Eleventh Race

Phoebe

The moment Phoebe wrapped her arms around the crate to slide it from the top of the stack, her spine protested. It wasn't as bad as it had been, but it still felt like there was a large rod lodged through the joints where her top six ribs on the right side met her spine. She hugged the plastic, tried to squeeze it against her collarbone and the inside of her shoulder, but it only budged a little sideways.

"Phoebe, what do you think you are doing?" The harsh, high voice cut through the general hubbub of load-in. The back wall of the race stable was lined with crate stacks, and there were still a few more to come up from the delivery trailer. Elice's team were already bolting together desk frames in the open floorspace before Soot's bed. And standing just inside the stable door, arms folded over her thick white braid and the dried-blood-red ribbon of her uniform, was-

"Well? Answer me, young lady." Amity Arden stalked up to Phoebe, boot-heels squeaking slightly on the polished floor. Phoebe was sure that without her boots, the team's new doctor would be shorter than her, but she hadn't shown up to work in flats yet.

Phoebe stepped back from the crate, trying to roll her shoulders and regretting it. Her cheeks were warm. It was hard to look Amity in the eye when she put on that tone. "I was just trying to help with the unloading."

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"Not lifting like that, you aren't." She took hold of Phoebe's sleeve and pulled her across the room, out of the way of the rest of the team. "I made myself very clear. If you want to race this weekend, you need to be very careful of your spine, okay?"

"Take it easy, Dr. Arden." The voice that cut in was as smooth as Amity's was jagged. Unlike Amity, who had insisted on keeping her white medical uniform, Vermilia Mustang had taken to the new black Tenebrae shirts with the sponsor patches, although she wore hers with like the top four buttons undone. Now as she came up to stand beside the doctor, Amity's eyes went straight to her plunging cleavage. Vermilia's job was officially to be Phoebe's personal trainer, but she was already settling into the broader role that usually entailed in the Imperial League.

"Miss Mustang." Despite her wandering eyes, Amity's voice was a touch frosty. "Can you please do something to keep her occupied so she doesn't make her injuries any worse?"

"She's not a toddler, doctor." Vermilia's voice was a lazy, gently-amused drawl, but when she turned her attention to Phoebe she was more businesslike. "Arms up, Phoebe, let's see you work through those stretches. Then maybe you can help set stuff up," she grinned, "provided we don't see you trying to deadlift full crates two weeks into whiplash recovery."

Phoebe nodded reluctantly and lifted her arms out parallel to the floor, elbows straight. She grunted as another wedge of pain shot through her right shoulder, then her eye was caught by the stable door opening. It wasn't Stefan and Ches with another trailer full of crates. Instead, it was a slight young man with sandy hair and a hunted expression, looking around like he wasn't sure he belonged. He looked vaguely familiar, as if Phoebe had seen him around the races before.