Chương 160: Victoria Walton

Leo followed Harbach through the corridor toward his office. They passed the film room, the equipment bay, the wall of framed photographs showing Giants teams from decades before Leo was born. Staff members stepped aside as they approached. A few nodded at Leo. One equipment manager gave him a quiet "nice work out there." Another pretended to check his tablet but was clearly sneaking a photo. The flyer coach intercepted them outside Harbach's door.

"Chen." He was grinning.

"That was something else. I've been coaching flyers for eighteen years and I've never seen anyone request fragment tracking before, let alone survive it."

"Thanks, Coach."

"We're going to have to rethink some things." The flyer coach glanced at Harbach.

"The whole playbook, maybe." Harbach put a hand on Leo's shoulder and kept walking.

"We'll talk later. I need him." The flyer coach stepped aside, still grinning. Harbach's office looked different than Leo remembered. Cleaner. He glanced up. The ceiling had been patched. Someone did good work hiding the hole the practice sword had punched through three months ago.

"Sit down." Harbach circled behind his desk.

"You earned some good news today, so I'm going to lead with that." Leo sat.

"Hilda Walton has agreed to train you." Harbach leaned back in his chair.

"You remember the deal Vince set up? You serve as her granddaughter Vicky's cavalier at the Queen Charlotte Ball, and Hilda gives you private instruction in return. One-on-one with a four-time Pro Bowler, all summer long." Leo straightened. This was exactly what he needed.

"But there's a complication." Harbach's expression shifted. He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a folded newspaper. British tabloid, from the look of it. The Sun. He tossed it across the desk. Leo picked it up. The front page showed young women in white gowns descending a marble staircase. LONDON SEASON HEATS UP: Exclusive coverage of the week's events leading up to the Queen Charlotte Ball. He skimmed.

The London Season was a series of social events where young women from prominent cultivation families made their formal debut into aristocratic society. Teas. Garden parties. Formal dinners. All building toward the ball, where debutantes would be presented to the British Monarch. He turned the page. YANK TANTRUM: Walton Girl Storms Out of Pemberton Tea Below the headline, a photograph. Vicky Walton, frozen mid-stride as she pushed through a door. She looked furious. Or hurt.

Hard to tell which, with the way the camera had caught her. Leo's chest tightened. The article was worse than the headline. It painted Vicky as an entitled American who didn't understand British customs, who had insulted her hosts, who had embarrassed her family by failing to observe basic social protocols. Quotes from anonymous sources called her "difficult" and "unpolished." One claimed she had "no business being in London at all." Leo read the line twice. Vicky wasn't difficult or unpolished.

The final paragraph mentioned that Vicky had been notably absent from three events following the Pemberton Tea. Speculation ranged from illness to shame to a rumored early departure back to the States. Leo set the paper down.

"This is garbage." He looked at Harbach.

"What's going on, Coach?" Harbach spread his hands.

"Beats me. I've been coaching football for forty years, not attending garden parties. High society politics isn't exactly my wheelhouse." He leaned forward.

"But here's what I do know. Your former teammate is in trouble. The ball is in six days. And Hilda Walton wants you in London by tomorrow evening."

"What about mandatory minicamp?"

"I'll assign you film study. Remote work. You watch tape, send me notes, technically you're still participating."

"You can just do that?" Harbach laughed.

"I'm the head coach, Leo. I can do whatever I want. As long as the paperwork says you completed your assigned activities, nobody's going to check whether you did them in New Jersey or London." He nodded toward the newspaper.

"Go help your teammate. We'll figure out the rest when you get back." Leo looked at the photograph one more time. He had never seen Vicky like that. She looked like she could use some backup. He pulled out his phone and opened Google Flights. JFK to Heathrow. Six flights in the next twelve hours. The red-eye departed in four. He booked it before he left the chair.

Leo tracked Vicky down to a martial arts gym in Brixton, London. The building was a converted warehouse, brick facade tagged with faded graffiti, no sign out front. Just a steel door and a formation array that scanned his ID before letting him through. Inside, the air was thick with sweat. Heavy bags hung from chains bolted to exposed rafters. A sparring ring took up the center of the floor, its boundary marked by scorch lines from years of spell arts.

Two cultivators in the corner traded strikes with training swords, the impacts ringing throughout the room. Hilda said Vicky had booked the private room. Leo found it at the back of the gym, past a corridor lined with lockers that had seen better days. The door was cracked open. Through the gap, he heard the sharp whistle of a spear cutting air. He pushed the door open. Vicky stood at the center of the room in plain gray sweats with her hair pulled back.

Her spear traced precise arcs through the space in front of her, each movement flowing into the next. Thrust. Sweep. Retract. Thrust again. Leo watched her complete her drill. The final thrust sent a ripple of spiritual energy across the room, strong enough to ruffle his shirt from fifteen feet away. Vicky held the position for a breath. Then she straightened, turned, and glared at him.

"Leo Chen. In London." She rested the spear across her shoulders.

"Did you get lost on the way to a press conference, or is this a Make-A-Wish thing?"

"Your grandmother gave me the address."

"Of course she did." Vicky didn't lower the spear.

"So what's the pitch? She sent you to remind me that quitting isn't consistent with Walton family values?"

"No pitch. Thought you might want to spar." He pulled his chain hook from his dantian. Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. Vicky stared at the weapon.

"You're running a chain hook now." She tilted her head.

"Like Keller. The guy from Florida who wrapped me up like a Christmas present on national television."

"Seemed useful."

"You watched me get dragged into a gravity well and beaten to death with a tower shield, and your takeaway was I should get one of those?" She grinned.

"That's the most disrespectful thing anyone's done to me this month. And I've had a rough month."

"If it helps, he almost got me too."

"It does not help, Leo." But she was already settling into her fighting stance, and the grin hadn't left.

She beat him. Badly. They went five rounds in twenty minutes. Vicky won every exchange, usually within the first thirty seconds. Her spear work was sharp and relentless. She probed his guard, exploited the gaps in his technique, punished every hesitation with strikes that would have eliminated him three times over in a real fight. The fifth round lasted eleven seconds. Vicky hooked his chain mid-swing, redirected it past her shoulder, and put the tip of her spear against his throat before he could recover.

"You're welcome to try a sixth," she said.

"I think my dignity's had enough." Vicky dismissed her spear and walked to the bench where she'd left a water bottle. She sat down, took a long drink, and studied him.

"Your release is late. Your recovery is slow. And you telegraph your hooks like you're writing a webnovel." She paused.

"How long have you been using this weapon?"

"Finished lifebonding last month. A few days of real practice before I flew out."

"That explains why you fight like you're reading the instruction manual mid-combo." She shrugged.

"Hilda's going to have fun with you."

"She told you about the deal?"

"Leo, she tells me everything. Everything. She also told me you had a girlfriend who you tried to hide from Vivian." Leo's jaw tightened. He wasn't trying to hide Ananya. The topic just never came up.

"Don't take it personally. Hilda treats information like currency. She's been doing it since before I could walk." Vicky stretched her shoulders.

"So. You're here to be my cavalier, dance with me at the ball, and collect your training sessions. That's the transaction."

"That's the arrangement."

"Then why are you here six days early?"

"I saw the Sun article," Leo said. Something shifted in her expression. A flicker that she smoothed over so fast most people would have missed it.

"Ah." Vicky took another drink of water.

"So you flew across the Atlantic because a tabloid said some mean things about me. That's very heroic, Leo. Very on-brand."

"I just wanted to help."

"What exactly did the article say? I stopped reading them after the first week."

"Anonymous sources calling you difficult and unpolished. Saying you had no business being in London."

"Unpolished." Vicky laughed.

"That's my favorite. Do you know what unpolished means in aristocratic British English? It means your family's money is too new to smell right. It means you bought your seat at the table instead of inheriting it. It means we don't think you belong here." Leo waited.

"You want to know what happened at the Pemberton Tea."

"Only if you want to tell me."

"I don't, particularly." She set the bottle down.

"But you flew six hours to sit on a bench in Brixton, so I suppose you've earned the short version." She leaned back against the wall.

"Aurelia Windsor. You remember her? Her family runs half the British press. She carries herself like she's doing gravity a favor by staying on the ground." Leo nodded. Aurelia had wielded an ornate flaming pearl during the CFL finals. Unique lifebound treasure, looked like a family heirloom. Vicky shattered it on national television. He hoped Aurelia wasn't still upset about that.

"We have history. She's never once let me forget that the Waltons are new money playing dress-up in old money's ballroom. At the Pemberton Tea, she made a comment about how my family acquired our social standing. As if we stole it."

"What did you say back?"

"Something I shouldn't have said in public." Vicky's jaw tightened for half a second.

"I have a gift for choosing the exact wrong moment to be honest. Hilda says it's a character flaw. I say it's my only character strength and the world is wrong."

"And the tabloid?"

"Aurelia's family owns the press. I insulted Aurelia at a garden party full of witnesses. The article wrote itself." She waved her hand.

"So now I'm the Yank Tantrum girl. The difficult American who can't handle London society. Which is fine. I wasn't planning to handle London society. I was planning to survive it long enough to get what I need and leave."

"What do you need?" Vicky looked at him. The bottle cap stopped spinning.

"Did Hilda explain her conditions?"

"She wants me to help you secure a marriage prospect."

"Secure a marriage prospect." Vicky repeated the phrase like she was tasting something bitter.

"That's how she put it. Like I'm a stock portfolio that needs diversifying." She stood and walked to the window. It looked out on a brick wall, but she stared at it anyway.

"Here's the thing about being a Walton. Everyone has a role. Everyone does their part. My uncle runs the foundation. My cousins manage regional operations. My mother sits on three boards and smiles at donors for a living." She leaned her forehead against the glass.

"And the girls my age? Our part is the Season. Secure an alliance. Extend the network. Make the family bigger than it was last year." Vicky's voice was quieter now.

"Hilda's not even important in the family. But she's my grandmother, so she's the one who gets to deliver the message." Vicky turned her head.

"And the message is: do your part first, then you can go have your fun. I understand the logic. I just..." She stopped. Leo said nothing. Vicky looked at the brick wall for a long time.

"I want to earn my place in the world by fighting for it. Not by marrying into it." Leo said nothing. Neither did she. When Vicky turned around her voice was lighter.

"Anyway. That's the saga. Rich girl complains about going to parties. Very sympathetic. I'm sure they'll make a documentary." They sat in silence staring at the ground. Leo's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen.

"Hilda. She says there's an event tomorrow we can't miss. The Royal Ascot Race Day." Vicky groaned and let her head fall back against the wall with a thud.

"The Ascot. Do you know what the Royal Ascot is, Leo?"

"Horse racing?"

"Horse racing for people who don't care about horses. It's the biggest social event before the ball. Everyone will be there."

"Everyone?"

"Aurelia. Sloan Savoy." Leo remembered Sloan. He was also on the Texas A&M team. Vicky continued ticking off names.

"Penelope Ma, the Tencent heiress. She's been all over the Season coverage. Massive social media following. Very curated. Very strategic."

"Who's her cavalier?"

"Wang Liyang." Leo went very still. Vicky noticed immediately.

"You know him?"

"We were on the same team at the Grand Formations Summit."

"Right, the formation thing." She studied his face.

"Why do you look like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you just remembered you left the stove on, except the stove is a person." Leo opened his phone and started scrolling. He found the photo and turned the screen toward her. Wang Liyang stood in a pink tutu covered in glittering sequins and white feathers. His arms were extended in what was supposed to be a crane-like formation pose. He looked miserable. Vicky snatched the phone out of his hand and zoomed in on Liyang's face with both thumbs. Then she laughed.

Hard enough that she had to sit down on the bench, one hand pressing the phone to her chest like she was afraid someone would take it back.

"During the Summit," Leo said, "we had to learn crane formations. The instructor thought tutus would help us move more gracefully."

"Did they?"

"No. But Liyang was the only one gullible enough to try one on."

"He's going to be at the Ascot tomorrow." Vicky was still looking at the photo.

"Top hat. Morning coat. Acting like he's one generation removed from royalty." She zoomed in further.

"Are those feathers?"

"Probably."

"Leo." Vicky looked up at him. Her eyes were bright.

"I've been hiding in a gym in Brixton for two days because a tabloid called me unpolished. And you just showed me a photo that could end a man's social career across two continents."

"I wouldn't do that to him."

"I know you wouldn't. That's not the point." She handed the phone back.

"The point is that I just realized tomorrow might actually be fun." She stood up, grabbed her water bottle and her gym bag, and slung the bag over her shoulder.

"Come on. I'll show you where you're staying. It's a flat Hilda rented near Mayfair, which means it's small, overpriced, and the shower will scald you if anyone on the block flushes a toilet." She was already heading for the door.

"Vicky." She stopped.

"For what it's worth, I don't think you're unpolished." She turned. Something crossed her face that she didn't bother hiding. Then she pointed at him with the water bottle.

"Leo. You showed up to my gym with a weapon you can't use, lost five rounds in a row, and just tried to make me feel better with a compliment so generic it could be a greeting card." She shouldered the door open.

"You're sweet. But if you're going to be my cavalier, we need to work on your material."