The Four Lycan Kings Wants Me

Chapter 2: Drill

[Siena's POV]

"I'm not moving," my voice was steady and sharp.

Ronan glared at me.

For a fleeting moment, his smile wavered. A mere flicker like a slipping mask—there, and gone. But I saw that. And I knew he hadn't been prepared for that response. Then the smile was back. He spun with no word and snapped his head, and the others trailed behind him.

As they took off, Jace caught a glimpse over his shoulder and shot me a crooked smile. "Well damn," he muttered, voice light with amusement. "Looks like things just got interesting."

The air sliced with the whistle, sharp and hard, like a slap. Coach Warner's voice came after it, bellowing across the field, coarse with anger. "Let's go! Formation! Now!"

The boys ran back into formation. And I just stood there for a moment. My heart was pounding so hard it filled my ears. I could still feel the warmth of it in my chest, taste adrenaline sharp and metallic on my tongue.

I gazed out at the field. The boys already stood in line for drills, muscles wound up, jerseys hugging sweat-slicked flesh as they brute-strength through early morning conditioning like machines that were built to annihilate. I crept stealthily, presence barely noticed, the sound of my cleats muffled by the din of collision and yelled orders. I placed my water bottle alongside a line of them—labeled with nothing and indistinguishable—and remained at the periphery of the warm-up formation, anticipating a command. No one issued one.

They didn't need to talk to indicate what I already comprehended.

The rest of the athletes responded to my presence as an annoyance, a bug in the system. They did not sneer, did not whisper. They totally snubbed me, as though it would take too much effort to glance in my direction.

Even the manner in which they tossed the ball back and forth between them—a rhythm of contact, of trust forged over seasons—excluded me. I noticed it in every side-eye look, every choice to go around me in drills, every relaxed shoulder that turned to shut me out of position. They both walked as a flock—one unit—and I was jagged outside.

The coaches did nothing. Coach Warner, sporting a wide-brimmed hat and a face as creased as the gravel under his feet, made no attempt to conceal his incredulity. His voice cracked across the field like a whip, ordering out commands with the same biting edge as yesterday, if not a little sharper.

There were no favors for me, no slower repetitions, no altered drills. Indeed, it seemed as though every task assigned to me was created to push me harder and bring out my breaking point. Each sprint had to be quicker, each tackle more precise, each error punished by another round of suicides as the rest looked on.

And when I fell, when my legs wavered for an instant on hill runs, he blew his whistle and yelled at me—not by name, but by the number emblazoned in black on the back of my jersey.

"Thirty-eight! Get up. Or get out."

The numbers had meaning here. They weren't assignments; they were rank. My high, anonymous number labeled me expendable. Like I was here on someone's wild card—and from the glance passed between staff, not a very popular one.

The sun beat on, the heat rising and the drills intensifying. By late morning, my shirt stuck to my skin, drenched with sweat, iron's thick taste on my tongue. Blisters broke out in my cleats. My shoulder ached from a blind-side blow I hadn't anticipated. No one handed me water. No one asked if I were alright. I had kept my lips sealed and my head up, grinding through each drill in stubborn silence. If they were to make me crack, they would have to smash me to pieces.

It was then that the captains finally intervened.

They didn't speak frequently—but when they shifted, everyone took notice. They were more than players—Hawthorne Rugby's silent monarchy. When they moved a player during drills, no one dared to question. When they realigned a path or repositioned a cone, the coaches permitted it. They had control—not handed, but earned.

Ronan watched me from a distance. Once in a while, his blue eyes would dart in my direction, and although his face remained fixed, I sensed it—like standing on a cliff and knowing someone was just going to wait and see if you were going to fall.

Then there was the last drill of the day. The Gauntlet.

I’d heard of it before—whispers during tryouts. It wasn’t just meant to test your body. It was designed to rip it open and expose what was underneath. The setup was simple: three lines of defenders, spaced five yards apart. The goal? Get through all three without dropping the ball or going down. No pads. No protection. Just bone against bone, muscle against intent.

Warner looked down at his clipboard, paused, then lifted the whistle to his lips.

“Thirty-eight. You’re up.”

I didn’t hesitate. My fingers curled around the ball with quiet precision. The field shifted around me, players forming the gauntlet, their eyes fixed on me like vultures circling fresh meat.

The first line was two juniors—quick feet, eyes sharp, grins that didn’t reach their eyes. They weren’t afraid of me. Why would they be?

The second line had Killian at its center, still, chiseled from raw discipline.

The third line?

Jace. He smiled when our eyes met. No helmet. No pads. Just the reverberation of his arrogant confidence.

"You sure you're built for this, sweetheart?" he muttered to himself—just loud enough that I could hear him, just low enough that no coach would call him on it.

The whistle blew. I ran.

The initial contact came low and hard—I just held myself upright, my cleats biting into the ground as I spun away from the defender's reach. That fleeting moment of momentum carried me headfirst into the second line. Killian moved in front of me and lowered his shoulder.

It was as if it hit like a brick wall. Ache burst hot and immediate—my shoulder flashed, my lungs were torn out of me. But I did not relent. I turned, pushed my legs harder untill, heaved forward with all my might, teeth grinding so tightly my jaw screamed. My eyesight turned reddish at the periphery.

Then Jace. He didn't think so. He dove into me—speed and weight and purpose all together. We crashed into each other, full speed, thudding onto the ground in a knot of limbs and breath.

I struck hard—my elbow dragged against the dirt, ribs crashed against his shoulder. For an instant, everything froze.

Then I rolled. My fingers remained on the ball. Still grasping. I was on my feet first.

Jace was on the ground, blinking, stunned, a stripe of mud across his jaw. He came up slowly. Our eyes met—and for an instant, his smile hesitated. Barely, but there.

No one spoke. The coaches were silent. The players were frozen. But something had changed.

Recognition.

I didn't fit in. But now, they couldn't help but know I was there.

The locker room was chillier that night—chillier in temperature and in mood. Fluorescent lights hummed above, casting a sterile buzz over the broken tiles. Steam curled through the showers. I blotted my skin quickly, muscles protesting in places I didn't know I had names for. My ribs hurt with each breath.

I didn't talk. Nobody else did either.

A couple of guys hushed around the room, chuckling at jokes they didn't share with me. I sat on the bench, buckling my boots back into my bag, my heart gradually slowing.

Then I threw open my locker.

And time halted. It was just a crumpled piece of paper, curled at the edges, stuck under my cleats.

The writing was uneven and aggressive. Scrawled in fat black marker.

"Quit before you bleed."