cont.
this is a novel that touches on the fragility of humanity and the bonds that we supposedly die by. it's not too heavy a novel but definitely an impactful one so i sincerely hope everyone could give it a shot!
i'll be uploading snippets of it every day or so, so please pick up your reader's glasses, put on some atmospheric music and get reading. i hope you enjoyed as much as i did.
cheers.
WORLD WAR A
CHAPTER TWO
“Game’s over for the Bruins,” boomed an authoritative voice. The man stood in the open door, arms braced against the frame as if to keep anyone from escaping. He was tall, square-jawed, and with closely cropped hair that was instantly recognizable. The umpire.
“Technical foul,” he said, frowning at Kaden. “You lose on penalty.”
“What?” Kaden’s voice shook at the absurdity of the remark. “What foul?”
“You left your tower. It’s against regulations.”
“And which rule book is that in? China’s?” he shouted, clenching his hands to keep them from trembling. The glory he’d held so assuredly began to collapse before him, flimsy as a house of cards. The season of straight wins, tireless training, sleepless nights…
The umpire sneered. “The CS stays in the enclosure, as is the norm, and you know that.”
“The norm is hardly a rule—”
“I call the rules in play as I see fit, that’s my job,” the man barked. “And right now, you’re out of line.”
Hom’s smug face burst into a laugh that set Kaden’s blood to boil.
“You greasy rat,” he spat at the ref, eyes narrowing to slits. “How much did they give you?”
“You’re out of the games, Sun! Manager Johnson!” Face beet red, he screeched into his comm, “Get your CS out of this tower before I shoot him myself!”
Kaden no longer cared about fouls, or red cards, or even the millions of TV viewers who must be cursing him for losing the match. The game had ended the moment the pig in front of him accepted his small, brown envelope. He turned on the man, his hands clenched into fists.
The umpire didn’t stand a chance.
Kaden charged like a wasp-stung goat, his broad shoulders ramming right into the fat abdomen. There was a sharp “Oooof!” as the heavy body flew backward and slammed into the doorway, splintering the crystal frame. In the distance, Kaden could hear the cries of the onlookers and outraged commentary. He’d done some pretty reckless things in the past, but this little stint would make international news. Which meant he might as well make the most of it.
“Hope the money was worth it, scum,” he snarled.
The umpire struggled to get up, plump arms waving around madly as Kaden ground his knee into the guy’s chest. He was about to deliver a nice, open-palmed slap when the next thing he knew every nerve in his body was being ripped at, the hot current passing through his system in milliseconds. Limbs spasming, he collapsed on the ground, helpless. Above, Hom lurched into view, his laser gun pointed at Kaden’s helmet.
“You might be smart, Kaden Sun, but you’re stoo-pid, too.”
And with that, a final blue flash sent Kaden into the darkness.
He slowly came to, the silence informing him the games had ended. Pulling himself to his feet, he scrambled over to the scoreboard to see the UCLA logo branded with the large red words—still smoking—that read, Technical Penalty. Turning, he found Zac Koby standing quietly at his side. Hom and the umpire were gone.
The real world doesn’t play by a rule book. Hom’s sneering words echoed in his mind. Kaden stared blankly at the WarGames logo on his laser gun: a fist clenching a flag, all in the red, white, and blue of Uncle Sam. Or perhaps it was in tribute to Pepsi-Cola, one of the founding sponsors.
Kaden and Zac were the last to leave the field, heads bowed as they picked their way through mud and boulders, all carefully shipped in to create the pretense of something real. Of course, it was nothing but farce.
They headed toward the change rooms, taking off their helmets and unbuttoning their fatigues. Before they could reach the sanctuary of the players’ quarters, a half-chewed hotdog splashed across Kaden’s inner shirt. They lifted their eyes to the spectator stands.
“Thanks for screwing our season, Sun!”
“Yeah, slanty eyes,” another voice joined in. “How about’cha go play ping-pong next time! Give him another one, Jones.”
A second hotdog sailed through the air, Kaden neatly stepping to one side only to leave Zac wide open, the mustard bright yellow in his toffee hair. Kaden’s body tensed, overwhelmed with the desire to climb into the stands and show them what one slanty-eyed bastard could do. Jones and his goon jocks were a constant pain in Kaden’s ass, and someone needed to teach them some manners.
Zac stretched an arm across his front. “Forget it, they’re drunk.”
He gave a short, bitter laugh. “That’s what you say every time.”
“So don’t take it so personal.”
He shook his head, giving the louts a finger as they passed into the safety of the corridor. “I’m all American, third-generation,” he snapped. “Feels pretty personal to me.”
Zac smiled, slinging his arm around Kaden’s shoulder. “I know, man. Beers are on me, okay? Let’s shower and head to Orb’s.’’
Kaden’s posture remained rigid, but Zac’s easygoing Texan drawl always succeeded in calming him down. He was too damn happy to argue with.
The boys entered a small passageway only to find two cheerleaders waiting at the doors to the showers. They were wearing the all-purple of the opposing Bradford Bulls.
Kaden shifted his large frame to pass them. “Excuse us, ladies.”
The girls giggled and blocked his path. Both of them had shapely figures, the tight-fitting spandex leaving little to the imagination. One had scarlet red hair, the other long brown tresses that framed a pair of large, almost childlike eyes.
“Oooh, I love Orientals,” the scarlet one said. “Especially big, strong ones.”
As she ran her hand up his torso, he blinked at Zac in wonder. Kaden’s half-Chinese heritage usually chafed him, but there were moments when being considered exotic had its perks.
Kaden brushed a hand through his wavy, jet-black hair and straightened up to fill his full six-foot-two potential. The more voluptuous girl pouted at her friend and said, “I saw him first, Veronica. The least you could do is share.” Brushing her fingers down the length of his arm, she murmured, “Every player has a bad day. But if you need help with scoring, we can show you how it’s done, handsome.”
It wasn’t unusual for excited girls to fawn over them, even ask for signatures on occasion, but these girls were acting like they were rock stars. Kaden felt his brain begin to cloud as his libido took over. Zac could take the redhead, but her little brunette friend was all his.
“Hey, uh, ladies, we’ve got matters to attend to,” Zac said, shouldering his way between them. “Some other time?”
Kaden watched in disbelief as Zac removed the girls’ hands from his body and proceeded to drag him into the showers.
“Oh we get it, team Bruin. You prefer to play with boys, on and off the field.” Their giggles were stifled by Zac slamming the door, hard.
“What did you do that for?” Kaden said, staring at the door as if it might magically reopen.
“Those girls were all over us.”
“Exactly,” Zac said. “Stay away from them, they’re toxic.” Lips pressed tightly together, he threw his gear onto the bench and stripped off his shirt. He was slightly smaller than Kaden, but just as toned, and knew exactly how to play the Texan angle to his advantage when it came to chasing tail.
A pair of cornflower blue eyes didn’t hurt, either.
“Toxic?” Kaden shrugged. “Whiskey is toxic, but that’s never stopped you.”
“They’re entrepreneurs,” Zac said, narrowing his eyes as if to say, you know what I mean.
“What, you mean they’re prostitutes?”
“Come on, man,” he sighed. “You didn’t see the black necklace on the brunette’s chest?”
“I saw her chest,” Kaden answered, laughing.
Zac gave a small grunt of displeasure. “You were spellbound, dude. That was a wireless video cam. You were being streamed live—those girls entice guys back to their rooms and make a fortune filming what happens next. I just saved you, dude, never mind your scholarship, or your father…”
Kaden stood there, speechless, as Zac continued.
“They usually go for high-profile players. Maybe they’ve been drawing blanks tonight and got desperate.” Zac winked, ducking as Kaden pretended to punch him.
His best friend was an orphan from one of the poorest parts of San Antonio, and while he didn’t like to talk about his past, he had an air of quiet dependability that made the biggest disasters somehow bearable.
“Tough day at the office,” Kaden groaned, reaching for his comm device and strapping it to his wrist. As soon as it made contact with his skin, a holographic image of his father beamed above it. Four missed calls.
“He probably wants to talk to you about the game,” Zac said, patting him on the shoulder.
“Not sure ‘talk’ is the right word there, bro. ‘Chew’ maybe.”
Zac laughed. “Nothing a beer can’t fix.”