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David dug through to the depth of the pantry, certain there was a bottle of whiskey hidden back there somewhere, but he was struggling to find it among the packets and cans that he always had good intentions of cooking up, and never did.
He probably didn't need to hide his bottles anymore; his liquor cabinet had remained remarkably un-pillaged since Andrew's admission to Easthaven. It was partly due to Andrew not being around to 'steal' the bottles, but mostly due to the fact that in Andrew's absence, Neil had somehow managed to achieve the impossible. For the first time in years, his Foxes were a cohesive unit. They played together on and off the court, and they circled around Neil like planets around the sun. Each on their individual orbits—and some closer and more aligned than others—but all moving in the same direction, thanks to the pull of the young man at their center. David had spent less time drinking his worries away over the last month, but old habits die hard and he still liked a couple of fingers every evening. Now it was New Year's Eve, his bottle of Black was almost empty, and where the fuck did he hide that spare bottle?
He could just go to bed early, he supposed. Abbey was at her sister's place up in Raleigh and with all of his players out of town, he wasn't expecting any visitors.
David wasn't the kind of man who went to bed early.
He gave up on the pantry (just for something different) and scooped up his car keys. He'd swing by the store for a fresh bottle and grab some takeaway while he was out.
As he was locking the door behind him his phone rang from the other side of the door, its ringtone announcing one of his players was calling. It was probably Nicky—the time difference worked for him to be calling now—but the part of David's brain that kept him from early nights pulsed with what if, what if, what if, and he grumbled as he pushed back through the door and picked up his cell.
Neil.
"You have a good reason to be bothering me on a holiday?" he said, in lieu of hello.
"I didn't know who else to call."
"Neil?" David double checked the name on the caller ID to be certain but the what if, what if, what if that continued to pulse like a train gathering speed, was confirmation enough.
"Are you all right?" He sounded fucking terrible.
"No. No, I'm not." Absurdly, it sounded like he was smiling. "I know it's kind of sudden, but can you come get me? I'm at the airport."
"Wait right there," he growled. "I'm on my way."
**
The Neil that David had seen when he pulled to a stop outside arrivals looked like a technicolor zombie clone of his striker. Bright auburn hair, startlingly blue eyes, facial bandages, bruises. He was dressed up against the cold and he moved like an old man: slowly, and with one hand under his elbow to help him stand. Apparently Neil had made a last minute change of plans to spend Christmas with his uncle, but David was having flashbacks to a winter banquet two years ago and as they drove back toward campus he was white-knuckled with anger and white-lipped with restraint. Miraculously, he kept his mouth shut, and the patchwork kid beside him fell asleep. David knew he should have asked about the extent of his injuries before he fell asleep—a black and blue face was unlikely to be the extent of the damage—but Neil looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and he could always call Abbey if need be.
It was the longest twenty minute drive of his life. Neil slept fitfully, groaning and grimacing with every unavoidable bump in the road that rattled his forehead where it rested against the passenger side window. Throughout it all he held on to that damn duffle bag.
He swung by a drive-through liquor store for a fresh bottle of whiskey on the way. Neil was out cold and twitchy the entire time. By the time they were driving past the campus, David was a boiling pit of rage, ready to erupt. He forcibly slowed his breathing, trying to calm the rolling waves of anger that were driving him almost to hyperventilation. He was no good to Neil if he couldn't get his shit together.
When he was certain he could speak with some semblance of control, he unclipped his seat belt and turned to face his striker. Nestled between layers of bruising was a small white plaster on Neil's cheek.
"Neil," he began. His voice stumbled over the cracks in his composure, and growing through the cracks was anger, and grief, and fear. "Neil," he said again, and when the boy still didn't rouse, "Fuck."
And all the while,
What if, what if, what if…
He got out of the car. Opened the passenger side door. Held onto the roof with a white-knuckled grip and leaned in to give Neil a gentle shove.
"Neil, buddy," he said as he pushed on his arm. "We're home. I need you to wake up."
"I'm fine," Neil mumbled, and his eyes remained closed as he repositioned himself in the seat. "Jus' tired."
"Of course you fucken are," David muttered back. "Josten if you don't wake the fuck up right now I'm going to carry you up to my fucking apartment, so help me God."
"Yescoach." He made no attempt to move.
For fucking fuck's sake. "Neil, if it's okay to carry you up to the apartment, let me take your bag." He pulled gently on the strap and Neil gave it up without resistance.
Okay then.
David unclipped Neil's seat belt, then stood back to survey his athlete. He looked so small, curled up there on the seat; so battered—nothing like the vital kid that had come crashing into their world eight months ago with a fierce spirit and brutal tongue. He took a deep breath, then slowly maneuvered Neil until he was sitting side on, with his feet feet out of the car.
"I'm going to help you stand," David said, then draped Neil's arm over his shoulder, and got him to his feet. He had so many questions, so many what ifs, but this stupid kid of his was in no state to answer any of them. They inched toward the elevator but Neil was a dead weight where he half stood, half hung off him. David repositioned his arm around Neil's waist to hold him up, and got a shuddering hiss in return.
"Sorry, kid," David said, and he scooped him up into his arms.
The hiss turned to occasional quiet whimpers, but other than that he barely stirred, even as David settled him in the sofa and untied his shoes.
"Safe now," Neil mumbled, still without waking, and though David was almost but not entirely certain what he meant or where he'd been, the heaviness in his heart felt as oppressive as the change rooms at Evermore.
He sent a quick text, dragged his chair from the office, then cracked open the bottle of whiskey and settled in.