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The team spends a long time in the clubhouse after the Election.
Part of it is Eddie’s absence. No-one had wanted to go back — none of the Tigers had, at least — but they’d prepared for the possibility, their star count public knowledge since the beginning. A two percent chance had been all that sent them away, beyond the Horizon once more for a replacement that did not seem forthcoming. By the assessment of those who’d fallen from the Horizon in the months prior, the transfer should’ve been just like the previous arrivals - unceremonious and sudden. It unsettles them that it’s not.
Equally unsettling is the ominous delivery of Zephyr’s new curse. He’s lighthearted about it, reassuring them in so many words that he feels fine, surely this means a 90-0 season and a championship ring a year from now - but they’re transparent platitudes. Eventually, he settles into one of the well-worn leather armchairs in a corner away from the rest, expression unreadable.
After the results have been read and discussed, the remaining Tigers mill about the clubhouse in small groups or on their own, but they don’t leave - as if being alone, unobserved, might consign them to the same fate as Eddie. Or worse - to Anastasia’s.
No-one brings that up directly, either. The ones who’ve been around - Vela, Stevie and Gloria especially - are all but inured to it, and of the new blood, none seem willing to start that particular conversation. It just lurks in the corners of their minds, a veiled threat by the gods, the off-season year before them now far too short for comfort.
At half past the hour, Elip’s phone rings. They don’t speak, but the rapt attention they give the call draws the quiet attention of the rest of the team for the short, one-sided conversation. Their weary expression afterward, the tired sweep of their gaze over the rest as they start to sign, doesn’t ease their hearts any.
“That was the higher-ups.” Grit interprets Elip’s Hadean bent on ASL, translating for the few whose learning has been slow-going over the course of the season. “Our new player is stuck in Philadelphia for the time being. They didn’t give specifics. I’ll stay in Hades to welcome them.”
“Philly?” Vela asks immediately, sharp and irate. Elip shrugs, their fist flat against their chest almost instinctively - how many times had they apologized this season already? You know as much as I do, they start to reply, and Vela shakes her head quickly. “No. Not your fault the officials can’t get their shit together.”
Then she stands with a stretch, managing to make it look casual - likely the only person in the clubhouse who could do so convincingly. “If that’s it—” She looks at Zephyr, who nods once. “Then I’m off to Charleston for awhile. You give me a call, cap’, I’ll be back for off-season practice. Cee, you coming with?”
“You know it.” Replies Clyde, sliding off the couch from where she’s sprawled, slouching in the direction of the door behind Vela with a lazy two-fingered salute at Elip as her only goodbye.
Their departure cuts the tension somewhat, enough that the others begin to file out slowly but surely. Adrian follows shortly after; Grit and Stevie check in with Elip, hunched over their laptop, before departing too. Soon, the clubhouse is down to three - Amaya, watching post-Election coverage on her phone, and Elip, still tapping away at their keyboard with Mehdi over their shoulder, murmuring quietly.
“Elle—” Amaya says quietly, standing and stowing her phone at long last. Elip looks up, head tilted in an unspoken question. “I’m gonna get going, but I’m staying in Hades. If you need any help settling Frazier in when they arrive, you let me know.”
That seems to bring them some relief, and they nod, bidding her a fond goodbye that Medhi echoes. It’s far from the last time she’ll see them, but it still feels like an ending, walking through the empty Sixth Circle at the true end of the season. It will be a year from now before the Tigers are back in any official capacity. The weight of uncertainty feels oppressive now; she can’t imagine what it will feel like as she’s staring down the barrel of it.
She doesn’t make it far outside the clubhouse. To Amaya’s surprise, Zephyr hasn’t left the stadium yet - she spots him low in the stands as she’s heading for the exit, past the away dugout, his broad-shouldered slouch immediately familiar. It doesn’t take much thought for her to beeline toward him. He doesn’t notice her as she descends the stone stairs, his eyes on his palms.
“Hey, Zeph.” She calls, and sees him sit up straighter - suddenly, like she’d startled him.
“Amaya.” He greets, not unkindly, and turns to look at her as she continues down the rows to where he sits. “You’re headed out?”
“Just back to my apartment. I’m going to stick around, help Elip out if I can.”
“They’ll appreciate it.” Zephyr nods, as short-spoken as ever. Now that he’s on his own - out from under the concerned stares of the rest of the team - Amaya can see the tension in the set of his shoulders, the restless, rhythmic tap of his heel against the ground. He’s good at pretending, good at putting on a show when it counts, but out here the edges of the facade are starting to fray along with his nerves.
“Are you going to visit Dallas?” She sets a hand on his shoulder, a wordless check-in, and the bob of his knee slows but doesn’t stop. Zephyr shakes his head.
“Not yet. Gonna lay low for a little while.”
Right. The press. They were probably clamoring outside - though not as fervently as in Mexico City or Charleston - eager, in a terrible sort of way she’s already learning to hate, for a statement from them. From him. She can’t imagine he’d fare any better in his equally-obsessed hometown.
“If you want to get out of here quietly,” Amaya jerks a thumb over her shoulder. “Elip showed me a back exit. Some old tunnels under the stadium that lead outside.” Zephyr raises a brow at her, ready with a question, before Amaya cuts in again.
“Not— not the weird pitcher tunnels. And not former captain Wilcox’s, either — actual old, Hadean tunnels. Like catacombs, but not actually for the dead. I think they were built to deal with flooding, or something.”
“Not reassuring.”
“I’m serious. They’re totally safe.” She squeezes his shoulder, smiles in a way that she hopes will convey none of the worry that still hangs like a shroud over her thoughts. “We’re not supposed to use them because they don’t fall under Sixth Circle’s jurisdiction anymore, technically - it’s a whole thing. Don’t ask me the specifics. Elip just… doesn’t like the front door.”
Zephyr frowns, curling his hands in his lap as he thinks. He closes his eyes, and for a long moment Amaya thinks he’ll say no — that him coming out here is the start of some self-imposed isolation, and that she will be unsuccessful in dragging him away from it.
“If we get lost,” He finally decides, shifting to stand; for a second, she catches the faintest grin on his face. “Then I guess they will be catacombs after all.”
Suddenly relieved despite the morbid joke, Amaya laughs. At least the day’s strangeness hasn’t completely taken his sense of humor.
“We’re not going to get lost.”
They fall into a short silence as they ascend the steps again, Amaya in the lead. It’s a comfortable one, even if her concern for him still weighs heavy on her mind. If the season and their friendship has taught her anything, it’s that Zephyr is reticent at the best of times, beyond the bounds of his for-the-cameras persona and the argumentative mood he gets into before a game. If he’s going to volunteer anything, it will be on his terms.
So she fills the quiet by talking to him. About nothing, mostly - what Vela and Clyde might get up to in Charleston, her own plans for the off-season, the latest piece of old armor or anachronistic tech she’d been able to find in one of countless Hadean secondhand shops. He mostly listens, offers a thought in edgewise only occasionally. It’s more one-sided than she’s used to, but he doesn’t seem to mind the chatter, and she can’t blame him for his quiet. It's better than letting him sit alone in the stands, stewing in his own thoughts.
Amaya is opening the unmarked entrance to one of the tunnels in the lower floors of the stadium - the one that lets them out near the Styx, she remembers - when, of his own volition, Zephyr finally speaks up behind her.
“Thank you, Amaya.”
“No thanks needed. The press sucks.”
“Next season’s going to be different.”
And there she pauses, the sudden seriousness in his tone jarring; if this is the moment, the rare slip of his mask, it has snuck up on her, and she doesn’t know how to respond. After a few beats without a reply, he keeps going.
“No matter where we end up, you take care of yourself. Okay?”
She looks back to him at that, half-turned away from the door, but his face is as unreadable as ever.
“Zeph.” She swallows, meeting his eyes. Trying to reassure him feels wrong, in the face of how much more active play he’s seen than her. He’s played under eclipses. She’s only heard stories. It’s harder still to imagine losing him, to put that worry to words - so she doesn’t. Instead, she nods, smiling uncertainly. “Hey. You too, alright? We’ve got a whole year before then.”
Zephyr nods back, returns her smile with a faint one of his own, and together they descend the stairs into the relative dark.