Prologue: The Deal
Patrick Bexfield
“Patrick! You’re going to be late again!”
My mother’s voice cuts through my dreams, that shrill tone that means she’s on her second mimosa of the morning. I roll over, burying my head under the pillow.
“Five more minutes,” I groan, but I know it’s pointless. Dad will be up next, and his approach won’t be as gentle.
Sure enough, heavy footsteps approach my door before it swings open with a bang, bouncing off the wall.
“Up. Now.” Dad stands in the doorway, already dressed in his suit and tie. “Coach Johnson called last night. He said you were slow on your cuts yesterday.”
I sit up, rubbing my eyes. “Good morning to you too.”
“This isn’t a joke, Patrick.” He steps into my room, surveying the football trophies lining my shelves with the critical eye of someone who’s always looking for more. “The UCLA scout is coming in three weeks. Three weeks. And you’re still running like you’ve got cement in your cleats.”
“I’m working on it.”
“Work harder.” He checks his watch. “You missed your morning run. Again. And now you’ll have to take the bus because you’re running late.”
Great. The bus. Because thats exactly how i want to start my day.
“Your test grades came back,” he continues, dropping a stack of papers on my bed. Red marks everywhere. D-minus. F. D. “This is unacceptable. You need a C average to stay eligible.”
“I know, Dad.”
“Knowing isn’t doing.” He heads for the door, pausing to deliver his parting shot. “Football isn’t just a game, Patrick. It’s your future. Our future. Don’t blow it because you can’t be bothered to wake up on time or study for a test.”
Our future. Always our future. Never just mine.
By the time I shower and dress, I’ve missed breakfast. Mom’s in the kitchen, her “coffee” smelling more like brandy than caffeine.
“There’s a granola bar on the counter,” she says, not looking up from her phone. “And Richard left you some training schedules. He printed them from that NFL prep website.”
I stuff the granola bar in my pocket and ignore the schedules. “I’m going to be late.”
“Shelby’s father called,” she adds as I reach the door. “Wants to know if you’re coming to their fundraiser next week. I told him of course you are.”
Of course I am. Because what Patrick Bexfield wants never factors into these decisions.
“Fine,” I mutter, grabbing my backpack. “Whatever.”
The bus is already at my stop when I sprint up, barely making it before the doors close. The driver gives me a disapproving look as I jump on.
“Cutting it close, Bexfield.”
“Sorry, Mr. Davis.”
The bus is packed, but spaces open up as I walk down the aisle—the perks of being team captain. Tyler waves me over to a seat he’s saved, grinning like always.
“Dude, you look like crap.”
“Thanks,” I drop into the seat. “Overslept.”
“Party too hard last night?” He punches my arm, our universal greeting.
“Yeah, me and my textbooks had a wild time.”
Shelby leans over from the seat across the aisle, her blonde hair perfectly styled even at 7:30 in the morning. “Hey, babe. We still on for the mall Saturday? Daddy’s giving me his credit card.”
I force a smile. “Sure, if you do that thing I like.”
She giggles, cheeks flushing pink. “Patrick! Not on the bus.”
Tyler makes a crude gesture when she turns away, and I laugh because that’s what’s expected. But lately, the whole routine feels hollow. Girlfriend who’s with me for status. Friends who want my popularity. Parents who want my success. No one who wants just... me.
“Heads up,” Tyler whispers as we approach another stop. “It’s Crapper.”
Imogen Capper boards the bus, head down, auburn hair falling forward to hide her face. She’s clutching a book to her chest like a shield.
“Hey May Crapper!” Tyler calls out. “Did you go number two this morning? Because you look flushed!”
The bus erupts in laughter. I join in automatically, calling out, “Is that what that smell is?” I pinch my nose for effect and everyone laughs again.
Imogen keeps her eyes on the floor, making her way to a seat near the front where the other social outcasts sit. But not before I catch a glimpse of her expression—resigned, wounded, like she’s heard it all a thousand times, which she has from me and everyone else since elementary school.
Something uncomfortable twists in my gut, but I push it away. Nope. She has it easy; no one expects anything from mousey little May Crapper. If anything, I’m doing her a favor.
By the time we reach school, I’ve already exhausted my fake smile quota, and it’s not even 8 AM.
First period: Math. Fischer’s already writing equations on the board when I slide into my seat near the back. He gives me a disapproving look over his glasses.
“Nice of you to join us, Mr. Bexfield.”
I slouch down, not bothering with a response. Fischer has made it clear what he thinks of me—dumb jock, coasting on athletic privilege. He’s not entirely wrong.
“Don’t forget,” he announces to the class, “your unit test is tomorrow. It counts for twenty percent of your semester grade.”
Great. Another test I haven’t studied for. Another F waiting to happen.
My gaze drifts around the room, landing on Imogen a few rows ahead. She’s already taking notes, her handwriting neat and precise. Never says a word unless called on, but always knows the answers. Always has her homework done. She makes it look easy. A Teacher’s pet. It’s disgusting.
“Hey Crapper,” I whisper, leaning forward. “Is that toilet paper on your shoe, or are you trying to make a fashion statement?”
Tyler and the guys snicker. She stiffens but doesn’t turn around.
“Mr. Bexfield,” Fischer’s voice cuts through the room. “Since you’re so eager to participate this morning, perhaps you’d like to solve the equation on the board?”
I stare at the jumble of numbers and letters. It might as well be Chinese.
“Pass,” I mutter.
“That seems to be your approach to my class in general,” Fischer replies. “Perhaps you should consider that your eligibility for certain... extracurricular activities depends on maintaining passing grades.”
The threat is clear. Fail his class, lose football. My stomach tightens.
“Ms. Capper,” Fischer continues, “since Mr. Bexfield is unprepared, perhaps you could demonstrate?”
Imogen rises quietly, walks to the board, and solves the equation in a few quick strokes. Show off.
“Excellent, as always,” Fischer says. “Perhaps some of your aptitude could rub off on our athletes.”
As she returns to her seat, Imogen’s eyes meet mine for just a second. There’s no triumph there, no mockery. Just a quiet assessment that somehow feels worse than either.
I smirk and release a loud raspberry, to a host of laughter from the class. Imogen’s face floods with mortification, and her eyes get glossy. Good. I should probably feel bad about picking on her, but it feels good to have the attention directed at someone else for a change.
The rest of the day blurs together—classes I don’t care about, teachers who’ve given up on me, teammates who laugh at all my jokes because I’m Patrick Bexfield, star running back and golden boy.
By the time afternoon practice rolls around, I’m already exhausted. But this is where I’m supposed to shine. This is what I’m good at.
Except today, I’m not.
“Bexfield! What the hell was that?” Coach Johnson bellows as I miss a cut, losing yards in the scrimmage. “My grandmother could run that pattern better, and she’s dead!”
I jog back to the line, sweat pouring down my face. “Sorry, Coach.”
“Sorry doesn’t win championships!” He throws his clipboard down. “Again!”
We run the play again. And again. And again. Each time, Coach finds something new to criticize. My footwork. My speed. My vision. Nothing is good enough.
After practice, when the other guys are heading to the showers, Coach calls me into his office.
“Close the door,” he says, settling behind his desk.
I brace myself for another lecture, but instead, he sighs, suddenly looking older than his fifty years.
“What’s going on with you, Patrick? Your times are slower. Your cuts are sloppy. Even your attitude seems off.”
“Just tired, Coach. I’ll be better tomorrow.”
He studies me for a long moment. “I got a call from Fischer this morning. Says you’re failing his class. Again.”
My heart sinks. “I’ll figure it out.”
“You better.” He leans forward. “Look, I’m not supposed to say this, but UCLA is serious about you. Really serious. But they need to see improvement, not regression. And they need you eligible to play.”
“I know, Coach.”
“Do you?” His voice hardens. “Because it seems like you’re throwing away an opportunity most kids would kill for. Full ride to a Division I school. Fast track to the NFL. It’s all there for you, Patrick. All you have to do is reach out and take it.”
Take it. Like it’s that easy. Like, I haven’t been killing myself trying to be good enough.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask, too tired to pretend anymore.
He hesitates, then pulls a key from his desk drawer. “Weight room. After hours. Some of the guys from last year’s team... they found ways to get an edge. Nothing illegal,” he adds quickly. “Just... more practice, more supplements, better diet. You know, get creative.”
I stare at the key. Is he seriously suggesting what I think he is?
“It’s your future,” he says, dropping the key into my palm. “Your call.”
The advice is no different than all the rest of the pressure that bears down on my shoulders. ’MY call’ none of this is ‘MY call.’ I roll my eyes and make my way to the gym, what’s a work out on top of a work out for Westlake High’s rising football star?
The weight room smells like sweat and desperation. It’s nearly midnight, but I’m still here, pushing my body past its limits. My shoulders burn as I force out another rep on the bench press, the bar wavering dangerously before I slam it back into the rack.
“Dammit,” I mutter, sitting up and wiping my face with a towel. The numbers don’t lie—I’ve plateaued. No matter how many protein shakes I choke down, how many extra hours I put in, how many supplements I take, my body seems to have reached its natural ceiling.
And natural isn’t good enough. Not anymore.
My phone buzzes on the bench beside me—Dad, for the third time tonight. I don’t need to check the message to know what it says. Some variation of: “Did you do the extra drills I sent? Coach Johnson mentioned your forty time is still too slow. The UCLA scout is coming next month.”
I ignore it, just like I’ve ignored the last dozen. It won’t stop him from saying the same things tomorrow.
The shower doesn’t wash away the doubt. The hot water pounds against muscles that should be stronger, a body that should be faster, a future that looks increasingly out of reach.
The temperature has dropped by the time I step outside, a cold snap unusual for September. The parking lot is empty, and I sigh as I remember my car is still at home—another consequence of being late this morning.
I pull out my phone to check the city bus schedule. The last bus leaves in fifteen minutes from the stop three blocks away. If I miss it, it’s a five-mile walk home.
I start walking, shoulders hunched against the cold, the weight of the day pressing down on me with each step. The streets are mostly empty, streetlights casting long shadows across the sidewalk. At least when I’m alone, there is no one to point out where I’m lacking…
“Tough night, Mr. Bexfield?”
The voice from beside me nearly gives me a heart attack. I whip my head around to find a man walking next to me—a stranger who definitely wasn’t there a second ago.
“Jesus!” I shout, “Where did you—”
“No need for alarm,” the man says, his voice so smooth it’s almost hypnotic. “Or for invoking deities who aren’t particularly attentive to high school parking lots.”
Something about him catches my attention—not just the impossibility of his presence, but something in his appearance. He looks like every college recruiter I’ve ever met: expensive suit, confident smile, hair just starting to gray at the temples in a way that suggests experience rather than age. Yet his eyes... there’s something wrong with his eyes. They’re too dark, too knowing.
“Who are you?” I demand, forcing authority into my voice despite the fear crawling up my spine. “What do you want?”
“Someone who can help with your rather impressive collection of problems,” he replies, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from his suit sleeve. “And what I want is quite simple—a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling,” I tell him, increasing my pace to get away from him. “Get out of here before I call the cops.”
His laugh is like glass breaking. “The police would be... perplexed by this situation, I think. But I understand your caution, Patrick. Smart boy. That’s good. I don’t work with fools.”
I reach for my phone, but my hand freezes. “How do you know my name?”
“I know many things about you, Patrick Benjamin Bexfield. Your 4.6-second forty-yard dash. Your failing grades in nearly every subject. Your father’s ambitions. Your mother’s disappointments. Your girlfriend’s calculations. Your coach’s desperation.” He leans forward slightly. “Your fear that you’ve reached your physical limit just when everyone expects you to exceed it.”
A cold that has nothing to do with the September night seeps into my bones. This guy knows too much. Knows things I haven’t told anyone.
“What do you want?” I repeat, my voice barely a whisper now.
“To offer a solution,” he says, as casually as if suggesting a new training regimen. “You need something beyond what mere physical conditioning can provide. You need... guidance. Supernatural guidance, one might say.”
“Supernatural,” I repeat flatly. “Right. I think you should leave now.”
“Consider your situation objectively,” he continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “You require physical and mental performance beyond your natural capabilities. Your grades are threatening your eligibility, your body is reaching its limits, and everyone’s expectations keep rising. You need someone—or something—guiding you to achieve what ordinary humans cannot.”
“You’re talking about steroids? HGH?” I shake my head. “No way. They test for that stuff. One positive and my future’s over.”
His smile widens, showing teeth that seem too white, too sharp. “Nothing so crude or detectable, Mr. Bexfield. I’m offering something far more sophisticated. A partnership, of sorts.”
Despite every instinct telling me to walk faster, to put distance between us, I find myself asking, “What kind of partnership?”
“One where you get exactly what you need—a mind of extraordinary capability guiding your body to peak performance. Beyond peak, actually. Beyond what any scout or coach has ever seen at the high school level. And perhaps it might even help with those grade issues that are threatening your eligibility.”
Coach Johnson’s words echo in my mind. Get creative. Was this what he meant? Finding an edge that couldn’t be detected in drug tests? Something beyond the normal methods?
My heart rate picks up. “How?”
“A simple agreement,” he says, producing a small card from his pocket and holding it out. I take it and frown as I look it over. The card looks like ordinary business stationery, but the text keeps shifting, changing languages, symbols I can’t read, appearing and disappearing too quickly to follow.
“Who are you?” I ask again, unable to look away from the card.
“Malachar,” he replies, the name somehow echoing as we walk down the street, “A... talent scout, you might say. For exceptional humans with specific needs.”
Something about his choice of words sends warning signals blaring through my mind. This isn’t right. This guy isn’t right. But the pressure of the last few years—the weight of expectations, the fear of failure, the knowledge that I’m letting down everyone who matters—makes me hesitate instead of run.
“What’s the catch?” I ask because there’s always a catch. Dad taught me that much.
Malachar’s smile doesn’t waver. “A modest exchange. You receive the guidance you require, and I receive... let’s call it satisfaction in a job well done.”
“That’s it? No money? No weird sacrifices or something?”
He laughs again, the sound making my skin crawl. “How charmingly medieval. No, Mr. Bexfield. Simply an agreement that you wish to have the mind of a supernatural being guiding your body to football greatness. The specifics are handled by powers beyond your concern.”
I stare at the card, which has settled into English text that seems to pulse slightly in the darkness. I, Patrick Benjamin Bexfield, desire to have the mind of a supernatural being guiding my body to football greatness.
Simple enough. Almost too simple.
“And this will help me get to the NFL? And fix my grades?” I ask, the desperate hope I’ve been carrying for years bubbling to the surface.
“It will provide exactly what you’re asking for,” Malachar confirms. “The rest depends on what you do with it.”
In the distance, I hear the rumble of the approaching bus. My phone buzzes—Dad, again, wondering why I’m not home yet. The pressure closes in from all sides.
Malachar glances toward the sound of the bus. “It appears our time is running short, Mr. Bexfield. The bus waits for no one, and neither do opportunities like this.” He smiles, some trick of the light making his white teeth look sharp. “It is, as they say, now or never.”
I should say no. Everything about this screams danger. But the bus is coming, my future is slipping away, and I’m out of options. Coach basically told me to find an edge any way I could. This is an edge no one else would have - and it isn’t illegal.
“All I have to do is sign this?”
Malachar produces a pen—silver, expensive-looking, with a tip that gleams oddly in the dark. “Your signature, and a small drop of blood. Traditional, but effective.” He holds it out. “What’s it going to be, Mr. Bexfield?”
The request should send me running, but at this point, it just seems like a dramatic flourish. Like something from a movie. Not real. Not dangerous.
I take the pen, my hand surprisingly steady. “And this will fix everything?”
“It will give you exactly what you ask for,” he repeats, something like anticipation flickering in those too-dark eyes.
I scan the card one more time. I, Patrick Benjamin Bexfield, desire to have the mind of a supernatural being guiding my body to football greatness.
No obvious tricks. No fine print about my soul or firstborn child or anything like that. Just a straightforward request for help.
Before I can reconsider, I sign my name, wincing slightly as the pen pricks my finger when I’m finished. A small drop of blood soaks into the card, which momentarily glows with a light that shouldn’t be possible on the dark street.
And then it’s done. The card vanishes from between my fingers as if it never existed.
“A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Bexfield,” Malachar says, his smile wider than any human smile should be. “I think you’ll find this arrangement... illuminating for all parties involved.”
“When does it start?” I ask, flexing my hand and feeling no different than before.
“Soon,” he promises, his form already seeming to blur at the edges. “Quite soon. And Patrick? Do remember that you asked for exactly this. When the time comes.”
Before I can ask what he means, he’s gone—not walking away or fading into the shadows, but simply gone between one blink and the next, as if he’d never been there at all.
The bus pulls up to the stop just as I reach it, doors hissing open. I climb aboard in a daze, flashing my student pass to the driver who barely looks at me.
I drop into a seat at the back, alone, wondering if I’ve lost my mind from the pressure. Maybe I’ve been working out too hard. Maybe I fell asleep in the weight room and dreamed the whole encounter.
But the small puncture on my finger is real, a single drop of blood still welling from the tiny wound.
The bus ride feels longer than usual. Halfway home, a wave of exhaustion hits me so suddenly that I nearly slide out of my seat. My vision blurs, and there’s a strange pressure building behind my eyes.
“Just tired,” I mutter to myself. “Just need sleep.”
By the time the bus reaches my stop, I can barely stand. I stumble off, nearly falling on the sidewalk. The three-block walk to my house feels like a marathon, each step harder than the last. My limbs feel heavy, like I’m moving through water.
When I finally reach our driveway, the house lights are still on—Mom and Dad waiting up, ready with their questions and expectations.
I stumble through the front door, gripping the wall for support.
“Patrick? Is that you?” Mom calls from the living room. “Your father’s been trying to reach you all night.”
“Not feeling great,” I manage to say, my tongue suddenly too big for my mouth. “Going to bed.”
Dad appears in the hallway, his face set in that familiar disappointed frown. “We need to talk about your training schedule. Coach Johnson called and—”
“Tomorrow,” I cut him off, something I never do. “Please. I’m... I think I’m sick.”
The concern that flickers across his face is almost entirely overshadowed by annoyance. Always the wrong priorities with him.
“Fine. Tomorrow then.”
I nod, already dragging myself toward the stairs. Each step feels like climbing a mountain. Something is happening to me—something that has nothing to do with overtraining or normal exhaustion.
I barely make it to my room, collapsing onto my bed without even taking off my shoes. The ceiling seems to spin above me, and there’s a strange echo in my ears—a voice that isn’t mine, speaking words I can’t understand.
And then, cutting through it all, a laugh. Malachar’s laugh, an evil horrible thing, coming from everywhere and nowhere.
“What have I done?” I whisper as darkness closes in around the edges of my vision. “What’s happening to me?”
The last thing I hear before consciousness slips away is that laugh again, his voice saying strange words that I cannot comprehend, his voice rising until finally he utters a single word, the only one I can understand:
“Bexarick.”
Then everything goes dark.
