently. She was trying to get up, but her arms wouldn’t hold her.
“Take her off,” Kael said.
The medic lifted her, carried her to the sideline. The team watched, their faces pale, their hands shaking. They were down to four players. The Vipers had six.
Dravin stood at center court, his arms spread, his grin wide. “Looks like your star is out, Voss. What now?”
Kael looked at his team. Brick, his heart condition straining. Spin, his hands trembling. Mira, her prosthetic leg clicking. Pip, her eyes wide, her calculations failing.
He looked at the scoreboard. Eight-seven, Vipers. Twenty minutes left.
He stepped onto the court.
“I’m playing,” he said.
The referee shook his head. “You’re banned. Lifetime.”
“I’m not playing for the league,” Kael said. “I’m playing for my team. That’s not in the rulebook.”
The referee looked at the rulebook again. He flipped through it, his brow furrowed. “There’s no rule against a banned player participating in an exhibition match.”
“This isn’t an exhibition,” Kael said. “This is the final.”
“The rulebook doesn’t distinguish.”
Kael turned to the crowd. “You want to see a slaughter? You want to see the undercity rats get crushed? Fine. But you’re going to watch me die trying.”
He pulled off his jacket. Underneath, he was wearing his old league jersey—faded, torn, stained with sweat and blood and regret. The crowd went silent. The announcer’s voice boomed: “That’s Kael Voss, wearing his old jersey. The same jersey he wore when he threw the match. The same jersey that got him banned.”
Kael walked to center court. He looked at Dravin. “You wanted to break her. You broke me instead. Congratulations.”
Dravin’s grin faltered. “You’re old. You’re broken. You’re nothing.”
“Maybe,” Kael said. “But I’m still standing.”
The buzzer sounded. The second quarter resumed. Kael took the ball, his ribs screaming, his stitches pulling, his hands shaking. He dribbled once, twice, three times. The dampeners hit him like a wall, slowing his movements, making his muscles burn.
He didn’t stop.
He drove at Dravin, his eyes locked on the goal, his body moving on memory. Dravin lunged. Kael sidestepped, felt the air where Dravin’s arm had been, and shot. The ball arced, spun, and swished through the net.
Eight-eight.
The crowd erupted. Kael’s team cheered. Dravin screamed in frustration.
Kael turned to his team. “We’re not done yet.”
The second quarter continued. Kael played like a man possessed, his body moving on instinct, his mind blank, his heart pounding. He scored again. And again. And again. The score climbed. Ten-eight. Twelve-ten. Fifteen-fourteen.
The Vipers were rattled. Dravin was furious. He charged at Kael, his chrome suit whining, his shoulder lowered. Kael saw it coming. He didn’t dodge. He stood his ground, his feet planted, his arms spread.
Dravin hit him like a freight train.
Kael flew backward, his ribs cracking, his stitches tearing, his head snapping back. He hit the glass hard, the impact sending spiderwebs across the surface. The crowd gasped. The referee blew his whistle.
Kael lay on the glass, blood pooling under his head, his vision fading. He heard Ryn screaming his name. He heard Brick roaring. He heard the crowd chanting.
He tried to get up. His arms wouldn’t hold him. His legs wouldn’t move. He looked at the scoreboard. Fifteen-fourteen, Vipers. Five minutes left in the second quarter.
He closed his eyes.
And then he heard it. A voice, soft and familiar, whispering in his ear. His sister’s voice. “Get up, Kael. You’re not done yet.”
He opened his eyes. He pushed himself to his knees. He stood.
The crowd went silent.
Kael wiped the blood from his mouth. He looked at Dravin. “Is that all you’ve got?”
Dravin’s face went pale. He stepped back, his hands shaking.
Kael turned to his team. “We’re not done yet.”
The buzzer sounded. The second quarter continued. Kael played through the pain, through the blood, through the dampeners. He scored. He blocked. He stole. He passed.
The score climbed. Sixteen-fifteen. Eighteen-seventeen. Twenty-nineteen.
The second quarter ended. The score was twenty-twenty.
Kael’s team gathered around him, their faces exhausted, their bodies broken, but their eyes alive. Ryn was standing now, her head wrapped in a bandage, her skates clicking on the glass.
“You’re bleeding,” she said.
“I know,” Kael said.
“You’re going to die.”
“Probably.”
She smiled. “Good. Then we’ll die together.”
The buzzer sounded. The third quarter began.