Page 18 of Star Champion

“There you are!” called out an accented voice she knew was not of this colony.

She almost dropped the jug, dregs of water splattering on her boots, as three clean, well-dressed men glided one by one between the parted curtains like flycars through the mist. Clean and well-fed they were, aye, but these were no typical Baréshti compound cogs; they were as physically fit as Arik and the other loaders.

And tall. She was not a petite woman, standing as tall or taller than many Baréshti males, but these strangers towered over her by at least a head.

The first visitor backstage wore a grin that creased his friendly face from one cheek to the other. He was blond and good-looking in the boyish way her brother was, but in peak physical condition. A wholesome Nico, if such a thing were possible. “That was some mighty fine playing,” he said, one corner of his mouth denting a cheek with the kind of dimple girls loved.

A second off-worlder joined him. He was also everyday blond but darker with angular features and flared dark brows over a pair of miss-nothing golden-brown eyes. “You played an excellent set of matches. Despite the lack of competition.”

“Thecompetition, if this boob wants to call it that, was pathetic,” the Nico lookalike laughed. “But blasted entertaining.”

Their cocky grins reminded her of what she was used to seeing in the ore loaders. It gave her a thread of familiarity to grasp onto as the two looked her up and down with respect and instant camaraderie. With one difference.

Always when meeting strange men for the first time, even other tug drivers or loaders, she had come to expect some degree of sexual appraisal. A woman working in a man’s world learned to ignore it, as long as it did not interfere with her job. Yet, there was not one speck of carnal interest in the gaze of these off-worlders. It meant her disguise was working. They assumed she was male like them.

“I’m Yonson Skeet,” the Nico twin said, poking a thumb at his chest. “And this sluggish half-wit is Raff Xirri. We play for Team Eireya. We stopped in to see you along with our esteemed team owner.” Skeet turned to look over his shoulder, his voice muted and far more respectful. “Sir Klark Vedla.”

Jemm’s gaze lifted to the third off-worlder. With a cloak draped over the crook of an arm, he stood exactly two paces behind the pros, as if to observe the exchange rather than be a part of it. While all three men wore aristo-quality clothing, this man’s dark brown trousers and shirt were impeccably tailored, designed to pay homage to an athletic build—the spread of his shoulders, narrow hips, long muscular legs—without flaunting it. Not even Migel Arran’s wardrobe could match the attention to detail. His hair was warm and tawny like his skin, but did nothing to counteract his coldness, an impression accentuated by a long perfect nose, high cheekbones, and a firm jaw—features that looked so sculpted and hard they could be made from bronzed stone. It distracted from his good looks and left her with the sense of a rigid, downright grim fella.

Until he stepped forward to greet her, his mouth breaking into a glorious smile that melted his demeanor like a match held to wax. “Ah, Sea Kestrel. What can I say? Well done. Very well done.” He spoke with a dignified brogue that was as sweet and smooth as melted ice cream.

Vaguely, she knew she was expected to say something in return, but all she could do was track that smile to where it ended, glinting in his arresting pale gold eyes.Vash Nadaheyes.

From worlds afar…

Something tickled her chin. That was when she realized she had been gaping at the off-worlders the entire time with water dribbling from her parted lips. She dashed her sleeve across her mouth and chin.

“That’s one way to use a bajha suit,” said, Yonson Skeet, the wholesome Nico lookalike. “As a bib!” He and his teammate guffawed at the insult, and she found herself back in familiar territory. Her mostly male fellow tug drivers and the loaders showed affection the same way, shooting disparaging zingers at each other the way some females blew kisses.

TheVashowned the team. Who could own a whole team? Who had that kind of money? The thought was dizzying. It seemed ridiculous now that she had fretted the men might be slavers masquerading as scouts. This nobleman did not need to force players to compete. He could buy them, bribe them, wine and dine them.

“You impressed me, Sea Kestrel,” theVashsaid. “I expected you might, but not to this degree,” he said, pure enchantment lighting up his gaze.

Her heart skipped a beat.

She had always wondered what it would be like, seeing a fella so captivated with her that his eyes alone would be enough to make her catch her breath. To be a lass on the receiving end of that kind of heart-stopping, center-of-his-world regard would be something indeed. Da looked at Ma that way when Jemm was small, before everything went bad.

Except that there was only one reason this man regarded her with such interest and passion. He assumed she was a street-bajha player with a knack for wielding a sens-sword that he as a team owner might be interested in recruiting.

Amalestreet bajha player.

She took a few cerebral steps back. It would not do to gawk at a man who thought she was a lad. “Thank you,” she croaked in her deepest, gruffest voice.

Sir Klark’s face also closed off and reverted to a grim façade. She hoped it was because he realized it was more befitting his status, not because having a teenage lad ogling him made him uncomfortable. “The barkeep gave me ice,” he said, steady and aloof. In his left hand was a small, wet, fabric-wrapped bag.

“Ice?” She sounded silly, husking out the word in her “boy” voice. “What for?” Now she sounded defensive as well.

“You were favoring your right arm during the match. You weren’t as of a few weeks ago. How recent is your injury?”

Holy crat. He noticed? Unlike her brother.

Nico had returned to her side in a cloud of vape smoke. “You’re hurt?” His eyes narrowed when she shook her head and said nothing. He tossed his vape on the floor and crushed the plastic shell with the heel of his boot then smiled at the men. “Nico Aves is the name, fellas. We met earlier.”

“Indeed we did,” Klark said pleasantly. “You’re the manager, I see.”

“Manager, promoter, and coach of this fine player, Sea Kestrel.” Her brother stuck out a hand wrapped in a glove so greasy that if she were theVashshe would have hesitated to shake it, too.

Nico chuckled. “Don’t worry, I ain’t contagious. Not yet anyway.” He took Sir Klark by the arm in the way Migel Arran had taken his all those weeks ago, then offered the same greeting to the pair of pro players. How easily her chameleon of a brother could move between worlds, whereas Jemm felt the most at ease when she was alone, driving in her tug or lost in practicing bajha.

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