Beamer pressed a towel to his sweating face, then slapped it on the bench as he rose. “How many times did he score?” he hissed to Earnest. How many times?”
“Twelve, Coach.”
Beamer shook his head. When he saw Venture watching him, he made himself relax a bit. He shook his head apologetically.
“I fought my match, Coach.”
“You fought a good match. You did your job. I tried to do mine.”
Venture forced a shrug, for Beamer’s sake. “You had to press him some. You had to try.”
“I just hope it didn’t cost you that match.”
“Everybody knows what cost me that match.”
Beamer squeezed his shoulder in a rare gesture of affection. “That’s going to change, Delving. And you’re going to be a part of it.”
Venture didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to be a part of any such thing. He just wanted to fight. Just wanted to win, just wanted to show people—to show himself—what he could do. He wanted to be all of who he was, that was all.
He was out of the striking competition now, so he tried to forget about what had happened and cheer for Lance, who was working his way through what Earnest called
the back door
after a bitter loss to Colt early on. The match had been close, the scoring questionable, though not blatantly biased as it had been in Venture’s case.
But Lance’s next match ended in another loss, and he finished fourth, right behind Nick. Predictably, Colt came out in first place. Venture and Lance had done well, Beamer and Earnest both said so. But Venture had to bite his tongue to keep from snapping back that he’d done nothing. Nothing that would get him into Champions Center, and that was what mattered, because that would get him one step closer to becoming Champion of All Richland, and he had to take that step before it was pulled out from underneath him.
“We’ve got this afternoon still,” Earnest reminded him.
“I know. I’m a better grappler than I am a striker.”
Earnest shook his head. “It’s not just that. You don’t have to rely on the officials so much this afternoon. On their scores. You tap everybody out, and there’ll be nothing they can do about it.”
“He’s right, Vent.” Lance spoke up. He hadn’t had a lot to say to Venture on this trip. But he nodded at Colt, who was gloating in the distance. “Let’s tap him out or pass him out. Whoever gets to him first. Then there’ll be no denying it. Not for him or for anyone else.”
Venture slapped him on the back. “You got it.”
Venture had worked his way through five successive wins in the grappling competition, every one of them by tap-out, but now it was time for the tough part. Fighting Lance. Venture had no size or strength advantage over him, as he had with some of the others. They’d fought each other in five smaller tournaments, and Venture had won the last two. But this was no local tournament, and Lance was a far more experienced tournament fighter.
Lance gave him a nod, respectful but confident, and Venture tried his best to match it. Beamer and Earnest were silent, for they refused to coach one of their own against another, especially when the stakes were so high, when their dreams were on the line. When the whistle blew, Venture and Lance started out exchanging their usual back-and-forth. But a couple of minutes into the match, Venture made a dangerous slip-up. He exposed his back to Lance while they were grappling on the ground, and Lance’s quick hands slipped under his jawline, to the side of his neck.
Venture tried to fight those hands, but they were digging deeper and he was slipping. Those little sparkles of darkness on his peripheral vision that meant it was time to tap kept coming. Venture pulled at one of Lance’s hands with both of his and pushed his own chin down hard.
The dark spots and the flecks of light went away, but he was still in trouble. He rolled a bit to the side, and with his hand, worked loose Lance’s leg, which had been keeping his body trapped in place. With everything he had, Venture stood up, and in an explosion of power, he threw Lance off the top of him, onto the mat. The armlock was there, just waiting for him to take it. Venture seized it with precision and power, and Lance had no choice but to tap.
The relief and satisfaction of his win, the realization that he’d just secured a spot at Champions and a chance to fight for first place, had hardly begun to replace his desperation to survive the match when another reality sunk in. This win for him was a loss for Lance. Now Lance had just one more match. One more chance to fight his way into Champions center.
Lance shook Venture’s hand dutifully, but turned away and went off by himself as soon as he could, sooner than was even polite. Venture couldn’t blame him. He’d expected to win this thing—though Venture could beat Lance, as a grappler Lance was a better match-up against Colt—and now there was a chance he wouldn’t even place. Lance had to get past his disappointment and focus on winning his next match.
And Venture had to focus on his next match, too—against another teammate, one he would much rather fight, much rather beat. Colt. Venture’s focus shifted from making it into Champions, to what he and Lance had vowed one or the other of them would do—beat Colt. If he’d had to beat Lance, at least he could tap Colt out for him. For both of them.
Venture’s match with Colt went scoreless for the first four minutes. Then Venture ducked his head under Colt’s arm and pulled it down with one hand. His other hand shot up through Colt’s legs and guided him over his shoulders, onto the mat. Colt fought it in the air and landed on his side, but it was still a score for Venture, who then held him down. But Colt escaped in seconds. Two more times Venture took him down and nearly had him on the ground, but lost control. He was ahead now, though. If Beamer were coaching him, he’d be telling him to protect his lead. Play it safe. But Venture was still looking for the tap-out. The undeniable win, the fulfillment of his promise.
Colt went all-out, attack after attack, hoping to gain on him. They were on their feet and Venture had his hand cupped around Colt’s neck and was starting to pull him in for another takedown, when out of nowhere Colt grabbed that arm and, from a standing position, threw one leg across Venture’s body, the other over his head, extending Venture’s arm in between as he rolled him to the ground, tightening the armlock. Venture wasn’t going to tap, was going to roll with the surprise move, get out of it somehow, but Colt pressed his knees together and lifted his hips, and he was done. Venture tapped.
Colt turned his back on him without offering to shake hands first. Venture left the mat and sank down on a bench nearby, and Earnest followed him. He didn’t say anything, just pressed a towel full of ice to his elbow.
Beamer gave Colt, now the Youth Champion of the Western Quarter in both striking and grappling, a congratulatory handshake, then paused in front of Venture. “Don’t see many flying armlocks. How’s the elbow?”
Venture didn’t say anything, didn’t look up. He didn’t care about his elbow. He should’ve let Colt rip it apart and kept fighting. There were only seconds left in the match.
“A little swollen,” Earnest said for him. “But I think it’ll be all right.”
Beamer nodded. “Delving,” he said sternly.
Venture had to look at him. His tone gave him no choice.
“Always protect your lead.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You want me to congratulate you on your second-place finish?”
Venture shook his head.
Beamer smiled grimly. “I didn’t think so. But you qualified for Champions. And you looked good today, for the most part.”
Venture clenched the edge of the bench with his good hand. “Not when it counted.”
He’d wanted a win against Colt. A decisive win. An undeniable statement that he was the best fighter here. That he deserved everyone’s respect.
“Everybody gets caught sometime.” Beamer gave him a smack on the back and left him alone.
Earnest got up. “I’d better go talk to Lance.” He gestured at a figure huddled nearby. “At least you’re not sitting in the corner, crying about it.”
Venture had missed Lance’s final match, as it had been scheduled immediately before his, and he’d been busy planning what to do against Colt. All he knew was that Lance had lost.
“What happened?”
“Got his leg tangled up with his opponent’s. Twisted his ankle the wrong way. He got slammed, and with the injury, he couldn’t get his lead back after that.”
Venture felt a sharp pang of regret. Lance hadn’t placed. He’d be staying in Twin Rivers at least another year.
“Give him a break, Earnest.”
Earnest shook his head. “He’s got to come back here stronger next year, and face some of these same guys again. Letting them see him fall apart now won’t give him any breaks then.” Earnest left and went to talk some pride back into Lance.
A few minutes later, Nick came up to Venture with his hands on his hips. “Nice job, Vent. You eliminate Lance and then lose to Colt.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Lance could’ve handled him. Now we get to hear Colt gloat about taking first in both competitions and Lance gets left behind so you can go a year ahead.”
Venture rose from the bench and threw the towel full of ice down. “What do you want me to do? Apologize for losing? Or for being better than Lance?”
“Nice.”
Lance. Right behind him. Venture turned around and faced him. “I didn’t mean . . .”
Lance gave him a hard stare with his tear-reddened eyes, then limped away.
Venture’s shoulders sagged. Half of him wanted to go after Lance and apologize—for what he’d just said, if for nothing else—and the other half never wanted to speak to any of these guys again. He’d finished second in the Quarter, and he was going to Champions Center, but thanks to them, there was nothing to celebrate.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Venture jogged to Beamer’s, his leather bag held tight to his side with one arm. His breath puffed out white in the semi-dark, and the rising sun sent scatters of color reflecting off the icy river. Earnest had cancelled their run—a sort of good-bye present, he’d said. But Venture knew that Earnest really wanted him to be fully rested for Champions Center. Tomorrow he’d be leaving; today was his last day at Beamer’s, his last full day with Earnest. It was his last day to work out with some of his friends, at least for another year, maybe ever—though he wondered lately if he had friends anymore. He spent half the time trying to figure out what he could say to Lance, the other half wondering if he really wanted to say anything at all.
His face was near numb with cold, but he was sweating a bit under his collar and inside his gloves by the time he cut across the dormitory lawn behind Beamer’s.
“What do you think you’re doing, going to Champions with us?”
Venture started at the sound of Colt’s voice. Colt was never around this early, and now he was standing there, under one of the oak trees at the edge of the lawn, with Border, as though they’d been waiting for him.
“You think you can just go, and everyone will act like you aren’t who you are?” Border said.
Venture stopped and shifted his bag. “I’m going to Champions Center because that’s what I’m going to be—a Champion.”
“You think you’re going to be a Champion?” Colt stepped closer, sneering. “What for? To make some money for Grant Fieldstone? Like a dog in a race?”
Venture stood up tall. He glanced intentionally at the center, making it clear that he was in a hurry, that he had better places to be. “Grant Fieldstone is a good man. He—”
“He lets you pretend you can do whatever you want because you lick his boots,” Border said.
That force within, the one he’d been holding back with a wall of calm, raged up inside him.
Border swung at him and Venture blocked it, grabbing his wrist. He wouldn’t have thought Border had the nerve. He knew he was no match for Venture anymore. What was he doing? He was going to pay for this. Then it hit him. Getting him into trouble, that’s what he was doing. Trying to get his last chance with Beamer spent on his last day here, getting Beamer’s support withdrawn, his recommendation to Champions Center revoked, so that this would be his last day as a fighter, anywhere. Venture dropped Border’s wrist and backed away.
“Bonded boot-licker,” Colt said.
A picture flashed through Venture’s imagination, of fists flying, of Colt bleeding and taking it back. Venture willed his hands to unclench, forced himself to breathe, nice and even. “You can call me whatever you want now,” he said, “but someday you’ll be calling me Champion of All Richland,” and he walked away.
Border hated him for stepping over the lines that had been drawn for his class, and Colt just hated the idea that Venture would eventually be able to beat him. He saw it in his eyes every time they sparred—antagonism that stunk of fear. Colt didn’t want him at Champions. He saw himself as the star fighter from Beamer’s, and he wanted it to stay that way.
They followed him, and Venture sped up, eyes focused on the front steps of the center, still a couple of hundred paces away. He couldn’t get into a brawl, not today. Border was on his heels. He heard a carriage pulling up alongside the center, in the distance. Others were arriving, and more would be coming out of the dormitory soon. Witnesses appearing just in time to see what would only look like him beating up Border if he stayed and fought. But Border wasn’t going to just let him walk away. Venture knew what he had to do. He made himself run.
Border leaped, and would’ve landed on Venture’s back, but Venture ducked down and to the side at the last instant and Border skidded across the thin layer of snow that crusted the grass. Venture had considered letting him jump on him, then throwing him off, but that might get him hurt, and that would be just what those two wanted.
Colt stood there, glancing from Border to Venture, rubbing his right fist in his left hand, itching to intervene. He was smart enough to leave the physical part to Border, and Border was smart enough to keep him around to ensure that he made it out of this fight alive.
As Border rose, Venture got up too, not taking his eyes off of Border’s spiky, bobbing head and his narrowed, dark eyes. What now? If he let Border hit him, Venture would strike back; there’d be no stopping himself. Not only out of pride, but because he would not go there again, could not go there again—beaten down, eating dirt. He could hear Beamer saying
Prove them wrong
. He’d said there was no honor in proving people like them right. But how could there be honor in this?