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Chapter 6: FRIDAY

Notes:

sorry for the delay, I had a death in the family and honestly I was struggling with this story, thank you for all the comments, they really mean a lot to me <3

Umm, so yeah, this is in neil's pov... yup. sad boy feels? check. dramatic bus seating arrangement thoughts? check. neil being oblivious? check. and a little bit scary? check.

thanks for reading

Chapter Text

Neil wakes up shivering.

His heart is trying its best to pound its way out of his chest, his pulse pounding in his fingertips, his temples. The dream is already slipping away, melting back into the dark corner of his mind it crawled out of, but he remembers the feeling of sinking into icy, wet sand. His whole body submerged inside of it, grit grinding inside his mouth as his jaw worked to strangle the screams, the cry for help pushing up his throat. He remembers the cold; he remembers sinking, sinking -- being curled in the sand, unable to move. He remembers the night sky above, cold and unforgiving.

Then, a distant flame flickering in the corner of his eye, bringing the tiniest waves of warmth washing over him. The smell of salt and death in the air.

In the waking world, he hears a beep and gurgle and then the smell of coffee wafts in from the kitchen. He shifts and the crunch of the beanbag chair underneath him sounds like the crashing of the waves. 

He sits up, blinking to disperse the last bit of the dream. A blanket falls and gathers at his feet. He doesn't remember pulling it on himself last night after waking up from the first nightmare and crawling into the beanbag chair, biting down on his screams. He only remembers sitting in the flickering light of the TV, numb fingers flipping through channels aimlessly. Exy didn't play so late at night, so he settled for some random thing he couldn't care less about --as long as it scoured the nightmare from his brain.

He'd closed his eyes, listening for the soft pad of footsteps and trying to ignore the way it felt like his heart expanded, filling his throat, constricting it, when the dorm room stayed quiet.

The dorm room is awake now. Neil can hear the sound of running water from the bathroom. He braces his hands on the beanbag and heaves himself to his feet. He walks to the hallway. Kevin's alarm goes off in the bedroom, a high, piercing sound. 

The bathroom door opens and Neil stops in his tracks. Light spills into the hallway, backlighting Andrew into a formless silhouette, casting his face in shadow. Neil can smell his toothpaste, his cologne. His heart thumps painfully and his muscles lock.

When did it get like this?

Andrew turns toward the closed bedroom door and gives it three hard, resounding kicks that make Neil fear the thin plywood will splinter beneath Andrew's shoe. 

"Up and at 'em, Day," Andrew says as he flings open the door and flicks on the light. The alarm rises in volume, no longer hidden behind the wood. Andrew disappears into the room. Neil hears Kevin's sleepy, unintelligible groan of protest.

Neil takes a deep breath and goes into the bedroom to grab his stuff.

 

The sun is still sitting snugly just below the horizon by the time the Foxes are all bundled together in the Foxhole Court parking lot, shuffling around and stowing their gear bags in the bus's storage compartment. Neil shivers, but it's the kind of shivers brought out by exhaustion, not the cold, even though it's almost below freezing. The engine rumbles, the exhaust huffing and puffing hotly into the air, choking it. Still, Neil is reminded of his dream and tells himself that the taste of sand in his mouth is just his imagination. 

Neil is one of the last ones on the bus, following after Nicky, who yawns so hard his jaw pops. It's the same old bus as last year, the only difference is a small TV mounted on the panel behind the driver's seat and the fact that they have six more bodies to fill the seats. If they keep expanding the line next year, they'll have to figure out new seating arrangements again to fit everyone. If they add another six people, even with the girls gone... 

Neil's stomach curdles at the thought of the girls leaving, but he pushes it away. He doesn't have time to think about that right now.

Neil goes down the aisle and passes by a smiling Renee --Allison seemingly already passed out next to her, her eyes covered in an orange sleeping mask. Then Dan and Matt, curled up around each other. Then there's the freshmen. 

Galindo is sitting by herself, headphones on and staring out the window. Yang and Greenfield are both leaning over a gaming device, Yang pointing at the screen and saying dude, dude, the blue one. Then it's Rita Angelos, their newest dealer, sitting --weirdly-- with Nicky, who seems to be chatting her ear off about something as she stares blankly up at the ceiling with her arms crossed. Then it's Jack and Sheena, but Neil doesn't pay them much attention, even as he feels their sneers and whispers like claws scraping at the back of his neck. 

At this point, he's reached the back of the bus and for a split-second, his footsteps stutter. Kevin is sitting by himself, slowly falling over in his seat and bolting back up-right as he fights to keep his eyes open. And in the very last seat is Andrew, which is normal --that's where he sits every time-- but next to him is Aaron, who Neil belatedly realizes he forgot about entirely when he was passing by each seat. Andrew is looking off into the parking lot, hand in his chin, bored expression on his face as usual, like he doesn't know --or rather doesn't care-- that his twin, whom he notoriously has deep and personal issues with, is inches away, sharing the same bench as him.

Aaron looks up from his phone like he can sense Neil's attention and they lock eyes. His mouth curls up a tiny bit in a familiar look of loathing, and he stares Neil down. 

Neil wants to go over and snag his collar, drag him down the aisle, and toss him face-first onto the asphalt --leave him in the dust. He still remembers the words Aaron snarled at him the other day when Andrew left practice early and they sting like a still healing wound.

Neil had tried to intercept him from going after Andrew --Andrew, who had so thoroughly shut Neil out it felt like he had something vital cut away from him, his entire body out of balance and missing, even when Andrew had been standing right there; Andrew, who sure as hell would not want his brother around if he didn't even want Neil. And Neil had watched --and breathed out-- as Andrew slammed his car door in Aaron's face and tore out of the parking lot. He'd watched as Aaron stormed back to the stadium, his face red with exertion and anger. 

Neil didn't say I told you so, but Aaron sneered when he read it in Neil's face anyway.

"Don't fucking look at me like that, asshole."

Neil lifted his chin. "Like what?"

Aaron took a step closer. "Somehow, I get the feeling that this is all your fault. You're a meddling piece of shit. There's no way you're not smack in the middle of this."

"You really just like getting punched in the face, don't you?" Neil mused. "You say a lot of words that make you a very punchable person."

"Oh, are you talking about the time you tapped me right here?" Aaron's hand came up to his chin, tapping a finger on the spot Neil had landed his own fist against nearly a year ago. The memory of the fire that ate up his bandaged hands was sharp, but the heat of Aaron's word that had caused him to strike out was hotter, still smoldering. "I've had girlfriends slap me harder than that."

"That truly does not surprise me."

"One day, he's going to get tired of you," Aaron said and the lack of heat behind his words, like he was just stating facts, made Neil pause. "He's going to toss you away, just like the rest of us."

Neil ignored the aching part of himself, the missing part, and set his jaw. "If you really think Andrew is that heartless, I can see why he doesn't ever try to talk to you."

Aaron glared at him for a moment before shoving past him to enter the stadium once more, knocking his shoulder into Neil's and disappearing into the lounge.

Wymack claps his hands, startling Neil out of his own memories. Still sitting in the bus seat, Aaron's face slips into a blankness that has nothing on Andrew's as he turns his attention back to his phone.

Neil walks over to Kevin's seat and forcefully shoves himself onto the bench. Kevin grumbles, but slides over. Neil stares at the blank, black screen of the TV as Wymack calls their attention and starts his roll call.

When he's finished, Wymack says, "Let's get this show on the road," and sits down in the first seat to sleep. 

Abby closes the bus doors, shutting out the cold. The lights down the aisle dim and go out, basking them in darkness except for the parking lot lights and the eerie glow of the Foxes' different devices. 

The bus crawls out of the parking lot and onto Perimeter road. There's a heater just in front of Neil's seat. It spits out hot air, biting at his ankles. He leans his head back against the seat back, glancing out of the corner of his eye. He can barely see a glimpse of blond hair against the sliding backdrop of the outside world.

"Did you bring your notes on the Falcons?"

Neil looks at Kevin. He seems slightly more awake, squinting like he still can't really keep his eyes all the way open. He's holding a stack of paper in his hand which seems to have manifested from his person somehow, like an exy magic show. 

Neil leans his head back again. It tilts side-to-side as they hit a dip in the road and Neil lets that serve as his no.

"We can share mine." Kevin pulls out his phone for a light, the blue glow makes his grim-set face look ghoulish. "Starting with their striker line. They've got a couple freshmen that have shot up through the ranks, and they've also got a new dealer, rounding out their offensive line. It's why St. Louis made it to championships for the first time in the last three years. Number twelve, Tara Lanningham..."

Neil let's Kevin's words, the familiarity of them having heard this speech at least a dozen times in the past week, the stats basically imprinted on the back of his eyelids, lull him into something like security, and it feels like catching his footing on something solid for the first time since he woke up that morning. It still feels like he's caught in a current, one second away from being dragged under, but it's a start.

 

The next six hours crawl by.

Jack inserts himself into their discussion halfway through Kevin's speech and immediately starts giving his opinion, throwing sly remarks about Neil in any way he can, with Sheena, as always, backing him up. Kevin accepts it, as Jack is not a bad player and his insights, when they aren't weighed down with unnecessary comments about Neil, aren't totally wrong. 

Still, Neil is not in the mood to listen to them and pulls out the MP3 player Nicky got him for Christmas --already pre-downloaded with different playlists with titles like 'Shower Concert', 'Beast Mode', and the weirdest one, 'Fun Times ;)', which Neil has avoided even scrolling through just on principle-- and lets his mind drift a bit.

Nicky's music taste is eclectic to say the least, but Neil thought that that was probably better than not having any taste at all, like him. He mostly listens to it on his runs, and he's mostly not actively listening, but just letting the different beats pulse in his ears, keeping time and giving him something to focus on when his thoughts threaten to catch up to him. 

It's different, listening to it on the bus. He has nothing to distract him from the incessant, pounding bass and the droning voices, and the playlist he usually tolerates the most, titled only '<3', makes him feel twitchy and restless. All of the songs contain twangy guitars or soaring violins and voices that croon about love and loss and aching and Neil is very relieved when the bus pulls into a rest stop and he can yank the earbuds out and stretch his jaw to help relieve the cotton-stuffed feeling in his ears.

He stands up and stretches as soon as the bus is parked around the back of the building. The others lumber to their feet as well, chatting amongst themselves. Neil looks to the seat behind him.

Andrew's eyes flick to the window. His position is mostly unchanged from six hours ago --hand in chin, bored-- but Neil thinks he wasn't imagining the weight of Andrew's stare. Or maybe he was.

Kevin nudges Neil forward. "Let's go. We can't waste any time."

Neil turns and follows him off the bus. 

Everyone takes their turn going to the bathrooms, stretching their legs around the building and inside; picking up any desired snacks or drinks. After a fair amount of meandering, Wymack gives them a ten minute warning. Neil moves outside to the far side of the building, near a copse of trees, leaning against the stone with his eyes closed against the sun, wishing for a cigarette. He smells pine on the cool breeze, but he wants the settling smell of smoke. He's not sure when that happened --when it became a grounding gesture instead of a desperate grasp for everything he'd lost. But he could probably guess.

Leaves crunch on the sidewalk as someone walks up to him, and like he conjured the scent with his mind, he smells acrid smoke. 

His eyes open, but it's Wymack, holding a lit cigarette between his lips. Neil sags back.

The coach gives him a flat look as he props himself up on the wall next to him. "Don't look so pleased, you'll inflate my ego."

Neil leans his head against the stone again and stares out into the trees. Then he holds his hand out. 

Wymack raises an eyebrow. "Did you forget that you have a game today? I can't have you hacking up a lung on the court."

"You know I don't smoke," Neil says, but Wymack's already pulling his pack out and tossing it to him. 

"Don't tell Abby."

Neil waves a hand and empties out a lighter and a cigarette into his palm. He lights up and hands the pack back. Wymack tucks it away. 

They stand there for a moment, Wymack smoking and Neil not-smoking.

"So," Wymack says, and Neil feels himself tense because he already knows what the older man is going to say before he does. 

Wymack pauses, sensing the new tension. "That bad, huh?" he mumbles. 

Neil swaps his cigarette from hand to hand, scattering smoke, watching the translucent trail curl in on itself.

"Is it something I can help with? Betsy?"

Neil feels his throat burn like a retroactive reaction to the drag he took. "I don't know," he says, truthfully, because he doesn't know what the problem is in the first place. 

"Has he--?" Neil starts and stops. If Wymack knew, he wouldn't have asked. Neil burns with the need to know, to just know. 

He feels like he's been stumbling around in the dark for days, trying not to bump into anything, set anything off. He's kept his distance, given so much space --that was what helped in the past. These things tended to work themselves out --more like Andrew worked them out, somehow; he always did. Neil didn't even know where to start if Andrew couldn't pull himself out this time.

He'd felt like this, utterly helpless, only once before. Last August, just as Aaron's trial was starting. Everything was starting: the trials, school, vice-captaincy, his life, which he'd thought would be over months before --and he'd felt like he was living inside a washing machine, perpetually stuck on the spin cycle, being tossed around and around, wrung-out, trying to grasp onto anything. Anything to keep him steady, but Andrew...

Andrew had shut down. He'd retreated inside himself, barely speaking for nearly the entire month. Neil understood. That was the only way Andrew could cope with everything --the whole awfulness of it all. 

But he was so scared. There were days Andrew didn't get out of bed. Neil would wake up and climb down his ladder and Andrew would be lying on his bunk, on his side, staring into nothing. If it weren't for the rise and fall of his chest and the slow blink of his eyes, Neil would've thought he was dead, and that thought was terrible, but the reality wasn't any better. He was trapped inside his mind, reliving or trying to keep back the memories the trial had dredged up from whatever space Andrew kept them firmly locked. Neil felt worse than helpless --he felt like there was something he could have done. 

He could have stopped Andrew from ever going to the Hemmicks' if only he'd never asked. He could have made Riko prove that no one would touch Andrew at Easthaven. He could have testified --no matter if he'd been told not to by the Moriyamas in case he got any ideas to share the real reason why any of it had happened in the first place and link them to a crime that would bring down too many eyes. 

He could have done something and he didn't and that was worse than feeling there was nothing you could do at all. There's a relief in the freedom from guilt.

It had been Andrew alone who pulled himself out of that, with the help of many sessions with Bee. And space. So much space and waiting, and watching, and Neil trying to be there when he was needed --when the dark let up enough for a quick trip to the roof, or a drive, or the curl of their fingers sliding together before drifting apart. But Andrew had done it. He'd bore it all and come out the other side and Neil had... stood there. 

But then it was over. Then it was November. Then the end of the season and semester and then Christmas --and it just felt like life came in waves. Just when you thought the tide was out, a surge rose up to drown you again.

But it was better. They were better. These others weren't like that time. Something had been buried after gavel had been swung; after Aaron had been cleared; after Cass had turned away in the courtroom with teary, avoidant eyes. They were better. It was over. 

But now...

You'd tell me. You'd tell me if it was bad.

Andrew had said yes, and he didn't lie. And this time didn't feel like that time. There were no signs. Andrew's eyes were distant, but it wasn't the same. Neil couldn't even stand there and wait. He couldn't do anything at all because Andrew was just gone. Not trapped inside his head --not in any way like Neil had seen before-- but physically gone. One day, Andrew had been gripping his face, shoving keys into his chest; looking at him and telling him everything he needed to hear because he knew. And then he was gone.

Neil hadn't noticed how much of his life revolved around Andrew until he wasn't there and it felt like a hole had been punched through Neil's chest. He'd been gutted, and he didn't know why. All he could do was offer space and time --but this time, it felt like that only made things wider, made the hole grow bigger. 

Fingers snapping in front of his face bring Neil back. The cigarette in his hand has burned down to the end, a long line of ash clinging to the filter. Neil taps it with his thumb and watches it hit the concrete and break into pieces, rolling away in the breeze. 

"Christ, kid. Where'd you go?" Wymack asks.

Neil doesn't answer.

Wymack sighs. 

Neil doesn't know why he looks up, but he does and he sees a familiar figure rounding the corner. Andrew's steps only hesitate briefly --his face doesn't change at all.

Neil straightens as he gets closer. Andrew's gaze flicks over him, then away, settling on Wymack. "Having a party are we," he drawls. "And you didn't invite me."

Wymack's eyes are slightly narrowed as he watches Andrew. He looks at Neil. Neil looks away.

Wymack sighs. He pulls out his pack and tosses it to Andrew. "Five minutes. Be back on the bus or you'll be hitching a ride the rest of the way --don't," he says, pointing a finger at Neil, "take that literally."

Neil raises an eyebrow. 

Wymack looks from Andrew to Neil again, his lips tightening slightly. Andrew is busy lighting a cigarette. He pockets Wymack's pack and lighter. The coach doesn't seem concerned. He seems to come to a conclusion about something, his shoulders straightening, but Neil has no idea about what. 

"You both know that I don't meddle with things above my pay-grade," he says, "but I need to know that whatever is going on between you two isn't going to be a problem for the rest of us today."

It's almost imperceptible, but Neil sees Andrew's fingers twitch on his hand that isn't putting the cigarette to his mouth, but he doesn't say anything. If Neil had anything to say, the words die in his throat at that tiny movement and the fact that Andrew doesn't even try to question or deny Wymack's words. 

Neil stands there, feeling like he was just unceremoniously dunked into a bath of freezing cold water.

Wymack gives them one more look. "Uh-huh. Alright then." He turns and walks away. "Four minutes!" he calls over his shoulder.

Neil stares at the spot where he was standing with unseeing eyes. Me, he thinks, it's me?

Everything from the past few days starts to arrange itself around this new narrative. It makes sense, in a way. Neil knows what it looks like when Andrew has to fight against everything else --himself, the memories trapped in his mind-- he's never seen Andrew fight against him. 

"Is it--" he starts.

Andrew doesn't look up from his cigarette. He's facing the wall, standing a few feet away from Neil, just in the boundaries of the shadow the building casts on the sidewalk and grass.

"It's been me this whole time."

Andrew does look up at that. It feels like the first time they've looked at each other in days, though Neil knows that's inherently untrue. Andrew brings the cigarette up to his mouth and takes a drag without looking away. Neil looks for anger on his face, but there's nothing --nothing at all.

Why didn't you say anything? The words get stuck in his throat. It doesn't matter. 

There's a sharp whistle, Wymack calling them back to the bus. 

Andrew flicks his half-smoked cigarette away, rolling it into the pavement with his shoe. Then he turns and walks away.

 

If the first six hours of the trip crawled, the last six hours go by between one blink and the next. Neil remembers everything --getting onto the bus, sitting down in his seat, eating one of the sandwiches Dan passed out to the team, listening to Kevin start up again about St. Louis's stats, ignoring Nicky has he tried to rope them into a game of twenty questions-- but it feels like it happened to someone else. The memories are already long gone, even as they pull into the St. Louis Falcons' stadium.

Abby navigates the bus through a sea of cars, slowly edging their way toward the gate where a security guard waits to escort them in. They get off the bus, grab their gear, and walk through the parted crowd toward the stadium. 

Even though they are states away from PSU, there's a good amount of orange amongst the fans, mingling in with the purple and gold. Neil sees signs bobbing in the crowd that say 'Queen Day,' and 'Wild for Wilds,' and even an aggressive 'ANDREW MINYARD I LOVE U <3.' 

On the other hand, there are a fair amount of boos and insults hurled their way as well. 

That had been a little surprising in the beginning of the season, but what with everything that had happened the previous year, the trial in the summer, it really shouldn't have been. It had been a quiet summer for the most part publicity-wise with the trial not being publicized, but the word had gotten out by the beginning of the school year --and with Riko's die-hard fans not buying into the 'suicide,' even as some of the former Ravens started to come out with horror stories about their time in the Nest, the backlash was almost equal to the rise in empathy from the fans. Nothing that topped the absolute wreckage the Edgar Allan fans brought down on the entirety of the Fox Tower residents' cars last year, but there were some close calls. 

The worst part, Neil thinks, is walking through a throng of people who either are radically in love with the image of you, or want you dead --and not knowing who's who unless they are holding a sign or hurling insults at you.

The Foxes, even the newest members, are mostly used to the mixed reception by now. None of them acknowledge the crowd as they are ushered through. The mood is somber when they reach the locker rooms. The team is quiet.

Wymack follows them into the locker room. They stand around as a staff member tells them about the rules of the court and the usual spiel about who is in attendance tonight. After the staff member finishes up, Wymack dismisses them and waits until the Foxes have tossed their bags down, then claps his hands loud enough to cause a couple of the freshmen to jump. 

"Alright maggots, listen up. This is championships. I don't have to tell you guys what that means and what's at stake --you already know. For most of you, this isn't your first rodeo, and if we could make it through the utter mind-fuckery of last season --with a trophy no less-- this one should be a cakewalk, yes?"

Neil sees Nicky grinning and Matt leans over to bump his shoulder with Neil's. Dan says, "Yes, Coach," and the others parrot her. 

Wymack nods. "Good. Now, as for the new kiddos--" Sheena scoffs at the term. Wymack points a finger to the original Foxes. "Look to your elders. Listen to your captain and vice captain. I don't want to see a single person playing like they're the only ones standing on the court tonight, got me? We're a team. We're doing this together or not at all." 

He looks around the room. They all look back. He nods again, satisfied. "Alright then. Change into your warm-up gear and meet me out there in fifteen minutes for laps." He jerks his thumb toward the door leading to inner court, and claps one last time. "Let's move."

They disperse.

 

Neil allows himself to get lost in the game. He pushes all of the swirling thoughts down, out of his head and focuses on the team. He's vice captain, he can't afford to check out. 

They do their laps, then change out into their gear and go through warm-ups. Neil pretends like it's just another day of practice, ignoring the screaming crowd and the stadium that's not his. It helps that the team requires his full attention. 

He and Dan run them through drills. The original Foxes seem nervous, but in control --the freshmen are a different story. Tensions rise as tempers clash. Neil has to pry apart a snarling Sheena and Rita more than once, Galindo seems completely checked out, and Jack sneers that Neil's doing a great job and comes close to hitting him with a stray ball, which has Neil clenching his jaw. Everything seems on the verge of collapsing. 

And yet, Neil is still wholly aware of Andrew --in the background, on the sidelines, even as they leave the court for the coin toss. 

They gather around the Away bench for a couple minutes while the announcer starts the introductions. Neil checks with Dan about their first play, and takes a sip of water. He ignores the way he feels like he's exactly who he was last year, the first time he ever stepped on to the court; hunted and waiting for the first chance to run. 

The announcer's voice bursts from the speakers. The roar of the crowd is deafening and he barely hears the sound of his name and number as he walks onto the court. The relentless pounding of his heartbeat in his ears sounds like it's me, it's me, it's me. 

Before he can make it to his starting position, Kevin walks over and clacks their sticks together, and the force of it jars him out of his head. "Don't make us look like idiots."

It's such a Kevin-thing that Neil can't help but grin. Kevin walks away with a satisfied nod.

Once everyone is in their positions, the whistle blows, and Neil bolts after the ball.

 

The game is close.

Neil plays most of the first half. Kevin is swapped for Jack after the first quarter, and he saunters onto the court with a nasty smile in Neil's direction. They have four strikers, but Galindo freezes up on the court, making rookie mistakes and forgetting basic rules like carrying the ball more than ten steps and offsides, and they can't afford to lose this first game, especially on technicalities. Dan and Neil had argued about it, but ultimately the decision was that Neil, Kevin, and Jack would be the main strikers, with Galindo as only a last-resort option until she proved she could play on the court.

Neil is pissed about it. While Jack is good, he plays like he's the only striker on the court, especially when Neil is playing beside him. The thing is, Neil hasn't even done anything to him, but almost from the very first day, Jack had opinions about what he thought about the Foxes letting someone like Neil play on their team, much less be the vice captain. 

It's bearable most of the time. Neil is no stranger to snarled comments about his past or scars. But being ignored on the court, even when he has a wide open shot on the goal, quickly wears down whatever patience he possesses like sandpaper being rubbed against his nerves, grinding them to dust.

There's only three minutes left until halftime. The score is neck-and-neck at 4 points for each team and they just can't pull ahead. 

Well. They could if Jack passed the ball to Neil when he called for it, like he's supposed to. But instead, the next time he gets the ball, Jack chooses to take an impossible shot nearly diagonal to the goal rather than pass. Unsurprisingly, the Falcon goalie easily bats away. 

Dan fights for the rebound, diving head-first into the tangle of sticks and gear, but the buzzer goes off just as the Falcons gain possession. Dan bangs her racquet on the ground as she gets to her feet, her eyes blazing and intent on Jack, but Neil's closer.

He stomps his way across court, his temper flaring red-hot in the edges of his vision as he corners Jack up against the plexiglass wall. He's a little satisfied to see a spark of fear in the freshman's eyes as he grips Jack's collar with his free hand and shoves him up against the wall, making him drop his racquet to the ground with a clatter. 

"What the hell was that?" Neil demands. 

"What?" Jack snaps back. "I had a shot, I took it." 

Neil laughs and it's a dead laugh, icy and jagged. "A shot. Is that what you call that? You were practically behind the goal." He makes a cutting gesture behind him with his racquet. 

A whistle blows, probably a referee telling them to get off the court, but Neil ignores it. He looks up into Jack's face. 

"I had a shot, you fucking useless sack of shit. And I could have taken it if you passed the damn ball."

Jack pushes him. Neil stumbles back, using his racquet as a crutch, but keeps his grip around Jack's collar. 

"I don't have to give people like you anything," Jack sneers. 

"People like me," Neil echoes, and he hears the glint of knives in his own voice. He leans in close. "People like me know exactly how to carve the skin from your bones, piece by piece, while still keeping you alive long enough to watch. So I'd watch myself if I were you."

Jack visibly pales, swallowing hard. 

"Hey!" Neil sees a ref approaching them. "Break it up and take it off the court."

Neil holds onto Jack's collar for a second longer.

 "Hey."

Neil steps back, letting go. Jack rips off his helmet, glaring as he stoops down to pick up his fallen racquet. Neil turns for the door where Wymack is waiting, along with the rest of the team. Wymack's arms are crossed and he's jabbing a finger towards the ground in a clear demand. 

Neil goes, his hands balled into fists around his racquet, the anger only rising, simmering just under the surface. He hears Jack's steps behind him, his grating voice.

"Fucking psychopath. How they thought making the son of a maniac vice-captain was a good idea is beyond me," he says, "I'd even take the brother-fucker over you."

Neil stops. Distantly, he sees Wymack shoving his clipboard into Kevin's chest and storming onto the court, but Neil is already moving, already turning; dropping his racquet, and grabbing Jack's jersey again --this time so he can hold him still as he reels back and slams his fist into Jack's face.

He feels the crunch under his knuckles, feels the warmth as Jack's blood splatters out. Jack screams. The ref cries out in alarm, the crowd is roaring. Neil's hand throbs, but he doesn't look away as he lets Jack go and Jack crumples to the ground. Then the ref is checking on him. Wymack is there, putting himself in between the two of them, but Neil doesn't look away. 

"Say that again," Neil says, his voice like gravel. "Say that again, and I'll make good on my word."

Wymack grabs him by the shoulder and physically turns him, marching him toward the court door. 

"Go," Wymack barks at the Foxes standing around, stabbing his finger toward the locker room door. "Go."

Abby passes them with her medical bag, jogging onto the court. Neil tries to shake off Wymack's grip. "Coach, my racquet--" but Wymack doesn't let him go.

"Keep walking."

He hears some of the team's chatter, letting it go in through one ear and out the other.

"Damn I wish I had been recording that," Allison says.

"The whole thing was on live TV," Aaron counters dryly. "Thousands of people were recording it."

"Neil, is your hand okay?" Renee asks as they get into the locker room. Wymack lets him go to hold the door open and make sure all of the Foxes make it through. 

Neil rips off his helmet and flexes his hand. His second knuckle aches every time he makes a fist, but the pain is numbed by the writhing seething hatred still clinging to him. Matt comes up and pats him on the back. 

"That was a beautiful hit. I taught you well, young padawan."

"That was stupid." Kevin is standing by the entertainment center, arms crossed. Neil dismisses him with a bland, uncaring look. 

"Are you kidding?" Yang says. "That was awesome." Greenfield nods emphatically in agreement.

"You broke his fucking nose, you psychopath," Sheena snarls.

Allison rolls her eyes. "Yeah, and we all knew he had it coming. Honestly, I'm surprised it took you this long."

"All of you, shut up," Wymack barks as Abby ushers in Jack, who's holding a bloody towel to his nose, taking him straight to the office with the red cross on the door down the hall. Wymack makes sure that's everyone, then turns away from the door, leveling a glare at Neil. He waves a hand at the men's changing room. 

"Go wait in there while I figure out just how much shit we're in."

Neil doesn't move. 

"Now."

"Coach," Dan starts, but Neil drops his helmet onto an empty chair, not caring that it rolls onto the tile with a clatter, and turns and walks into the changing room.

He sits down on one of the benches and rips off his gloves, dimly noticing a bit of blood on the orange and black material before dropping them to the ground. He stares at the red and faintly purple skin around his knuckles. 

The door swings open. That was quick. Neil looks up, but it's not Wymack, it's Nicky.

"Hey, buddy."

Neil sits up straight as Nicky holds something out. "Andrew got this from Abby and he told me to give it to you."

Neil stares at the ice pack, the anger in his veins suddenly doused like a match tossed into water. It's me, he thinks. 

His heart gives a painful tug as he takes the pack. "Thanks." He doesn't immediately press it to his knuckles.

Nicky doesn't leave. "It's weird, right? I thought Andrew would tear you away from Coach like usual. You know how he gets anytime your lack of self-preservation skills gets you into trouble."

It's a question but Neil doesn't have an answer.

"No, really," Nicky says and sits down on the bench next to him. "Is there something going on? You can tell me about it, you know. I promise I won't be biased." 

Neil's hand aches from how cold the ice pack is, his skin turning red. Condensation drips onto the floor. "Thanks, Nicky," Neil says again, but the truth is he doesn't know himself.

It doesn't matter because the door swings open and Wymack steps in. "Are you deaf, Hemmick? I told everyone to wait outside."

Nicky stands up, holding his hands up. "No fraternizing with the prisoners. Got it." He starts moving towards the door. "Sorry, Neil. Good luck," he says in a stage-whisper over his shoulder. 

"Get out of here, dumbass," Wymack says and Nicky scampers out of the room, the door swinging shut behind him.

Wymack sighs and runs a hand down his face, Neil steels himself for the lecture he knows he's about to get, his eyes on a spot over the coach's shoulder.

"You gonna actually ice your hand or are you planning on playing with it all swollen like that?"

Neil looks at him. "I'm still playing?" he asks numbly.

"Unless you broke something smashing your fist against Jack's face --in which case, I can go let Abby know," Wymack says. Neil shakes his head. Wymack looks at him for a minute before letting out a breath. "The clock wasn't running so they can't card you for it. Mostly, they're letting us off without any penalties because I talked their ears off about your pathetic sob stories and swore you wouldn't cause any more trouble. Am I going to regret making that decision?"

Neil shakes his head again. "No, Coach."

"Uh-huh," Wymack says, still scrutinizing him. "Wanna tell me why you chose now, of all the times, to take a swing at him? You couldn't have hit him on our court, without a million eyes on you?"

Neil squeezes the ice pack. "He said--" He can't get the words out. It's nothing worse than what others have said since the news of the trial hit the media, but that doesn't mean it doesn't still sit in Neil's stomach like acid, eating away at him. Andrew doesn't care --he's never cared about anyone's opinion of him, but that word, what it implies... Neil clenches his right hand and ache of his knuckles is welcome.

Wymack leans back against the door. "I see," he says, like Neil actually said something of use. "Well, as long as you haven't injured yourself and you aren't going to go around punching anymore members of my team..." He straightens and points at the ice pack. "Stop staring at that thing and actually put it to use so we can try and win this game, got it?"

Neil lays the ice pack over his hand. It stings. "Yes, Coach."

Wymack opens the door. "Let's go. Clock's ticking and we have a championship to win."

 

When the final buzzer goes off, the score is 9-4 and Neil rips off his helmet, blinking at the scoreboard because he doesn't quite believe it. 

The Foxes are yelling, subs running onto the court. Matt tackles Galindo, who scored the last goal of the night, into a group hug that quickly dissolves into a puddle of gear and sticks on the floor. Neil lets the corner of his mouth tick up, relief flooding through his veins enough that his knees threaten to give out. He looks across the court because he always looks across the court, and there he is.

Andrew is peeling his gloves from his hands, looking barely ruffled even though he is the only reason they are starting the season off with a win. He managed to completely shut down the goal for the entire second half and Neil's heart aches with longing. To go over like he usually does; to lean in and tell Andrew whatever comes to mind; to have Andrew look over at him, call him junkie.

Oh. He didn't realize how much he missed that until now. 

"Neil!" 

He looks over to see Nicky waving at him from the court door where the rest of the team is filing off. Neil tucks his helmet under his arm and goes over. By the time he gets there he's the last one off the court, following behind Andrew. Caught up in the way Andrew's pale hair is skewed from being flattened by his helmet, he almost runs into Andrew's back as he suddenly comes to a stop. 

Neil steps to the side to avoid touching him and glances over, following Andrew's gaze.

Andrew is watching Aaron as he walks over to the stands, one hand gripping his helmet, the other his racquet, and then Aaron stands on his tip-toes to lean over the railing separating the Vixen's seats from the inner court and tilts himself forward to say something to Katelyn. She blushes and nods, and Aaron kisses her cheek before hopping back down to the ground and stalking off to the locker room.

Neil is surprised to feel a knot of anger --or maybe jealousy?-- in his gut, which is stupid. He pushes past it, walks past Andrew without looking at him, avoiding his gaze. He knows it's just hopeful thinking that makes him think he feels Andrew's gaze on him as he pushes the locker room door open and steps through.