CHAPTER 8: THE ASSESSMENT (2)
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The assessment began after lunch. First-years gathered in the main gymnasium, where various stations had been set up to test different abilities. Coach Thorne stood on a platform, clipboard in hand.
"This isn't a competition," he announced, though everyone knew it was. "It's a baseline assessment to determine your training needs. Give your best effort. Begin at your assigned station and rotate on my whistle."
My first station was speed—a timed sprint across the gym. This I could handle. Growing up with brothers meant I'd spent my childhood running, usually away from their pranks. When the whistle blew, I exploded forward, focusing on form rather than power. I finished third in my group, earning a surprised nod from the instructor.
Next came agility—weaving through obstacles. Again, my smaller size and natural quickness served me well. I completed the course cleanly, gaining confidence with each station.
Then came strength testing.
"Push-ups, maximum in one minute," the instructor announced.
I dropped into position, remembering Damon's advice about form. Quality over quantity. When the whistle blew, I began, keeping my movements controlled. By thirty seconds, my arms trembled. By forty-five, they burned like fire. I gritted my teeth, pushing through the pain.
The final whistle blew. Twenty-seven push-ups—not impressive for an Alpha male, but not embarrassingly low either. The instructor marked his clipboard without comment.
Pull-ups were next. I managed eight before my arms gave out completely. Again, below average but not disastrous.
The final station was the one I dreaded most: sparring. Students were paired by size, thankfully, which meant I faced another smaller first-year—a wiry Beta named Eli.
"Light contact only," Coach Thorne instructed. "Show technique, not power. Begin!"
Eli circled me cautiously. I mirrored his movements, remembering Damon's lessons. When Eli jabbed, I slipped the punch and countered with a quick strike to his shoulder. His eyebrows rose in surprise.
For two minutes, we exchanged blows—his stronger but mine quicker. I focused on defense, using his momentum against him as I'd seen my brothers do countless times. When the whistle blew, we were both breathing hard.
"Not bad, Silver," Eli said, offering his hand. "You're fast. Like fighting a caffeinated squirrel."
I shook it, relief washing through me. "Thanks. I think."
Coach Thorne reviewed his clipboard as we gathered. "Results will be posted tomorrow. Dismissed—except Silver. A word."
My stomach dropped. Had I been found out? I approached nervously as others filed out.
"Interesting performance," Thorne said once we were alone. "Your technique is unusual."
I swallowed. "Is that bad?"
"Different doesn't mean bad. You lack power but compensate with speed and precision." He studied me. "You've had training, but not traditional Alpha training."
"My father focused on strategy," I improvised. "He believes brains beat brawn."
Thorne nodded slowly. "Smart man. But here, you'll need both. I'm assigning you additional strength training. Three mornings a week with me."
I blinked. "Sir?"
"You have potential, Silver. Unusual, but there. Don't waste it." He handed me a modified schedule. "Six AM tomorrow. Don't be late."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." I paused. "Just to clarify—you're not kicking me out for being the worst performer?"
He actually cracked a smile. "Not even close to the worst. Jenkins over there threw up during push-ups and then cried."
I left the gym in a daze. Additional training meant more risk of exposure, but refusing would raise suspicions. As I crossed the quad, Noah jogged up beside me.
"How'd you do?" he asked.
"Survived," I replied. "You?"
"Crushed the academic assessment, bombed the physical." He grinned. "As expected. Want to grab dinner?"
I hesitated, then nodded. I needed friends here, and Noah seemed genuinely kind.
In the cafeteria, we joined a table with several other first-years, including Eli from my sparring match. The conversation flowed easily—complaints about tough professors, speculation about rankings, stories from home.
"Silver!" a voice called. I turned to see Damon approaching with a group of upper-classmen. "How'd it go?"
All eyes at our table turned to me, surprised by the attention from a popular third-year.
"Fine," I said. "Thanks for the tips."
He nodded, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "Anytime." Then to everyone's shock, he added, "Mind if we join you?"
Soon our table was crowded with a mix of first and third-years, with Damon seated directly across from me. I kept my head down, focusing on my food, but couldn't help noticing the curious glances from others.
"Why is Blackwood interested in you?" Noah whispered.
"We're roommates," I replied with a shrug, unable to explain the mate bond pulling us together despite my best efforts to resist it.
"Yeah, but he's... you know, Damon Blackwood. And you're..."
"A sock-throwing champion?" I suggested.
Noah snorted. "Something like that."
As dinner ended, Damon caught up with me outside. "You did well today," he said. "Thorne mentioned your performance."
"He's giving me extra training," I admitted.
"Good. You need it." Before I could be offended, he added, "We all needed help when we started. No shame in that."
We walked back to our room together, and for a moment, it felt almost normal—just two students after a long day. But nothing about this situation was normal. I was lying to everyone, including my mate, risking discovery with every passing hour.
Yet as I watched Damon laugh at something Noah called out to us, I couldn't help wondering what might have happened if we'd met under different circumstances. If I hadn't been promised to his brother. If I'd been free to follow the mate bond pulling us together.
But I wasn't free. And the longer I stayed, the more dangerous this game became.
And the more I found myself wishing I could stay forever.
