Archive of Our Own

It starts, as all things in Andrew’s life seem to, with Neil running his mouth.

The game hadn’t been particularly interesting. Neil scored a handful of points, instigated a few near-fights even despite Kevin’s best attempts to settle him. Boring, and too clean for Andrew’s liking, but a good game nonetheless. Andrew isn’t watching the postgame interviews for the highlights, and certainly not for Kevin’s media smile. 

Andrew is watching the postgame programming because he hasn’t seen Neil in two months, and despite Neil’s frequent demands that they FaceTime, the striker still can’t be entirely trusted with his phone. Andrew’s glimpses of Neil’s face over the phone are fleeting, blurry things. He watches the postgame press to see Neil in his entirety, his shoulders slumped into his chair, fingers mindlessly fiddling with the microphone wire in front of him as Kevin rambles on and on about their expectations for the season. 

Despite having been on the same team as Kevin for two years, Neil’s media literacy hasn’t much improved. Very few questions are sent his way, and the ones that are asked are easy, lowball questions. And even those questions don’t receive answers the reporters would like. 

“What can we expect from the Broncos' offense going forward this season?” One reporter asks.

Kevin elbows Neil, who sits up a bit straighter in his seat, leans into the mic as he says, “Points.”

“What Neil means,” Kevin laughs good-naturedly, “Is that we are highly confident in the Broncos offense. We’ve got a strong lineup, and I’m certain that we can all expect to see great things from our offense this season.”

Andrew keeps his eyes on Neil, whose smile is infinitesimal, the mere upward curve of his lips. His hair is damp and messed up from his post-game shower, because Neil can never be bothered to execute his three-step curl routine after a match. His hair looks longer than normal, too, dangling enticingly into those ice-blue eyes as Neil leans forward to answer another question.

Neil needs a haircut, and Andrew makes a mental note to tell Allison to schedule a visit to Boise.

“And can we expect a similar campaign from you, Neil?” A reporter asks. Andrew snorts. They’ve been talking about Kevin’s Calvin Klein campaign, which went viral last month, for the past four minutes.

Kevin has been mildly downplaying the success of the ad. Andrew’s Twitter, to his utter horror, had been filled with images of Kevin in his tighty-whiteys, pouting with a racquet slung over his shoulders. One particularly popular photo, this time of Kevin in a sheer white t-shirt, jeans slung low to reveal the branded waistband of his underwear, had garnered over twenty million likes. The brand deal, to put it lightly, had been a major success. 

To the Foxes, it has also become the funniest thing in the world. Allison sends a zoomed in screenshot of Kevin’s pouty face every single time Matt forwards a “You Won’t Believe What Neil Josten Had to Say About ____” article to their groupchat. 

“No,” Neil snorts, amusement pulling at his lips. Andrew sees a glint in his blue eyes, braces himself with a deep inhale for whatever it is that Neil is about to say. “The only way I’ll participate in a campaign like that is if Minyard does it, too.”

There’s a beat of confusion, palpable even through the television.

“Are you referring to the New York Panthers’ goalkeeper, Andrew Minyard?” One reporter asks. 

Neil nods. He brings his mouth closer to the mic, and Andrew turns the volume up. “Yes,” He says simply.

“Hell will freeze over before that happens,” Kevin mumbles, seemingly forgetting that there’s a mic in front of him. There’s a bout of laughter at the comment.

The interview devolves from there, the questions becoming more frantic, voices layered in the small room. Neil doesn’t get another opportunity to speak. His publicist cuts off the questions with a daring smile, ushers Kevin and Neil off the platform without another word.

Andrew’s phone beeps a second later. It’s a notification from Twitter.

@minyardexy03030 has written, okay so we're all in agreement, right? we absolutely have to get andrew minyard to do a CK shoot. @andrewminyard DO IT FOR US

The post, although written just a few minutes ago, has nearly two hundred thousand retweets. Andrew watches the numbers climb in stunned silence. 

It isn’t long before his phone buzzes with another notification. 

This time, it’s a text from Neil.

neil🐇: oops

–

“You can’t be serious,” Kevin says as soon as Andrew answers his phone.

“Hello, Kevin, it’s nice to hear from you, too,” Andrew hums. He’s puttering around his kitchen, laptop open on the counter, screen filled with Neil’s grinning face. He’d called Neil as soon as he got the email.

“They offered you two million dollars and you said no?” Kevin screeches. Andrew pulls the phone away from his ear, shoots a look in Neil’s direction. 

“You already told him?” Andrew mouths. Neil shrugs. 

“They only paid me one million, Andrew,” Kevin continues.

Neil fakes a pout, coos, “Aw, poor Kevin.”

“Do you know how–” Kevin quickly cuts himself off. “Wait. Was that Neil?”

“He’s on my computer,” Andrew confirms, holding Neil’s gaze through the screen. “You interrupted our frantic phone sex.”

“Yeah,” Neil chimes in immediately. He’s smiling brightly, leaning close enough to his own computer that Andrew can see the smattering of rust-colored freckles across his nose. “I was just about to cum, Kev, seriously, I’m so worked up right now–”

“You two are disgusting,” Kevin huffs. “Think about it. Both of you.”

He hangs up without another word.

“Seriously?” Andrew drags the word out. Neil blinks, shrugs.

“He asked me whether or not you’d heard anything.”

Neil’s own offer had been emailed to him a week ago; in exchange for nearly a million dollars, he’d have to stand half-naked in a room for some photos. Maybe even pout a little bit. Neil had declined the offer immediately. When word got out to the public that Neil Josten, starting striker on the Boise Broncos, turned down a half-a-million-dollar campaign with Calvin Klein, the internet blew up once more.

Neil’s singular tweet on the matter has since gained eight million likes.

@neiljosten10

            they knew my demands 

Hence, Andrew’s own offer, the contract currently sitting in his email inbox. Andrew had read it, blinked once at the numbers, then responded with a simple, direct, No. His publicist had quickly written back, spinning some bullshit about privacy and busy schedules. 

“It is a lot of money,” Neil says, his voice taking on that awed tone that only emerges when he remembers this is his life now; contracts and sponsorships and brand deals and more money than either of them knows what to do with.

“I don’t need the money,” Andrew points out. He puts his back to the computer to press on his coffee machine. He’s got practice in two hours, and this conversation is making his head throb. So is picturing Neil in only his Calvin's. 

“They offered you more than twice what they offered me,” Neil says. 

Andrew scoffs. “You don’t need the money, either.”

“Sure,” Neil says, and Andrew can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “But don’t you think that’s a little unfair?”

Andrew whirls around to confirm what he already knew. Neil is smirking, mouth curved with intent. He points sternly at the screen, feeling more than a little like Kevin as he says, “Don’t make this a thing.”

“It’s already a thing!” Neil protests immediately. 

“And whose fault is that?” 

Neil pauses. “Okay. Yes. Mine. But–”

“There is no but,” Andrew interjects. “This whole thing is stupid. We’ve said no. Give it three days, and no one will care anymore.”

“But,” Neil begins. Andrew levels him with a stare, and Neil melts, sinking back into his couch, arms folded across his chest. He’s wearing Andrew’s sweatshirt. 

Andrew wishes he could get his hands on Neil, years to skim his palms over the smooth skin on either side of Neil’s neck. There’s one week and two days standing between Andrew and touching Neil once more. 

“Fine,” Neil sighs. “I guess it was fun while it lasted.”

Andrew rolls his eyes. “You need more hobbies.”

–

Neil’s silence lasts two days. 

He’s hounded by reporters while on his way into the airport, headed for an away game in North Carolina. The minute Andrew sees the video appear in his feed, he knows by the sharp line of Neil’s jaw that he is going to say something he shouldn’t. 

Neil hates being caught off guard. It makes him mouthier than normal. 

Andrew watches in mild horror as Neil shoulders his way through various cameras, pushes away microphones with gentle, scarred hands.  He’s got security on either side of him, but Andrew knows what must have been going through Neil’s head at that moment, remembers the riot and losing Neil in the crowd. Andrew resolves to call Neil as soon as he’s finished watching the video.

“Is there a particular reason you singled out Andrew Minyard?” One journalist asks. Neil pauses just long enough for her to stick her microphone under Neil’s chin. 

As private as they are, it still surprises Andrew that no one has caught on to his and Neil’s relationship. He figures that very few people are observant enough to notice he and Neil’s particular brand of affection.

Neil, perhaps following a similar line of thinking, blinks at the question. One of his team-appointed security guards is at his hip, gestures for Neil to keep walking. He doesn’t. He turns to the reporter, face contorting into genuine confusion as he says, “Haven’t you seen his arms?”

Andrew sighs. He dials Neil’s number.

“So?” Neil answers almost immediately. “How much trouble am I in?”

“None,” Andrew says, still sighing. “This is my own fault. I should’ve known you’d be incapable of keeping your mouth shut.”

“Hey,” Neil’s voice is amused, “I can think of a few ways to keep my mouth closed.”

“Your dirty talk needs work,” Andrew says. He hopes his voice doesn’t betray the truth; that his pants feel a little tighter, his mouth a little drier. There are seven days remaining until their teams play one another. A whole week until Andrew can get Neil beneath him, soft and flexible.

Neil catches it. Of course, Neil catches it. “You like my dirty talk. You like my mouth.”

“Shut up,” Andrew grunts. 

“Nope,” Neil says. There’s a beat of silence before he speaks again. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too,” Andrew confesses. 

Neil’s exhale is a little shaky. His voice loses some of its rough confidence, immediately whisked away by Andrew’s display of vulnerability. “Seven days.”

“One week,” Andrew nods. 

“And then we’ll have forty-eight hours together,” Neil points out. “Plenty of time for me to properly appreciate your arms.”

Andrew scrubs a hand over his face. Some days, Neil is the best thing that has ever happened to him. Other days, Neil is the worst. Most of the time, he’s a confusing mix of both.

Andrew is saved from responding by a timer going off, the beeping loud and horrible even through the phone. “Oh,” Neil says, dismayed. “That’s my reminder. I’ve got a meeting. No. Wait. A dentist appointment. Maybe. Let me go check my calendar–”

“You’ve got a team workout,” Andrew remembers. Neil had sent him a photo of the April page of his calendar weeks ago, when all of his fittings and interviews, and appointments were still being arranged. Neil makes an annoyed little sound at the reminder. “It’s with the girl you like. At the pool.”

“Oh,” Neil perks up. “I do like her. She pretended not to see me splash Kevin.”

“I know, Bunny,” Andrew says, voice too fond for his own liking. “Go. If you’re late, Kevin will lose his mind.”

“Right.” Andrew hears the telltale sign of Neil collecting his things, the jangle of keys and the quiet squeak of him slipping on his sneakers. “I’m leaving now. You’re sure–”

“It doesn’t bother me,” Andrew says, already knowing where Neil had been planning on taking that question. 

Neil’s comment about Andrew’s arms is the most outwardly gay thing he has ever said. The media has been curious about Neil’s sexuality for years, and they’ll certainly latch onto this statement, pick it apart on talk shows and postgame programmes. They’d done that to Andrew, who came out last year with a dry, I’m gay during one of his interviews. Neil’s comment, while little, is certain to bring an influx of hateful attention to both his and Andrew’s pages. Andrew doesn’t care. He’ll either ignore it or give Allison and Nicky free rein in his mentions.

Neil ignores Andrew’s words, begins an apology anyway, “I’m–”

“Don’t,” Andrew cuts in. “No apologies. I said it doesn’t bother me.”

“Truth?” Neil asks, voice quiet.

“Truth,” Andrew nods.

“Alright,” Neil exhales. There’s the sound of a door slamming shut. “Hey, maybe I’ll run into some reporters on the way to the facility and get to make a comment about your thighs.”

“I hate you.”

“Promise?” 

Andrew can hear the smile in Neil’s voice.

–

Andrew is a patient person. This is a fact. His patience is what makes him such an effective goalie, allowing Andrew to wait until the perfect moment to launch into action, to bat away the ball at the last possible second, keeping the strikers on their toes. Andrew’s patience, arguably, is the most concrete thing about him.

This fact only infuriates Andrew, because waiting to see Neil is the hardest thing he has ever done. They’ve been doing long distance for years, ever since Neil was still at Palmetto and Andrew was on his first pro team, the White Ridge Bobcats. Maybe Andrew’s patience is wearing thinner with age, or maybe he’s just tired of being teased by Neil’s mouth, his lips, his throwaway comments. Either way, Andrew’s patience is crumpling. Their game can’t come soon enough.

For the first time in his life, Andrew is wholeheartedly, desperately excited to play a game of exy.

Andrew is thrumming with anticipation by the time he takes to the court. He can’t wait to shut Neil out tonight, can’t wait to see that cold fire burning behind Neil’s eyes as he’s denied shot after shot after shot. Andrew can’t wait to get that fire burning even brighter after the game, pictures Neil hot and desperate and frustrated beneath him. It’s an image so mouthwatering that Andrew forces his attention to plaster itself elsewhere, eventually settling on the nearby family seats, one particular box crowded with familiar faces.

All of the Foxes have come into New York for the match. Allison and Renee have a penthouse in the Upper East Side, and Andrew sees them frequently enough to barely pay mind to their presence in the family box. Matt and Dan stand strong in the back corner, a bundle of Bronco blue wrapped against Matt’s chest. Katelyn is standing next to them, undoubtedly cooing at the baby, and Aaron is at her side, arms folded across his chest as he nods at whatever medical baby-related questions Matt is probably spewing. Aaron is wearing Andrew’s jersey, as is Nicky, and everyone is smiling, safe, supportive even from afar. Aaron must feel Andrew’s eyes on him because he spins to face the court, offers a hesitant wave.

Andrew doesn’t get the chance to return the gesture. The court lights dim dramatically, flashing with the deep purple of the New York Panthers as each member of Andrew’s team is introduced. The fans get louder and louder with every name called, but on Andrew’s turn, he’s pretty sure he hears Allison screaming let’s fucking go, and Nicky’s jubilant, that’s my cousin!

Neil’s team takes to the court as soon as the Panthers have finished being introduced. Being the visiting team, the Broncos' roll call is a less enthusiastic affair, although Neil offers an energetic wave of his hand in the air when his name is called. He’s far enough away that Andrew can’t see anything more than the blue of his jersey, the cage of his helmet obscuring Neil’s face.

Warmups begin, and like magnets, Andrew and Neil find their way to each other, disregarding the quiet protests of their captains. They pause at the center of the court. Having Neil close enough to touch does something near-religious to Andrew, settles his rapid heartbeat like nothing else.

 “Don’t take it easy on me,” Neil says, grinning. Andrew hears the subtle lilt in his voice.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Andrew answers. He hopes Neil catches on to the intent in his words. 

Neil’s smile expands, becoming crooked, more genuine. “Whoever loses has to agree to the Line campaign,” Neil suggests.

Andrew sighs. “It’s Klein,” He corrects. “And, no.”

“Fine,” Neil sighs. He steps closer into Andrew’s space, their helmets bumping gently into one another as he quietly says, “Whoever loses has to give the other a massage.”

Having Neil’s skin hot and exposed beneath his palms doesn’t sound like a punishment to Andrew. It sounds like the opposite. 

For a second, Andrew considers throwing his half of the game. 

Instead, he pushes Neil away, allowing his palm to linger on the flat expanse of Neil’s stomach, one of the only places on his body not currently trapped under padding.

“I have been a little stiff lately,” Andrew says. Neil’s eyes glint, ready for a challenge. “Hope you’re ready to lose.”

“I’m not really losing,” Neil says, switching into Russian as he slowly steps backward. “Either I win the game, or I get you under me, naked and all oiled up. Either way, I win.”

Andrew hates that Neil voiced the same thought he’d had. Neil must see this annoyance in his expression. He winks, bounces on his heels as he prepares to return to his teammates.

“Do your worst, Josten,” Andrew calls across the court. 

“I plan on it,” Neil yells back.

As he strides back to his goal, Andrew pushes his fist into the tense netting of his racquet, attempting to distract himself from the hot feeling curling through his gut.

“You good?” His captain asks, stepping into his path. She’s frowning down at Andrew, eyes curious. “You seem tense.”

“I fucking hate Neil Josten,” Andrew says in answer.

–

Predictably, Andrew and Neil both end up on the court for the second half of the game. Kevin, too. It’s a good strategy for the Broncos to employ; out of all the players in the league, Neil and Kevin have the most experience taking shots against Andrew.

But things have changed since they were at Palmetto. For one thing, Andrew is now contractually obliged to put effort into blocking goals. He also likes to think he’s become stronger, faster, a more well-rounded and capable player. 

Nonetheless, Kevin and Neil are a force to be reckoned with. They move in near-perfect harmony, their actions almost synchronized. Neil moves to catch passes Kevin hasn’t even thrown yet. In turn, Kevin lines up his shots milliseconds before he even receives the ball. Andrew takes great pride in squashing their efforts. 

By the time the game is almost over, only three minutes remaining, and the scoreboard standing stubbornly at thirteen to eleven in the Panthers' favor, Neil’s eyes have turned menacing. The same way they always do when he’s planning on running himself into the ground. 

Neil’s intention to die while playing exy becomes particularly evident a moment later, as he throws himself deliberately into the wall in order to shoot a pass over to Kevin. Andrew bats Kevin’s shot away with barely a blink. Neil is still crumpled on the ground, right hand held around his gut as he visibly attempts to catch his breath. At the other end of the court, one of Andrew’s teammates takes a shot, misses. The ball is due back down at Andrew’s goal any second now. 

“This isn’t worth killing yourself over,” Andrew barks in Russian. “If you need to sub out, sub out.”

Neil only manages a weak wave of his hand in recognition. He gets up a moment later, steps sluggish for all of two seconds before Neil rapidly rights himself. Neil returns to his frantic pace, and Andrew refocuses his attention on the game. 

Andrew’s so focused on the game, highly intent on shutting Kevin out of every single one of his shots tonight, that he almost misses Neil’s injury. 

His brain processes it in snapshots; first the careful, arched swing of the backliners racquet, then the graceful lunge of Neil’s muscled calves as he turns for the ball, entire body outstretched as he reaches, reaches–

The backliner, a six-foot-two giant of a man named Edward Martina, slams into Neil with enough force to send them both to the ground. No one misses the way Martina’s racquet had been angled into Neil’s gut, least of all Andrew. Neil’s gasp, the sudden, horrible sound of his breath leaving his lungs, is panicked enough to drive Andrew into motion.

“Neil,” Andrew says. He falls harshly to his knees beside Neil, who has curled into a tight ball, both arms wrapped around his midsection. Martina is at Neil’s back, already on his feet, face ashen as he apologizes. Andrew snaps at him without looking up from Neil’s pained form. “Shut up.”

Martina doesn’t listen to Andrew’s demand, but around them, the stadium hushes. The world falls deathly silent. It’s too quiet.

Later, Andrew will learn that the fans were being shown a replay, this angle low enough to showcase the way Martina’s racquet drove into, then upwards, on Neil’s exposed gut. For now, all Andrew knows is that the silence is deafening, confusing. Like the fans know something he doesn’t.

“Neil,” Andrew repeats, allowing some desperation to leak into his tone. 

Neil makes a sound, maybe the first syllable of Andrew’s name, before violently vomiting. He’s still on his side, throwing up through the metal grates in his blue helmet, hands pressed into his stomach as he wheezes. He can’t catch his breath, Andrew realizes. Neil is choking on his own vomit.

“Breathe, Bunny,” Andrew says as he unclips the thick plastic of Neil’s neck guard. It seems to help. He’s beginning to undo the clips of Neil’s helmet when suddenly, the court doors open. Referees, coaches, and medics spill onto the court, a stretcher wheeling among them, and Andrew realizes with alarming clarity that, for the second time in his life, he is witnessing what could be the end of Neil’s life. On a fucking exy court.

“Step back,” A medic says to Andrew, dropping to her knees. She presses two fingers into the juncture of Neil’s jaw. “Pulse is rapid. Neil, can you hear me?” 

Noticing that he hasn’t moved, another medic tries to get Andrew’s attention. “Sir, we need access to–”

A hand wraps around his bicep, attempting to draw Andrew none-too-gently to his feet. Andrew can’t feel much of the unwelcome touch through his padding, but the instinct remains. He swings without thinking. The punch lands nicely, cracking against a strong, familiar jaw.

“Jesus, Andrew, it’s me,” Kevin says, eyes wide. His helmet is off. There’s blood in his mouth. 

Behind Kevin, the medics are hurriedly rearranging Neil onto a stretcher. They’re a flurry of movement, Neil little more than a flash of auburn hair and blue uniform between their bodies. 

“Stop,” Neil says, the word gargled and thick. Andrew thinks he says, “It hurts.”

“What are you doing to him?” Andrew demands, shoving his way back into the fray, until he’s staring down at Neil’s limp form. Kevin, who maintains his hold on the back of Andrew’s jersey, is forced along with him. He inhales sharply at the sight. “Neil.”

Neil’s eyes dart around. They take a second too long to find Andrew. He opens his mouth to speak, but his words are incoherent, slurred. 

“Someone tell me what the fuck is going on,” Andrew barks. 

“He needs to be brought to the hospital,” A medic answers. “Immediately.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Neil shoots up from the stretcher at the word, his entire face contorting in pain and panic. Neil’s belining for Andrew, who’s already shoving past another medic when Neil vomits again. This time, the puke is tinged red with blood. Neil stares down at it, confused and scared, before collapsing against Andrew. 

Neil’s deadweight in Andrew’s hands is terrifying. The slow drip of blood out of the corner of Neil’s mouth is much, much worse. 

People are surrounding Andrew, and there are strange hands fluttering over Neil, unfamiliar voices saying something about shallow breathing, lack of consciousness. Andrew crowds closer to Neil. At some point, Andrew starts hearing static. His ears are ringing, and Neil is twitching in his hands. Here, but not. 

Neil’s mouth is slightly open, still drooling blood and spit. There’s vomit under his chin. Andrew brings a hand up to Neil’s face, ready to wipe it away, when suddenly there’s a sharp slice of pain across Andrew’s cheekbone. Kevin grabs Andrew’s chin in one hand, forcibly turning Andrew’s eyes away from Neil and onto his own face. If Andrew was willing to release his grip on Neil, he’d punch Kevin again. 

“You have to let him go,” Kevin demands, voice stern. “Neil needs to go to the hospital.”

“I have to go with him,” Andrew says immediately. “He can’t be there alone. He can’t wake up alone.” 

“Maybe,” Kevin admits. “But Neil needs to go right now, Andrew. You don’t have time to fight this battle.”

“In all likelihood,” A medic cuts in, “He’s ruptured his spleen. If we don’t get Neil to the hospital in the next–”

Andrew lets Neil go. He knows what a ruptured spleen entails. None of it is pretty.

“Come on,” Kevin says. He stands tall and strong at Andrew’s side, holds his jersey a little tighter as Neil’s stretcher disappears into the dark hallway leading out of the Panthers’ stadium. “Let's go get the Foxes.”

–

Andrew doesn’t bother changing out of his uniform before leaving the stadium. He only tosses his keys in Aaron’s direction and takes off for the garage. Kevin is still showering, and the other Foxes are formulating a plan of action; Dan is on the phone with Wymack, and Renee is on with Abby. Aaron knows better than to try to reroute Andrew in moments like these.

He wordlessly kisses Katleyn on the temple, says nothing as he slides into the driver's seat of Andrew’s car. Aaron doesn’t speak until he has pulled the car up in front of the hospital. Andrew is already halfway out of the vehicle, and there is a line of New York City traffic being held up behind the Mas, but he pauses to listen to his brother nonetheless.

“He’s going to need surgery,” Aaron says. “I’m going to make a few calls. I’ll–”

“Thank you,” Andrew interrupts. Aaron pauses, mouth open, before dipping his chin in a nod.

“We’ll all be there soon,” Aaron promises.

Andrew slams the Mas’s door shut and jogs into the hospital. 

–

Neil wakes up six hours later, groggy and spleenless. Andrew isn’t sure how the Foxes managed to get him permission to stay in Neil’s room so long after visiting hours had ended, but if he had to guess, it took some combination of Dan’s people skills, Renee’s kindness, Kevin’s fame, and Allison’s money. Andrew wouldn’t care if the Foxes murdered someone to make this possible. 

He only cares about being here, by Neil’s side, as he slowly comes awake. 

“Neil,” Andrew says quietly, squeezing Neil’s palm in his own. Neil had been somewhat coherent an hour before, grumpy and confused as the anesthesia wore off. Now, Neil will be alert, curious. Andrew will have to give him the truth. “Abram.”

“What happened?” Neil asks, his eyes squeezed shut. 

Andrew knows what Neil wants: the cold, hard facts. He lists them without pause. “You took a hard hit. You ruptured your spleen. You were taken in for imaging and tests, then rushed into emergency surgery. They removed your spleen. There were no complications.”

“What’s my recovery time?” Neil asks. Andrew winces. He’s glad Neil’s eyes are still shut. “Andrew?”

“At least six weeks,” Andrew says.

Neil’s eyes shoot open. Andrew finds relief in their startling blue. “Six weeks?” Neil echoes. “The playoffs start in two.” Andrew nods slowly. “So, I’m out for the season.”

Andrew stays silent. He’s never been a compassionate, soft person. Comfort is not his strong suit. For what he’s about to learn, Neil will need comfort. Andrew hopes he can give it to him.

“I’m out for the season, right?” Neil repeats. This time, Andrew is the one squeezing his eyes shut. “Right, Andrew?”

Andrew inhales slowly. “Neil,” He begins, opening his eyes. Neil flinches at his tone, throws his head back against the thin hospital pillow. “The doctors said that since–”

“No,” Neil says. He shakes his head, pulls his hand out of Andrew’s.

“Exy is a contact sport,” Andrew barrels on. “Playing could further damage your abdominal region and could harm your organs. There’d be increased stress on your liver–”

“Stop talking,” Neil demands.

“Playing could kill you, Neil,” Andrew finishes. “No doctor would sign off on–”

“I said stop talking,” Neil snaps, tone vicious. He hides his face in both of his hands and inhales shakily. Andrew waits, and waits, and waits for Neil to speak again, but at some point, he starts to hope that Neil has simply fallen asleep instead. The tense set of Neil’s shoulders says otherwise. “I’ll never play again.”

Neil’s voice breaks on the statement. Andrew considers correcting him, saying you could, or even yes, but should you? Instead, Andrew scooches his chair closer to the side of Neil’s bed. He curls one hand around the back of Neil’s neck, finds Neil’s upturned palm with his other. Neil whimpers, the sound pained and full of grief. Andrew presses a chaste kiss to the back of Neil’s hand, holds him together until his quiet sobs cut off with sleep.

–

Neil comes home after exactly one week in the hospital. He’s been a nightmare of a patient, constantly asking questions about the who, what, when, where, and why of his treatment. Further, Neil refuses pain medication of any kind, consistently demands that each medical decision his doctors make be run by his primary care physician, Aaron Minyard. Who, to their utter surprise, isn’t even a practicing doctor, but instead, a recent medical school graduate.

“I want another opinion,” quickly becomes Neil’s favorite phrase, alongside “Does Dr. Minyard agree with this course of action?”

None of this is made any better by Neil’s foul attitude. He’s rude on a good day, downright horrible on a bad day. The Foxes try their best to raise Neil’s spirits, but they all know he’s not only mourning the loss of his record season, but likely his entire career, too. 

By the time Neil is wheeled out of the hospital, exactly one week after his surgery, the nurses seem more than a little relieved. 

Andrew lifts Neil out of the wheelchair, places him into the passenger seat with enough delicacy to drive Neil to anger. “I’m not made of fucking glass,” Neil snaps. Andrew withdraws his hands, exhales slowly as he rounds the hood of his car.

They drive in tense silence to Andrew’s apartment, and Neil shoots Andrew a withering look when he goes to assist him out of the Mas. Neil is convinced that an exit from the hospital is a go-ahead for anything. Andrew knows better. Neil still has weeks of recovery in front of him, including a recommended three days of bed rest. 

“You can keep this up all you want,” Andrew says, reaching to help Neil out of the car, “You’re not going to make me stop.”

“I am fine,” Neil says immediately. 

“You had a major surgery.” Neil sways a little on his feet, and Andrew carefully scoops him into his arms. Neil feels significantly lighter, enough so to make Andrew grit his teeth. Neil’s breath is hot and steady against Andrew’s neck, grounding him as he strides for the elevator. “You are not fine.”

“They removed the thing that would’ve made me get worse,” Neil mumbles. 

“Yes,” Andrew nods. “You still could get an infection. You could pull your stitches. You could do all sorts of things and gift yourself another two weeks of me playing nurse.”

Neil tenses. He turns his face upward to look at Andrew, frowning. “What?”

“You heard me,” Andrew huffs. He slowly lowers Neil to the ground, retracts his arms only when the redhead is leaning weakly against the wall. Andrew digs his keys out of his pockets, unlocks the door before reaching for Neil again.

“I can walk,” Neil snaps. He slowly hobbles into the apartment to prove this fact. Andrew keeps his hands out of his pockets, elbows bent slightly at his side. Just in case. 

Neil makes it to the couch without problem, and his hands are already clutching the remote by the time Andrew thinks through the idea, decides that it’s probably not best for Neil to watch exy, nor any exy-related media, right now.

Neil has already clicked on the television, nimbly finds his way to a Trojans game. 

“Neil,” Andrew says slowly. 

“This is what I want to watch,” Neil says. He keeps his eyes trained stubbornly on Andrew’s screen. “Will you sit with me?”

Andrew is powerless to say no. He seats himself a safe distance away from Neil, who sighs pointedly until Andrew moves closer. Neil lowers his head to Andrew’s shoulder, holds Andrew’s left hand in both of his own. 

“What did you mean when you said another two weeks of you playing nurse?” Neil asks after a moment. 

“Exactly what it sounds like,” Andrew answers. 

“No,” Neil says. He raises his head off of Andrew’s shoulder, shakes it vigorously. “You can’t.”

“Would you prefer I hand the role off to Kevin?” Andrew asks dryly.

Neil’s eyes widen. He opens his mouth, closes it, then reopens it to say, “Honestly, yes. Our season is over. Yours isn’t. You made the playoffs.”

“I don’t care,” Andrew says. He’s being honest. Making the playoffs is an accomplishment, sure, but even if Andrew wanted to play exy right now, he’s not entirely sure he could step foot on a court without picturing Neil’s crumpled face, his body curled tightly into itself, surrounded by blood and vomit. 

“No,” Neil says, shaking his head. He pulls his hands out of Andrew’s grip, slides them desperately up Andrew’s chest, only pausing with both his palms pressed into Andrew’s face. “You can't give this up. Not right now, and definitely not for me.”

“I’m not running off to play exy while you heal from a major surgery,” Andrew says. “I already told Coach Clark that I won’t be finishing the season.”

“What?” Neil asks, voice high. “No. No. You’re not doing this, Andrew.”

“Yes, Neil. I am.” Andrew tucks a piece of Neil’s hair, still too long, still faintly smelling of hospital shampoo, behind the curve of his ear. “I am not playing exy–”

“I’m asking you to,” Neil interrupts, voice threatening to break.

The four words stun Andrew into silence. 

In the many years they’ve been together, the phrase has become somewhat of a bargaining chip, a plea made only in moments of desperation. The last time Neil had used it was almost two years ago, when Andrew had stubbornly been refusing to attend Aaron’s wedding, a wedding in which he was intent on paying for, because they were fighting over something as simple as money.

“Unless Aaron decides to shut the fuck up and accept the donation,” Andrew had grumbled, “I’m not going to the wedding.”

Neil had hidden his smile in the skin of Andrew’s neck. “I’m asking you to.”

As if remembering the moment, Neil leans forward, presses his nose into the side of Andrew’s throat.

“Who will stay here with you?” Andrew asks, the words like gravel. “You can’t fly back to Boise for another few weeks, minimum, and–”

“I’m not going back to Boise,” Neil says. “Everyone I need is in New York. Renee and Allison are only a few blocks away, right? They can babysit me while you have practice.”

“And my games?” Andrew presses. “The team is flying to San Francisco first. That’s a seven-hour flight. I’d be gone for at least one night.”

“They can spend the night in the guest room, then.” Neil kisses Andrew’s neck, makes a pleased hum at the shiver that rolls through Andrew’s body. “Katelyn and Aaron already offered to take the train down a few nights a week, too.”

Andrew feels a hot flash of annoyance at the realization that Neil and Aaron have already spoken about this. “Aaron is completing his residency,” Andrew says. “He doesn’t have the time to come take care of you.”

Neil ignores this point. “And, Abby and Wymack offered to fly in on Saturday,” he finishes. “I’ll have plenty of babysitters to choose from.”

“This isn’t just about someone babysitting you,” Andrew says sharply. Neil tenses. “And you know it.” 

Neil pulls back from his hiding spot in Andrew’s neck, head cocked to the side in a wordless question.

 “Tell me to stop playing,” Andrew says quietly. “Tell me to quit, and I’m done tomorrow, Neil. I swear to God.”

“Andrew,” Neil’s smile is a little too watery to be genuine. “Just because I might be done,” Andrew ignores his emphasis on the word might, “Doesn’t mean I want you to be. You’ve got plenty of things ahead of you. A championship, Olympic medals.”

Andrew scans Neil’s face. Losing exy will be harder on Neil than anything. He can’t imagine a world in which Neil is okay with watching, supporting Andrew through his career when his own has come to such a screeching, violent halt. Only, Andrew can’t find a trace of discomfort in Neil’s expression. He looks tired, small, and drained from all that he has gone through in the past week. 

Andrew will bring up the conversation another time.

“Alright,” Andrew nods. He leans into Neil’s hand, the one still cupping his face, and presses kisses down Neil’s wrist until he laughs. 

–

Andrew pays seven dollars for WiFi access on the plane to San Francisco. His goodbye to Neil had been unsatisfactory, filled with tension, and Andrew figures that seven hours stuck in the sky will garner him enough time to formulate a proper apology. 

The fight had been Andrew’s fault, anyway. He’d let Neil take his laptop, because Neil wanted to research athletes who’d returned to their sport after splenectomies, and Andrew was too tired of the conversation to refuse him. 

At some point, Neil’s quiet hope had become infuriating.

“See?” Neil had said, pointing to an image of some football player. “Ross returned to the field after his 2017 splenectomy. The offensive lineman's return to the Patriots was–”

“I know what the article says,” Andrew shoved the computer away from him. “I still think you should consider other options. You could coach.”

Neil had rolled his eyes. “I am not coaching.”

“Then think of something else,” Andrew snapped. “You need options. Exy can’t be your only–”

“So, what?” Neil retorted, his tone just as frustrated. “You want me to sit around here, be a housewife?”

“If that’s what you want,” Andrew had said, suddenly calm. The idea of Neil, stationary and content, has always been one he’s enjoyed. “I make enough money.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Neil hissed. He’d risen from the couch as fast as he could, chucking a throw pillow in Andrew’s direction as he padded to the bedroom. Andrew had caught it easily. He hadn’t seen Neil again until hours later, when he’d had to enter the bedroom to pack.

Andrew still doesn't know if Neil had been sleeping or simply ignoring him, but the redhead hadn’t said anything when Andrew ghosted a kiss over his temple, said, “I’ll be back on Monday.”

Now, with his WiFi secured and anxiety churning in his gut (he shouldn’t have left Neil like that, he should've said more), Andrew isn’t sure what to say. He’s typing up a pathetic I’m sorry, I’ll support you through anything, when his phone begins buzzing with an influx of messages. They’re all from Neil, sent sometime after takeoff but before Andrew had caved and purchased the WiFi.

neil🐇: Have a safe flight

neil🐇: I know im being a nightmare Allison told me so

neil🐇: I’m not trying to be

neil🐇: I’m scared, okay?

neil🐇: But im going to look into coaching 

neil🐇: And renee said I’m always welcome at the animal shelter

neil🐇: But 

neil🐇: For what its worth, i would be a hot housewife 

Andrew scrubs an amused hand over his face. Neil, when he actually decides to use his phone, is an entertaining texter. He texts like he speaks; frantically, and often without thought.

andrew: hi bunny

neil🐇: Hey

neil🐇: How is the flight going?

andrew: there is a screaming baby to my right. the rest of the passengers are idiots

neil🐇: Lol

neil🐇: You’re on the team jet 

neil🐇: A private plane

andrew: exactly

andrew: look i shouldnt have left like that. im sorry

neil🐇: It’s okay

neil🐇: I shouldn’t have ignored you

Well. That settles Andrew’s internal argument. In the years Andrew has known Neil, he doesn’t think he’s ever been purposefully ignored by him. It sings.

neil🐇: I’m sorry too

neil🐇: I know this has been really tough on the both of us

neil🐇: Maybe you can finally relax a little 

andrew: stop it

andrew: you know i’d still be there if i could

andrew: id fly back in a heartbeat 

neil🐇: ♥️

neil🐇: That reminds me

neil🐇: If you throw the game, ill kill you

Andrew hides a smile, quickly brushes it away with his hand. The idea had certainly crossed his mind. If the Panthers don't win this game, they don’t advance to the next round of the playoffs. A loss would mean more time spent with Neil, who, despite being a horrible, grouchy patient, is still the love of Andrew’s life. He’d do anything to stay by his side. Including throwing the game.

andrew: give me one good reason not to

neil🐇: I can give you plenty of good reasons ;)

Andrew spends the rest of the flight sending texts to Neil, whose responses start to come slower and slower. The last few texts Andrew receives before landing are sweet, soft. Picturing Neil typing them out makes Andrew’s chest ache.

neil🐇: I’m going to take a nap 

neil🐇: I love your bed

neil🐇: Or is it our bed now hahah

neil🐇: I’ll be up to watch the game later

neil🐇: Do not throw it!!! 

neil🐇: For every goal you let in, I’m going to hide a picture of Kevin in your bedroom

neil🐇: Our bedroom? 

neil🐇: I love you

The pilot comes over the intercom, says something about touching down in just ten minutes. Landing is Andrew’s least favorite part of flying. He rereads Neil’s texts to distract himself, sends his response just seconds before the plane rattles down onto the runway.

andrew: yes idiot 

andrew: our

–

The Panthers win. Andrew has arranged a flight home first thing tomorrow morning, because his next game is in just four days, this time in Boston, and he wants to get back to Neil as soon as possible. 

Jean finds Andrew after the game. He’s been playing for the San Francisco Goldminers ever since he graduated from USC. They’re a strong team overall, but no one can deny that the majority of their strength comes from Moreau and Knox. 

“How is he?” Jean says as soon as Andrew steps out of the visitors' locker room. His hair is still damp, his t-shirt clinging to his chest because he hadn’t had quite enough time to towel himself off. Andrew’s phone had started ringing as soon as he’d stepped out of the shower. 

“Ask him yourself,” Andrew says. He presses Neil’s number, follows Jean blindly through the back halls of the stadium. They end up in the player's garage, and Jean watches with narrowed eyes as Andrew pulls a pack of nicotine gum out of his pockets. “Relax, Valjean. I haven’t forgotten.”

Next time someone takes a swing at him, you and your brisket lungs will have to watch him die.

Jean exhales, satisfied, and Neil accepts the call. “Drew,” he says, voice tinny. “That was a good game. I can’t believe you blocked that shot Jere took–”

“You’ve got company, Bunny,” Andrew says. Jean sneers at the nickname. Andrew ignores him. Jeremy calls Jean ‘baby’ and ‘love bug’ during every interview they do together. “Valjean is here.”

“Neil,” Jean says. “How are you?”

“Miserable,” Neil answers immediately. “I haven’t run in two weeks.”

Jean considers this. “You probably could, by now–”

“Thank you!” Neil cuts in. “No one else agrees–”

“Until one of you decides to attend medical school,” Andrew interrupts, “No one is going to listen to your medical opinions.”

“Whatever,” Neil huffs. “Sorry about the loss, Jeanie.”

“I’m not,” Jean shrugs. He glances over Andrew’s shoulder, where Jeremy is approaching, smiling. “Jeremy and I are going to Italy before summer training begins.”

“Nice,” Neil says. “Hey, maybe Andrew and I should do that, too.”

Andrew pictures Neil on the Italian coast, or maybe even on the French Riviera, sprawled out on the beach in his tiny yellow bathing suit, skin wet with saltwater, lips curled around the straw of a spritz. The image is worth its weight in gold. Worth suffering through a twelve-hour flight, too. 

“Hey, man,” Jeremy says, sidling up to Jean’s side. “Hell of a game.”

“I know, right?” Neil immediately agrees. “He wanted to throw it, too. He wasn’t even trying.”

“Well,” Jeremy laughs. “Isn’t that just great for my ego? How are you holding up, Josten?”

“I’m fine,” Neil says. “Bored, more than anything.”

“I feel you,” Jeremy nods. “When I tore my ACL, I was bored out of my mind. I watched Game of Thrones in its entirety twice. Do you know how long that takes?”

“No,” Neil hums. “Should I watch it?”

“No,” Andrew cuts in. “You don’t have the patience.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Well,” Jeremy shrugs. “At least you’ll be back on the court soon. Maybe by the end of summer training, right?”

There is an awful stretch of silence. Jean raises his eyebrows in Andrew’s direction. Andrew gives an imperceptible shake of his head.

“Yeah,” Neil says eventually, voice strained. “Hey, I’ve got to go. It’s late here. Take care of Andrew for me.”

“Funny,” Jean extends his arm toward Andrew, who takes the phone, steps a few feet away to speak quietly to Neil. “You okay?”

“Tired. Call me tomorrow? Before the flight?”

“Yeah,” Andrew agrees. “Goodnight.”

Neil ends the call with a quiet, “Night, Drew.” Andrew turns around to see both Jeremy and Jean looking at him, their faces wearing matching expressions of confusion.

“Exy is a contact-heavy sport,” Andrew begins immediately. “Without his spleen, he’s at a higher risk for traumatic injuries caused by blunt force. He’s got a higher risk of injection, too. Overwhelming post-splenectomy infection. OPSI.”

Jeremy blinks rapidly. Jean’s face contorts on itself, devastated.

“He could play again,” Andrew finishes, “He could. But, he’d be putting his entire life on the line.”

“Wow,” Jeremy exhales. “Dude.”

Jean shakes his head. “But…” He trails off. “The Moriyamas. The money.”

“I make enough,” Andrew shrugs. He’s had this conversation with Kevin, with Allison, and even with his financial advisor. He can comfortably give away half of his salary to the Moriyamas, thus covering whatever Neil would have contributed.

“We can help out,” Jeremy says immediately. “Between the two of us, we make more than we need.”

“So do I,” Andrew fishes out another piece of gum. “So does Kevin. We’ll be fine.”

“Neil can still coach,” Jean adds. “Or do commentary. He might be good at that.” Andrew snorts. 

“Yeah,” Jeremy nods. “Worst comes to worst, he can always accept that Calvin Klein offer. You, too.”

Andrew rolls his eyes. 

That offer is going to follow him to the grave.

–

Andrew returns from San Francisco to a brand new apartment. Or rather, a more cluttered one. There are more shoes on his shoe rack, more pillows on the couch, more dirty mugs in the kitchen sink. It’s all Neil’s stuff, Andrew realizes with abrupt clarity. Someone, Kevin, most likely, has shipped Neil’s stuff here. Unpacked it, too.

“You’re home,” Neil says from the living room, craning his neck to look up at Andrew. He’s watching Andrew’s postgame highlight reel, a spread of pink over his freckled cheeks. 

“So are you, apparently,” Andrew says. He settles himself behind Neil, one hand dug into his hair, the other clenching the back of the couch. 

“Yeah,” Neil’s voice is sheepish. “Kevin boxed up most of my things. He’s working with a realtor to sell my place in Boise. Is that okay? I mean, I’ll need the money, and my doctors are in New York, anyway–”

“Yes, Neil,” Andrew bends to press his mouth onto the back of Neil’s head. Neil’s curls are warm and soft against his lips as Andrew says, “This has always been your home, too.”

Neil preens a little at the words, his blush spreading. Andrew bends further across the back of the couch to kiss along his cheek. 

“Hey,” Neil says, voice curious, “What did the doctor say about sex?”

They hadn’t said anything. Andrew had had to ask. 

“You’ll likely be cleared for light exercise in the next two weeks,” Andrew says. 

Neil scoffs. “Light exercise?”

“Walking, stretching,” Andrew lists. “Sex.”

“Sex is not light exercise,” Neil mutters. “Not for us, at least.”

“It will be now,” Andrew retorts. He keeps his mouth pressed to the sensitive shell of Neil’s ear as he speaks. “I’ll take my time, wait until you’re shaking, begging me to fuck you–”

“Don’t tease me right now,” Neil shoves Andrew’s face away from him, visibly frustrated. Andrew doesn’t blame him. Neil’s injury had derailed all of Andrew’s plans, including the fast, heated reunion that Andrew had imagined for them. They haven’t had sex in months. Andrew hasn’t masturbated in almost a week.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Andrew says, straightening up with the realization. 

Neil whirls his head around, narrows his eyes at Andrew. “You’re going to jerk off.”

Andrew doesn’t bother denying it. 

“Hey,” Neil calls after him. “That’s not fair!” He quickly adds, “Can I at least watch?”

Andrew turns around before Neil’s even finished asking the question.

–

Neil comes to Boston for Andrew’s next playoff game. He sits in the family box with Aaron, Katelyn, and Nicky, dressed in Andrew’s jersey. His face is projected onto the big screen more than once.

“Neil Josten is here tonight,” one of the announcers says. Neil’s smile is forced, his wave half-hearted. “And it looks like he’s rooting for the Panthers!” There is a mass onslaught of booing from the stands. The Panthers are the visiting team, and the Boston Clovers are among the most popular teams in the league. Kevin once called them the Trojans of professional exy.

Andrew ignores the booing, ignores the strain in Neil’s smile as his face remains plastered to the jumbotron. The announcers are spewing bullshit about him and Neil’s relationship, following their journey through college camaraderie into professional rivals, to now, friends. Andrew snorts at the word, half-listening to the program as his team lines up to enter the court.

“What?” Someone asks.

“Neil Josten is not my fucking friend,” Andrew says simply.

–

They lose to Boston, and it’s not even Andrew’s fault. 

He’s only let one goal slip past him when a striker comes barreling into him, forcing an unsuspecting Andrew to the ground. His helmet snaps against the court's floor, and the impact on his skull has Andrew reeling, vision swimming. It takes him a minute to get his bearings, another to rise to his feet.

The court has gone quiet, like it did when Neil was down, and Andrew throws a gloved hand in the air, waves away the medics that had been lining up at the court doors. 

“I’m fine,” Andrew says. Martina is at his side, visibly debating whether or not to say something. Andrew glares at him. He still hasn’t forgiven the backliner for what he did to Neil, and beating his ass at practice had only earned Andrew extra drills. “I’m fine. I’m finishing the game.”

Andrew is fine, but his hit unravels the rest of his team. The Panthers strikers don’t score another point. 

The game ends in a tight eight to ten, and Andrew is so giddy with the loss that he doesn’t protest the hands that guide him into a medical suite. He’s given a cursory concussion test, the doctor rambling on about the usual concerns: headaches and dizziness. Andrew is at the door the minute she’s finished speaking. Neil will be worried.

Andrew finds his family minutes later, crowded in the family reception area of Boston’s stadium. Katelyn is wringing her hands, and Neil’s jaw is tight. Aaron is on the phone.

“It’s not even a concussion,” Andrew says in lieu of greeting. He plucks the phone out of Aaron’s hand. “Hello, Kevin.”

“She should have been ejected from the game for that hit,” Kevin says. “Touching a goalie is a violation of–”

“Goodbye, Kevin,” Andrew says. He tosses Aaron his phone back.

“They did a test?” Aaron asks.

“Yup,” Andrew confirms. Neil is looking at him, his jaw still tight and his blue eyes concerned. Andrew allows his fingers to brush over the small of Neil’s back, feels the redhead lean back into the touch. 

“And you feel fine?” Aaron continues.

“Yes,” Andrew nods. “Can we finish this interrogation at your place?”

Aaron and Katelyn’s apartment isn’t far from the stadium. It’s cozy, homey in a way that Andrew’s apartment never would have achieved without the help of Allison’s decorator. It’s surprisingly easy for Andrew to relax into their leather sofa. Neil is tucked into his side, legs thrown over Andrew’s thighs, and Katelyn and Nicky are tinkering away in the kitchen. Aaron is somewhere in the background, deftly uncorking a bottle of wine.

“You really feel fine?” Neil asks. Andrew nods, and Neil reaches for his face, brushes away a rogue piece of Andrew’s hair. “Watching that was awful. I thought…”

He trails off. Andrews squeezes Neil’s bony kneecap. “I know,” Andrew says simply. 

“I think I understand your adamancy a little more, now,” Neil whispers after a moment. There’s a smattering of laughter from the kitchen, and Neil leans in closer, rests his head under Andrew’s jaw. “I wouldn’t want you to ever play again, if I‘d seen what you had.”

“It’s not that I don’t want you to play,” Andrew says immediately. “It’s that I can’t stand–” He cuts himself off, hears Bee’s voice in his head. It’s okay to be vulnerable. “Losing you would ruin me. Especially losing you to something so avoidable.”

Neil’s hands find Andrew’s, squeezing three times before relaxing. He traces invisible words, shapes, onto Andrew’s skin until they’re called into the kitchen for dinner.

–

 In the end, it’s Aaron who convinces Neil not to play again.

They’ve been tiptoeing around the subject since the end of Andrew’s season. Neil has been speaking to doctors and trainers, specialists and coaches. He’s received so many differing opinions on the matter that Andrew has all but decided to remove himself from the conversation.

Neil knows where he stands. The choice is in his hands now.

On Saturday, one week after Boston, Andrew pads into his office, a space Neil has commandeered for all of his phone calls and meetings, and catches the tail end of Neil’s conversation with the Carolina Razorbills.

“The risk of injury is too high,” Someone says. The coach, presumably. Neil nods. “Signing you on the team would be a liability. We’d have to arrange for an extra sub, a replacement for when you get injured.”

When. Not if. 

Andrew keeps his eyes trained on Neil, wondering if he’s caught onto the choice of words. Neil swallows, nods shallowly, and Andrew knows that he has. The call cuts off a moment later, and Andrew braces himself against the wall, inhaling deeply for what he’s prepared to say.

“I know how badly you want this,” Andrew says quietly. 

Neil is staring numbly at the floor, silent. 

“Junkie,” Andrew says fondly. “If this is what you want, we’ll make it work. I’ll support you through this. I could talk to my coach. If the Panthers sign you, you could–”

“I need to think about this,” Neil interrupts. He rises from Andrew’s desk, his posture slumped, steps steady. 

“I know,” Andrew nods, reaching for his hips. Neil melts into his hands. “The decision is yours.”

“But?” Neil laughs, the sound a little shrill.

“I don’t want you to play,” Andrew says. Neil pulls back an inch, frowning. Andrew has never said the words outright before. 

“You’re asking me not to?” Neil asks.

“No, Bunny,” Andrew shakes his head. “No. This is your choice.”

“But?” Neil presses.

“Exy isn’t everything. Once upon a time, it was. It was your lifeline. Now, it doesn’t have to be. This is your out, Neil.” Andrew squeezes Neil’s waist, rubs his thumbs over the peaks of Neil’s hipbones. “Promise me you’ll take that into consideration.”

Neil promises. He disappears into their bedroom without another word.

A few hours later, there’s a knock on the apartment's front door. Andrew opens it to see Aaron, disheveled from the train, still dressed in his scrubs. There’s a suspicious yellow stain on his collar.

“Neil called me,” Aaron says, stepping neatly past Andrew, beelining for the bedroom. “Go away.”

They don’t come out for a long time. When they emerge, Neil’s eyes are watery, emotional in a way that Andrew hasn’t seen in years. Since Baltimore, maybe. 

There is a satisfied set to Aaron’s shoulders as he heads for the door.

Andrew yanks on the hem of his scrubs, pausing Aaron in his tracks. “What did you say to him?” Andrew asks slowly. Aaron opens his mouth, tenses. “Aaron,” Andrew says, voice full of warning.

“I might have been a bit harsh,” Aaron confesses. Andrew gestures for him to keep speaking. “The gist of it was that he doesn’t have to kill himself for exy any longer. The Moriyamas will keep off him so long as there’s money in their pockets, and between all the Foxes, he’ll have access to more money than he’ll ever know what to do with.”

“And?”

“And he has you,” Aaron finishes. His voice takes on a sheepish tone. “I told him that he has other things to live for, now.”

There’s a slow spread of warmth under Andrew’s skin at the words. 

“That convinced him more than anything,” Aaron huffs. “Look, I’ve got to catch the last train back to Boston. I’ve got a shift in the morning.”

Andrew dips his chin in a nod, beckons for Aaron to exit through the door he pulls open. Aaron pauses with one foot over the threshold. He hesitates for only a second before yanking Andrew into a stiff hug.

“Take care of him,” Aaron demands. 

Andrew makes a quiet grunt of recognition. Aaron sighs.

“And for fucks sake,” Aaron says as he pulls away, “Just get married already.”

–

Neil announces his retirement from exy at 9 a.m. on a Tuesday morning. By three o’clock, he and Andrew are boarding Allison’s jet, the plane modern and sleek, standing alone on the tarmac. Andrew has twelve days until he needs to be back on the court, and Neil has finally been cleared for light exercise.

Andrew plans on taking Neil apart under the stars, in their hotel bed, maybe even in their bathtub. He’ll take whatever he can get.

Paris is first on their agenda, because Neil wants to practice his French and send Jean photos of the comics he likes. After Paris, they head to Italy for a few days. Andrew eats his body weight in gelato, tries every flavor that the tiny stand across from their hotel has to offer. Neil’s favorite, predictably, is the cherry. It’s too tart and bitter for Andrew’s liking, whose own favorite is the triple chocolate. 

Andrew’s favorite part of their entire vacation is watching Neil. First, he watches Neil speak French, voice fluid and throaty and too enticing for his own good. Then, Andrew watches Neil’s skin turn bronze, his hair lightening from salt water and sun. He watches Neil smile and take photos, and nap at the beach.

Neil had been rattled enough by his retirement to vow not to open his phone once on their trip, and Andrew’s most precious memory becomes watching Neil scribble letters to Jean, scarred fingers reverently pressing stamps onto each postcard he purchases. Andrew wonders why they never did this sooner.

They come back to America tanner, happier. Andrew has a ring in his pocket, and Neil doesn’t know it. In all likelihood, Neil won’t know it for a very long time. That’s okay with Andrew. He’s more than okay with waiting.

There are a million texts waiting for Neil and Andrew when they step off the plane. Most of them are about Neil’s retirement announcement, and Andrew gets a message so heartfelt from Jeremy and Jean that he has to turn his phone off. He shoves it into his back pocket, watches as Neil stares down at his own phone, eyes widening. Andrew’s curiosity gets the best of him. He leans over Neil’s shoulder to read the message that has captured his attention.

It’s a tweet from Kevin. 

@kevinday

I am deeply thankful to @neiljosten10 for all that he has given to this sport. His dedication and passion for exy shone through in every match he ever played. His departure from the sport is a loss for us all. Neil, I wish we could have had more time. Playing with you was an honor.

The tweet has millions of likes. 

It’s a long while before Neil sets his phone down, averts his watery eyes out of the taxi window. 

—

As Andrew’s preseason begins, Allison takes it upon herself to fill Neil’s days. She forces him out on short walks, takes Neil to lunches and happy hours. For the first week of Andrew’s season, he returns each night to a tipsy, quiet Neil.

Having Neil to come home to is something Andrew will never take for granted. But he knows that this isn’t sustainable. Neil needs something concrete to do, something he can throw his time and energy into. Andrew says as much to Allison, and she shows up at their penthouse the next night with a two-foot-wide calendar tucked under one arm, Renee’s shoulders beneath the other.

“We’re figuring this shit out,” Allison says, heels clicking on the wood floor as she strides for the kitchen. Neil is seated at the island, attempting to read a book Kevin had sent him while Andrew cooks dinner. Allison slams the calendar down in front of him. 

Neil’s flinch makes Andrew grit his teeth. 

“Figuring what out?” Neil asks. He leans forward to look at the calendar, blinking rapidly. “Why is there so much yoga?”

“Because it’s good for you,” Allison huffs. She slides into the stool next to Neil, drums her manicured fingers down on the white marble. Andrew turns his back to the pair, and Renee wordlessly sidles up to his side. Andrew holds a knife out to her, and Renee begins chopping vegetables with vicious efficiency. It reminds Andrew that they haven’t sparred in a while. He thinks he’d like to hit something, soon.

“Wednesdays can be our standing lunch date,” Allison says. “And Saturdays can be for happy hour.”

Renee turns her head to look at her wife. “Maybe it would be nice to include some activities that don’t involve alcohol.”

“Yes, babe, I know,” Allison says, dismissive. “That’s why you have yoga on Tuesday and Thursday morning. Are you cleared for Pilates?”

Andrew can hear the confusion in Neil’s tone as he goes, “Um.”

“Yes,” Andrew answers without turning around. “Anything except strenuous work. Like sprinting, weight training.”

“Good. So you’ll have Pilates on Monday and Wednesday. I go on Wednesdays, too.” 

“What is Pilates?” Neil asks.

“Super hard yoga,” Allison explains. “Kind of. Most people are bad at it. You’ll like it.”

“Okay.”

There’s the distinct sound of a pen uncapping. “That's your tentative class schedule. You’ll also have physical therapy on Fridays and acupuncture on Sunday mornings. I know a great masseuse, too. That could be a biweekly thing?”

“Allison,” Neil sighs. Andrew turns around to see him running a hand through his hair, frowning. “This is all great, but I should be saving money—”

Allison doesn’t let him finish the thought. “Andrew has a fourteen-million-dollar contract,” She snorts. “He’s the highest-paid player in the league. Between the two million you got from your place in Boise, your contract with Exites, and Andrew’s contribution, you’ll never have to work another day in your life, sweetie.”

Neil’s frown deepens. He must know Allison is right. He must trust her opinion, too. Allison is a smart, calculated woman. She isn’t a multimillionaire for nothing. 

“Well,” Neil says eventually. “I still want to work.”

“Okay,” Allison says easily. Andrew turns back to the stove. “What do you want to do? Coach? Commentary?”

“Neither,” Neil huffs. 

“Okay…” Allison trails off. “So, what then? Please don’t say you want to do something with math, Neil. I don’t have the energy to help you with that.”

“No, Al,” Neil laughs. Andrew drinks the sound in, and Renee nudges him gently with her elbow, too observant for her own good. “I mean, sports analysis is interesting. I could do the numerical breakdowns of each game, I could—”

“Sure,” Allison cuts in. “If you want to find a way to make that happen, I’ll support you.” 

“You should tweet about it,” Renee chimes in. Andrew narrows his eyes at her. Telling Neil to get more involved in social media seems like a bad idea for all of them. “That’s where lots of analysts post their work.”

“Yeah, okay.” 

It isn’t long before Andrew and Renee finish up dinner. Allison uncorks a bottle of red, and Neil’s lips are stained purple by the time they finish eating. Allison’s calendar has a wine stain on the bottom left corner, alongside doodles that Andrew and Renee had drawn, but Neil’s September schedule is filled out neatly in Allison’s curly handwriting. There’s Neil's workout classes and lunches, a weekend visit to Philadelphia to see Dan and Matt, and a trip to Los Angeles with Allison. There are shifts at Renee’s animal shelter, even scheduled FaceTime calls with Nicky, who’s back in Germany until Christmas. All of Andrew’s games and practices are on the calendar, too, written in purple in Neil’s messy handwriting. 

“You’re going to go to every game?” Allison asks, narrowing her eyes. Neil nods. He takes a long sip from his wine glass. “People are going to find that weird.”

“So what?” Neil says. 

“So,” Allison flicks her eyes to Andrew, who shrugs. “Are you two going to come out, then?”

Neil answers the question for both of them. “No. We’re just going to do whatever we want and see what happens. Fuck everyone else.”

Allison blinks. She throws a handful of blonde curls over her shoulder and raises her wine glass in the air.

“Cheers to that.”

—

True to Allison’s word, people begin to find Neil’s consistent presence at Andrew’s games odd. It only becomes worse when Andrew and Neil are photographed leaving a benefit together. Renee and Allison had planned the event, an extravagant banquet held at the Met, all proceeds going to women's shelters in the area. Neil is dressed in a fitted emerald green suit, the top two buttons of his white undershirt undone. He’s tipsy and smiling, smelling like sandalwood and Andrew’s expensive Le Labo bodywash. Andrew has had one too many glasses of whiskey to resist trailing his fingers along the small of Neil’s back as he ushers them out of the museum. 

The image begins circulating the internet in a matter of minutes. Somehow, despite retiring, Neil has only become more famous. It doesn’t help that he’s being consistently spotted with Allison Reynolds, socialite, influencer, business mogul, and model extraordinaire.

Neil angles his phone towards Andrew in the backseat of the taxi. His free hand is wrapped around Andrew’s wrist. Andrew’s fingers are pressing, impatient, into the meat of Neil’s thighs.

“Look,” Neil demands. The image is simple; Neil and Andrew walking out of the back exit of the Met, heads bent together, Andrew’s hand wide and possessive on the bottom of Neil’s spine. There’s a curve of a smile on Neil’s exposed profile.

Andrew kind of wants to frame it.

“Should I ask Melissa to get it removed?” Neil asks, referring to his new social media manager. Mostly, Melissa’s role entails deleting hateful comments before Neil can respond to them. She also plays cleanup when Neil is spotted doing stupid shit with Allison. Last week, this had included jumping fully clothed into a Central Park fountain. In broad daylight.

Andrew is glad Neil is enjoying his new freedom, but he still doesn’t understand how the redhead hadn’t contracted a mysterious, flesh-eating disease.

“No,” Andrew says. He means it. He and Neil are not a secret. They never have been, and they certainly won’t become one now, when Neil is finally living freely. “Leave it.”

Neil gets a mischievous glint in his eyes. He clicks a tweet, types a painstakingly slow response. Andrew reads some of the comments in the thread.

@exyexcites2

seriously what is going on w these two i thought they hated eachother 

@pantherspanther41

I think they might just be friends. Don't be weird about this, guys. It's so strange to ship two grown men.

@jos10sfox

ummm @neiljosten10 can you settle this debate? are you and andrew minyard friends or enemies or something else please the people yearn for the truth

It is this last tweet that Neil responds to. He holds the phone up to Andrew’s face to showcase what he has drafted.

@neiljosten10

clearly im his sugar baby 

“Can I post it?” Neil asks, grinning. 

Andrew’s never been able to tell him no.

–

Andrew certainly expected Neil’s tweet to blow up. He didn’t, however, expect the joke to garner as much attention as it did. Furthermore, Andrew didn’t expect people to actually believe Neil.

For one thing, Neil has money of his own. He might be retired, sure, but until a few months ago, Neil had been one of the highest-paid strikers in the league. Between his contract with the Broncos, his sponsorships and brand deals, Neil has been making millions of dollars a year ever since he graduated from college. The last thing Neil needs is access to more money. 

Additionally, Andrew thinks, there is no world in which Neil Josten, son of the Butcher of Baltimore and menace to all, can be placed in a box as simple as ‘sugar baby.’

The rest of the world does not seem to follow this train of thought. The joke is picked apart, plastered onto every sports-related news site that Kevin and Neil follow. Kevin doesn’t find the situation nearly as humorous as Neil does.

“This impacts people’s perception of you, Neil,” Kevin lectures on the phone one night. “You’re already spending too much time with Allison. People are going to stop seeing you as an athlete and start seeing you as an influencer.”

There is a palpable sense of disgust on the final word. Neil shrugs. “I’m not an athlete anymore,” He says simply. Before either Andrew or Kevin can refute this fact, Neil barrels onward. “I’m just having fun, Kev, okay?”

There is a long pause before Kevin answers, his voice weary. “Alright. Yeah. Fun is… Good.”

“You couldn’t sound more robotic if you tried,” Andrew mutters. 

Neil rolls his eyes, shoves Andrew’s face away with a soft palm as he rises from the couch. It’s Monday, which means Neil is wearing a pair of the tiny pilates shorts Allison had bought for him. This pair is a soft, baby pink. The sight of Neil’s legs, his calves toned and smooth, ass straining under the tight nylon fabric as he walks away, keeps Andrew’s rapt attention.  

Andrew glances at his watch. Neil is leaving for his trip to Los Angeles with Allison in four hours. Andrew has to head to the court in the next forty-five minutes. Andrew thinks they could spend their time more wisely than talking with Kevin. 

“Are you coming?” Neil asks. He chucks his phone, now quiet, onto the couch beside Andrew. Neil tilts his head in the direction of their bedroom, and Andrew is at his side in a heartbeat. His hands blindly find Neil’s trim waist, and Andrew hauls him over one of his shoulders as gently as he can manage.

“I hate these shorts,” Andrew says, smacking Neil’s ass playfully, the pink fabric soft under his fingertips.

“Sure you do,” Neil retorts. He pinches Andrew’s butt hard, catches the goalie off guard enough that Andrew responds by tossing him onto their bed. “You hate all of my shorts because you hate my legs.” Neil winks, rising up onto his elbows on the bed.

Andrew yanks his shirt off by the back of the neck, throws it in Neil’s face just to see him smile.

“You’re wrong,” Andrew says as he crawls over Neil’s body. The redhead hums in challenge underneath him. “I hate every inch of you.”

Neil’s retort comes fast, his voice almost breathless as he says, “Prove it.”

“I plan to,” Andrew says. He grinds himself against Neil’s hips to emphasize the point. 

Neil laughs, the sound quiet and content, breath hot against Andrew’s neck. He grabs the silver chain around Andrew’s neck, uses it to pull Andrew’s lips eagerly to his own. 

Neil doesn’t stop licking into Andrew’s mouth until it's time for him to leave.

“Have fun in Los Angeles,” Andrew says as he tugs on his athletic shorts. Neil is still naked on the bed, chest flushed with orgasm, lips slick. Andrew won’t see him for four days. He’s trying to pretend it won’t drive him crazy. “Don’t let Reynolds talk you into anything stupid.”

“Me?” Neil points at himself. “Do something stupid? Don’t be ridiculous, Andrew.”

His smile is sharp and enticing. Andrew yanks the back of Neil’s neck and pulls their mouths back together until his chest is heaving once more.

“I’ll miss you,” Neil says after a beat. “Good luck against Houston. Not that you need it. I mean, seriously–”

“I’ll miss you, too,” Andrew interrupts. He’s going to be five minutes late to practice, but he needs to say his piece before Neil leaves. “Jeremy and Jean are only a few hours away, but if you need anything, call me, Bunny.”

“What?” Neil fiddles with the hairs at the back of Andrew’s neck. “You don’t trust Allison to take care of me?”

“No,” Andrew grunts, “I don’t trust the two of you to stay out of trouble.”

 “We’ll do our best,” Neil jokes. “Seriously, though. We’re going to get massages and eat fancy dinners. Allison will probably drag me to do some shopping, too, but we’re not going to do anything crazy. Or stupid. Or reckless.”

Andrew allows himself to find some comfort in the words. Neil is not a child. He’s a grown adult capable of doing whatever he’d like. Andrew trusts Neil to do whatever he’d like. But, with everything that’s happened in the past few months, Andrew would like to think he’s entitled to a little worrying. 

“Call me every night,” Andrew says. He doesn’t feel like making it a question. Neil nods. “Alright. I’ll see you on Saturday.”

“You will,” Neil promises. “All in one piece, too.”

Andrew nods, steps slowly towards the bedroom door. He allows himself one backwards glance at Neil before he leaves. His boyfriend is smug and satiated on the bed, all of his toned limbs and freckled skin on display. Neil’s smile is small, but there is excitement in his electric eyes. Andrew knows he’s looking forward to traveling with Allison.

“Love you,” Neil says softly, offering Andrew the words he’s still been unable to give Neil himself.

Andrew crosses the room in five quick steps. He reaches down and grips Neil’s chin in his hand, kisses him languidly, until he’s certain that Neil has found Andrew’s answer in the action.

–

Two things happen while Neil is in Los Angeles. First, Andrew gets into a fight. If it can even be called that. The tabloids certainly seem to think it can.

In reality, Andrew throws a singular punch. 

It starts the day after Neil leaves, when Andrew is making his way into the exy stadium. There’s a private entrance for players, but the press have found their way here nonetheless. There are more than a few microphones shoved in Andrew's direction, questions shouted his way, and camera lights flashing. Andrew manages to ignore them all, at least until someone yells, “Is there a reason you chose Neil Josten?”

It’s not the first time Neil’s name has been thrown around near Andrew. Everyone is curious about their relationship, and Andrew has been asked about Neil in nearly every single press conference he’s done this season. Until now, Andrew has never answered a single question about Neil. 

Today, something in the reporter's snide tone makes Andrew stop in his tracks. He looks flatly at the man who asked the question, sees the predatory intent in his blue eyes.

“What?” Andrew asks, voice blunt.

“Is there a reason you chose Neil Josten to be your quote-unquote sugar baby?” The reporter clarifies. He’s smiling as he says, “It certainly couldn’t have been for his looks. I mean, with the scars and all–”

Andrew’s fist flies into his nose before he can finish the sentence. Blood sprays into the air, and Andrew hears gasping and shouting behind him. Andrew gets a hold of the reporter's collar, is preparing to slam his knuckles into the juncture of his jaw as he demands, “Say that again.”

The reporter opens and closes his mouth, visibly terrified. Before Andrew can throw a second punch, one of his coaches is at his side. She hauls him away, mumbles under her breath in disbelief as Andrew follows her towards the locker room. 

“This better not impact your game,” She warns. 

Andrew shakes out his hand, feels the familiar ache building in his knuckles. “It won't,” He says plainly.

It doesn’t. Andrew plays the best game of his life. 

Despite this fact, Neil still has some choice words for Andrew during their call later. His biggest issue doesn’t seem to be the fact that Andrew has assaulted a reporter, but rather that Andrew has done this at the beginning of his fall season.

“You could have seriously hurt your hand,” Neil says, frowning. 

“I know how to throw a punch, Bunny,” Andrew sighs.

“Sure,” Neil shrugs. He sets his phone down on an unforeseen surface and steps back to show Andrew his outfit. “Does this match?”

“No,” Andrew says. “You need a white shirt with those jeans. The black is too dark.”

“Ugh,” Neil huffs. “Whatever. You could have hurt yourself. That’s my issue.”

“I didn’t,” Andrew points out. 

Neil considers this before nodding. “Okay. True.” He glances around before leaning in, conspiratorially close to the camera.  “I saw the video. It was really hot.”

“That got you worked up?” Andrew asks dryly.

“Yes. That and how well you played,” Neil tacks on. Andrew knew that was coming. Nothing gets Neil as turned on as Andrew playing exy. “I’ve got to go. Allison and I are going to a secret thing.”

“A secret thing?” Andrew parrots. Neil nods.

“Yes. It’s a surprise,” He winks at the camera, blows a deceitfully cute kiss at Andrew through the screen. “You’ll see.”

Two days later, as Neil is supposed to be making his way home from the airport, Allison calls Andrew. He picks up on the first ring, certain that something must have gone wrong, or that Neil must have–

“Do not get mad at me for this,” Allison says without preamble. “None of this was my idea. Well, it was my idea, actually. But, Neil liked it. He wanted to do it.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Andrew demands. He clicks open his favorite app, the one that shows him exactly where Neil, or at least Neil’s phone, is. Assuming he’s with his phone, Neil is only a few blocks away, sitting in traffic. “Are you with Neil?”

“No,” Allison huffs. “I’m taking a cab to Brooklyn for a fitting. He got an Uber. He made an Instagram account, and he’s very excited about his first post. I just want to reiterate that this was Neil’s decision.”

“Did he post something stupid?” Andrew presses his fingers into the space between his eyebrows. 

“No,” Allison laughs. “Not at all. He posted photos of himself looking hot. I only assumed you’d want to kill me for… It.”

“Why? What is it?”

“You’ll see,” Allison says ominously. “Before you get mad, just remember that I allow you to beat my wife up every other week.”

Andrew doesn’t think Allison allows Renee to do anything. He wants to say as much, but Reynolds has already ended the call. Andrew takes the opportunity to click into Instagram. He finds Neil’s new account almost immediately. He’s already got hundreds of thousands of followers, though only one post sits in his account.

Andrew presses on the post. 

It’s a collection of images of Neil in Allison’s new loungewear collection. His auburn curls are styled into soft, fluffy innocence, and the cool tones of the fabric bring out the blue of Neil’s eyes. In all the photos, he’s either reclining on a stylish leather sofa or spread out artistically on a plush white bed. The photoshoot has Reynolds written all over it, but the caption, the tagline of the campaign, is all Neil. Built for retirement. It’s sassy, biting. It very nearly makes Andrew laugh.

Then, he scrolls to the last photo. This image is different from the others.

Neil is still spread out on the white bedding, slate-colored sweatpants hung low on his narrow hips. This time, he’s not wearing the matching sweatshirt. Instead, Neil is wearing a tight white t-shirt, the hem short enough to reveal two inches of Neil’s toned abdomen, the beginning of one of his scars tucked under the edge.

The shirt says in large, red text: SUGAR BABY. 

Neil is staring up at the camera like he’s looking straight at Andrew, his lips curled into a daring smile, eyes alight with challenge and heat. 

 Jesus fuck, Andrew thinks. He writes those same two words under Neil’s photo, and has just fired off the comment when he hears Neil’s key slide into their front door. 

Minutes later, Andrew moans the words into Neil’s mouth.

–

It’s a slow thing, watching Neil recover, but his physical health presents itself as the most tangible kind of progress for Andrew to observe. He watches Neil’s stitches heal, watches him slowly gain his strength back. The first time Neil is able to truly run after his surgery, he sprints a full-blown, five-minute mile. Andrew sits on a bench in Central Park, a lukewarm coffee in hand as his eyes track Neil and his tiny orange shorts through the park.

Neil returns, grinning and panting. “Well?” He asks, voice hopeful.

“It’ll take some time to get back to four minutes,” Andrew says immediately, showing Neil the timer on his phone screen. Five minutes and forty-nine seconds.

“I know,” Neil nods. There is strength in the two words. “Restart it.”

He takes off into the park as soon as Andrew has hit the button. Neil’s next mile takes five minutes and thirty-six seconds. He runs his third mile in five minutes and thirty seconds, flat. Andrew cuts him off after four, and Neil allows himself to be corralled home, sweaty and still smiling as Andrew unlocks their door.

“Oh, fuck,” Neil swears as soon as he steps out of his running shoes. His socks are stained and covered in holes. Andrew rolls his eyes at the sight of them. “I forgot I’m getting lunch with Renee and Dan.”

He darts into their bedroom, emerges a handful of minutes later with damp hair, outfit surprisingly fashionable. Allison had finally talked Neil into getting all of his pants tailored, something Andrew has been doing since college, and Neil’s dark jeans fit him mouthwateringly well.

“Be ten minutes late,” Andrew demands, striding toward Neil.

Neil laughs, swats Andrew’s hands away from his hips, only to pull Andrew’s palms onto his shoulders. “No. Dan’s only here for two nights. If I’m even a minute late, she’ll kill me.”

“Dan would kill her husband for you,” Andrew says dryly. “Maybe even her child, too.”

Neil laughs, a goofy grin still planted on his lips as he pulls Andrew in for a kiss. 

Andrew doesn’t know if it's the sudden onslaught of free time or the simple ability to be a real person for once, but either way, Andrew has never seen Neil smile this frequently. 

It’s a change he’s more than willing to get used to.

Still, not every day is bright and easy. Sometimes, Andrew will catch a wistful look in Neil’s eyes, his gaze trained on the television or Andrew’s team-issued equipment bag. Andrew knows that, for all the happiness Neil has been exuding, he still misses exy. He’s mourning it.

By Halloween, Neil seems to have crawled through the majority of his grief. He doesn’t go quiet when someone mentions his injury, and he freely tells people that he’s enjoying his time as a sugar baby, socialite, normal person.

“For the first time in my whole life,” Neil begins at Allison and Renee’s Halloween party. In dark jeans and a tight white t-shirt, Neil is dressed like a cowboy. Andrew wants to get Neil home, tie his hands together with that stupid orange bandana, and fuck him into their mattress. “I have no life-threatening commitments.”

“Other than the money,” Kevin points out. He’s in New York for the weekend, because the Panthers are scheduled to play the Broncos on Sunday afternoon. Andrew thinks it will be a hard game for Neil to watch, but the redhead is stubbornly refusing to admit that he’s anything except excited for the rematch.

Neil shrugs. “Andrew’s handling it.”

Andrew keeps his eyes on Neil, who stubbornly doesn’t meet his gaze. They’ve had more than a few arguments about money in the past few months. It’s taken hours of debate, along with multiple phone calls with Bee and Wymack, for the two of them to come to an agreement on the subject. Neil will contribute whatever he can, and Andrew will handle the rest. 

Neil still feels guilty about the situation. Kevin’s next words make him flinch.

“Andrew also handled Aaron’s tuition, his wedding, and the down payment on his apartment,” Kevin snorts. He reaches for Neil’s shoulder, squeezes. The pair haven’t been together in months, and Andrew can tell Kevin is going to take this opportunity to try to talk Neil into re-entering the world of exy. “You’d make a lot of money as a–”

“Kevin,” Neil says, voice slow. “I’m done. Okay?”

Kevin frowns. “Really? I thought you’d want some time away, sure, but Neil–”

Neil slips out from Kevin’s hand, walks away without another word. Andrew steps forward to follow him, but Kevin stops him, planting himself in front of Andrew with something akin to panic in his eyes.

“He’s really done?” Kevin says. 

Andrew nods. 

“He doesn't even want to be a coach?” Kevin sputters. “Or a commentator?”

Renee lays a placating hand on Kevin’s elbow. “He likes doing the statistics,” She says gently. “That’s what Neil chose.”

“He should choose something else,” Kevin shakes his head.

“No, he shouldn’t. You don’t need to be a dick about it, Kevin,” Allison snaps. “He feels awful enough.” Her heels click against the floor as she follows quickly after Neil. Andrew tries to step past Kevin, but Renee is faster. She cuts Andrew off with a small smile.

“Give them some time,” Renee says softly. Andrew feels his jaw tighten. Shouldn’t it be his place to comfort Neil? Renee narrows her eyes at Andrew, as if she can hear the question ringing in his head. “Allison’s got this. You can talk with Neil after.”

Andrew grunts a nonverbal agreement. 

It’s a long while before Neil and Allison rejoin the party. Andrew watches the pair emerge from the cold of the balcony, squeezing through the crowd. Allison’s dark eyeshadow is smudged, and Neil, against all odds, is smiling. Andrew wonders how Allison made that happen, feels a hot curl of jealousy at the thought.

Allison squeezes Neil’s shoulder once before releasing him. She makes it halfway to Renee before Andrew reaches her.

“Figures,” Allison sighs before Andrew can get a word out. “Come to the bathroom with me. I need to touch up my makeup.”

Andrew follows. Allison leads him into her massive en suite bathroom, gestures for Andrew to sit down on the porcelain rim of the standing tub as she rifles through her makeup bag. 

“You’ve been a good friend to Neil,” Andrew says. He watches Allison in the mirror, a Q-tip raised to the smudged red on her eyes. She shrugs. “I don’t understand.”

Allison snorts. “I know we had our issues in college, Andrew, but I’m not a complete and utter bitch.” Andrew raises his beer to his lips, drinks, and waits. It takes Allison a few minutes of silence before she speaks again. “You clearly want an explanation. Fine. Here it is: I understand what Neil is going through more than you ever could.”

“How?” Andrew demands. “I’ve been injured, I’ve–”

“You never used exy as a crutch,” Allison interrupts. “Not like Neil and I did. It got him through his mother's death, then his father's. It got me through some very hard moments in my life. It might have been more of a distraction for me than an addiction, but I know what it’s like to throw yourself into the sport because you think you have nothing else.”

Andrew allows this. He’s never been shy about the fact that exy isn’t his one true passion in life. Neil is.

“I chose to leave the sport,” Allison continues. She uncaps a pencil, draws over her eyelid with a steady hand. “I knew I needed to find meaning elsewhere. Neil didn’t have that choice. It was hard for both of us, only in different ways.”

“And you two are bonding over this,” Andrew says dryly.

“Yes,” Allison nods. She finishes adjusting her makeup, turns around to face Andrew head-on. She leans against the black marble of the bathroom counter, folds her arms across her tight, red corset. “I know what it's like to lose something you loved and hated. Something, someone, that was hurting you as much as you still loved them.”

Andrew blinks. “Seth.”

Allison nods, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”

“You’re comparing the death of your ex-boyfriend to Neil’s retirement from exy?” Andrew says. Allison’s smile is vicious, matches her vampire costume a little too well. 

“Yes,” she says. “It’s not a perfect comparison. It doesn’t need to make sense to you. It makes sense to Neil.”

Andrew takes another drink of his beer. It does make sense to him. He’s suddenly deeply grateful that Neil has had Allison in these past few months. Andrew doesn't know if he can voice that thought without ruining the snarky relationship he and Allison have built.

“At the end of the day, you’re still playing,” Allison says. “And–”

“I told him to tell me not to,” Andrew cuts in immediately. “I told Neil that if–”

“Just shut up. For better or for worse, you’re still playing,” Allison shrugs. “Neil wants you to keep playing, but until you retire, there are some things you just can’t understand.”

Andrew speaks through gritted teeth as he confesses, “I want to be able to help him.”

"Look,” Allison says, straightening up a bit. “He loves you. And, whether or not you'll ever admit it to yourself, you love him, too. That matters more than anything he and I can ‘bond’ over. Fuck, you’ve probably helped him more than I have.” Allison throws her hands in the air. “You’re helping him just by being you.”

Andrew waits a bit, nods. “You think he’s doing okay?”

Allison rolls her eyes. “I know he is. He has you.”

She knows better than to reach for Andrew, but she bumps her hand against his knuckles as she walks out of the bathroom.

–

Andrew doesn’t get Thanksgiving off. Instead, he’s scheduled for a game in Florida. Aaron can’t be away from the hospital for more than a few hours, so he and Katelyn drive upstate to visit her sister instead. Nicky is still in Germany, but Dan, Matt, Renee, and Allison are able to fly down to Miami with Andrew and Neil. Kevin flies to Palmetto to see Wymack, sends their group chat a video of Wymack shaking his head in disbelief at his new collection of recruits.

“Some things never change,” Dan snorts. 

They eat a half-assed Thanksgiving brunch, because Andrew’s game is scheduled for an inconvenient three pm. The Foxes drink mimosas and crisp glasses of rosé with their food, and by the time Andrew has to head to the stadium, Neil is one drink away from being drunk. He’s got Dan and Matt’s baby on his lap, and Neil’s smile is unburdened, free, as he makes animal sounds at her. 

Andrew has never thought he wanted kids, but the sight of Neil smiling at a baby does something vicious to his heart.

“Take care of my boyfriend,” Andrew demands as he rises from the table. He’s speaking to no one in particular, and the table goes startlingly quiet at the demand. Andrew rolls his eyes, squeezes the back of Neil’s neck before taking off for the exit.

“I’ve never heard him call you his boyfriend,” Matt hisses behind Andrew.

“Don’t get used to it,” Allison retorts. “It’ll be husband any day now.”

Dan quickly adds, “Then baby daddy.’

Neil’s laugh echoes in Andrew’s ears for the entirety of his game. 

The Panthers win by a landslide, and Andrew is forced into a postgame conference. He gets asked the usual questions about the Panthers' defense, a handful about whether or not he’ll be renewing his contract at the end of the fall season. There are questions about Neil, too. Andrew enjoys answering those. 

“Would you care to elaborate on the nature of your relationship with Neil Josten?” One ballsy reporter asks.

Andrew pictures Neil’s tipsy smile, hears his laugh again. “I will say this only once,” Andrew says, leaning into the mic. The room quiets in clear anticipation. “Neil Abram Josten is my sugar baby. And, I hate him.”

His answer opens the floodgates. Andrew has barely finished speaking before another journalist is asking, “What do you have to say about Josten’s retirement? You were one of the only players in the league not to comment on his departure from the sport.”

“It’s a tragedy,” Andrew says. “It would’ve been great to see Josten slowly overshadow Day as the best striker in the league.”

The room breaks out in commotion. Andrew’s publicist shoots him a dark look before taking charge. She points to one reporter, allowing her to ask her question.

“You recently commented on Neil Josten’s Instagram post saying, quote, ‘I hate every fucking inch of you.’” The reporter pauses expectantly.

Andrew’s memory conjures up the image, another photo of Neil in Allison’s loungewear line. He’d been leaning over their island, sipping on some stupid, sponsored electrolyte drink, and wearing infinitesimal black running shorts. He’d been wearing one of Andrew’s old Palmetto t-shirts. Andrew had bent Neil over the marble as soon as he’d gotten home.

“Was there supposed to be a question in there?” Andrew asks. 

Andrew’s publicist shoots him another look. She ends the press conference before another question can be asked. 

Neil is waiting for Andrew at their hotel room door when he finishes. He’s in Andrew’s black away jersey and white athletic shorts, the fabric contrasting with the tan, freckled expanse of Neil’s legs. Neil yanks Andrew through the doorway, already kissing into his mouth, hands frantic on Andrew’s shoulders, tugging eagerly on the chain around his neck. 

“Junkie,” Andrew says when Neil pulls his mouth away, immediately redirecting his lips onto Andrew’s throat. “I should’ve known the game would get you worked up.”

“It wasn’t the game, dumbass,” Neil retorts. He pulls away enough to look into Andrew’s eyes. He blinks in clear surprise at whatever he finds there. 

“Was it the press conference?” Andrew demands.  

“Oh my god. You don’t know,” Neil says, his voice breaking off into a laugh. Andrew frowns, tightens his grip on Neil’s hips, says his name in a low warning. “Yes, Drew, that, too. But…”

Neil cuts himself off by tugging Andrew onto the edge of their bed. He clicks on the television, and the headline that jumps out at Andrew makes him thankful he’s already sitting. 

Ichirou Moriyama is dead. 

“We’re free,” Neil says, voice awed. 

Andrew doesn’t bother tuning in to the rest of the report. He’s heard enough: an FBI shootout, arrest warrants for other members of the family, now confirmed to have been involved in organized crime, all kinds of nefarious activity. 

Andrew clicks off the television, pushes Neil down onto his back with one palm on his toned stomach. They’re going to be celebrating more than one win tonight.

–

The fall season crawls along, and Andrew’s team continues to dominate their conference. They’ve only lost two games by the time Christmas rolls around, and Andrew gets enough time off for him and Neil to spend the holiday at the Columbia house. Nicky and Erik are home from Germany for the next three weeks, and Aaron has managed to get enough time away from the hospital to fly down for twenty-four hours. Kevin and Wymack join them in Colombia for a Christmas Eve dinner, and they take turns FaceTiming the other Foxes before heading home. 

Andrew wakes Neil up in the early hours of Christmas morning. He has two surprises for Neil, and isn't sure what he’ll make of either one of them. He hadn’t been able to sleep because of it.

Neil is sleepy and confused in the passenger seat of their rental car as Andrew drives them out of the city. He’s wearing one of Andrew’s knitted sweaters, the collar loose around his throat, hair a mess from sleep. He’s distracting, comforting. Beautiful.

They’ve been driving for almost an hour and a half before Andrew speaks.

“You told me once,” Andrew begins, his voice throaty. “That when you’ve moved out of Palmetto, you wanted–”

“Lots of land,” Neil finishes, clearly remembering the conversation. He laughs. “I think I said I wanted stairs, too. No more apartments.”

“Multiple floors,” Andrew confirms. He lets the words hang in the air.

Neil turns his knees towards Andrew, lips parted. “You bought me a house?”

“I bought us a house,” Andrew corrects immediately. “Sight unseen. Don’t expect anything–”

“Andrew, we don’t need a house,” Neil interrupts. “We’ve got the apartment, Colombia–”

“The house is in your name,” Andrew says. He knows Neil is smart enough to hear the words that Andrew has left out. The apartment is under Andrew’s name, and the house in Colombia is owned by Andrew, Aaron, and Nicky. This house will be Neil’s. The first piece of property he will ever own.

Andrew flicks on his blinker, turns the car, and begins the long journey down the bumpy, unpaved driveway. The property boasts an old farmhouse, six bedrooms, and five bathrooms. There’s a barn, large and slightly crumbling, its white paint greyed and chipping. They drive past the unmowed fields, an algae-covered pond with a small, rotting dock. Neil is quiet, his eyes wide, attention darting over their surroundings.

“You get a choice in this,” Andrew says as he begins to slow the car. The house is in front of them, painted a faint yellow, the front porch wide and sturdy. When Andrew had seen the images online, he’d pictured Neil returning from a trail run, sweaty and smiling, Andrew settled on the porch with a coffee and book in hand. So domestic it makes his arms itchy. “If you want something different, somewhere different, I’ll retract the offer.”

“Andrew,” Neil says, breathless. He’s already unbuckling, reaching for the car door. 

Neil bounds up to the porch, lets himself in through the unlocked door. He pauses in the large foyer, the massive wooden staircase at his shoulder. There’s no furniture, and the entire house needs to be gutted, but even Allison had confessed that the place had nice bones. 

It’ll be a project, an investment in their shared future.

“How big is the lot?” Neil asks, peering out of the window above the kitchen sink.

“Big,” Andrew answers honestly. “You said you wanted space.”

Neil grins. “And stairs.”

“There’s space for a pool,” Andrew says, striding up to his side. “And trails all over the place. The barn can be renovated, too. Allison has plans drawn up for the whole damn thing. I know it needs a lot of work, but–”

Neil shakes his head. “I want it,” he says. “I can be here when you’re away from the city. We could put extra bedrooms in the barn for the other Foxes, for…” Neil trails off, hesitates before speaking again. “For kids. Dan and Matt want another.”

“Katelyn is pregnant,” Andrew says. “Aaron told me last night. Said Nicky’s present is becoming a godfather. I told him Nicky’s more likely to want to be named a grandparent.”

Neil laughs. He leans into Andrew’s side, smiles into his shoulder. A minute passes before he speaks again. “I don’t know about–”

“Me, too,” Andrew nods. He’s worried enough about being an uncle. 

Neil exhales. “For now, cats.”

“Cats,” Andrew says dryly.

“Cats,” Neil nods. He kisses a trail up to Andrew’s jaw, smiling so hard it makes Andrew’s composure melt. He feels his own happiness tug at the corners of his mouth. 

“One more surprise,” Andrew says. He blurts out the words before Neil’s smile can disappear. “Court. They called me. I told them I need time. There are two years–”

“Shut up,” Neil demands. Andrew watches him closely, but Neil’s smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it grows. “You’re going to the Olympics. You’re going to Rio.”

Andrew shrugs. “This was always your dream. Not mine.”

Neil finds the question, the uncertainty, in Andrew’s words. “I want you to go,” Neil nods. 

Andrew cracks his own smile. “I figured as much.” And here comes the hard part, the confession that has been bothering Andrew all throughout the past week of negotiations and meetings. He knows Neil better than anyone, and yet, Andrew cannot pretend to know whether or not Neil will want this. “How do you feel about coaching?”

Neil’s mouth falls open. “They would never—”

“They can and they will,” Andrew says firmly. “It was part of my contract. If I'm going, then you’re going with me.”

“I’ve never coached in my life,” Neil protests. 

“You wrangled Foxes for years,” Andrew shrugs. “You’ve got more experience than you think, Bunny.”

Neil goes pink, his smile turning sheepish as he looks away. “Can I think about it?”

Andrew nods. “If it’s a no, you’ll be there in some other capacity.”

“Yeah,” Neil nods. Andrew can practically see the wheels turning in his head. He blinks, clears his head before turning his attention back on Andrew. “I don’t know how I’m ever going to beat this, but I want to give you your present. We have to pick it up on our way home.”

This piques Andrew’s curiosity, but he makes no move to rush Neil out of the farmhouse. He watches Neil trail his fingers over the dusty staircase, peek into closets, and stand, smiling, on the porch.

“This is the second home you’ve given me,” Neil says once they’ve finally gotten back in the car. He’s holding Andrew’s right hand in both of his own, palms warm and soft. “Thank you, Drew.”

“Shut up,” Andrew says, swallowing down the ball of emotion in his throat. 

Neil shuts up. At least, for a while. He starts babbling in the last ten minutes of their trip home, nervously directing Andrew through Colombia until they’ve pulled into a nondescript parking lot, a slate-grey warehouse looming in front of them. It kind of reminds Andrew of Eden’s, and he raises his eyebrows in an unspoken question.

Neil is first out of the car, and he raps his knuckles once against the metal garage door in front of them. It opens a heartbeat later. There’s a black Aston Martin gleaming in the fluorescent lights. 

It’s one of the fastest, most expensive cars on the market. 

“How do you feel about driving back to New York?” Neil asks. 

–

They take their time driving up from South Carolina. As much as Andrew wants to push the car to its limits, he also wants to relish the feeling of soft leather under his palms, memorize the roar of the engine. Andrew also wants to take Neil apart in his lap, the redhead's back arched around the steering wheel. Andrew swallows Neil whole in the backseat, puts Neil’s newfound love for pilates to work and bends his legs over Andrew’s shoulders.

They christen the car for days, until New York is abruptly in front of them. 

The only thing that turns Andrew on more than Neil buying him a car (a second car, in fact) is seeing Neil drive the thing. Andrew tosses Neil the keys at a Connecticut rest stop, memorizes the angles of Neil’s smile as he snaps a photo of the wheel in front of him, Andrew’s hand clamped down possessively on the inside of his bare thigh.

@neiljosten10 

[1 image] sugar baby privileges 

–

The Panthers win the winter championships. 

Rollins, their backup goalie, takes a fall in the first four minutes of the game. She does something to her wrist, and Andrew finds himself in goal for the whole game. Jeremy throws himself against Andrew, but in the end, the Goldminers' offense is no match for the Panthers. Andrew has a shutout game. 

Later that night, their apartment filled with Foxes and ex-Trojans and Goldminers and Panthers alike, Andrew slips out of their own party, tugs Neil up to the roof. He slips his championship ring onto Neil’s pointer finger, purple and black jewels glinting in the cold air. It’s much too big, threatening to slip off Neil’s nimble fingers as he reaches for Andrew’s belt. 

Neil goes to take off the ring right as Andrew pulls himself out of his pants. 

“Leave it on,” Andrew demands. He wonders if he’s developing a kink for seeing Neil in jewelry. A part of Andrew hopes that he is. He’s still got another ring waiting for Neil. Maybe an Olympic medal, too.

Neil gets an eager glint in his eyes. He drops to his knees right there on the roof.

–

The next day, the Panthers are dragged to a post-championship press conference. Andrew fields plenty of questions, learns that the match is the first championship game in history to end in a shutout. Andrew wishes Neil were here, wonders if his smile would be shocked or knowing or mischievous, or some combination of the three.

As if reading his mind, the next question directed to Andrew is about Neil.

“An image was recently posted to Neil’s Josten's Twitter showcasing an expensive sports car and what is believed to be your hand,” The reporter begins. “Can you confirm that this was you?”

“Yes,” Andrew says plainly.

“Was the car a gift to Neil?” Someone else asks. 

“Something like that,” Andrew shrugs.

The next question comes quickly. “With Josten’s birthday approaching, what do you plan on gifting him next?”

Andrew leans into the mic, his mouth pulling into the small smile only Neil will recognize. “A ring.”

–

Neil emails Andrew the photos while he’s packing. 

In reality, Andrew is rapidly shoving random, unfolded articles of clothing into a duffel bag. There's an eleven-hour drive sitting between Andrew and his husband, and he’s eager to get on the road. He hasn’t seen Neil in weeks, since Andrew flew to Nevada for an Olympic training camp and Neil had flown to South Carolina to settle into the farmhouse. The pool is finally installed, the interior fully decorated. They have two cats now, two pets Andrew hasn’t met because Neil couldn’t wait a week to adopt them, and Andrew can’t stand to tell him no. 

Andrew’s phone pings with the email notification, followed abruptly by the alert that Neil has posted on Twitter. Andrew releases a long-suffering sigh before opening the app.

Neil has posted one of the images from the Calvin Klein campaign he’d shot last month. Neil had been dressed in all white for his campaign, the color bright and soft against his complexion. He’s got his oversized white t-shirt held between his teeth, his exposed stomach toned and flat and scarred. Andrew’s eyes linger on the sharp lines of Neil’s exposed hipbones, the slope of his trim waist. 

@neiljosten10

[1 image] i said id do it if minyard does it

Two minutes later, he posts the one photo Andrew had allowed to be taken of himself. He’s in black briefs, a black t-shirt, black armbands. A complete contrast to the soft white of Neil. Andrew’s leaning into Neil’s space, a hand on the back of his neck, silver ring shining against Neil’s skin. Neil is smiling in challenge. His own ring isn’t visible, but Neil’s caption makes their marriage very, very clear. As does his new username.

@neiljostenminyard10

[1 image] its me. im the minyard