"I'm going to destroy you," Paige informs her opponent across the ping-pong table. "There'll be nothing left for them to put in second place."
She says this with great relish, hopping lightly from one foot to the other. Jaxon, the Dials coach, gives her an approving nod from where he sits watching with the rest of the team. It's well known how much he loathes the Rephaim.
But Paige's opponent just taps the paddle against his palm. "Perhaps," he says, fixing her with a level look.
Paige frowns. That's not the correct response. "At least give me a fair fight," she tries again, staring him down. "A curbstomp's no fun for anyone. Except me. I wonder what they'll say when you get trounced by someone half your size."
But her opponent isn't to be goaded, apparently. "I suppose they will say that ping-pong is not a game of strength."
She scowls. Across the arena, Didion Waite lifts a megaphone and starts counting down.
"FIVE … FOUR …"
"Ready to eat dust?" she asks the Rephaite player.
"THREE … TWO …"
"Good luck," he replies, holding her gaze.
Paige opens her mouth to say something insulting –
"ONE!"
There's a piercing whistle, and the ball hits the table.
…
"– 11-6! THAT'S ELEVEN SIX TO THE REPHAIM! THE WARDEN TAKES THE FIRST ROUND, WITH THE PALE DREAMER FIVE POINTS BEHIND. GIVE THEM A HAND, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!"
The referee blows the whistle. Paige's hair is half out of its bun and hanging over her face. She's breathing hard. Across the table, her opponent doesn't even seem to have broken a sweat. He glances aside, into the shadows, where his coach must be watching. There's no triumph in his expression. But then, there's not much of anything in his expression at all.
People are cheering. Jaxon Hall pinches the bridge of his nose. All that Paige wants is to go back to the training room and figure out how the hell she lost – but she hates to owe anyone anything, even an apology, even to a rival team. So she puts her paddle down and walks around the table to the Warden with her head high.
"Well played," she says, extending a hand.
He lifts his eyebrows, but takes her hand. "And you, Pale Dreamer."
They shake once.
"I confess I am surprised," he says, "that you would show me this much courtesy. Jaxon Hall is not known as the most sporting of men."
Paige has to clench her jaw around a glob of swallowed pride. "I can respect a … worthy opponent."
"And show humility, too, it seems."
She relaxes her grip, cheeks blazing. Bad enough to get her ass handed to her by a Rephaite; it's ten times worse for it to be this one. Gracious bastard. He doesn't even have the decency to taunt her for her defeat – at least then she could hate him.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Jaxon crook a finger at her in a menacing sort of way. She's about to head over and accept her fate when the Warden says, "You would play better if you were not so tense."
She stops. "What?"
"You have potential, but you must learn fluidity." He nods at her arms. "All your muscles are rigid. You hold yourself as though you are expecting an ambush, not playing ping-pong."
Paige feels her mouth form an O of outrage. He's giving her advice? So this is what he does instead of taunting people. He must want to rub salt in the wound. The nerve of him – the sheer audacity –
"You're not my coach," she finally snaps, but she waited too long to respond and now it looks like she was actually giving thought to what he said. With a sound of disgust, she whirls around and marches back over to where the Seven Dials are waiting for her.
"Those guys are good," says Nick consolingly, clapping her on the back.
But Jaxon is not so understanding. "Paige, Paige," he says, with a glint that says she's definitely in for it once they're out of the public eye, "how many times have I told you that you must relax? Loosen up, honeybee. You can hardly fault that muscled giraffe for all those shots you missed. It's quite easy to win when your opponent is going through rigor mortis."
It takes all of Paige's self-control not to punch someone.