Work Text:
His whole life, Neil had been trained to keep everything he owned (which, to be fair, wasn’t much) as safe as possible. He’d ingrained all the tricks for telling whether or not someone had gone through his belongings into his mind, leaving himself little memos in the form of folded tags or particular placements. Neil liked to think he took good care of things, even when he didn’t necessarily have to, so each time he got a new racquet, he was determined to keep it as safe as possible.
Wymack, it seemed, didn’t trust this. How could Neil tell, you ask? Hmm. Well, maybe it was the fact that one day, right before practice, he called the whole team together for a ten-minute lecture.
Yeah, that might’ve been the giveaway.
“How many times do I have to say it?” Wymack groused, glancing back and forth between the nonplussed faces of the team. “You have to keep your equipment somewhere safe. If I hear about one more lost, damaged, or God-knows-what-sort-of-traumatised racquet, so help me, you will not touch another one for as long as you’re at Palmetto.”
The Foxes exchanged looks.
Wymack either didn’t see (or chose to ignore them) and continued on his rant.
“I do not want you coming to me and telling me your racquet was stolen! I do not want to hear about any racquets that are lost! And if you are doing something with your racquet other than its intended purpose, and it breaks, I don’t even want to know how, let alone hear about it happening. Get it together.” His eyes drifted to Neil. “Look at Neil, guys. He’s had his new racquet for, what? A week?”
Neil nodded.
“A week, then. And it’s in mint condition. Here is someone who knows how to take care of their things!” Wymack held his hand out for Neil’s racquet, and he handed it over. “Look at that. Perfect.” He bounced it on his hand once, examining it thoroughly, then handed it back. “This is what everyone’s racquets should look like.”
Everyone looked at Neil. He didn’t make eye contact with anyone. It sounded as though Andrew was trying rather hard not to laugh. Neil glanced over, and sure enough, the blond was hiding a grin behind his hand. When he noticed Neil looking, Andrew dropped his hand (and the smile), but the eye contact persisted for a few seconds.
Neil had to be the one to look away.
Wymack, apparently not done, kept talking. "Keep your racquets safe, for God's sake," he said, punctuating his sentence with a couple claps. "What's something really, really valuable that you own? Think on it for a second, then think about your racquet. Just treat it like that. Jeez."
On a whim, Neil nudged Andrew. "What would you pick to keep safe?"
Andrew started in surprise, but recovered quickly enough to flash him a wolfish grin. “You first.”
Neil thought back to his binder in its hiding place. No way was he going to say that, so… “Um, I guess the key.”
Of course he’d picked the key.
Andrew seemed stricken for a moment. He went silent as Wymack carried on in the background, staring off as he was presumably lost in thought. “I know what I’d pick,” he said suddenly.
“Yeah? What?” Neil asked.
“You.”
Neil’s brain ceased to function. He was mildly aware of Wymack, still talking away, and the other Foxes surrounding him, but every cell in his body was singing you you you he chose you he wants to keep you safe.
“You better treat your racquets like precious jewels from now on,” Wymack finished, finally out of steam. “Now, go practice– without murdering your racquets. Go!” He motioned to the court.
Andrew grinned at Neil, who was still understandably short-circuiting.
“C’mon, precious jewel. Let’s get to practicing.”