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1. Miscalculation
Neil felt the stare before he saw the guy.
A man in all black, lingering too long by the counter, sneaking glances in his direction.
Years of running teaching him that paranoia isn’t a flaw - it’s survival. His muscles coiled. Exit? Three seconds to the door. Weapons? Blunt cake knife, hot coffee, fists if necessary. Backup?
He had an emergency contact now.
Several, in fact.
His fingers moved on instinct, typing out: Possible threat. Coffee shop. Hoodie. His thumb hovered over Andrew’s call contact.
Then the guy took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and walked straight at him.
Neil braced.
“Hey, um,” the guy stammered. “Sorry, I - this is so weird. But you’re Neil Josten. I just wanted to say I’m a huge fan.”
Neil blinked. His brain stalled, gears grinding, struggling to shift from fight-or-flight to this is a normal human interaction and you are a normal human being.
The guy held up a slightly shaking phone. “Could I - would you mind, um can I get a picture?”
Neil exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus,” he muttered. Then, “Uh, yeah. Sure, I guess.”
The guy beamed.
Neil sent a quick text: False alarm. Thought I was getting assassinated. Just a weird fan.
Andrew’s response was instant:
Disappointing.
2. Main character
“Neilio.”
Neil glanced up to find Matt holding his phone out with an odd expression, fighting a grin. Dan, Allison, and Nicky all barely containing laughter.
“What?” Neil asked, already wary.
Matt turned the screen around. A video was playing. Slow-motion shots of Neil in uniform, drenched in sweat, shoving his helmet back to reveal wild, wet red curls flipping to the top of his head. A transition cut to him stretching, then another to him pushing his sleeves up, jaw clenched in concentration.
Neil frowned. “Why does it look like that?”
“It’s a thirst trap, Neil,” Nicky said gleefully.
Neil blinked at him. “A what?”
“A sexy montage of you,” Dan explained. “Made by a very dedicated fan.”
Neil frowned harder. “Weird.”
“You’re weird,” Allison shot back. “Do you not realize that half the Exy world is obsessed with you?”
Neil made a face. “They should be obsessed with the sport, not me.”
Matt sighed, shaking his head. “Buddy, you are the sport.”
3. Boundaries
Post-game, Neil was still coming down from the adrenaline rush when a girl hesitantly stepped toward him, holding out a Sharpie.
“Can you sign this?” she asked, voice trembling with excitement.
Neil automatically reached for the offered object before his brain caught up. His hand stalling an inch from the fabric.
It was a sports bra.
A bright orange, Foxes-branded one, sure, but still.
Neil blinked. “Uh.”
The girl flushed. “Oh god, sorry! Is that weird? I didn’t have anything else, and I really love you, so I figured, like, it’s Exy-related, no?”
“Neil,” Andrew’s voice came from behind him, flat and unimpressed.
Neil took a slow step back and shoved the Sharpie at Kevin instead. “You do it.”
Kevin scoffed but taking the marker anyway. “You have no appreciation for your fans.”
“I appreciate them from a reasonable distance,” Neil muttered.
4. Larger than life
The first time Neil saw his own face on an airport billboard, he walked right past it.
Andrew was the one who stopped.
Neil followed his gaze and - oh.
It was him. Towering over the terminal, frozen mid-stride with his Exy racket poised like a weapon. The Future of Exy blared in bold beneath his feet. His name - Neil Josten - printed like it meant something. Like he was someone.
“That’s weird.” Neil said after a beat.
Andrew shot him a look, unimpressed. “You’re an idiot.”
Neil shrugged. “I just don’t think of myself as…” He gestured vaguely at his massive, billboard-sized self.
“A public figure? A celebrity?”
“Yes,” Neil admitted. “That.”
Andrew hummed, pulling out his phone. A second later, Neil’s vibrated in his pocket.
You. Are. An. Idiot.
Attached was a photo of the billboard.
Andrew didn’t even wait for a response before continuing toward their gate.
Neil sighed and jogged to catch up.
5. Legacy
Neil was bent legged on his way to sliding into the passenger seat of the Maserati, cool leather greeting him as he reached for the door. But as he turned to pull it shut, it caught his eye. A hoodie. Faded but unmistakable. JOSTEN #10 printed across the back in peeling letters, worn by some random college kid on the side of the road, staring down at his phone as he walked by.
Neil froze for a moment, his gaze lingering on the hoodie.
"Shit" he muttered under his breath. Shaking his head, pushing the uneasy feeling away.
Andrew, already behind the wheel, glanced over. "What?"
"Nothing, just weird" Neil said, quickly closing the door. He tried to shake off the feeling as Andrew started the car and pulled away.
Neil had wiped it from his mind but, around 5 minutes later, as they stopped at the next red light, the kid in the hoodie crossed in front of them. Eyes locking onto the Maserati, widening in recognition.
“Holy shit,” the guy said, jaw dropping. “You’re -?”
Neil met his gaze.
“Dude, you’re Josten, right? Foxes! That’s crazy, man!”
Before Neil could respond, the kid's eyes shifted to the driver.
“Holy!!! You’re Aaron, also, right?” he asked, voice incredulous.
Andrew turned his head slightly, a smirk on his face as he nodded. “Yeah, I’m Aaron.”
+1. Rolling stone
Neil was used to running. Used to slipping through the cracks, avoiding attention, staying one step ahead of the past that wanted to devour him whole. But tonight - tonight was different.
The stadium lights bathed the court in gold, and the crowd was a living, breathing thing, chanting his name. Josten. Josten. Josten. He could feel it vibrating in his ribs, a drumbeat syncing with his pulse.
The game had been brutal, exactly how he liked it. The final goal was his, a flawless shot that cut through old ghosts and cemented their win. The Foxes were champions. Again.
Kevin clapped a hand on his shoulder, eyes alight with something bordering on pride. "You hear that?"
Neil did. He had been hearing it all season. The world knew his name now. Not just as Kevin Day’s wildcard or Andrew Minyard’s problem, but as Neil Josten, the striker who played like he had nothing to lose. The Foxhole Court's Fool’s Mate. The quickest strike(r) on the board.
A camera flashed in his peripheral vision, and for the first time, he didn’t flinch. Instead, he turned his head, smirked just enough for the next shot.
The headlines tomorrow would talk about the win, the game, the legacy. They’d talk about him. And for once, he wasn’t afraid.
For once, it wasn’t weird.