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The game is a disaster from the moment they step on the court. Breckenridge isn’t any nicer this year then they were last, and this time, the Foxes are on Jackals terf.
They end the first half leading three to the Jackals zero, and on the way back out to court after half-time, they’re pelted with garbage by cursing fans.
“Security sucks here,” Matt gripes, picking up a half-empty drink cup and chucking it right back into the stands.
“That’ll show ‘em!” Nicky turns a shining smile to the students leaning over the overhang and starts to wave. “Come on, Neil! Wave!”
Neil does not.
Up ahead, Wymack looks back at them and glares.
They’d planned to stick their new striker sub in for a little while during the second half. It was the first game of the season, an easy match-up, and good experience for her, but things turn so foul within minutes that Wymack pulls her and Neil goes running back in, clacking sticks with Matt once as he crosses the court.
Neil scores once.
Kevin scores twice.
One of the Jackals finally fights past the Fox’s defense and actually gets a shot on goal–only to have it smacked away by Andrew who barely had to make any effort at all.
Neil’s already running down the court after it, adrenaline surging in his veins.
There are five minutes left on the clock and it’s about to be a shut-out–he can feel the anger of the fans, the Jackals are getting reckless and dangerous, and none of it matters because after a lifetime of absolute shit, he finally has a home.
His eyes are only on the ball, but as he snags it in his net, the massive Jackal dealer barrels towards him, racquet raised.
Neil has just enough time to pop the ball towards Kevin before the racquet comes down on his shoulder and the dealer smashes into him.
He can’t breathe.
He tries to struggle out from under the guy, but pain shoots up his arm so hot he cries out, except he can’t hear either, everything is white noise–fuzzy and awful and itchy.
The guy finally moves off and Neil pushes up to his knees, only to fall back over again when another wave of pain hits hard.
Breathing hurts, moving hurts, but the worst of it is the piercing waves of agony traveling through his shoulder.
Dislocated is all he can think, but it doesn’t explain the dizziness. He’s used to pain. Pain is something to swallow down and keep moving, but this is different. This is–
He blinks and his eyelids are gummy and sticky and it takes all the effort in the world to raise them again. There are people everywhere crowding too close. Someone is saying his name, someone else is smacking against his helmet, and he tries to tell them he’s fine but he can’t force the words past his mouth.
“Neil, Neil, Neil, Neil, Neil,” they murmur and whine, chattering little crows, ravens, foxes, jackals, something...clever.
Neil sucks in a breath and tries to calm down, but everything is wrong. Far away he hears a buzzer go off, and that doesn’t make sense either because the game isn’t over, there are still five minutes, there are hands all over him, and it finally the helmet comes off and he realizes that the all the obnoxious smacking was just someone trying to get it off, trying to get him air–
He leans over and pukes.
“Shit. Get him...need Abby...Neil…”
Wymack is there, but Neil is still only hearing bits and pieces–fragments of conversations that shouldn’t be happening in the middle of an exy game.
One ear pops, and he can hear again so he shakes his head and watches the way the shiny lines on the court weave in and out of focus. “I’m fine,” he slurs out.
“You are so far from fine, you idiot,” Wymack says, but he doesn’t sound angry.
He sounds scared.
There’s blood in Neil's mouth, and blood dripping from his nose, and his head is so heavy he can barely keep it up, but somehow he makes it over to the bench. Abby fusses around him, Wymack argues with her, their new striker watches him in horror, and Aaron sits on the bench suited up, but out for the rest of the match. He doesn't say a word.
The buzzer sounds again, and Neil is just lucid enough to realize that the game has started up again. Andrew is standing in goal, completely stone faced and focused.
He doesn’t look over once, and Neil isn’t sure whether the snaking tendrils that clench around his lungs are pride, or something else.
“He needs a stretcher,” Abby started.
Neil would have tried to argue, but another wave of pain and dizziness washes over him with such intensity that he leans over and gags.
“Gross,” Aaron mutters.
“Stretcher,” she orders, then kneels down, pressing a washcloth against his face.
He watches as it comes away bloody.
“Arm, and head. Anywhere else?”
Neil shakes his head and closes his eyes hard against the rush of nausea.
“We've got this.” Abby taps his leg, wipes at his nose again, and starts packing things away in her bag. “Stretcher’s here, you’re going to be just fine.”
This is humiliating, Neil thinks as she and Wymack help him up and onto the stretcher.
***
It’s a concussion, a broken nose, a cracked rib, and a dislocated shoulder.
He’s dealt with injuries before, but the shoulder scares the shit out of him. Dislocation means physical therapy, physical therapy means time off the court, time off the court means the Moriyamas rethinking their investment.
Which means nothing good.
Abby stays with him at the hospital. The team doesn’t show up because he’s only there for a couple of hours anyway, and once he’s declared good to go by the doctor, he launches off the bed to snag the paper sack of pain pills and is halfway down the hallway before Abby even has time to grab her jacket.
“You need to listen,” she says as she opens the door of the van. “I know you like to push, and I know you think you’re fine, but you really need to listen. The shoulder is serious, okay?”
“I know,” Neil grumbles.
“Do you?”
“I know.” He folds himself into the seat and manages to buckle without jarring his arm too much, then leans his head against the cool window of the van as Abby pulls out of the hospital lot. She knows him well enough at this point to take the hint and just ride in silence the rest of the way back to Fox Tower.
Unsurprisingly, the entire team is waiting for him in the hallway. If he’s learned anything in the last year, it’s that his casual tendency towards martyrdom is not appreciated by a single teammate, so Neil bites his tongue and lets them worry over him as long as they want before everyone finally retreats to the comfort of their own rooms. Neil is left with Kevin, Nicky, Aaron and Andrew, and he follows them through the door with the small whiteboard that reads Monsters Inc.--written by one of the freshmen who thinks he’s far more clever than he really is.
Andrew says nothing, but his face is a thunderstorm as he leans against the door frame and watches the chaos.
“I’m fine,” Neil finally gripes at Nicky, who’s got an arm wrapped around his waist and is trying to help him down into a chair.
“You are not,” Kevin says from the corner. “And we need to talk.”
The door slams and Neil looks over to find Andrew gone.
“He’s upset,” Nicky apologizes. “He was worried about you, I think?”
“Right,” Aaron scoffs, looking pointedly at Neil. “Your entire dynamic is fucked. I’ll be at Katelyn’s.” Then he’s gone too, and Neil is suddenly left alone with Kevin, Nicky, and a headache so bad he can’t see straight.
“Seriously,” Nicky keeps going. “He kind of–”
“We’re out for the next two games,” Kevin says from the corner.
Nicky tenses. “We’re not out–”
“We are out for the next two games unless you dig us up another goalkeeper,” Kevin growls.
The headache is only getting worse, and all Neil wants to do is curl up and sleep away the fear that’s crawling up his spine. “What happened?” he asks instead, trying to blink away the pain and exhaustion.
“I need a drink.” Kevin walks towards the kitchenette, one hand flexing and unflexing, flexing and unflexing as he digs through the cupboards looking for alcohol.
It’s bad then. Kevin’s a disaster, but since last year he’s at least been trying not to drown every anxiety attack with a handle of vodka.
“Andrew went after their striker” Nicky says quietly. “It was only a couple of minutes after they took you out but the guy came in for a goal and Andrew rushed him, and it was really bad. No one wants to get near Andrew when he’s like that, you know? Thank god he doesn’t have the knives anymore but...”
“He got red carded and he’s out two games,” Kevin announced with no emotion whatsoever. He threw himself down on the beanbag across from Neil and took a generous swig straight from the bottle of vodka.
Nicky grimaces. “He probably should have gotten worse–”
“A red card is worse,” Kevin interrupts. "Next two games, we’ve got nothing. Our season is done. The Moriyamas...fuck. Fuck.” He takes another deep drink. “Dislocated?” He finally asks, turning his intensity on Neil.
“Yeah.”
“You need to be on that court again.”
“I know.”
“No, you need to be on it this week–”
“Kevin– ” Nicky tries to interject, but Neil waves him off.
“I know I need to be on it. I know exactly what’s at stake here, okay? I’ll talk to them. I’ll explain it–”
“You can’t just talk to the Moriyamas.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“You say that an awful lot for someone who is shit at handling things.” Kevin takes another long drink, then stands up and heads to the bedroom, vodka still gripped tightly in his hand.
“Jeez,” Nicky finally says after he’s gone. “Uh...can I get you something? You need...help?” He motions towards Neil’s sling. “You’ve got pain pills, right? Do you need to take them?”
“I’m fine.”
“We spent the last year and a half establishing that, yeah, but–”
“I’ll be back.”
Nicky makes some protest behind him, but Neil is already out the door before he can say another word.
***
Andrew’s on the roof.
Neil knows this like he knows his name, but for some reason, every step he takes feels heavier and heavier as he walks towards a conversation he doesn’t want to have.
When he finally pushes the heavy storm door open, it gives an awful, shuddering groan of protest. Andrew’s all the way on the other side, back to one of the heating vents and one knee pulled to his chest, but he doesn’t look up.
Neil slowly makes his way over and finally sits down, reaching over for the cigarette in Andrew’s mouth.
Andrew lets him take it, but still doesn’t look at him.
“I’m sorry,” Neil finally says.
The sun went down hours ago, but the horizon still has that faint purplish glow of dusk. Neil looks out over campus towards the twinkling street lights of the main drag through town and tries not to sound like everything hurts when he breathes.
Andrew still doesn’t say anything, but he holds his hand out eventually, and Neil hands over the cigarette.
“Kevin says you’re out for a couple of games.”
Andrew’s mouth tightens.
“You shouldn’t have done that on my account. You’ve got a career to consider, and it wasn’t worth–”
“Do you want to find out what happens when you hit 150, Josten?” Andrew growls.
“I’ve always wanted to fly.”
“Then fly back home.”
“I am home,” Neil murmurs.
Andrew still won’t look at him, but Neil doesn’t miss his sudden, icy stillness.
Neil doesn’t leave. He sits, and waits, and inhales the thick smoke of Andrew’s cigarette, and finally, finally, when Andrew smokes it down to the filter and stubs the butt out on the concrete, Neil starts to relax.
“I was supposed to be done protecting your ass,” Andrew says quietly.
“I didn’t ask you for protection.”
“You should have.”
“It was on me. I wasn’t paying attention where I should have been paying attention. I was focused on the ball.”
“He was not.”
“He was not,” Neil agrees. “But I’m fine.”
Andrew turns to him suddenly, hand clenched in a tight fist, eyes fire. “Do. Not.”
“I will be,” Neil amends. He blinks again and the pain in his head increases even more. Reaching out with his good hand, he stops just shy of Andrew’s fist. “Yes or no?”
It takes Andrew a couple of seconds, but finally he swallows hard and drops his hand. “Yes.”
Neil follows, threading his fingers through Andrew’s and clenching tight. “I’ll be back on the court in two weeks. We can make our stunning return together.”
“I hate you,” Andrew says in response. “And you look like a raccoon.”
Neil smiles. “Side effect of a broken nose.”
“Did they give you the good meds?”
“They gave me a lot of things. I didn’t take any of them.”
“You are an idiot.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Somewhere beneath them a car alarm goes off, and it’s high pitched frequency echoes through the night. Neil releases Andrew’s hand and pushes himself up to standing. Andrew digs another cigarette out of his pack and lights it.
Neil walks back to the storm door. When he looks back, all he can see is the cherry of the cigarette illuminating Andrew’s profile as he stares off at the fading dusky horizon.