Chapter Text
It goes like this:
They lose.
They’re a third of the way into the season, playing against a team that has never made it past the semifinals and they lose.
The Bakersfield Roadrunners are the only Class I team to play without a goalkeeper. Their strikers are sub-par glory hounds and the dealer lacks a specialty. Despite the three solid backliners on guard at any time the Roadrunner’s goal is wide open.
The Palmetto State Foxes are the current Class I champions. Underdogs of the Exy world: fashioned by a cast of rejects and criminals and they, to no one's surprise, lose.
“Your performance was abysmal,” Kevin shouts into the locker room. His helmet mutters back dispassionately from where he throws it down.
“You play like shit and have no concept of cohesion. Are you being deliberately incompetent?” he snarls at them.
The Monsters ignore him. The majority rolling their eyes and heading for the showers. The Upperclassman stay, Allison quickest to answer. “Of fucking course, Kevin, we enjoy your little tantrums immensely.” She turns her faux smile on the first years hovering uncertainly around the room, “And you expected better of him. I want that money tonight.”
The knowledge that they placed a bet on his response burns all the more knowing they were so comfortable losing. “You’re complacent!” he snarls. “May I remind you that our reputation is not a slate wiped clean by last year’s win.”
“You may, Day,” Dan says, her eyes narrowed on him. Her admonishing mockery is so familiar—from one captain to another—that Kevin’s hand begins shaking. Dan doesn’t linger. Her dismissal is quick and brutal and directed at the rest of the team. “That was a hard game and we played to our strengths. It was inevitable that we lost, we’re still figuring out how to play with all our new additions. Our point gap is shrinking with every game and you’re giving every team hell while we do. Let’s get ourselves cleaned up.”
Kevin doesn’t wait around. He pushes through the rookies, their bodies limp with exhaustion and self-condemnation. The shower door slams heavily under his trembling hands. It bothers Kevin that he falls into the same category as the new recruits. The original Foxes have worked the hard yards. They’ve stomached each loss this year with grace. Kevin should be right there with them. They’re a team, they fall together.
And yet after each game this year, Kevin has found himself falling apart alone. Biting shame and swallowing frustration as he tears into each overanalyzed mistake.
He has the shower blasting before his clothes are fully off. His panic attacks are easier to conceal under the scalding spray. The palms of his hands press heavily over his eyes. A momentary relief before the aching call to attention from his left hand unsteadies him.
The season is going to shit and they’re going to fail. Their win last year was a fluke. A gift given to them by virtue of the Trojans. A simple byproduct of the hardiness of Foxes and the instability of Riko’s collapsing domain.
It is with an overwhelming sense of dread that Kevin thinks of his death. With each day the reality of Riko’s loss feels more sure. His revered grave sinking deeper and deeper beneath the sodden earth. Slowly the pit becoming an evermore permanent resting place for his lifeless body.
You will practice until you’re good enough.
Kevin wishes Riko’s ghost had followed. He wishes Riko were still alive. He wishes he were alone, he wishes he weren’t.
He’s not sure how long he stays under the water but his hands are still shaking when Andrew smacks his open palm on the shower door. They keep shaking while he dresses. He knows they’ll keep shaking well into the night.
The Foxes begin peeling off as soon as they exit the bus; their feet barely back on home ground before they scatter across PSU.
Aaron speedwalks ahead of them. By the time they make it to their floor, Aaron is on his way out again. He wears a sleep shirt and loose shorts. Nicky ruffles his hair on the way past and Aaron shoves him off without missing a step. Nicky smiles all the way to their dorm.
Kevin wants the dorm room to be quiet but he does not want it empty. Nicky grants his wish for six minutes. He has Erik on the phone and is breathlessly chatting away. The German is a balm on Kevin's nerves—it's not a language he understands and therefore not one that will be turned on him in demand.
Kevin sits at his desk and lets the noise wash over him. He’s seven articles deep into their National failure when Nicky vanishes into the hallway, the door closing silently behind him. In the quiet, Kevin realises at some point Andrew and Neil finished getting ready for bed and shut themselves away in their room.
The busy dorm is full to bursting. The amount of rooms outnumbered by its occupants. Said occupants irritable and overflowing. Every space is shared and the longer they live together the sloppier they get. But despite the clothes strewn around the living room and the spots of disruption, activities started and abandoned, the room is empty. Kevin is alone.
He empties his sports bag onto the living room floor and rips his headphones free. The tangled cords catch on his water bottle. Kevin wrenches them free and the water bottle goes flying.
His hand shakes as he plugs them into his laptop. He tries not to think. The Beats settle over his ears and the soft foam muffling is a relief. He feels less exposed as the opening notes play.
PSU Foxes foul up win despite aiming for an open goal
Kevin hovers the cursor over the next story. He knows it will say the same as all the rest. He knows the story will open with how they lost the game. How they won last year’s championship will follow. How the new lineup is a self sabotaging play may follow. Or maybe how a band of losers are sure to be one hit wonders. He knows what the story will say.
He knows that his commentary is far more nuanced by virtue of being a Fox. Kevin takes the out and opens the folder he has on the Roadrunners. He gives himself the 26 minutes of Mozart’s Concerto No. 23 to figure out a new strategy.
21 minutes in Kevin gets caught on why only two out of the three backliners consistently use heavy rackets. He has a fist full of hair and the urge to read the public's opinion. There is a wealth of information before him and hundreds of thousands of eyes watching. Each scrutinising: countless witnesses infallible by sheer number alone where Kevin’s eyes are lacking.
He should have noticed this before the game. He should have noticed during the game.
He calls Wymack.
Kevin begins speaking before the line picks up. His phone smacks against the headphone ear and knocks them askew. Kevin jerks them from his head and snaps, “Ruvolo switches between lightweight and heavyweight rackets during play. Why? Backliners use heavies to put more weight behind-”
“I know the science behind Exy rackets,” Dan says mildly.
Her voice pulls him up short. The surprise holts his spiraling train of thought.
“Why do you have—” Kevin chokes. The name Wymack clings to his tongue. Coach sits temptingly at the back of his palette. My Dad, his mind whispers, the words clear and intrusive.
“I’m at his place,” Dan says. She sounds annoyed but she has done so for months.
“Why do you have his phone?” Kevin says, demands of her.
“He’s out.”
A non-answer. It's so much like talking to Neil that Kevin treats her the same.
“Irrelevant. I want to speak with him,” he says.
Dan snorts. “He’s not here,” she says very slowly.
Kevin shoves his desk chair aside. It clatters against the floor, the wheels spinning. Something clenches inside of him, he hadn't meant to move so violently. He paces, racing off his frustration.
“How exactly am I supposed to get in contact with him?” he barks.
“Have a little patience,” Dan says, “Or can your nervous breakdown not wait?”
He hates her. He hates knowing as cruel as that line is, how blasé it's meant to sound, that it's also a test. It is Danielle Wilds, Captain of the Palmetto Foxes, feeling his tantrum out. He is a part of her team after all.
“What,” he snaps, and stops. He deliberates. Her cold tone bothers him. It is too familiar. He eases out a breath and softens his.
“Why would Ruvolo keep switching rackets?” he says.
Andrew pokes his head out of the bedroom. He stares blankly at Kevin, his hair mussed. Kevin stares back. He does not need him.
Dan answers as Andrew retreats. He leaves the door partiality ajar. Kevin feels something in his chest loosen.
“It's a risky move considering their playing style,” she begins.
“If you do not know,” Kevin says hotly, “do not speak.”
Kevin can hear the way Dan draws in a steady breath through gritted teeth. He has seen her do it enough times that he can picture her scowl.
“It's a risky move considering their playing style,” she says again, her words pitched exactly as they were before.
Kevin sucks in a shocked breath,“If you do not know—”
“Shut it,” she growls. “Ruvolo plays various strengths depending on which racket is being used. At the same time, while switching in game, who knows which is going to be the right racket to use in the heat of the moment. Mark that down as one risk. How many risks are you willing to take in a game?”
“Every calculated risk,” Kevin says in annoyance.
“Precisely,” Dan says shortly, “so to have Ruvolo switch between rackets is calculated. It is an advantage.”
“To play with a heavyweight racket is not a disadvantage,” Kevin starts. “At this level backliners should not be using lightweight rackets.”
“It is a disadvantage,” Dan says, “if you’re already taking a major risk.”
Kevin’s mind runs the playthrough. He recalls the pace with which every player he has had switch to a heavier racket. The weight and learning curve they had to adjust to. The time it had taken. Depending on the player and their tutelage the transition could take months. “Like playing without a goalkeeper.”
“I would say,” Dan continues, “that Ruvolo is in the process of switching to a heavyweight racket.”
“I should hope so,” Kevin rants, “if Bakersfield wants to make it to the finals while carrying an open target on their backs they need to utilise every strength they have.”
“Then I would imagine that Ruvolo’s prowess with a heavyweight racket is yet to be a reliable strength,” Dan says.
“They have multiple backliners with heavyweight rackets on their team. Why would they play Ruvolo?” Kevin says. “Risk or no—”
“Having an open goal is too reckless in itself,” Dan argues. “They can't afford to be reckless in any other area of playing style.”
“Then why is Ruvolo first string!” Kevin says. “The Roadrunner’s are—”
“Hey, Coach,” Dan says. Her voice is suddenly upbeat in a way Kevin is unsure he’s ever heard her direct his way. Maybe at the very beginning, but only if she were the one who introduced herself first. He can't recall. He pulls the phone sharply away from his ear. The call time reads 3:25. He hangs up.
His pacing comes to a slow finish; the nervous urge to move drained out of him. His muscles ache in the way they do after a grueling game. After every game. He never gives anything less than his best. Not now. Kevin drops down into the closest beanbag. He misses mostly. His ass is on the edge, his arms and chest sprawled over the inflated bulge of packing beans. His mind is beginning to race again.
He scrolls through the contacts in his phone.
He won’t call any of them. He just wants to know they’re there. And maybe—
His emergency contacts glare out at him. They’re ordered alphabetically but that is not the order with which he’d call.
Andrew—
Neil—
— an open door away.
Abby—
— far more welcoming than Kevin has ever known.
He takes a breath.
Thea—
— his girlfriend .
Wymack—
—his fucking father.
He doesn’t call any of them.
And maybe—he wonders if they’d answer.
Riko was always right there.
On the bunk bed above him when the master first took him in. On the court waiting for Kevin to send him a pass. His grip leash-like around Kevin’s bicep as they spoke to the press.
They were never apart in The Nest. Not once for more than five minutes in all the years upon years they lived there.
They were a two piece set—move one an inch to the left and the other seamlessly falls into place.
Riko was always right there.
Kevin never had to call him.
The closest corner store is a grungy little place on PSU campus. The lone staff member stays locked in a metal cage with a likely empty cash register, shelves of damaged cigarettes, and a wide array of spirits. Kevin tries not to linger.
Despite having a cumulated rap sheet as long as a child’s Christmas list, Andrew’s lot are only here to buy ice cream. His protests went unheard. He doesn’t know why he bothers when he knows the vote for will be unanimous.
That's not true. He does know. He enjoys having the ability to express his opinion. It's a novelty he’s still getting used to.
Kevin hovers by ESPN The Magazine . He buys it occasionally when the Foxes hog the TV with their gaming tournaments that happen to coincide with upcoming exam periods. He can afford the subscription. He’d enjoy the routine of its arrival. Sometimes he reads through the stories on sports besides Exy and tries to see if he can convert plays over. It can be fun.
A cold bath of fear crashes upon him. Guilt chasing the impact down. The magazine mangles in his fist.
Kevin can’t see any of the Foxes. They disappeared into the store moments upon arrival and three out of the four are too short to be seen over the aisles.
He wants to spit his anger at Neil and see him burn back in fury. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to discuss game strategy. They could have done it in the dorm. They didn’t need to come with. None of them need ice cream. They don’t have the time to enjoy themselves.
Kevin hears a whisper of footsteps behind him. Then a giddy voice saying softly, “That’s Kevin Day.”
In the convex mirror above him, Kevin can see two high school girls dallying further down the aisle.
He can tell from the subsequent conversation that they’re new fans. Or at least fans of the game alone because they don’t mention the tattoos or Riko or his hand.
Kevin unfolds the now creased ESPN magazine and forces himself to read an article he was saving. It's a new take on an old discussion. His has his own opinions on it. They’d make good quotes for an interview. Its food for thought.
He jumps in surprise at the sudden clearing of someone’s throat. Kevin flinches into a stalled turn and finds the high school kids hovering—a third friend having appeared.
Kevin briefly and fiercely misses Andrew’s protection. He’s used to the limelight but it's ruined him once before.
He works on his media smile like it's stage makeup. Neil called the smile counterfeit a few weeks back. It rankles Kevin. The smile’s hard worn but Neil’s not wrong.
The fans are respectful and nervous enough to be succinct. They ask for a photo and an autograph.
Kevin’s performance is flawless. It exhausts him.
As the girls leave, the third friend hesitates. “Why are you a striker?” she asks shyly.
The question chills him to the bone. She goes on, “I mean how long have you been one? Why a striker? How old were you when you picked the position?”
Kevin mumbles out a number and it's not the right answer but he’s glad it's not the number two.
The fans wait. Their eyes still on him.
One of the girls reaches back and tugs at her friend's hand. “He’s the best striker in all of Exy history,” she says, her eyes and body turned toward her friend but the words are for him. She blooms under his gaze. He keeps his counterfeit smile as bright as a cut diamond. She’s meeting someone she idolises.
“It's true,” Neil says. He looks innocuous as he can; as innocuous as the apparition of a mobster's son can. The loose collared jumper and the pints of ice cream piled under his arm do nothing to soften his considering gaze and the scars curling beneath his eyes.
His appearance chases them away. All the while, Neil watches Kevin.
The praise is weighty and possibly well earned. On another day it would have Kevin preening. On another day it will. But today he is not feeling well. The season is going to shit and he’s not sure they’ll make the finals this year. He hasn't been putting enough effort into Exy.
Neil raises his eyebrows pointedly. “You wanted to talk strategy?”
Kevin throws the magazine down. It misses the rack.
He’s quiet on the way home.
Kevin has a half hour break between classes when Matt messages the group chat. He sends a dozen heart eye emojis and a link to the Trojan’s twitter account. Kevin is scrolling as soon as the video of Dermott and Alvarez reenacting some WWE fight ends.
There are countless photos of the team. Trojans smiling on the court, on campus, at the beach. He’s not interested. Not today. Kevin finds an action shot 20 minutes into scrolling. It's from their first game of the season. Kevin and Neil watched the game five times. At least one of those times was out of emotional investment in some certain players. In the photo Jeremy stands at the ready, his jaw set and brow furrowed. Jean stands three paces behind. He is almost smiling.
Both men stand comfortably in every photo they appear in. Kevin wants to call Jean and demand how it's possible. What is it that makes him relax? Isn't his mind constantly ticking over and calculating what is possible, what he is capable of? Aren’t the constant mathematics to figure out how much he can deal with that day a feat unto themselves? Don’t his bones ache in exhaustion?
Kevin forces his attention back to the photo. Jean’s wounds have healed. Small scars crisscross his cheeks. Kevin remembers how swollen his face had been when Renee broke him free. The way Jean’s skin had bruised purple and explosive—the tears in his skin ready to burst from the pressure.
California looks good on him. His skin has darkened drastically. Tan lines mark his biceps and thighs. There's colour in his cheeks that Kevin hasn't seen in years.
Kevin pauses on a photo of their weekly team breakfast. Jeremy and Jean sit side by side, their heads together. Jean is gesturing with his knife, Jeremy is gripping the back of Jean’s chair. Their postures are relaxed.
Kevin can't imagine being in the presence of both of them at once. He adores intensity in a person but one person's attention is enough.
He remembers Thea calling him out on his so called heart eyes. How she’d jabbed her elbow into his side and bared her incisors at him. He thinks about the bright light in her eyes as she teased him. How his eyes had turned to her whenever they were in the same space.
He thinks about the brusque way they went about their relationship in The Nest.
He thinks about how he let her go, how he had them practice head on.
Upon his integration into the team he’d faced off against her over and over again. He’d wanted to test his quick shots and deadly instincts against her infallible, unapologetic violence. He thinks about how he’d exhausted himself trying to improve, to fight.
“You have five seconds,” she’d said, nearing the end of practice, nearing the end of her patience. She was always daring him to get past her.
He thinks about the way they argued. Sniping critiques of each other that became increasingly childish until Riko had snapped and said, “Just fuck her and get it over with.”
And in the changing room later, how they’d lingered.
No, how everyone else had vanished.
But never Riko.
They’d scrubbed themselves down, the air tense.
She’d met his eyes head on and said, “Wipe that look off your face or do as you’re told.”
“What look?” he’d said with a wild fire in his blood.
She hadn’t appreciated his delaying tactic. She’d said flatly, “you tell me.”
A pause. His bold persona still developing with age.
“I want to kiss you,” he’d said in a rush, made a statement of his desire.
“You have five seconds,” she had said.
He thinks about how they’d fucked.
Just as Riko had told them to.
How scared he’d been. How unsure.
How angry.
How Riko had been in the room.
And yet, with Thea so close and eager, how thrilled he’d been.
They lose the next game and it goes just the same. They fight, they shout. He has a panic attack in the showers.
After the game Kevin goes to Abby’s.
“Come sit,” she says and pats the seat next to her. The floral couch sags drowsily as he does. The kettle is boiling in the kitchen and the TV has been on low since she let him inside.
Abby doesn’t say anything. He thinks she’s waiting for him to speak first. It's a novel idea; usually there is no wait.
Kevin scratches at the icing-like piping around the edges of the couch arms. The TV is playing a documentary Kevin has seen before. Abby was the one who showed it to him. He’d turned up late one night, early one morning, smashed and having lost Andrew somewhere along the way. Wymack had been too daunting a saviour. He couldn’t have risked spilling all. So he went to Abby. She’d deposited him on the couch and only sighed when he’d said he wouldn’t sleep. The documentary told of the ice age before humans were the top of the food chain. Kevin remembers when Abby had described the documentary as being set in the Pleistocene Epoch, the soft scornful twist of her mouth when she saw his surprise. She hadn’t been lax in her use of technical terms since. Kevin had had to research a couple to understand what she was talking about; they have vastly different areas of interest. She’d grinned triumphantly at him before she rewound the DVD back to the start.
“Got any booze,” he says. There's something about Abby’s unrelenting kindness that makes him want check that it's him she sees.
“Hmm,” she goes, “Is that a joke?”
Kevin shrugs.
Abby pats his knee, smiling sweetly. “Don’t quit your day job.”
Kevin’s lips pulls back, revealing his teeth. Its with confusion he asks: “Is that a joke?”
The kettle clicks. Abby pats her knees once, twice, decisively as she stands. “That’ll be the coffee.”
He thinks she might allow Irish coffee.
Kevin switches the TV off and hurries into the kitchen. “Did you watch the game?”
“Mmhmm,” Abby hums, concentrating on getting the right quantities of milk in her drink.
Kevin feels jittery with pent up energy. She isn't looking at him. “What did you think?”
Abby puts the milk down and looks. Her gaze is measured. “You all played very well.”
Kevin throws his arm out. “We did not. That was not even close to a well played performance.”
Abby lifts a shoulder and collects the mugs of coffee. “Everyone played their best.”
Kevin scoffs but waits until Abby has put the drinks on the coffee table before throwing himself down. “Their best isn’t good enough. And that was nowhere near their best—they won’t work together!”
Abby passes him his mug. Its orange and covered in fox paws. He wants to shake it violently. “They do want to win though. And they want to play.”
“We don’t have time for them to grow up and come around,” Kevin hisses. The coffee slops over the edge in his trembling hands.
Abby smiles. “It might not feel that way, but you do.”
Kevin huffs. He could never shout at Abby but he wants to. “I don’t want platitudes, Abby. This is not a discussion. Talking won’t help. I want a team that will make it to the finals.”
Abby’s brow knits as she thinks. She tucks her feet up onto the couch and rests her coffee on her knees. “Well I can’t do that for you and you can’t have that right now either. I’ve had a long ass day and so have you. What shall we do instead?”
Kevin hangs his head. He is tired. The coffee feels as though it hits his system immediately. He still wishes it were alcohol. He rubs at his eyes and ignores the chaffing need to apologise. “Do you have an documentaries with people in them? History is about human affairs.”
Abby grins at him. “I deal with human affairs all day long. I watch documentaries to unwind.”
Kevin gives a put upon sigh. It's almost exaggerated for comedic effect. Almost.
Abby gives him a soft look. “I’m sure I can dig up something. It might not be your style but I’m still quite the history buff.”
The guilt he feels tastes as bitter as the coffee he swallowed. He’s not sure who he’s doing it for when he waves his hand in dismissal.
Abby waits a moment before turning the TV on and resuming the documentary. A saber tooth tiger abandons a decimated carcass, too big to make only one meal.
They talk intermittently throughout. Mostly, though, they watch.
It helps a little. Kevin’s shoulders gradually loosen and sink into the dumpy couch.
He might keep complaining for better documentaries until it's late enough for him to announce he’s going to crash here. He doesn’t want to go back to the dorms. He needs a break from the team. Abby will understand. She’ll let him stay.
Abby throws a blanket over him long before the first documentary ends.
She’s a temporary comfort.
He wishes he liked the sound of that more but he can’t believe in it.
Kevin remembers his mother.
He remembers them running together. He remembers them sprinting across countless fields. Lush green fields with flowers abound. Dusty, cracked ground that had long since seen any rain. Sweet smelling tarmac in sticky hot summers. He remembers their rackets locked in their fists and locked together in celebration after he’d scored.
He remembers her pulling him close and speaking softly. He remembers there was no time for fun but Exy was exhilarating and there was always time for that. She’d pull up his socks and straightens his clothes with a businesslike fashion.
He’d sit in on meetings at showy metropolitan Universities and fly with her to conferences across the world.
Everyone wanted to hear Kayleigh Day speak.
And speak she did. Kevin remembers her muttering the shopping list under her breath at the supermarket. He remembers her reciting lectures she planned to give as she showered. He remembers her cooking: juggling a hefty rice bag in one hand and a recorder in the other as she made herself memos for her future plans. He remembers the pot boiling over in her distraction. How she’d snorted, a rough sound, and handed him the recipe.
“What’ve I got to do, K?” she’d said.
She’d listened quietly as he spoke.
She’d always listened when he spoke.
“I can see you’ve got something to say, my boy,” she’d said one day after an awful practice.
He’d been seven and distracted and he’d ended up with skinned knees and a strained shoulder when he hadn't been able to pull off a move he wanted. He’d tried so hard .
Kevin had shook his head, his fingers fiddling with his sweater and his eyes avoidant. “It's not important.”
Kayleigh had pulled him close. She brushed her hands over his knees, knocking free the dirt and spoil.
“What you have to say, Kevin,” Kayleigh had said, “it matters.” She’d smiled at him, a barely there quirk of her lips. “Don’t let anyone quiet you. You think long and hard about what you want to say, choose your words carefully, and then you speak them. Don't keep quiet.”
She’d squeezed his shoulders and rubbed up and down his arms. “And don't quiet yourself. You deserve better than that. Now speak up.”
Kevin throws himself into practice. He can't corral the Foxes into performing better but he can lead by example and shout himself raw.
No one listens. Dan and Neil do much the same, though with significantly less shouting. Matt and Renee back them up but no one's doing as they're told. They’re outnumbered by ineptitude and apathy.
Kevin shouts louder. He pushes harder. His checks noticeably increase in power. He thinks Thea would be proud.
She’d be the only one. Everyone else gets steadily more pissed at him. He is surrounded by hostiles and it's exhausting. Exy is the only thing that gets him through.
It gets worse when it becomes familiar. It is like his grief over Riko once more. He is alone in this battle. The Foxes don't understand. They don't care.
They didn’t know Riko well and what they know of him is awful.
A lot of what Kevin knows of him is awful too but they were a team. They worked together.
A rookie slams the ball wildly and his racket flies free. It projectiles right towards Nicky’s face. It misses, but only because Nicky has been running drills with Neil for over a year now and his footwork is faster.
“Wooo!” Nicky shouts, “Now that was a wake up call I didn't need.”
“It is actually,” the rookie snarls, “if you'd been running drills correctly you wouldn't have been standing there.”
He’s right. Nicky should have moved along to the next exercise by now.
Nicky flaps his hands lazily. “Kiddo, kiddo, it's no big. I forgive you.”
“God, fuck off,” the rookie shouts, “If the racket had hit you it would have been your fault.”
Kevin feels his spine stiffen. He hears emphasis where there is none. Sees the cheery smile on Nicky’s face he knows is a shadow of the truth magnified large enough for him to hide behind.
Whose fault was it? One of them is dead and the other is hurting. Why isn't it obvious?
Kevin stomps over. He drops his racket. The rookie startles at Kevin’s presence. Nicky doesn’t, he spirits across the floor to chatter with Aaron and Matt. He is used to being threatened.
“Is that how you see it?” Kevin asks.
The rookie glances around. There are a few people watching. Wymack, Renee, Dan; Andrew and Neil, but when aren’t they.
The steady gaze of his team settles Kevin. “You actions are the responsibility of others,” Kevin says and it is meant to be a clarifying question but sounds like a statement.
The rookie nods rapidly, then shakes his head. “Why is Hemmick first string? Just look at how he fucks around.”
“And how about how you fuck around?” Kevin asks.
The rookie scoffs, “I don’t.”
Before today, Kevin would have agreed.
“What if that racket had hit Nicky and done him some serious injury?” Kevin asks.
The rookie shrugs. “He would have dealt with it.”
Kevin takes a shallow breath. “And you?”
The rookie shrugs again. “Not my problem. It's not on me.”
Kevin’s not sure what happens next. It doesn't really matter. Its nothing worse than anything he’s said to the original Foxes. This would almost be routine except he flushes hot, his skin prickling. Then there are flashes of images and all of a sudden Matt and Neil are shoving him back. Dan stands between Kevin and the rookie. Kevin twitches at her interference. Another of the first years has an arm around the rookie. He’s gasping brokenly, tears running down his blank face. Dan squeezes his shoulder and sends him off to have his panic attack in peace.
Kevin watches him go. Everyone else watches him. No one cares, not really. They are the Foxes and this is how they practice.
Even still Dan turns on him.
“Kevin,” she says tightly, “that doesn’t help us . You want a cohesive team then we have to work with one another. Not be at each other's throats.”
“He’s not ready to play as a team yet,” Kevin says, “His attitude says it all.”
“Be that as it may,” Dan says, “you’re acting much the same.”
She walks such a fine line. Never once has her fury affected the way she treats him on the court. It baffles him how she can separate Exy from everything off the court.
“He cannot treat his teammates like that if he wishes to succeed,” Kevin says.
“You’re right,” Dan says, and for a moment Kevin feels lifted. “But neither can you treat teammates like that.”
Kevin rolls his eyes. “One talking to will not ruin his life.”
“One stray racket to the head would not have ruined Nicky’s life,” Dan says.
Kevin jerks in disagreement, hot anxiety spiking through him. “You can’t know that. You can't speak light of physical injury.”
“And yet you have no issue speaking light of mental injury,” Dan says. She leaves, her spine tight and to attention.
Part of Kevin wants to be derisive, but he’s not sure that that's all him. It's been mentored into him by Riko, the master, his mother. Mental injury can be worked through. The Foxes are prime examples that neurodivergence isn’t a handicap. But then that sentiment works for both arguments—the Foxes are Foxes for a reason: they fit Wymack’s bill. Kevin doesn’t know who he agrees with anymore. Just get up, get over it works for a time but when it stops working there isn’t much left of a person.
Matt claps him on the shoulder as he follows Dan. Allison winks at him. Renee looks on solemnly. Aaron doesn’t thank him but he tilts his chin in acknowledgement. Nicky is beyond it already, squaring up for the next drill and back on task.
Neil and Andrew are watching him as they ready themselves.
They survived. Jean survived. Thea survived. Wymack survived. Kevin survived. They’re all still going on day to day. They fight to survive.
Riko didn’t, or he did but he fought for the wrong side—Evermore should never have been allowed to flourish. Or maybe it was a losing battle—a boy born into his family one son too late.
Every one of the Foxes got away from their nightmares and chains, whether by their choice or not.
Riko stayed. Maybe he didn’t know what he was fighting for.
Kevin goes back to practicing drills. He doesn't know what he’s fighting for.
Kevin jolts awake one night and he cannot find his feet to climb out of bed.
It's so hard standing alone.
He does not know what position he plays.
The master was a horror. Some days he does not know how he and Riko survived. The world seems to know. Easy, simple steps: one two, one two, over and over until they carved the numbers into their skin.
But what position does he play?
His role no longer makes sense. He is a two without a one. There is no three, there never was. Number four is fading, he feels it. See it every time he watches the Trojans.
He has no role among the Foxes. Dan rules, Neil learns. Kevin is no prince; there is no king here. Andrew runs his lot and he’s crowned Neil second. Kevin flinches. Not second: most trusted. Andrew is no longer Kevin’s safety net and Riko is dead.
There were rules to follow, etiquettes to live by.
You lead, I’ll follow. You speak, I’ll answer. You smile, I’ll nod.
They ran circles around one another. They fed off each other's life force—the master taught them how to live. He taught Riko how to rule. One and two: they were chained together, they’d starve without the balance. They fed. Riko feasted, Kevin nibbled. Riko gorged, Kevin sampled.
They survived and they did it together. They did it despite the master.
They’re in the gym training and Kevin is pushing himself.
His hand is sore from night practise but he keeps pushing. He wants a drink but alcohol will only ruin his health. He can see his reflection in one of the gym mirrors and his eyes keep catching on the queen piece.
He tries not to think about Riko.
He fails.
He still hears Riko’s voice insistent in his ear like he never died. Or maybe like his vengeful spirit had found its target: If it is not perfect you will not eat, you will not sleep.
He goes for a drink after his set; just water. His limbs are shaking and his muscles trembling. He spills cold water down his front with his useless hands.
The water is a shock of impact against his overheated body and Kevin recalls Riko waterboarding Jean. He thinks about the ten times he watched Riko waterboard Jean.
The first time: how Jean was calm and young and old hat at torture. Kevin was nervous. He’d seen Riko researching the act and seen the glint in his eyes. The way he’d leant in in interest.
The day was routine, Riko was upset and Jean had mentally prepared himself.
Jean had been calm still when Riko carefully tucked the towel around his head. Kevin is glad he couldn’t see Jean’s face.
At least not the first time, when Jean hadn’t seen it coming.
The nine times after Kevin saw every micro-expression on his terrified face. They blur together in his memories until they all possess Jean’s face at once and Kevin can't bare to remember.
Kevin empties his water bottle. Into his mouth, down his front, onto the floor, it doesn't matter.
He fumbles the bottles with shaky fingers as he puts on the lid.
It slips and hits the ground. The heavy metal thudding dully and falling still.
Kevin recalls finding out Riko was dead.
How the high after their win seemed to halt suddenly. Euphoria and triumph were no longer emotions Kevin could feel.
No, he felt fear. Riko had broken his crown tumbling from his pedestal and Kevin had helped dethrone him.
Numbness had settled into his brittle bones. He recalled the surrounding events dispassionately. The way Neil had been smiling upon his return. How Kevin had figured out Neil had known long before him. How death had watched this second fiddle’s brother die at the true king’s hand.
How Wymack had taken him to the funeral.
How he’d gruffly ordered Kevin around, too numb to think for himself. How he’d almost felt something as Riko was lowered into the ground and Wymack had stepped in tighter so their shoulders pressed firmly.
How Andrew had been waiting at Fox Tower. How for a few days after Andrew’s protection had returned until Kevin threw himself into Exy.
How Neil threw himself into the gauntlet right alongside him with a slightly more inexperienced force but a hell of a starting speed.
Kevin recalls how, at the beginning, the Foxes were sympathetic.
He recalls thinking they cared.
Kevin crouches to pick up the water bottle.
The metal is ice cold in his grip.
White lines scour the back of his shaken hand, the scars stark and demanding.
He doesn’t recall Riko breaking his hand.
He remembers before,
and he remembers after, but he doesn’t remember the moment his life changed.
The master had told them what the ERC was saying. He’d wanted the truth.
He’d taken them to the court and set them head to head. They’d fought until their legs began to crumple beneath them. They’d fought until their gloves soaked through with sweat and their rackets slipped in their grip’s. They’d fought until they breathed shallow gasping breaths indistinguishable from a violent panic attack.
Kevin had pulled one disarming play more than Riko and scored.
The ball had smashed into the goal, shouting like a judge’s gavel. The yell echoed long and loud in their ears: Kevin was better than Riko.
Kevin’s knees almost crumpled then, his racket almost slipped free, but a decision was being made and he couldn’t show weakness. He couldn’t risk knocking himself from this precipice.
He needed to hear it from the master.
Sometimes, late at night and drunk on vodka, Kevin thought that Riko had been last to know.
Kevin can’t imagine how confronting that must have been.
Riko had been first in every way.
Until the master had told him that, in this, he wasn't.
They’d been dismissed. The master turning away as soon as he’d seen their unrestrained performances.
Riko had made it to the locker room before he’d snapped. He’d wrenched his helmet off and swung it at Kevin’s face.
Kevin remembers being beaten down to his hands and knees. The quick slam of his kneecaps and the ache in his skull as he collapsed.
Riko had been silent and unresponsive.
Kevin remembers the murderous look in Riko’s eyes and the sheen of black plastic reflecting his terrified expression.
He knew then; of course Riko would turn on him.
Riko had worn a lie for over a decade and everyone believed in it. He’d had it tattooed on his skin. They believed in Riko.
Riko had believed the lie.
And now he knew: Kevin was first.
Riko couldn’t allow it—that one number was all he had.
Kevin’s mind goes dark after that.