Chapter 14 Chapter 13: Waiting game
The workday itself was a dull, grey blanket, a monotonous stretch of slicing, chopping, and serving that required little thought. The journey there and back was equally uneventful, a silent, crowded hopper ride where I was just another body in the press. But my mind was a different story. When it was peaceful, it kept drifting, a wilful boat on a persistent tide, back to Silver. I replayed the memory of her face, not in anger, but in the soft focus of longing, the curve of her smile, the intelligence in her eyes. My thoughts traced the memory of her pure white, soft body, the feel of her plump breasts against me, the shocking intimacy of her touch. A thrilling, nervous anticipation fizzed in my blood at the thought of seeing her again, of making it right.
But these bright moments were inevitably swallowed by the shadows. In my dark moments, the memory would warp. I’d see her face contort in revulsion, feel the ghostly chill of the drink she’d thrown, hear the slam of the door that sealed my exile. This bleak recollection would then tangle with the bitter aftertaste of the argument with my family, the weight of their disappointment a heavy chain. And looming over it all, a dark cloud on the horizon of my week, was the specialist appointment on Friday morning, a meeting I never asked for, a judgment I dreaded.
Wednesday was much the same as Tuesday, a carbon copy of uneventful labour and mental turmoil, until after work. That’s when I had decided, in a fit of nostalgia and a need for something familiar, to meet up with my old dieball team for a friendly match. The air in the rundown sports hall was thick with the familiar smells of sweat and polish, the thunder of footfalls and the smack of the ball against the wall a symphony I knew by heart.
I suited up, feeling a surge of my old confidence, the powerful new muscles in my legs itching for the explosive sprint of the game. But when the starting line-up was called, my name wasn’t in it. The coach, a man I’d known for years, clapped a hand on my shoulder, his face a mask of apologetic firmness.
“Sorry, Nanda. You haven’t been too training in a long while. The rhythm’s different. I’ve got to play the Nates who know the new drills.”
The justification was logical, reasonable. But it didn’t dull the sting. I was benched. Me. The former star player. I sat on the cold, hard bench, watching the game unfold without me, feeling the chasm between my past and my present widen with every passing minute.
It was meant to be a friendly match, but the air in the hall crackled with a tension that was anything but. The opposing team, one of our old rivals from the industrial district, was playing hard and a little dirty. Their checks were a fraction too late, their elbows a little too high in the scrums, their tackles just a shade too vicious. The ref, either blind, biased, or simply unwilling to police a "friendly," seemed to see none of it, his whistle remaining stubbornly silent. By the time the half-time buzzer screamed, it was a disaster. We were down fifteen points, and two of our best Nates were on the bench, one clutching a badly wrenched knee, the other dabbing a bloody nose with an already-crimson towel. The mood in our locker room was a funeral, a mix of despair and simmering rage.
It took nearly the whole halftime break for me and my frustrated teammates to persuade the coach. We were a chorus of desperate voices, arguing, pleading. "We need him, Coach!" "They're playing like animals!" "Just put him in!" I stood there, my new body humming with unused energy, my gaze fixed on the coach until, with a final, exasperated sigh, he relented. "Fine. Nanda, you're in for Jax. Don't make me regret this." We had won through.
The time away from playing had had no effect on my game. None. If anything, the pent-up frustration, the raw power of my new form, and the sheer desire to prove myself forged my skills into something sharper, harder. I was not just playing; I was a demon unleashed. From the moment my feet hit the churned grass, every ball I touched was an extension of my will, every play I made was perfect, a blend of instinctual memory and brutal, newfound strength. I moved with a speed and grace that seemed to stun the dirty-playing rivals. We began to claw our way back, point by brutal point. The energy shifted, our team galvanized, feeding off my intensity.
With just five minutes left on the clock, and the score nearly tied, it happened. I intercepted a sloppy pass just outside our own goal, a blur of motion snatching the ball from their striker's grasp. Then I was off, thundering through the midfield. I was an unstoppable force, my legs pistons of pure power, breaking through their defensive wall as if it were paper. Their players seemed to move in slow motion, unable to match my velocity. The goal yawned before me. I didn't think; I let the instinct, the countless hours of practice, the raw emotion of the week take over. I launched the ball. It wasn't a shot; it was a statement. A perfect, screaming arc that slammed into the top corner of the net with a sound like a gunshot.
For a second, there was silence. Then the hall erupted. It was the goal of the century, a thing of savage, beautiful perfection. The buzzer sounded. We had won.
The silence that followed the gunshot-crack of the ball hitting the net lasted only a heartbeat, a single, suspended moment of pure, stunned disbelief. Then, the hall erupted. The sound was a physical wave, a roar of triumph from our supporters and a groan of sheer shock from our rivals that seemed to shake the very foundations of the building.
Before I could even process it, my teammates were upon me. They didn't just clap me on the back; they lifted me, their hands finding purchase on my new, solid frame, hoisting me onto their shoulders as if I were made of air. The world tilted, the ceiling lights swimming above me, but I was laughing, a raw, joyous sound torn from the very core of my being.
"NANDA! NANDA! NANDA!"
The chant began, rhythmic and powerful, echoing off the walls. Their voices were thick with admiration, with relief, with the sheer electric thrill of an impossible victory snatched from the jaws of defeat.
"Unbelievable!"
"You, magnificent bastard!"
"King of the court! Absolutely legendary!"
The praise washed over me, a plaster on every raw nerve, an antidote to every doubt that had plagued me for weeks. In their eyes, I wasn't a failed Changeling, a disappointment to my parents, or a monster who had betrayed a woman's trust. I was Nanda, the king of dieball. The title I had worked for my entire life, the identity that felt as fundamental as my own heartbeat, was given back to me in that roaring, triumphant moment. The power in my limbs, which had felt so alien and frightening just hours before, was now celebrated, revered. It was the engine of victory. It was me. I was back.