Chapter 73 STAR QUARTERBACK
MERRIELYNN.
I stepped out of the locker room and my mind was a mess of emotions.
Everything suddenly felt too loud—the cheers, the clapping, the stomp of feet against the metal bleachers.
I barely registered the buzz of the crowd or the chill of the evening air against my skin. My eyes roamed around as I searched for a familiar face.
There she was—Emorie, right by the sidelines, her camera strap slung over one shoulder. She caught sight of me and waved me over.
“How do you feel?” she asked when I came to stand next to her.
I grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the crowd, toward a quieter corner near the edge of the bleachers. My heart was pounding, and I knew I needed to get this out before I exploded.
“Emorie, listen,” I started. “It’s about Cormac.”
She tilted her head, eyes sharp. “What about him?
I took a shaky breath. “I just saw him in the locker room drinking something. It was some kind of elixir. Something to suppress his wolf.”
Her eyes widened. “What? Why would he—”
“Because he’s in a rut,” I cut in. “Since we didn’t…” I swallowed hard. “He’s been taking that elixir to stay in control. That’s why he’s been so distant. He thinks he’s doing me a favor.”
Emorie’s mouth fell open, then snapped shut. She blinked rapidly, like she was processing a million thoughts at once. “Holy crap,” she whispered. “That’s intense.”
I nodded in agreement. “He’s hurting himself because he thinks I don’t want to go through with it. But... I don’t mind anymore, Emorie..”
Em’s eyes searched my face. “So... what did you do?”
“I told him we’re putting the deal back on. I’m not letting him keep doing this to himself.” My voice shook, but I had already made up my mind. “We’re going to go through with it.”
Emorie let out a slow breath, her expression caught between surprise and admiration. “And you’re sure you’re ready for this?”
I met her gaze and slowly nodded. “I was ready the first time.”
Her face broke into a slow smile. “You care about him, don’t you?”
Before I could respond, the roar of the crowd swelled around us, swallowing our conversation whole. The sharp blast of the referee's whistle signaled the start of the game, and I felt the energy in the air.
Emorie and I exchanged a glance, ready to get back to work. She lifted her camera, snapping shots as the players ran across the field. I tightened my grip on the clipboard, jotting down quick notes: key plays, crowd reactions, anything that might make a solid story.
For a while, we lost ourselves in the rhythm of the game, but that was before everything went sideways.
We heard the whistle and I looked up just in time to see one of Pinnthorpe’s players fall to the ground, clutching his ankle.
The player who’d fouled him from the opposing team stood a few feet away, barely looking apologetic.
A wave of boos swept through the crowd, with worry and anger brewing fast
The injured player was helped off the field while in pain. Emorie leaned in, almost yelling. “Did you see that hit? Looked intentional.”
I nodded, feeling uneasy. “Yeah. That was brutal.”
The referee made a few half-hearted gestures, but the game continued. The crowd settled reluctantly, and we got back to work.
Minutes passed. The game was a blur of movement and tension. Then it happened again.
A sharp clash, a yell of pain, and suddenly, our goalie was down, clutching his shoulder.
This time, the outrage was immediate and deafening. Boos erupted like a wave, drowning out everything else. People jumped to their feet, shouting at the refs, at the opposing team, at anyone who would listen.
“What the hell is going on?” Emorie muttered, lowering her camera to look at the chaos.
I glanced down at the sidelines. The coach was pacing, his face strained. Then I saw Valtor. He was sweating, and he looked frustrated, one hand on his hip as he walked over to our coach.
“Oh, this can’t be good.”
We watched as Valtor spoke, gesticulating wildly. Our coach was nodding with furrowed brows, but whatever Valtor was saying didn’t seem to be helping. His movements grew sharper, and I could practically feel the tension rolling off him.
“What do you think they’re talking about?” I asked Emorie.
“Probably trying to figure out how to stop our team from getting slaughtered out there,” Emorie replied grimly.
Valtor raked a hand through his hair, looking at the injured players on the bench.
“They need to do something,” I whispered. “Before someone gets seriously hurt.”
Emorie nodded, her fingers tightening around her camera. “Yeah. But whatever they’re planning... it better happen fast.”
The headmaster glanced up toward the stands where the headmaster sat, his expression lined with stress. The headmaster was obviously concerned, and the coach soon pulled him aside to have a quick chat.
We watched them exchange a few words but we couldn’t hear anything. The headmaster’s mouth thinned, but he gave a curt nod. The coach turned on his heel and stormed back toward the bench, his jaw clenched like he was holding back a yell.
Then, suddenly, he did yell.
“Someone get me Graves, now!”
The players on the bench jolted to attention, but when Valtor stepped forward, eager to spring into action, the coach shut him down with a glare.
“Not you, Medrin,” he snapped, pointing at another player—a lanky guy with wide eyes. The coach snapped his fingers, and the boy scurried off.
Emorie and I exchanged a look.
“They’re calling in Chaos,” she murmured.
I nodded, my throat dry.
We both turned our eyes to the entrance of the locker rooms, and every second dragged, stretching out the wait until it was unbearable.
And then, finally, he came out.
Cormac stepped out in full gear, his helmet under one arm, his jersey hugging the lines of his shoulders. The sight of him made the crowd scream. For a heartbeat, there was silence—a collective breath held in suspense.
Then the cheers exploded.
The stands shook with the force of it, the noise rolling over us. People screamed his name, clapped, stomped their feet. The sheer volume was dizzying, a pulse that shot through my veins and made my heart race.
“There he is,” Emorie said, her voice almost lost in the roar.
He didn’t look up at the crowd as he jogged toward the field.
I took a shaky breath, my fingers gripping my clipboard tightly. Whatever happened next, the game was in his hands now.
Within the first two minutes, Cormac sliced through the opposing team’s defenses and slammed the ball into the net.
A deafening cheer erupted around me.
“First goal!” Emorie yelled beside me, punching the air. My heart was a wild drumbeat, and I felt a sense of pride.
Barely a breath later, he did it again. Cormac intercepted a sloppy pass and sprinted up the field with impossible speed. The goalie barely twitched before the ball whizzed past him, slamming into the net. The scoreboard blinked, showing 2-0, and the crowd lost their minds. I could barely hear my own thoughts over the roar.
“That’s two!” Emorie shrieked, bouncing on her toes.
I couldn’t take my eyes off Cormac. He was killing it! He was the heartbeat of the field, the person that kept the team alive.
But just as he started his third breakaway, the energy shifted. My breath caught in my throat as I watched a wave of players from the opposing team surge toward him. They moved like a swarm, converging in a way that didn’t make sense—too fast, too organized.
No one saw it coming. Not the coach, not the Pinnthorpe players. Not even Cormac.
They crashed into him, and the sound of the impact was sickening. Their formations shattered, bodies collapsing in a tangled heap.
A collective gasp sucked the air out of the stadium. The cheers died instantly, replaced by a chilling silence.
“What?” I whispered, misplaced panic bubbling up in my chest.
The Pinnthorpe players were already charging forward, their faces twisted with fury.
Valtor picked up speed as the rest of his teammates bolted towards their best player.
“Get off him, you bastards!” one of them shouted.
“Cheap shot!” another yelled, curses flying as they pulled bodies away.
The heap began to scatter, players staggering back, some shoving each other. The opposing team had the ball now, pushing forward like nothing had happened.
But Cormac… he was still there.
Lying in the middle of the field.
Not moving.
“Mere…” Emorie’s voice shook. “He’s not getting up.”