Bjorn’s open palm slammed into Flynn’s jaw with the force of a landslide. A jolting pain erupted in his mouth, the iron taste of blood coating his tongue. With a ringing in his ear, he slammed into the ground, convinced that every one of Bjorn’s four massive fingers had left a permanent mark on his face.

  A shrill whistle cut through the air.

  “Bjorn!” Elli shouted with unusual sharpness. “What did we say about contactless?”

  The cyclops came to a halt a few steps past the spot where he’d felled Flynn, sweat glistening on his bald forehead. The triumphant smile on his lips vanished when he saw Elli’s scrutinizing stare.

  “He was standing in the way,” Bjorn protested like a child caught in the act, gesturing with the leather ball in his hands.

  “What do you mean?!” Flynn cried out, spitting blood. “You even took a detour!”

  The cyclops furrowed the patch of skin where his singular eyebrow would’ve been.

  “It was the better play,” he grunted.

  Flynn scoffed and slowly got back on one knee. “Since when are you one for tactics?”

  “Okay, stop it now,” the therapist interjected with a raised hand. “Both of you.”

  The cyclops rolled his eye, the tint of his enormous contact lens barely visible.

  “And Bjorn,” Elli added with a sharp smile, “this is not your rugby class.”

  The cyclops crossed his arms, squeezing the ball with his pecs.

  “You said there are teams. I like to be on the winning team.”

  “It is not about winning, it’s about team play,” the therapist scolded. “You haven’t passed the ball once.”

  She gestured at Patricia and Dora, who were standing off to the sideline. They hadn’t even noticed the outcome of the most recent play, and were casually chatting about whatever it was mermaids and werehumans liked to chat.

  Ferdinand and his jar were sitting a few steps away from them on a wooden bench. Naturally, he was excused from all physical activities lest his glass break, and he’d be blown to the wind. Instead, he was watching the spectacle from under the cover of a colorful umbrella. The phoenix ash usually tried to avoid sun exposure to prevent refracting light from cremating him a second time.

  Every now and then, he would cheer on the two competing teams or offer words of tactical advice, the basis of which was highly questionable.

  “They are bad at the game,” the cyclops grunted, nodding in the direction of Patricia and Dora.

  Elli put a judgmental arm on her hip. “Even if that were the case, it wouldn’t matter. We are here to have fun and improve our sense of community.”

  The cyclops frowned and tossed the ball to the ground, disappointment emanating from his pale face in palpable waves.

  “Fine,” he growled.

  Elli picked up the ball and walked over to Flynn. “Are you okay?”

  Flynn forced his dislodged jaw back in place and offered a smile with possibly fewer teeth than usual.

  “I will survive,” he managed to say. “But I might need a break, coach.”

  Elli helped him back on his feet and looked him over.

  Apollo, the only team member Bjorn approved of, had slowly stalked over and stared at Flynn with a hostile frown.

  “What are you looking at?” Flynn snapped, the taste of blood on his lips.

  The large bird clicked his beak. “That looked painful,” he said dryly.

  Flynn suppressed the sudden urge to yank out some feathers.

  “That is not very nice,” Elli scolded the griffin.

  Apollo flapped his wings and narrowed his sharp eyes. Whatever was at the tip of his bird tongue remained there.

  Flynn muttered a quiet curse and rubbed his jaw.

  “Let’s get you out of here for now,” Elli said and gently grabbed Flynn by the arm.

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  She escorted him to the sideline bench, where he took a seat next to Ferdinand.

  “That was some hit,” the ash commented. “You gotta try to avoid those.”

  “Oh, really?” Flynn growled.

  “I can’t wait to be back on the pitch,” Ferdinand continued. “Nothing like the thrill of the game.”

  Flynn examined the jar of ash in a mixture of pity and disbelief. He decided to say nothing in response and instead cleaned up streaks of blood running down his chin.

  A cool breeze stroked his aching back, rushing down the valley and announcing the beginning of fall. Even under the overcast sky, the orange trees around the field were even more orange than usual, the grass even redder. The smoky smell of burned wood hung in the air — or maybe, some other mythical therapy group was having a barbecue.

  Elli’s whistle announced the next round. Patricia and Dora had been encouraged to partake, with the promise of Bjorn including them in his game plan. Apollo still stared at Flynn, but was soon caught up in the next play. They were facing off against the now diminished team of Oscar, the manticore Clyde, and the centaur Leonardo.

  Bjorn popped his joints loud enough for everyone to hear and charged at Clyde, who’d been given the ball. The manticore screamed and started running, his scorpion tail wrapped tightly around the ball. His lion body did a decent job of picking up speed, and Bjorn’s muscular legs struggled to keep up.

  The field shook when Oscar tried to avail himself for a pass, running down the sideline next to Clyde. Dora was supposed to guard him, but decided to take a pause and lick her paws. In her stead, Patricia’s scaly legs paddled across the field, trying to keep up with the large dragon.

  “Clyde!” Oscar roared. “I’m free!”

  The panicking manticore glanced over. He’d made a solid advance into the enemy’s half, although he most likely had abandoned all tactics and was just trying to get away from the charging cyclops.

  Clyde seemed thrilled at the prospect of losing Bjorn’s attention, and so he whipped his tail and hurled the ball in Oscar’s direction, moments before Apollo crashed into him from the manticore’s blind side.

  Elli’s protest was drowned out by the lively shouts of the players on both teams, the play still live and evolving.

  Oscar realized too late that he didn’t really possess any limbs suited for carrying a ball, so instead, he used his wing to redirect Clyde’s pass to Leonardo. The centaur’s human legs were not the fastest, and his hooves were mediocre at best when it came to catching a ball, but he plucked it out of the air with surprising agility. His mane whirred in the wind, and he neighed victoriously as he galloped towards the goal line on his disproportionate human feet.

  Bjorn lunged to the side and barely failed to trip up the centaur, his meaty hands digging trenches into the turf. Patricia gingerly waddled over, but was too late to stop Leonardo from crossing a hand-drawn white line on the pitch. The horseman slammed the ball into the ground, yanked his hooves up, and neighed.

  Cheers erupted as Oscar and Clyde rushed over, with Flynn and Elli clapping on the sideline. Ferdinand’s excitement surfaced in the form of an ashen tornado inside his jar.

  “That was amazing!” the blue dragon boomed as he high-fived the centaur — or whatever it was called when hooves and wings met.

  “Good job, guys!” Clyde purred as he joined their celebration, still limping from Apollo’s tackle.

  Oscar whirled his head around to embrace the manticore, his eyes the brightest amber. Flynn could tell the dragon wanted to say something, but then, in his rapture, his nostrils flared and a jet of celebratory flames escaped his snout.

  Clyde squeaked as the flames caressed his lion mane, and he immediately dropped to the ground, where he rolled back and forth to extinguish the strands of golden hair that had caught fire. Oscar’s face was a mask of shock and horror, and he stood frozen in place as the other group members rushed over.

  “Clyde!” Elli shouted, “Are you okay?”

  They gathered around the manticore, whose singed mane was now spawning trails of smoke and an unpleasant smell.

  Flynn, who had been among the first to arrive by Clyde’s side, gave the all-clear signal.

  “I think he’s fine,” he exclaimed, as the manticore slowly shifted below him.

  His human face was tinted by shock, but apart from cosmetic and emotional damage, he looked unscathed.

  Patricia sobbed and sank down beside Clyde, hugging him through the lingering smoke. Leonardo knelt on his human knees and placed a hoof on the manticore’s back. Even Dora’s cat face looked surprisingly sentimental all of a sudden.

  “Bjorn, could you carry Clyde over to the medical ward?” Elli’s stern voice cut through the silence. “Just to be sure.”

  It took the cyclops a moment to acknowledge that Clyde was not part of an opposing team anymore.

  Reluctantly, Bjorn nodded and picked up the manticore, tugging him under his arm like the ball he failed to score with. Without a further comment, the one-eyed giant marched down the forest path that led back to the Mythical Ward, Clyde’s scorpion tail limply dangling between the cyclops’ massive knees.

  Flynn’s eyes tracked them until they disappeared behind a group of orange trees, then turned to confront Oscar.

  To his surprise, the blue dragon was nowhere to be found.

  “Have you seen Oscar?” he murmured as he scanned the surrounding tree line.

  Patricia and the others followed his gaze, the shock on their faces slowly turning into concern.

  “He was just here,” Leonardo neighed, gesturing with his hooves.

  Flynn’s pulse quickened as he imagined how the dragon would be feeling after what had just happened.

  “What’s going on over there?” Ferdinand shouted from his spot on the bench.

  No one had thought to bring him over in the chaos following Clyde’s incident.

  No one paid attention to him now, either.

  “I’ve got to find him!” Flynn muttered with a trembling voice.

  “I’m sure he just went back to the Mythical Ward,” Elli tried to defuse the situation. “That’s the first place we should check.”

  “Or don’t,” Apollo croaked.

  “What’s that supposed to mean, bird?” Flynn snarled.

  The griffin shrugged with disinterest. “Maybe he wants to be alone.”

  “Maybe you should be alone,” Flynn snapped before he could think better of it.

  “Enough now!” Elli interjected. “I’m sure Oscar is fine. But I agree we should check on him. If he needs space, we will give it to him.”

  Flynn and Apollo glared at each other for a moment longer before the griffin clicked his beak and stalked away.

  Flynn slowly unclenched his fists, wondering what giant fried chicken would taste like.