MY SECTION IS FULL TONIGHT. BETWEEN THE FRAT BOYS demanding more pitchers of beer while ogling my cleavage and the soccer moms asking for gluten-free versions of everything, I’ve been pretty much jogging since the first trumpet blast. I’m working in the Red Knight’s cheering section as usual, and every time Chris strikes a blow or wins a favor, I holler along with my customers. He throws a rose into our section and shoots me a grin as he rides away.
All of me wishes I was out there riding with him and the other Knights, not hauling a bin of turkey scraps up slippery concrete stairs. I pause in the hallway between the arena and the kitchen, trying to catch my breath. Sweat soaks my armpits, leaving half-moons on my dress.
Eddy Jackson and four of his buddies—two enormous linebacker types and two very fit-looking women—are in my section again tonight. They’re sitting in the front row, right beside the arena floor. As I’m bringing them a plate of turkey legs (their fourth serving since dinner started), Eddy holds his phone up and shines the light on my face.
“I knew it! You’re Kit Sweetly! The Girl Knight!”
I blink in the glare from the phone but shoot him a wry smile. “In the flesh. Though tonight I’m just a Serving Wench.”
“You all need to see her video!” says Eddy, pulling it up on his phone. “This is the girl I was telling you about.” His friends lean in closer, watching as I vanquish Dalton (all of them groan as my mace makes contact) and then deliver my “I am no man!” line.
“Why aren’t you out there tonight?” asks one of the women. Her long dark hair is twisted into a high ponytail, and she looks vaguely familiar. “I’d love to see something other than dudes beating each other up when Eddy drags us here.”
“You know you love the food!” Eddy teases, raising his mug of ale at her and grinning.
The woman rolls her eyes. “That’s got to be it.”
He laughs and reaches for another turkey leg. “I love the food. Makes me feel alive to eat turkey legs in a communal setting. Like I’m part of something greater. Some Viking shit or something.”
I blink, trying not to laugh. Absolutely nothing comes to mind in reply to that statement. The food at the Castle is mass-produced and it hasn’t changed in like a decade. But to each their own.
“Ignore this barbarian,” says the woman. She slaps Eddy’s shoulder affectionately. There’s a loud cheer from the section as Chris almost unhorses the Blue Knight.
I cheer with them, watching Chris move through the on-ground fighting routine he’s been teaching us all week. He’s slower than usual, and his steps are off. Like he’s distracted. I must’ve been mirroring him because I feel a hand on my shoulder as I mimic a sword thrust.
“When are you out there again?” Eddy calls over the noise.
I shake my head and lean in close enough so he can hear me. “Sadly, that fight the other night might be my one and only.”
“They’re not going to let you fight again?”
“Company policy is that only cis men can be Knights.” I make a face. “The other night I snuck in and took my brother’s place.” I point toward Chris.
“That’s some bullshit,” says the dark-haired woman beside him.
“Tell me about it,” I reply. “Especially since reservations are up by like two hundred percent thanks to me. I’ve got an online petition going around and my video’s gotten a lot of attention. My friends and I are training, and we’re determined to stage our own tournament next Friday.”
A tournament that’s already been vetoed by Corporate. Not that my friends know that yet. Or that I’m going to tell them anytime soon.
“Do you think it’ll really change things?” Eddy asks.
“I’m hoping it’ll at least make things more fair. We want to remove gender restrictions for all the jobs around here. And I want to work as a Knight so I can pay for school.”
“Well, I’m on your side,” says the woman. “What was that website?”
Eddy clicks around on his phone. “I’ll send it to you. Here, Kit, take a selfie with us.”
He holds out his phone and I lean in. The other people in his group lean in too, and all of us smile.
“That’s great,” says Eddy. “Uploading to Twitter now with your video and tagging you all.”
“Thanks for your support,” I say. “Hope you can make it next Friday.”
“You know we wouldn’t miss it!” says Eddy. “Whoa, shit! Watch out!”
In the arena, Chris’s horse veers wildly toward us. For a moment it looks like he’s about to run it into the mesh surrounding the crowd. But he pulls up at the last minute.
I shoot him a look. Our eyes meet.
“Are you okay?” I mouth.
He nods slightly, then smiles and waves to the crowd.
I’ll have to talk to him after the show, but that’s still a long way off.
“Need anything else before I go get more beer?” I ask Eddy and his friends as I pick up the empty pitchers in front of them.
They shake their heads, but the dark-haired woman puts a hand on my arm.
“I’m Bettina Vasquez with Good Morning, Chicago! I love stories like this, and I’d be happy to have you on the show sometime.” She hands me her card.
Ahhh, that’s why she looks familiar.
“I’d love that.” I tuck the card into my pocket. “I’ll email you.”
She waves to me as I trudge up the concrete stairs away from their party.
I’m on my way back to the kitchen, wiping sweat from my forehead with what I thought was a clean napkin, when I see Jett. He’s reading something on his phone and carrying his backpack.
He’s not seen me yet, and I’d love for him not to see me covered in this mess of a wenching dress. For a moment, I contemplate ducking behind the curtain that separates the arena from the hallway, but that’s the coward’s way out. Besides, he told me I’m beautiful all the time. And I’m not trying to impress him.
Yeah. Right.
I swipe at the globule of turkey grease running down the bridge of my nose and clear my throat. “Not staying for the fanfare?” I blurt out as Jett passes me.
It’s a stupid thing to say, but it works. Jett stops walking and looks up from his phone. The fanfare is the part at the end of the show where he and the other musicians play a trumpeting end to the tournament.
He shoots me an easy smile. “Hey, friend. I’m ducking out early because my little brothers are sick, and the sitter can’t reach my parents.”
He shrugs. Such a good big brother.
I almost make a joke about barfing, but mercifully restrain myself. “That’s right,” I say, remembering a snippet of last night’s text conversation. “They’re downtown seeing Hamilton, right?”
“Lucky them,” mutters Jett, making a face. “Next time they get tickets, you and I are tagging along somehow, some way.”
“I second that plan.”
His eyes crinkle at the edges as he smiles at me. “How’s your night going?”
Sweet lady knights who’ve come before me. Please, grant me the strength not to kiss this boy. Right here. Right now. “All good here. Eddy Jackson’s in my section with his buddies. They all just shared my video on their Twitter accounts.”
“Love that guy,” says Jett. “There’s your influencer part of the plan in motion.”
“Indeed. Hey, want to get late-night-after-show breakfast once you check in at home?”
Jett nods. “And you can tell me what Len said. And how you managed not to get fired.”
“Achhhh! You won’t believe it!” I say, grabbing his shirtsleeve playfully, like I always do. This time, though, when my hand brushes his wrist, something inside me lurches in the space between my ribs and my spine. I imagine it’s how Harry Potter must’ve felt when he touched that first Portkey.
I drop my hand, and Jett’s eyes find mine.
“That bad?” he asks, making an unreadable face. He looks a little stunned, like he’s just gotten Portkeyed too.
Before I can reply, a thunderous, terrified scream—the sound of more than a hundred people yelling in shock all at once—swells from the arena behind us.