“He’ll keep it interesting,” Antonio replies. “But Sanctuary’s defense is one of the best in the league this year. I’ve got a little side action on them.”

I sip my own drink, watching the players stretch in the arena below, my mind leagues away. We spent all night watching the broadcasts. How would Furia react to our announcement? Only natural that the gossip wove its way through every newscast. We saw Pippa’s interview. An Ashlord noble; this year’s favorite. Daddy pulled videos of her amateur races months ago and had me studying them. She’s fast and smart, a hell of a rider. But most of the amateur races are contact free. The actual Races require knowing how to fight, how to defend your ashes, and how to strike someone down without killing them.

One broadcast called my entry a revolution that could change the stagnant scene in phoenix racing. Others described it as a doomed sideshow. I’m too big, or too blunt, or too slow to matter. Some channels were crude enough to link footage of the last Longhand who entered the Races. He was beaten to death just before the second leg began. A team of Ashlords took their time killing him. Murder’s not legal, even in the Races, but only one of them ever got put on trial for it. According to reporters, that rider spent the last twelve years in prison. The newscaster was kind enough to predict I’d make it out alive, but whether or not I’d be in one piece at the end was another question altogether. Daddy says they’re blowing enough smoke to call it a fire.

His war depends on the attention, on me. I try not to think about how much it all weighs as I take another sip and the two teams line up below us. Crossing is a simple and brutal sport. Two teams of seven. The court is fifty paces wide and three hundred paces in length. When the gun fires, both teams release. The first team to get one of their players across the opposite line wins that round. Teams are made up of quicklings and bruisers, sometimes a few hybrids. It’s easy to tell the big boys from the fast ones.

My eyes settle on the Panhandle runner Antonio mentioned. He’s short and lighter-skinned, with legs as wide as doors. Daddy raises his glass and toasts with Antonio as both of the teams settle into racing positions. The arena is narrow, but the starting block’s even tighter. All seven members hunch shoulder to shoulder, waiting for the burst, their minds racing through practiced formations and counterformations. Their only weapons are their bodies and how fast they move them.

A gunshot thunders out. The crowd erupts as both teams launch into motion.