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Andrew scans the profile for Neil Hatford in his head. Kevin had flipped through the high school striker’s stats religiously, but Andrew kept straying back to the first page.
Blue eyes glare up from the page, pink mouth twisted into a solemn scowl. Andrew wonders what the photographer had done to earn such an attitude. Below is the basic info. Where he’s from, his grade, boring, boring, boring.
It’s the newsletter that Wymack has pinned to it that Andrew keeps going back to.
“Neil Hatford, seventeen-year-old son of Mary Hatford and student at Millport High School, was found last night at the brutal murder site of Jackson Plank.”
There aren’t any pictures. But Wyamck has summarized the aftermath. The court had ruled that Neil Hatford, while acting in defense of his mother, had “gone too far” and shown that he was capable of “a concerning level of violence” and was too dangerous to be left alone. They had him on experimental antipsychotic meds.
Still, Wymack had barely blinked at the murder charges, one calloused thumb continuously tracing the words “experimental drugs” over and over again. Stupid, optimistic old man.
Andrew is not an optimist. He’s closer to a realist; some have called him a pessimist. But a killer is dangerous, justified or not. Andrew would know. So, when the high school coach leads them back to the bleachers after the game, rambling nervously about catching Neil in “a good mood”, he keeps Kevin behind him.
They reach the bleachers, and Andrew spots him, redhead hair glinting in the sun like rusted copper. One knee is pulled to a thin chest, the other swinging lazily off the bleachers as the man stares into the distance, his face obscured to them.
“Neil!”
The striker pops up like a rabbit, spine straightening and head whipping around to catch the source of the noise.
His eyes are even brighter in person, capable of slicing a man down to brittle bone with how sharply they examine the newcomers. Two thin scars overlap on the skin of his right cheek, curve down the slope of his sharp jaw, and stop at the hollow of his throat, the white skin stark against his honey brown complexion. A pink tongue darts out over the snakebite piercings that weren’t in his photo.
For a second, the man just stares, blue eyes blank and far away. Then a painful looking grin splits his face, too sharp canines bared like that of a rabid animal. A chill shudders down Andrew’s spine that nearly startles him still. Interesting.
“Coach!” the redhead greets with false, almost lethal, glee. He throws his legs over the edge of the bleachers and hops to his feet. “We were just talking about you!”
Hernandez glances around the bleachers that remain empty of anyone else but Josten. The striker cackles at whatever he sees on his coach’s face and slaps him a little too hard on the back to be friendly. “All good things, coach, all good things.”
Hernandez eyes his striker warily, his Adam’s apple bobbing as his eyes flicker away from the feral grin. Scared of his own players? Or just scared of this one?
“There’s someone here to see you.” Hernandez says, gesturing to Wymack at his side.
Blue eyes lock onto Wymack’s face, taking in the height, the shoulders, lingering on the tattoos. He laughs again, though Andrew isn’t sure what’s funny
“He's from a university. He came to see you play," Hernandez adds when Neil only continues to snicker to himself without saying anything.
With unnerving speed, Neil turns back to his coach, leaning into his space so the bigger man is forced to move back. “Liar, liar, coach. Don’t you know that’s my job?” Neil coos, smile wide and eyes clouded with something like rage. Andrew narrows his eyes at the striker, something like intrigue stirring in his gut.
"David Wymack.” Wymack introduces himself, holding out a hand for Neil to shake. The striker looks down at the hand like a deer would at a bear trap.
“I know who you are. Shouldn’t you be nursing your Raven back to full health in Palmetto? What, you think Riko can’t reach Millport?” he snipes. His eyes flicker to Andrew and then behind him to Kevin when he makes a choked noise. His smile digs painfully into his cheeks.
Andrew’s shoulder’s tense. Oh, he does not like Neil Josten. He speaks of things he should not know or understand. Wymack goes just as stiff, confusion and caution warring on his face.
"You’ve got bigger problems than a failed medical experiment.” Neil sneers, seemingly satisfied to have cut Kevin off at the knees before he could even say anything. Andrew stills. Had he done it on purpose? Why was some random high schooler so determined to wiggle out of the Kevin Day's grasp?
"I gave him your file when he put out a note he needed a striker," Hernandez further explains. "I tried calling your mother, but she didn't answer."
Neil laughs the hardest at that, doubling over with mirth.
“Tell me you're joking, coach.” he says, wiping at hysterical tears. “You called my mother? For what? Her foot up your ass?”
Hernandez winces, paling a little at the implication.
"I can't wait for her anyway. The ERC has been hounding me since Janie got locked up.” Wymack grunts, shoving a stack of paper at Neil.
Neil snorts. “Good luck getting me within five feet of the airport without her finding out.” he giggles, eyeing the papers like they may burst into flames any minute. “Besides, I can’t play for the Foxes. I’m not a team player, and your team is held together with glitter glue and the hopes and dreams of an optimistic old man.”
Hernandez looks vaguely horrified by Neil’s jab. Wymack only raises a bushy eyebrow, unfazed. Andrew knows he’s heard worse from his own team.
“Will you give us a minute.” Wymack says to Hernandez. It’s not a question, and Hernandez rushes to follow it like the demand it is.
Wymack turns back to Neil as the high school coach disappears into the locker room.
“And if I promised you that you can play your games sober?”
The medicated smile drops, and that pretty face goes eerily blank. Andrew is reminded of the terrifying stillness of a feral animal pushed into a corner. A street dog going still and silent the moment before it buries vicious fangs into your foolishly extended arm.
Neil stares at Wymack with empty eyes.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” he says finally, the edges of his mouth starting to lift again. “They’re court-ordered. Taking me off them could lead to… legal action.”
His eyes flicker back to Andrew, and he flashes all his teeth again when he sees the blankness of Andrew’s face.
“We’ll work it out. I’m sure you’ve heard of the Foxes' unorthodox methods before.” Wymack says, no sign of uncertainty in his gruff voice. Wymack is a man of his word. Andrew knows this.
Neil hums, tone like that of a parent humoring a small child.
“Sure.” he says, at length. He holds out a hand and wiggles his fingers at Wymack, who hands him the papers he brought. Neil flips through them, eyes scanning the papers absentmindedly.
“Will your parents be a problem?” Wymack asks after a moment. Neil hums lightly, his grin stretching even wider as he crumples the paper slightly.
“They’ve been problems for eighteen years now, I doubt they’ll stop now.” he giggles. He catches some sort of expression on Wymack’s face and guffaws. “Aw, don’t look at me like that, broken homes are your specialty, are they not?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just holds his hand out for a pen.
Wymack frowns and doesn’t budge. “If your parents are going to be a problem, I can help you.”
Neil blinks at him, genuine shock crossing his face. Andrew knows the feeling. Stupid, optimistic old man.
The shock quickly fades, hysterical glee taking over again. Andrew wonders if he can linger on any thought for more than five seconds on those drugs.
“My old man is locked up.” Neil says. “And I can handle my mother.” This he says with a dark glint in his eyes, and Andrew believes that he can, but not without a little bloodshed. Something like the feral animal Andrew sees in Neil’s face shifts in his own just. If anything understands the need for sacrifice, it does.
Neil wiggles his fingers at Wymack again. This time, Wymack relents, and Neil scribbles down his signature.
“Abram!” calls a voice from far away. Neil whips around, and Andrew remembers Neil Abram Hatford.
A woman stands across the pitch. Besides her height, she bears no resemblance to Neil, hair brown and streaked with silver where his is red, eyes dark where his are disarmingly bright. But Andrew knows she’s his mother just by the way the muscles in his back bunch with tension.
Like he said. Not without a little bloodshed.
Neil turns back around to shove the papers into Wymack’s hands, eyes wild and smile pulled tight.
“You'd better hold that, sometimes wolves can’t keep their hands to themselves.” he babbles. It’s almost nonsense. Andrew wonders if Mary Hatford is a wolf, what does that make Neil? The rabbit?
“We can fly you out early. You can be on campus by August.” Wymack says quickly, before the junkie can rabbit away.
Neil laughs again, a wheezy sound that sounds like it wrecks that redhead’s throat.
“You’re funny.” he snickers. He throws a duffel bag over his shoulder and bounds away, throwing a two-fingered salute back at them before Wymack can comment.
“Jesus Christ.” Wymack says, raking a hand through his hair like he can already feel the gray hairs coming in. Andrew side eyes him for a moment.
“He’s going to be a problem.”
Wymack points a threatening finger at Andrew’s face. “You leave that kid alone, you hear me Minyard? We will not have a repeat of last year.”
Andrew just raises an eyebrow at him, not bothering to lie.
“What does he know about Riko?” Kevin whimpers. Wymack glances at him, and whatever he sees on his face makes him deflate, his lips pursing with concern. He looks back down at Andrew and sighs at what Andrew’s blank expression says to him.
“We’ll talk about this later. Let’s just get back to the car.”
Andrew follows, not bothering to tell Wymack that he has no plans to listen to whatever speech he’s planning. Andrew will do what he has to to keep his promise to Kevin, whether that means simply getting him off the team or breaking him completely.
Neil slides into the passenger seat of his mother’s old van, slamming the rusted door behind him. He busies himself with his buckle, the beginnings of the drugs’ effects making his hands shaky.
“Who was that man?” his mother asks, her knuckles going white around the steering wheel. And oh, her voice is quiet and trembling; this is going to be a disaster. The drugs squeeze out a giggle from his tired lungs and tug his mouth into the gruesome smile his mother hates so much. Too fucking bad that it’s her fault he’s on them.
“Maybe a college scout. Maybe a con artist.” Neil answers. The jury’s out on that one. David Wymack certainly makes big promises that Neil doubts he can keep. Neil wonders how long before he realizes just how much of a problem Neil is going to be. He giggles.
The blow catches him across the jaw, wrenching his face to the side and bringing the taste of blood to his lips.
Mary grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks his head back around, hissing furiously.
“This is not a joke, Abram! Do you know what your father would do if he saw-”
“He’d kill me?” Neil interrupts with a feral snarl. Mary flinches away from his bloody smile, but doesn’t realize his hair.
“Your father-”
“Has never needed an excuse to try to kill me.” Neil coos, reaching a hand up to latch an iron grip around his mother’s wrist. Before the drugs, he never would have touched her like this. Before the drugs, she was the only thing he had, and he would have thrown himself to the wolves before he hurt her. Before the drugs, he thought she would have done the same.
Something like self-hatred twists in his gut at the flinch of pain he sees on her face, but he ignores it.
“I’m going, whether you like it or not.” He smiles his father’s smile, and she finally lets go of him. “They don’t need your signature. And think of it this way, ma, if dad does manage to squirm his way out of this one, he’ll come after the one of us that plastered his own face on the exy world screen.”
They stare each other down, Neil grinning wide and threatening, Mary stone-faced and furious. Finally, she turns away from him and turns on the car, face twisted into something like anguish.
Neil settles back in the passenger seat, propping his feet up on the dashboard in a way he knows she hates. He waits for her to snap at him and is almost disappointed when she only glares at his ratty sneakers.
He looks down at his hands, vision flickering as he sees the red shine of Jackson Plank’s blood on his hands. If he flexes them, he can almost feel the soreness of his knuckles and the sticky warmth that makes his grip slip around his victim’s throat. He closes his eyes and can feel Jackson’s skull crack open beneath his hands.
He opens them again, and the blood is gone. He grins and feels too close to Nathaniel Wesninski for comfort.