Page 14 of The Entanglement of Rival Wizards (Magic and Romance #1)

Elethior is as focused as I am. Neither of us will leave until the other does, which adds another self-sabotaging layer to the already toxic work ethic we both seem to share.

He eyes me a few times, flinches like the sheer act of moving is offensive. And I realize—he’s waiting for me to play a prank. So I don’t, because the threat of playing one is clearly enough to fuck with him. Plus, I don’t have the time; I am, despite what he thinks, capable of hard work.

By Friday, we’ve spent more than fifty hours together without bloodshed, and I almost bring a bottle of champagne to mark the occasion.

But the days have passed in a fugue state of research and work, that near-unhealthy level of single-mindedness that descends when I get into a project.

Making it through this first week is celebration enough.

I get ready to leave the lab a few hours earlier than I have all week. I have to pass by his desk to get to the door, and he does that flinch thing again before his eyes meet mine with a challenging glint.

“Tapping out already?” he mocks. “Probably for the best. Not like a few extra hours will make all that much of a difference for you.”

I stop midstride next to the disaster zone that is his workstation.

He’s a mess, I’ve learned. Coats and winter hats, an extra pair of shoes, a gym bag, a grocery sack of chips, a dumb amount of stuff is slowly encroaching on my area, while his desk has open books and uncapped highlighters and loose pieces of paper in a rising tide of disorganization.

It’s honestly impressive he’s created this much disarray in one week.

I should sic mine and Orok’s mothers on him.

“Make a difference with what?” I let my eyes linger on the state of his workstation and overemphasize my nose curl.

“With impressing the donors and board members.” He ignores my disgust. “That’s what you’re hoping to do for tomorrow’s party, isn’t it? Take advantage of this first chance to wow them with plans for your solo research project.”

I glare at him. “Like that isn’t your plan, too.”

“Oh, it is. But I’ll actually be successful at it.”

“Why? Because you’re staying and I’m leaving?

If you haven’t figured out your shit by now, I hate to break it to ya, but a few extra hours isn’t going to save you.

Excuse me for having a smoking hot date waiting for me so I can blow off steam before tomorrow.

You can go in sleepless and stressed; I’ll go in relaxed and freshly laid. ”

I have no date; I’m meeting Orok and a few of his teammates for dinner.

Though, maybe getting laid isn’t such a bad idea. It’s been… a few months? Gods damn my busy schedule. And general lack of what the poets call game.

Elethior’s cheeks flood red again. He blushes so easily; it shouldn’t feel like a victory every time I get one out of him, but it does.

“As tactful as always,” he mutters.

I head for the door again but pause with it cracked open. “Oh, and Elethior?”

He looks up from his notebook.

“If your shit crosses the demarcation line”—I point to the space between our workstations, about half a foot from where his gym bag is vomiting a towel and sneakers onto the floor—“that will be taken as an act of aggression, and I’ll have no choice but to declare an end to our ceasefire.”

I let the door slam as he flips me off.

Orok’s waiting at a place off campus that serves funky hot dogs, with toppings ranging from onions and chili to elote and pimento cheese. Students and weird, greasy hot dogs? Gold mine.

Orok blinks at me from the booth he’s claimed near the back.

“Is that—” He rubs his eyes, squints, and I pause with my arms out, thinking I must have a stain somewhere. Fucking public buses.

But he gasps melodramatically. “Is that—it is! Sebastian Walsh! As I live and breathe. I barely recognized you.”

I shrug off my puffer jacket. “Hilarious. You saw me this morning.”

I up-nod two of his teammates—Ivo and Crescentia, unsurprisingly. The only grad students on the team tend to stick together.

“I saw a blur this morning,” Orok says. “Like I’ve seen a sleep-deprived wraith stumble back home every night. You’re taking this last semester before we graduate thing too seriously.”

“Yeah.” Ivo picks up a menu. “We’re basically done. What could the university do to us at this point? Not give us our degrees? Coast, man. Coast.”

I slide in next to Crescentia. “Sorry, not all of us can hang our hopes on being a professional at going bare.”

The three of them stare at me.

“Getting drafted to a pro rawball team,” I clarify.

Cue three simultaneous eye rolls.

Ivo points a threatening finger at me. “Don’t jinx us. Joking about that shit isn’t funny.”

Orok waves off Ivo’s concern. “It’s the first week, Seb. You’ve been pulling crazy hours. You can’t keep this up for the rest of the semester.”

All the teasing melts away, Orok’s eyes latching on to mine, and it’s like I’ve been spinning in circles only to come to a crashing halt.

Between building a research plan, ignoring Elethior in the lab, and avoiding the fact that I’m failing this grant in the first week, I’m tantalizingly close to running on fumes.

The voice at the back of my head, the one I’ve been ignoring by working, working, working, whispers, You’re messing it up. The committee is going to see your refusal to get along with Elethior as a breach of the grant, and they’ll pull you from it.

I force a smile at Orok. “I won’t keep this up forever. This is me getting the foundation solidified so everything else is smooth sailing. Promise.”

“And Elethior?” Crescentia asks, elbowing me. “Need me to help stage a protest? Bet we can get him kicked out of the lab.”

I cock a startled look at her. “What? Really?”

“Hell yeah. You know how many people on campus are anti-war? Him being a student here has always been a source of contention, but for the most part, the board and all the people with money shut down any concerns. We can get people riled up, though. Have them worry that his access to a lab that high-level could be dangerous for the rest of us.”

My face droops. Why am I not jumping on this?

It feels… slimy.

I mean, he is a danger by the mere fact of him being a Tourael, but he isn’t working on anything that could jeopardize the immediate vicinity or the school. Not like he’s in there manufacturing arcane bombs.

He’s just… studying the limitations of the connection between a conjurer and their conjured item. Whatever the hell that means.

I smile at Crescentia. “Thanks, but I can handle him.”

Orok croaks. “You—you said no.” He blinks at me. “Who are you, and where’s Seb?”

I pick up a menu with unnecessary flare and make a great show of reading it. “I’m taking the high road. I’m a reformed wizard now, gods damn it.”

Luckily, our waiter approaches, and we all order.

The shift in focus lets the conversation trajectory shift, too, and I ask how rawball practice is going and whether Ivo really does have a shot at getting drafted.

Turns out, he does, and scouts will be at a few of their preseason games, which is another reason he, Crescentia, and Orok are all suiting up for the spring training season even though they won’t be playing next year.

They’re talking game strategy when our food comes, and I pretend I understand what they’re saying.

All these years of supporting Orok, and for the life of me, I still can’t explain the rules as written —what the raw in rawball stands for.

There’s a ball that has to make it to one side of the field for a team to score, and each team is comprised of tanks like Orok and Ivo, rogues like Crescentia, and wizards and healers and other classes that adhere to the rules as written, but I swear to the gods they change those rules randomly to screw with me.

“—for Lesiara Founder’s Day,” Crescentia is saying, “we’re doing the game against the kids’ shelter again, but Coach said they want us in full uniform. Better photo ops.”

Chewing the last of my banh mi hot dog, I groan and wrestle my phone out of my pocket. “I have to do something for Founder’s Day, too. What day is it this year?”

“Same day it always is. Why don’t you remember— ohhhh .” Orok hisses between his teeth. “Because someone always gets a little too familiar with the Founder’s Day punch.”

Ivo cackles. “That’s right! Last year, didn’t you challenge our team to a funnel cake eating contest? Like, the whole team. Against you . Then—something with the powdered sugar—”

“He inhaled it.” Orok’s grinning. “Coughed white clouds all over himself like an asthmatic smoke dragon.”

“Nah.” I open my calendar app. “That doesn’t sound like me. When is this carnival that I have definitely never experienced in my entire collegiate career?”

“Friday before spring break,” says Orok, polishing off his third taco hot dog.

I add it in. “And even if I might have been a handful at previous carnivals—”

Someone tosses a wadded-up straw wrapper at me.

“—this year, I’ll be there in a professional capacity, so not a drop of Founder’s Day punch shall pass my—”

My phone rings.

It’s my dad?

For a second, I stare.

Holy shit. My dad’s calling.

He never calls me.

Dread chills everything in my body, a head-to-toe rush that has me answering in a scramble.

“What’s wrong?” I demand before the phone’s even against my ear.

Orok, Crescentia, and Ivo all look at me with furrowed brows.

“Sebastian,” comes Dad’s voice in my ear. There’s a too-long pause, and that creeping sense of horror wraps around my throat.

Is it Mom? My brothers or sister, their kids? Shit, what the hell happened?

“You have a minute to chat with your father, don’t you?” Dad continues.

I scramble up from the booth. Orok gives me a look that’s a whole unspoken conversation, but I shake my head; I don’t know, my heart’s stopped.

“What’s wrong?” I ask again and duck through the restaurant, toward the hall with the restrooms. “Is everyone okay? What did—”