I turned around fast. I dodged once and got past Simon Bradtmiller. Then I got in two more strides downfield, right before—FWIP!

Coach blew his whistle. “All right, all right, let’s go again,” he said.

When I turned around, Miller was holding my flag in his hand. He was also giving me the Miller Glare. It’s the thing that usually comes right before something even worse, like the Miller Fist.

“You’re going to have to do better than that,” he said. “A whole lot better, and right away. Else the deal’s off.” But he had his mouth guard in, so it sounded more like “Yoth gon’ haf doo be’ah’n’at…. Who’lot be’er uh’rah’weh… elf fa dee’s off.”

Still, I knew what he meant. This whole thing was going to get a whole lot harder before it ever got easier.

I mean—if it got easier.

And right now, that was looking like a mighty big IF.