Jelo couldn't stop thinking about it.
He lay on his back staring at the ceiling of the room and turned it over the way he had been turning it over since they left the arena—the crowd's reaction when his name was called, the noise that had come back at him from every section, the specific quality of anticipation that had been in the stands for his fight. He had gotten popular. More popular than he had anticipated, more popular than felt comfortable when he thought about it plainly. Popular enough that the tournament organisers had scheduled his fight within the Class 3 bracket rather than waiting for Class 1's proper turn—an accommodation made for the crowd's demand, a sign that his name had been circulating through the stands and the city long before today.
At least he hadn't disappointed them.
