Harsh whiteness replaced darkness in Athanasius’ vision. The blood in his veins turned to ice as his lungs caught fire. Choking, he rolled, vomiting sea water onto the icy, unforgiving surface where he lay. The salty water burned his nose and throat as he coughed. Nausea overwhelmed him again until nothing remained in his stomach but bile as he struggled to breathe. Frigid air stung his wet, naked skin while the bright sunlight did nothing to alleviate the cold. Through blurry vision, the eldest prince of Nendavia could only blink at the vast expanse of frozen wasteland stretching around him.

No other soul existed out here; there was nothing but ice and water as far as he could see, his fury drowned in shock and pain.

A bitter wind picked up and howled around him, echoing the agony roiling in his mind and body. Athanasius attempted to rise but fell, cutting his hip on the ice beneath him. A red stain seeped into the white, marring the otherwise immaculate surface. He gasped for breath, the icy air shredding his lungs just as the sea water had moments before.

Horror dawned as he slowly gained awareness of both his surroundings…and his extremities.

Unconsciousness crept over him again as he struggled to make sense of his new reality.

Somehow, he had become that which he despised most.

Exposed.

Defenseless.

And human.

Every time I saw Dorian Mathers’s stupid face, I wanted to take the stupid bat from his stupid hands and smack his stupid head with it.

I’m not a violent person, but what can I say? He brings out the worst in me. 

It’s a shame really, because I love the Angels. But every time they face the Rangers at home, I have to see his stupid face and the cocky shit-eating grin so many other girls would swoon over.

Except I fucking know better.

Most people might just change the channel or turn off the TV entirely. 162 games in a season, what’s missing a dozen a year?

I, unfortunately, don’t have that luxury.

Trying to ignore the blazing Jumbotron screen over the field featuring stupid-face taking his stance in the batter’s box, I focused on the panel beneath my hands. Seventh-inning stretch was coming up, and I had to be ready to switch on mics and monitor feedback as whoever we had lined up belts out “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” I worked too hard and too long for this job to let Dorian fucking Mathers ruin it.

A crack every baseball fan knows echoed from the field and I couldn’t help but look up, adrenaline surging. The crowd collectively held its breath as Mathers’s hit sailed into the stands just foul of the pole, and the stadium erupted again. I risked a glance at the Jumbotron and caught a glimpse of the frustrated smile on his face as he took a practice swing before stepping back into the box. I looked back down at the sound board. I shouldn’t still know how to read his moods after six years. Our pitcher was up to eighty pitches and we were down 3-1—he wouldn’t see another inning. Not with the division on the line. The series was tied: whoever won tonight would advance and I wouldn’t have to see Dorian’s face again for a blissful six months. 

Another crack of the bat, this time fouled straight back. Dorian was down on strikes with two outs. Just one more pitch and the stretch would be on—

He didn’t miss the third time. 

I swore and the crowd groaned as the ball headed between right and center. Nick Yoast, our rookie right-fielder, and Carter Sampson, our veteran All-Star center, sprinted for the ball. Mathers was about to round first. 

“Come on come on, get there get there,” I chanted under my breath. 

I saw the train wreck before they registered it was coming. Sampson was trying to wave Yoast off, his yelling drowned out by the crowd. But Yoast’s eyes were focused completely on the ball, not paying attention to the oncoming collision. 

“No, Nick, don’t—” I couldn’t help shouting. 

The rookie glanced down, trying at the last possible second to avoid the center-fielder. 

A direct hit might have been less catastrophic.

My gasp was echoed by the stadium as Nick’s momentum propelled him into Carter. Lost his balance. Slipped. Carter tried to avoid him too late. His cleat caught in the grass. The ball dropped just in front of the two of them. Dorian rounded second.

Nick scrambled to his feet, trying to get his bearings. He snatched up the ball and slung it to the infield.

Carter rolled onto his stomach, pressing his forehead into the grass in a prone position I recognized all too well. Nausea rose in my stomach and I pressed my hands over my mouth.

Oh no. Oh no no no…

“Fucking hell,” one of the other sound booth engineers gasped.

The Angels managed to stop Dorian at third, but all eyes were on the outfield where Carter was still laid out, his ungloved hand gripping the earth as if it would somehow fortify him.

The medical staff was already on their way. It’s eerie when a crowd of nearly 50,000 suddenly goes silent. 

I could see the panic in Nick’s eyes from the booth. He had fucked up. Badly. He was on one knee with a hand to Carter’s shoulder. The medical team and coaches waved him away as they circled the center-fielder. This time, he paid attention and moved. 

The announcers were silent. The crowd was silent. I tried to think of something, anything to put over the sound system to break the deathly quiet but came up empty. 

I knew our season was over when they brought out the stretcher.

“Your newspaper, Mr. Ashcroft.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bridges.”

The middle-aged, plump housekeeper nodded in acknowledgment and picked up the remnants of his breakfast from the dining table. “You’re on page six.”

“Is that right?” His hazel eyes lit up with amusement. “I wonder what they could possibly be writing about me now.”

“Seems to be documenting your summer vacation, sir.”

He opened the paper. 

“MR. ASHCROFT WILL SEE YOU NOW” the headline read, accompanied by a photo of him wading in the surf wearing only his board shorts and a pair of sunglasses.

“CHICAGO–BASED CEO OF ASHCROFT INDUSTRIES SHOWS OFF ABS AND INK WHILE VACATIONING IN BARBADOS” read the caption.

“Who comes up with this nonsense?” he muttered, sipping his coffee and turning the page.

“Not a bad picture, though,” Mrs. Bridges said. “Nice to see you enjoying yourself.”

“Hm. Wish they’d feature the charity as much,” Mr. Ashcroft  replied, flipping to the business section. 

“I suspect they’re tired of covering your business deals,” Mrs. Bridges said, amusement in her voice as she took the dishes out of the room.

He snorted, skimming the headlines. 

“ASHCROFT INDUSTRIES A TOP S&P 500 CONTENDER AFTER RECORD-BREAKING REAL ESTATE DEAL” 

“SAY ‘HEY SIRI’ TO THE COMPANY PREPARING TO UPEND THE AI INDUSTRY”

“CARTER & FRANKLIN EMBEZZLEMENT SCANDAL UNCOVERED AFTER SENIOR PARTNER DIES FROM HEART ATTACK”

“MORTGAGE RATES LOOK TO RISE AGAIN AS EMPLOYMENT NUMBERS COME BACK STRONG”

Mr. Ashcroft downed the rest of his coffee. His cell phone rang beside him and he picked it up.

“Ashcroft.”

“Hey, Mr. Ashcroft! Those stock numbers, am I right?”

“Hey, Don. Yeah, it was a good start,” Ashcroft replied, holding the phone with his shoulder as he fastened a Cartier watch around his wrist. “Here’s hoping it holds.”

“Well, everything’s volatile right now. Chances are we’ll drop before the end of the day. But I swear man, I have never known anybody who can turn a deal in his favor like you.”

Ashcroft snorted. “Tell that to Mr. Soboliev. He was pissed.”

“You’re telling me. I thought he had us on that last phone call.”

“I did, too.”

“Yeah. Well, congrats. Your empire just got a bit bigger.”

“Thanks, Don.”

“I gotta go. I’m meeting up with the city planner on that new industrial complex.”

“It’s what I pay you for,” he said wryly.

“Yeah, so tell HR I need a raise,” the other man said, laughing.

“Goodbye, Don.”

Mr. Ashcroft hung up the call and shrugged into his suit jacket. By all accounts, it was going to be an interesting day at the office. As he left his penthouse apartment, a dark figure fell in behind him as he waited at the elevator. 

“Morning, Hughes,” he said without turning. 

“Mr. Ashcroft,” his head of security replied. “Which car would you like to take, sir?”

“The Hypersport, I think. Good day for it.”

“Sir, if I may, I don’t know that there’s ever a good day for driving in Chicago,” Hughes said, sending off a text.

The young CEO snorted as the elevator dinged and the doors opened. The tall, dark-eyed man followed him inside. “Maybe you’re right. But I don’t know, Hughes. Something about today. It’s a good day.” He hit the garage floor button and adjusted his tie.

“I heard about the stock, congrats.”

“I assume you did well?” 

“Yes, Mr. Ashcroft, thank you.”

“Seems like the press caught wind of my Barbados trip,” Mr. Ashcroft added. 

“Yes sir, Mrs. Bridges informed me this morning.”

“Parasites,” he muttered. “That picture will be all over the internet today.”

“It will die off in a few days.”

“Were you able to put together that dossier I asked for?” Ashcroft asked him as the elevator doors opened to the garage. Hughes had already sent for the car to be brought around. 

“Should be on your desk when you get in.”

“Wonderful. Thank you.”

The valet drove up in the Hypersport. Hughes held the door open for him and he slid into the driver’s seat. 

“Have a pleasant day, sir.”

“Thank you, Hughes.” 

The engine purred under his hands and he pulled out of the underground garage and into traffic. Hughes was right, of course. No such thing as a pleasant drive in Chicago.