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Neil is ready to stab someone.
“Mr. Josten.” The interviewer’s red smile is as fake as her immaculately sculpted nose. “What news can you impart on the nature of your’s and Mr. Minyard’s relationship?”
Neil wonders distractedly if the woman’s blood would be as cherry red as her lipstick. He doesn't care for the shade, nor her intrusive attitude.
“None of your business,” he says but flashes a smile of his own at her to placate. By the looks of some of the other reporters crowding him post-game, it did more to wary than calm them. Good.
“But—Mr. Josten,” the woman pleads. She holds out her microphone as if the mere act alone could draw out all of Neil’s deepest and darkest secrets.
“They’re just curious,” Matt tried to explain to Neil one day after practice. Now professionals, they no longer play for the same team, so weekly phone calls to catch up are an unspoken rule between the two. “I get asked about Dan and I all the time and I swear there’s nothing we keep private, anyway.”
“Yeah, but I’m not you,” Neil muttered.
“Is it Andrew?” Matt asked quietly. “Does he not want—“
“It’s not that,” Neil cut in rather sharply. He wiped his face with an old practice shirt and sighed. “It’s not that at all. Andrew couldn’t give a shit what people know or not. It’s just…” He trails off, struggling once again for the right words.
It’s the exact reason he can’t answer the reporters in the first place. How could he possibly condense every thought and every word and every core-shaking feeling he has for Andrew into one pathetic press statement?
He can’t. Plain and simple. And he refuses to distort such a truth—the closest and most important truth Neil has ever possessed—only to satisfy the miserable curiosity of some mind-numbed reporters.
“With all they pry, you’d think they cared more about Andrew and I than the game,” Neil said to Matt, shaking his head in disgust. “I mean, who the hell worries about some rumor over focusing on exy—as in, their actual job.”
Neil and Andrew were technically more than a rumor since they were actually together, but Matt decided to not point that out as Neil continued to rant about the shortcomings of exy reporters.
“Mr. Josten,” another reporter calls out, effectively interrupting Neil’s train of thought. “Why did you delete all your social media’s?
‘Cause people like you try to interact with me, Karen. Next question.
“Neil, can you confirm that you’re in a relationship with—“
“Neil! Neil! Pictures are circulating from a dance club in Columbia—“
“Mr. Josten, is it true that your new tattoo is in honor of Andrew J. Minyard?”
It’s the last question that almost makes Neil stumble in his tracks. He recovers quickly, but he can’t suppress the small, feral smile tugging at his lips. The reporters closest to him see it though and swarm on the reaction like bees to honey; or Kevin to the nearest exy racquet.
He doesn’t bother trying to shift through the next onslaught of questions. Breathing the same air as them is a waste of time and energy. As he barrels his way ever closer to the locker room, meters away to freedom, one last statement has him stopping dead on the court.
“Mr. Josten,” an especially peckish looking reporter says, “Andrew Minyard confirmed via twitter seven minutes ago that you and him are in a committed relationship. What are your thoughts on this?”
Oh? Neil cocks his head and stares down the young individual. Or up. The height difference only bothers one of them, and it’s not Neil. They don’t fidget under Neil’s ruthless gaze but they look damn near close to.
“Is that so?” Neil drawls. He rubs his jaw, wrist on full display for the reporters and cameras to see the two intwined A’s inscribed into the skin. “My thoughts, you said, um…”
“Hermes,” the reporter offers.
“Herpes, gotcha.” Neil nods. “Right, then. Did Mr. Minyard use the term ‘committed relationship’ verbatim?”
“Well, um.” The reporter struggles to answer, whether still focusing on Neil’s previous comment or the latter, the world may never know. Neil knows the reporter is just bullshitting. Most likely, Andrew tweeted a picture of Neil getting socked in the face with another’s players elbow from the game earlier that night and captioned it, Breathtaking. “That’s all semantics, o-of course.”
“Of course,” Neil agrees pleasantly. “Semantics. Like the fact that you are all dishing for information that is none of your concern.”
In the foreground, Neil can see his coach glaring daggers at him for interacting with the press—something which he explicitly promised not to do in his season contract. Whoops.
“Thank you for the waste of breath. Ladies, gentlemen, Herpes.” Neil bids them farewell, wondering what low points they must have sunk to in their life to fixate on some stupid label rather than the highs and lows of post-collegiate exy. Tragic.
“Call Mr. Minyard and I whatever the hell you want,” Neil says with finality. “Because at the end of the day, we’re in each other’s mouths long enough to not bother listening to what you have to say.”
It takes the reporters all of five seconds to gather the double meaning behind Neil’s words. By the time any of them have found adequate control of their limbs, Neil has safely escaped to the locker room and to the amused teasing of his teammates.
Andrew may or may not tweet about Neil’s confession later that night. His caption?
Suck it.