Page 122 of Galaxy Games Four-Book Box Set (Galaxy Games)

122

Terrible Plan

W illow

I’d had several bottles of water at my feet as I waited for my guys. I crack one and hold it to Valor’s lips as he guzzles it down, then open another and let him drink until he pulls away and rasps, “Braveheart.”

I try to drizzle some water into Braveheart’s mouth, but I’m unsuccessful in doing more than wetting his lips.

“Let’s get him undressed and in the shower,” I say, wanting to get a good look at his bite.

The shower is a makeshift tent with no accommodations for privacy. There are eight showerheads along three walls and two benches on the fourth wall flanking a flap of material that serves as a doorway. It’s made of the same orange plastic material as all the other tents.

Although I should have expected it, I’m surprised when our three drones follow us in. After shaking my head in disgust and having a swift, decisive internal dialogue, I order myself to give zero fucks about my privacy. From here out, the only thing that matters is the three of us… and winning.

He looks so weak, I say to Valor.

Aye. He hasn’t even moaned since before I saw the flag.

I untie his boots, taking care to jostle his right ankle as little as possible. His foot has swelled so badly, though, I wind up having to yank his boot off. Fuck. His skin is almost black. Dear God, can he survive this?

I make swift work of removing the rest of his clothes, then tear mine off. Despite my resolution of a minute ago, I feel a bolt of embarrassment when Valor’s gaze heats as he gives me a long look up and down. He seems more excited about seeing this than when I cracked open the bottle of water as he was dying of thirst.

Sorry, Willow. I… shouldn’t, he says.

Let’s get him under the water. It will cool him down, is all I say.

Still carrying Braveheart in his arms, Valor uses his booted foot to push one of the wooden benches under the spray, then lays him on his back under the cooling flow of the water.

His face and hands are dotted with what look like ant or insect bites, but it’s his ankle I’m worried about. The skin already looks dead. I shake my head, feeling powerless. I took CPR for a Girl Scout badge what seems like a lifetime ago. That and Band-Aids are the extent of my first aid skills.

Valor has shucked his boots and clothes and is quickly showering under another spray. When he walks back to us, his beautiful face is tight with grief. His third eye is so expressive, swirling the colors of an evening thunderstorm—black and midnight blue.

Can you heal him? Like you healed me? I ask as I picture how, night after night, I stared at my palms while he worked his magic and knitted my skin back together.

Valor kneels over Braveheart, places his palms an inch above his friend’s blackened skin, closes his eyes, and concentrates.

I watch as the little insect bites turn from angry red to pink and then all but disappear. The bite remains unchanged.

My heart tightens in my chest when I realize Valor’s powers aren’t going to fix this. Suddenly, another idea fills my mind.

I have a plan , I say as I glance at him. I’m certain by his lowered brow and the look in his eyes, he knows that neither of us is going to like whatever I say next.

People give money to their favorite teams. Just because we were the only ones to figure out Zedd’s trick, that’s not going to get us enough. While I was waiting for you, I had time to do little more than worry, word-vomit my childhood memories to you, and read the scroll on the nearby drones.

The drones had the price of all sorts of things we could buy: clothes, boots, cool air for our tents, better food, booze, even Synth, although goodness knows how that would affect performance. Most expensive item on the list? I ask rhetorically.

Medic, he answers for me, his tone doleful.

Yep. We need antivenom and the use of the medbot to help Braveheart recover well enough to continue The Game tomorrow.

And your idea about how we’re going to earn the extra credits?

By the look on his face, he already knows.

Money shots , we say at the same time.

He grabs a palm-full of shampoo and leans down to wash Braveheart’s hair. The poignancy of his actions surprises me and brings a lump to my throat. To see his humongous hands slide through his friend’s lavender hair so tenderly is such a juxtaposition of incongruity.

I’ve already realized I like Valor. I’m drawn to his huge, perfect body, that otherworldly swirling third eye, his endless supply of encouragement, and the calming gusts of energy he generously pushes my way. But there’s something about this. His tender concern for his friend squeezes my heart. Providing the galaxy a glimpse of “money shots” with this guy? It won’t be a hardship.

While he shampoos and bathes his friend, I do the same for him. I guess bald guys need no shampoo, but I allow my fingers to massage him everywhere, digging my thumbs into the places I imagine his muscles ache from carrying Braveheart for miles in the blazing sun.

He moans so quietly I doubt the drones’ mics pick it up. But I heard it. He’s shared enough of his past I imagine no one has ever touched him tenderly before. To know I’m providing him this brings me a tiny amount of happiness, even in the worst of circumstances.