Page 72 of Eye on the Ball

“These two and their friend the witch have something to do with Ace’s condition,” Jack said.

Mr. Albert protested, but Mr. Henry gave him a weary look and held up a hand. “It’s too late, Chester. Let’s just tell them.” He waved to the witches to come down to the field.

Uncle Mike got the portable microphone hooked up to the sound system so everyone there could hear the story.

It was a whopper.

This was what they told us:

Thirty years ago, when they’d fabricated the trophy, the three of them had been young (I ignored Jack’s look of disbelief at this), drunk, and in love. The witch, Celine the first, had loved both of them, and they’d both loved her. They’d been filled with ideas of honor, good sportsmanship, and a friendly rivalry.

As they’d made the trophy, they’d come up with the rulebook in that very battered book they’d made us swear on. Unbeknownst to them, though, love and honor and good intentions can form a powerful magic when wielded by a witch and a metalworker with Fae ancestors. (Mr. Henry.)

The book and the trophy both became imbued with a kind of enforcement magic: When anyone tried to behave in an unsportsmanlike or dishonorable manner, the magic of these objects would activate and dissuade the prospective perpetrators from any bad actions by making them feel guilty and ashamed.

But then Ace Truckman came along.

Ace wasn’t just a bad man. He was a man who’d never felt guilt and was impervious to shame. When he’d hired Celine to make that bad-luck charm?—

Celine, the older, interjected here. “She is in big trouble for that, too. Don’t think she’s getting off scot-free.”

Celine, the younger, shot me a glum look. “Five hundred hours of community service.”

Before I could go too far down the rabbit hole of wondering what community service a morally gray witch would do, Mr. Henry took up the tale:

“When the magic of the trophy encountered Ace’s bad intentions, and the charm came into the picture—when Ace took it into his house— the trophy exploded.”

39

Tess

“Exploded?” I looked at the decidedly non-exploded trophy they held.

Everybody in the stands and on the field moved back.

“Magically speaking,” the older Celine said testily. “It shoved so much punitive magic at Ace that it put him into that stasis.”

“Even assuming we buy this, how did he end up here at the field?” Susan pushed forward, her sheriff face on. “You can’t tell me the trophy transported him here.”

Mr. Albert sighed. “No, that was us. We’d gone to his house to get the trophy and found him unconscious on the floor.”

Mr. Chester nodded. “We needed to get him help, but we couldn’t call anybody and let them find out we were involved.”

“That’s perfectly reasonable,” Jack said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “So much better to dump the man here, cover him with dirt and an obfuscation spell, and hope somebody found him before he died.”

“That was my fault,” Celine the older said sheepishly. “I didn’t realize how much a temporary obfuscation spell would intensify because of the trophy’s magic. When nobody found him quickly, we were just about to do something about it. But then your witch broke the spell, and you found him. So, all was well!”

“All was well?” My voice rose in disbelief. “He could havedied.He’s still in acoma.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic. I can reverse that spell in three minutes.”

“Then go do it,” I demanded. “Now!”

“I just need to talk to the med mage.”

Jack called Reynolds, who handed the phone to the med mage. Jack stared down at Celine’s grandmother until she rolled her eyes and said, “Fine!” Then Jack gavehisphone to the witch, and she told the med mage how to reverse the magical stasis on Ace.

We all waited—holding our collective breath—until Reynolds came back on the line. “It worked! Ace is awake.”