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The Foxhole Court was quiet that morning.
Most of the team had not yet arrived, leaving the court in an almost eerie stillness, as though the building itself were holding its breath. Overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting a sterile glow that stretched across the polished floor in long, pale streaks. The air carried the faint scent of resin, old sweat embedded in wood, and cold metal- the kind of smell that only existed in places built for repetition and punishment.
Neil ran through the same sequence for the third time.
Plant. Pivot. Release.
His shoes squeaked softly at the exact same point in the turn, a rhythm he had drilled into muscle memory until it no longer required thought. The ball left his hand with a clean snap, cutting through the air in a tight arc before striking the upper corner of the goal with a sharp, satisfying thud that briefly echoed through the empty space.
Again.
Neil jogged to retrieve it without hesitation, already resetting in his mind. His breathing was controlled, but slightly too fast at the edges, as though he were running just ahead of himself.
Again.
Andrew watched from the goal, unmoving.
His gaze tracked every motion with quiet precision, eyes narrowing slightly as Neil reset for another shot. He did not shift his weight, did not speak, did not interrupt. He simply observed the way Neil’s shoulders tightened a fraction too early before each release, the way his landing was just a hair heavier than it should have been.
There was nothing wrong with Neil’s form.
That was the problem.
Neil was not sloppy. He was not careless. When he trained, he trained like it mattered, like every repetition was a line carved into something permanent, something that would hold under pressure no matter how hard it was struck. But today, something was off in the rhythm. A tension in his shoulders that did not belong to effort alone, a subtle stiffness in his wrists that suggested fatigue more than focus.
He looked like he was trying to outrun something.
Or prove something.
To himself.
Or to someone else.
Andrew waited until Neil came back toward the goal again, the ball tucked under his arm, chest rising a little too quickly. Sweat clung lightly at his hairline, darkening the strands at his temples.
“Enough.”
Neil slowed, glancing up at him.
“I’m fine.”
“I didn’t ask.”
Neil’s brows pulled together slightly, irritation flickering across his face in something more reflex than anger.
Andrew pushed off the goalpost and stepped forward just enough to make the space between them feel smaller, more deliberate. The air between them tightened, as though the court itself were paying attention.
“You’ve missed three times.”
Neil looked down at the ball in his hands like it had personally offended him, fingers tightening around the worn leather.
“I can fix it.”
“You could.”
Andrew’s eyes moved over him- measured, assessing, unblinking.
“Or you could fall over first.”
Neil scoffed under his breath.
“I’m not going to fall over.”
“You almost did.”
That made Neil pause.
His mouth opened, then closed again, the argument catching on something inconveniently true.
Andrew had seen it- the slight stumble after the last shot, the way Neil had corrected himself too quickly, too sharply, as though his body were lagging half a second behind his intent. It had not been dramatic. It did not need to be. Andrew noticed things that did not announce themselves.
“I was off-balance,” Neil said finally.
“You’re tired.”
“I’m fine.”
Andrew just stared at him.
Unblinking. Unmoved. Patient in a way that was not gentle.
Neil stared back, stubborn in a way that was beginning to look more like exhaustion than defiance. His grip on the ball tightened, then loosened slightly, as though even his hands were arguing with him.
Neither of them moved.
The silence stretched, filling the court until the emptiness felt heavier than sound.
Finally, Neil exhaled through his nose, the sound quiet and edged with something like resignation.
“You always this annoying in the morning?”
“Only with you.”
The answer came too fast.
Too automatic.
As though it had already been waiting there.
Neil’s expression flickered, something brief and unreadable, too quick to name before he looked away, as if he had not expected it to land quite like that. His jaw tightened once, then eased.
Andrew noticed.
Of course he did.
“How much did you sleep?”
Neil shrugged, rolling one shoulder as though it did not matter, as though his body were not already arguing with him.
“Enough.”
“That’s not a number.”
“I don’t know.”
“Two hours?”
Neil did not answer.
Andrew’s jaw tightened slightly, a subtle shift that would have gone unnoticed by anyone else.
“Three?”
A beat.
“Something like that.”
That was all it took.
Andrew stepped forward and took the ball from his hands.
Neil reacted immediately, fingers twitching as though to grab it back, instinct overriding thought.
“Andrew.”
“No.”
“I need to practice.”
“You need to sit down.”
“I have a game.”
“So do I.”
Neil’s eyes sharpened, frustration cutting through the fatigue like a blade trying to stay sharp on dull stone.
“I’m not going to let being tired mess me up.”
Andrew gave him a flat look.
“It already is.”
That landed harder than either of them acknowledged.
Neil’s shoulders stiffened, tension pulling tight through his frame.
“I can handle it.”
“I know.”
The words were simple.
Calm.
Certain.
And that made Neil pause.
Andrew did not usually argue with him about that, about whether he could handle things. Because Andrew already knew the answer. That was not the point of this conversation, and it never had been.
“You don’t have to prove it every second you’re awake,” Andrew said.
Neil looked at him then..... really looked.
For once, he did not fire back immediately. The silence between them shifted, less defensive, more uncertain.
Andrew tossed the ball onto the nearby bench. It hit the wood with a dull, final sound that echoed briefly before fading.
“Five minutes.”
Neil glanced at the bench like it had personally betrayed him.
“That an order?”
“No.”
Andrew stepped closer again, just enough that Neil had to tilt his head slightly to maintain eye contact. The space between them narrowed until it felt intentional.
“It’s me telling you you’re done until you stop looking like you’re about to drop.”
Neil’s mouth twitched.
“That’s almost concern.”
“Don’t ruin it.”
A quiet laugh slipped out of Neil before he could stop it, soft, tired, but real enough to shift something in the air between them. It did not fix anything, but it eased the pressure slightly, like a valve finally releasing steam.
He walked to the bench and sat down heavily, elbows resting on his knees, shoulders still tense but no longer actively resisting gravity.
Andrew followed, stopping a short distance away before sitting as well, angled so he could still see Neil without making it obvious he was watching.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
The court hummed faintly around them, distant and indifferent, the sound of ventilation and settling structure filling the gaps where conversation did not exist.
Neil leaned forward, head slightly bowed, fingers picking absently at a loose thread on his glove as though it had become the most important thing in the world. The motion was repetitive, grounding, almost unconscious.
Andrew watched him out of the corner of his eye.
“You’ve been doing this all week.”
Neil did not answer.
“Why?”
A pause stretched between them.
“I just want to be ready,” Neil said finally.
“For what?”
“The game.”
Andrew did not believe that was the whole answer.
Neil knew he did not.
But neither of them pushed further. Some things were acknowledged without being dissected.
After a moment, Neil leaned back against the bench, exhaling slowly. His shoulders dropped a fraction, as though something inside him had finally stopped resisting.
“I’m okay.”
Andrew looked at him.
“I know.”
Neil blinked, caught off guard by the immediate acceptance.
“Then why are you worried?”
Andrew’s expression went blank in an instant, like a door closing, like something had been locked away before it could be examined.
“I’m not.”
“Right.”
“I just don’t want you making yourself useless.”
That earned a faint smile from Neil, small and tired at the edges, but real.
“That’s almost sweet.”
“Don’t push it.”
Neil’s smile widened slightly anyway, as though he could not help it even if he wanted to. It did not last long, but it lingered in the air after it faded.
Andrew reached over and tugged lightly at the sleeve of Neil’s jersey, brief, grounding, more contact than conversation.
“Rest.”
Neil looked down at Andrew’s hand.
Then back at him.
“Five minutes?”
“Ten.”
“You said five.”
“I changed my mind.”
Neil let out a long, exaggerated sigh, as though Andrew had just ruined his entire life in a very specific and personal way.
“You’re impossible.”
Andrew leaned back slightly, gaze drifting toward the empty court again.
“And you’re tired.”
This time, Neil did not argue.
He closed his eyes.
The silence that followed was not empty- it was heavy, but not uncomfortable. Just still, as though the world had paused without asking permission.
A few minutes passed.
Neil’s breathing slowed, the sharp edges of it smoothing out. His posture loosened incrementally, tension unspooling in small, reluctant stages.
His head tilted slightly at first, as though he were fighting it even in sleep, stubborn to the last second.
Then it gave in.
It came to rest against Andrew’s shoulder.
Andrew went completely still.
He looked down at him.
Neil was already half-asleep, lashes lowered, tension finally bleeding out of his face in a way Andrew did not see often enough to consider normal. The exhaustion was no longer something he was actively resisting- it had simply won.
Andrew could have moved.
He did not.
Instead, after a moment, he shifted just slightly, barely noticeable, so Neil would not slide off, adjusting without making it feel like anything had changed at all.
The court stayed quiet around them.
For once, Neil was not forcing himself toward the next thing.
And Andrew was not making him.
Ten minutes probably would not be enough.
Andrew did not care.
They had time.