Chapter Text
In retrospect, not much thought had gone into the size of the kitchen table. A basic faux oak board acquired from one of their numerous round trips to Ikea, a second thought really, seated neatly at the center of the room. Nobody seemed to notice how crammed in their bodies were; eight placeholders leaning over the other, gossipping round backs of heads, scraping chairs and passing the salt. Symbiotic. Family in a loose, messy, estranged sense of the word. Sentimental by notion alone.
Thanksgiving gatherings had never been small affairs, there was always someone who forgot to answer Abby's RSVP, gatecrashers entering just as the turkey was served. Fold out chairs and sofas piled onto. Bottles uncorked with anything but the corkscrew. Unfiltered noise in whatever room you tried to evade it. Abby had once described it as “A cacophony of life”, but Wymack would rather believe that was the wine talking. Post Thanksgiving heralded a swift two days of aloneness just to collect himself, a lethargy of washing up, relocating furniture and drinking whatever dregs his Foxes had missed. Routine. A production line of memories.
But as life moved, synchronized to the totem of time, so did tradition. Interests fractured, independence flourished. Families sprouted through the cracks as one by one, priority sold out nostalgic solidarity. Each founding traditions of their own, a legacy of Thanksgivings to come. Pride swelled within Wymack with each budding branch, so why not happiness? Had he not complained enough times that the excessive expenses cashed out on enough turkey to feed his foxes' hungry mouths? Perhaps he should have held his tongue. Perhaps it would have let them rot in simpler times.
What a smokescreened crutch hindsight could become.
It was a neatly desolate scene that unfolded before him, domestic quaintness framed like a backlight.
A dinner table. Abby drew up head, a gentle bookend to the congregation, with Andrew to her right and Amilia to her left. They were caught in animated conversation, with gestures substituting what couldn’t be conveyed behind their full mouths. Neither adult treated Amalia differently, listening and nodding their heads at the right point. Civilized without the pre notion of pleasantries. She was good company, mind as sharp as her mothers and mouth as unwitting as her dads. Not that she didn’t make it known that she knew enough already.
Wymack didn’t have much experience with children but he’d hedged his bets that eight may be the easiest age to handle his hurricane of a grandchild. Who knows, perhaps she will calm down in a couple years. Wishful thinking, really.
Next to her sat Aaron who had spent Thanksgiving dinner rotating between picking whatever excuse of a vegetarian option meal he’d been handed and lecturing Kevin on some health concern or another.
How the tables turn.
Then Robin Cross, shoving as much food into her system as possible as if expecting Abby to take it away at a moment's notice. Across from her, Kevin had his back to Wymack in rapt attention on yet another thing that had seemed to tick him off.
“It’s not like that’s even your specialty, you’re in trauma care Aaron you can’t just-”
Wymack didn’t care enough to listen to the same argument for the nth time. Kevin may be his son but a Thanksgiving platter was only made once a year. Scraping his chair back, he grabbed his plate and placed the cutlery on some shoddily folded napkins. Probably Amalia's doing.
It was a small squeeze to maneuver around the dining room chairs, silently cursing following through with Abby’s demand that their shared home accommodated a separate kitchen and diner or as she phrased it “actual adult living”. Wymack had made it 42 years of his life without a meagre wall divide but what did he know, maybe the lack of kitchen diner distinction had wildly fucked him up.
“Going in for thirds this early?”
Neil had appeared in the doorway, circling in on the carved meat and pouring on an obscene quantity of gravy. Freaky fucker.
“Cheeky bastard,” Wymack scowled but proceeded to lay on another helping of stuffing. “Fifths.”
The other man smiled coyly, offering a hand for the serving prongs. Wymack handed it over. Seemed like yesterday when he could barely trust a sharp object in the general vicinity of Neil's hands. Or his face.
A small crash sounded from within, scraped back chairs followed closely behind. Raised voices dampened by groans of familiarity.
“Broke out the wine bit early?”
Wymack grunted, looking over to the swiftly diminished elected drinks countertop. Both men knew the prime culprit, but with one of the brothers going dry and Robin's visceral reaction to alcohol it wasn't a difficult assumption to jump to.
“How are you dealing with it?”
Wymack's head snapped to the smaller man. “What?”
Eyebrows furrowed, Neil answered. “Kevin. Your son, haunting about the house. Surprised Abby hasn’t hit him round the head yet.”
“Oh.” Wymack scratched his beard. “Thought you was talking about the diet the misses got me on because the answer to that would be not very well. But trust me, that woman’s tried. Think she feels a bit sorry for him and all.”
Neil scoffed gently, leaning back on the drywall they’d never gotten round to painting. “Sorry for him? Difficult with all the bitching and moaning I'm sure. I’m impressed you’ve lasted this long. Thea had an idea or two divorcing him while she still had sense about her. Maybe he’s taken a couple too many balls to the head.”
“I’d rather keep him on the sidelines than clean up any fallout.” said Wymack, placing a piece of stuffing in his mouth.
“Whatever you say Coach, but Andrew is only a call away if you need any messes cleaning up.”
Wymack swallowed. “So he’s stopped playing favorites with who he actually picks up to?”
Neil shrugged, picking up another broccoli stem.
“Wolves supposed to be playing Miami in an hour.”
“Matt end up going to watch?”
Neil shook his head. “Couldnt get a sitter, Dan didn't want to make the journey.” He made an about gesture with his prong clutched hand. “Suggested he came tonight but said Dan didn't want to make things awkward again though he told her Thea wasn't here this year.”
“Yeah, Abby said she’d messaged. Haven't seen them in a while.”
The other man snorted, pushing himself off his perch. “Yeah, wonder what coulda caused that.”
“Josten.”
“Yeah, yeah no blame game. We get it.” was all he said before making his way back to join the dining guests.
There was no rebuttal that could have satisfied their discussion; all too familiar of a path with all too many dead ends. They could go round and round, foxes chasing their tales, but eventually they'd both end up bleeding. Silence was bearable. Ignorance was sustainable.
Wymack sighed, resigned to follow Neil back into the minefield. Bypassing Abby with a squeeze of her shoulder, he tucked Amalia's chair back under the table.
“All four legs on the floor, aight soldier?” he whispered, a wink to soften the ask.
Amalia looked back up to him, eyes a dark reflection of his own but with something else, something alive. “Sorry, Agiduda.” she grinned. Contagious innocence.
As his hands released their grip, pin pricks stabbed into each soft pad. Shit. He had promised to take it to the skip after… after it broke. Instead he’d glued it back together, the looming image of having to purchase anything in a furniture store this close to Thanksgiving gave him hives. Christ, just his luck that she’d choose that bloody chair. Wymack quickly set down his loaded plate, back into the kitchen to locate a tea towel and proceeded to inconspicuously lay it on Amelia's backrest with a reassuring pat on the shoulder. It should hold, she was light enough, right?
Taking his place at the head once more, Wymack drained what was left of the wine glass. This night could not be over fast enough. He poured another, paletting whatever stale-turning turkey he’d eaten. Then another, just to wash it all down. He could tolerate the parade, the shallow well wishes, hell even the blatant colonialism underpinning every aspect of the twisted celebration but the talking. Jesus, at least when he’d been their Coach he could have spat at the, to shut up and call it a day. But no. Their petty business was now his business. Sure, it was entertaining for the first hour or two, but after you realized this was your reality for the next ten hours the grating migraine began to set in.
Wymack angled his watch to catch a glimpse of the trickling time. Six hours in. Mother Mary, help him.
“Well that's not even what the celebration is about anymore, it's been bastardised so far outta context you can barely y’know.” Kevin scrambled for the words, voice pitched just higher than the others. “Like Christmas. Calling Christmas pagan even after two millennia of reinterpretation and… and appropriation. Y’know, it's like, like its not even religious at this point its a celebration of capitalism. Same as Thanksgiving.”
A low groan swept the collective, reverting back to their respective conversations. His son certainly had his opinions but after suffering the long draw of overexposure nobody had the heart in it to debate.
“I think maybe you should shut up now.” Andrew offered noncommittally. “Eat your greens.”
“Fuck off,” he spat whilst shoving a forkful into his mouth, reaching for his beer. “Hey, Abby. We got anymore’a these?”
Aaron scoffed, “Go look yourself, she's not your mam.”
A sober Kevin would have bit his tongue, stared daggers at Aaron until he felt his message had been put across. Perhaps a cutting remark under his breath; aware of the audience that beheld this spectacle. But this Kevin had not been sober in a long time.
“You’re one to fucking talk, Minyard.” Kevin sneered, leering across the table. “Thought you only qualified to give life opinions on medical dramas? Or thought you’d branch out since Katelyn seems to be wearing the pants now?”
“Jesus Christ, Kevin,” Abby muttered, hand enclosing the smaller girls.
“What? All he’s fucking done since arriving is whine and moan like anyone gives a fuck. Handing out advice like his license wasn’t almost stripped. Surprised she hasn't divorced you yet.”
Aaron's eyes were cast to the table, hands wringing out of sight. He took his time responding. “Bit rich coming from you, Kev. But you always did need it spelling out for you, too many balls to the head. Not surprised they've retired you.”
A chair fell to the floor, heralded with a fist slammed on the table. “Fuck you.” Kevin bit with gritted teeth. “Fuck. You. You have no fucking idea what youre talking abou-”
“Boys-” Abby started.
“What, so after tearing your LCL, spiral breaking your tibia and then proceeding to tear it three months later because you fell down the stairs after a night out.” The man bit down, a sneer playing with his lips. “Too drunk to even catch yourself? And you think they'll have you back? By the skin of your fucking teeth, always thought you were obsessive but this is straight up delusional.”
Across the room, Abby's hands fussed over their sobbing grandchild but her eyes were glaring daggers into Wymack's own. Shit.
“Kevin sit down-”
“The… What the fuck- Why the fuck would they retire me?” His voice may be the loudest but the wavering string of inebriated emotion resounded clear. “I’m their best striker, an injury doesnt fucking change a fucking thing.”
Aaron laughed harshly. “You’re thirty four Kevin, you’re drunk as piss, you’re messing with painkillers that you got no clue about. This isn't your left hand anymore, stop acting like a child.”
“Painkillers?” Neil interjected, eyes following the two people escaping to the kitchen.
“Kevin, sit back-”
A wine glass shattered as two hands slammed down,scattered across the tiled floor. “You have no fucking idea what you talking about. You.. fucking piece of shit.” His chest heaved with the effort of staying upright. Christ, he was shitfaced at 7pm. “I will never… fucking. Fucking retire. I wont, they'd have to take me off court in a casket first.”
“Cant think its that terrible, look where its got Coach,” Andrew deadpanned.
“I AM MORE THAN HE COULD EVEN DREAM OF AMOUNTING TO. MY FUCKING MOTHER KNEW THAT, WHY ELSE WOULD SHE FUCKING CUT HIM OUT OUR LIVES. HE WAS… WAS A FUCKING LIABILITY. THE ONLY REASON HIS TEAM SUCCEEDED WAS BECAUSE OF ME.” Kevin panted, spitting, throat raw. Wymack prayed Amalia couldn't hear this. “I will never retire because I actually mean something.”
At that he turned on an unsteady heel, staggering lamely through the living room. Christ willing, he did not attempt the stairs.
Silence loomed above the remaining five, the words passed thick enough to choke. Wymack looked down at the fractured glass at his feet, delicate meniscus of wine painting the cracks. There was probably a metaphor to be made from all of this if only he could assemble a single coherent thought.
“Should probably check he hasn't killed himself,” Robin proposed.
Nobody moved.
Muffled sobs pattered through the walls, infiltrating their perfect inaction. He should have seen this coming, a timebomb will tick forever in a vacuum. Tick, tick, tick. If you listen hard enough it all disappears, merging into one frozen note. Waiting. Waiting till you looked away. Forgotten.
“Since when you’d let him treat Abby like that?” Aaron said, eyes still fixated on the spot in front of him.
“I know.” Wymack sighed.
"In front of his daughter? What kinda… does Thea see this bullshit?”
“I know.”
“You need to get him to a meeting.”
“I know.”