Joel couldn’t sleep. He had a lot of trouble sleeping as of late and he wasn’t all that sure why. He slipped out of bed and the warmth radiating off of his boyfriend as he pulled on a pair of jogger pants and a Palmetto hoodie before pulling on a pair of socks and his sneakers. He grabbed his phone and wallet and started off toward the court. He usually ran but tonight he walked. The fresh air helped to clear his head and that’s what he needed.
He thought about going to the court itself to throw a ball at the wall but instead he went to his office and sat on the couch going over the tapes Wymack had given him of potential players for the team. He was so immersed in them that he never heard someone come in.
Brayden was in such a hurry to leave the court after the game that he left duffel bag in his locker. There wasn’t anything too important in there, just a change of clothes, but he didn’t have enough clothes to spare, especially when most of them were dirty. He remembered this as he was about to go to bed, because that seemed to be the time where he thought too much, prompting him to make a late night trip to the court.
Once he grabbed everything, he cut through the office to head back to the parking lot, stopping short when he saw Joel on the couch. “Wymack doesn’t make you watch this shit all night, does he?” He asked in disgust, another reminder of why he could never work for the man.
Halloween was probably the best time of year, in Claudia’s opinion. All of those stupid haunted houses with people waiting behind every corner to jump out and scare you. She had to restrain her urge to punch someone every time she went through those halls, but it never stopped her from going. She loved the scary movies that got better to watch once the fog settles in. Hell, her favorite video game to play was a slasher game. So it made her choice to tattoo her love of Halloween on herself, not that she had any clue of what she was getting. Wouldn’t have one until she got to the parlor.
Before she was finished getting ready, Claudia called out into the hallway full of her fellow Foxes, “I’m going to get a tattoo! Anyone who wants to join is welcome!” Then she left the door open and went back into her bedroom to finished putting on clothing. She had a bag of half-eaten Halloween candy she’d bought just because she could, even if she almost never ate candy on her desk and she picked at it periodically as she got ready, a little upset that the season for Halloween was over.
Brayden thought Halloween parties were pretty stupid. He never went to them in high school and skipped most of the ones at Palmetto. He didn’t hate Halloween, in general though. He made an effort to watch a few horror movies the day leading up to it, at least. He made the surprising decision to go to the Vixen’s Halloween party, feeling the need to do something after their shitty game. It would be crowded and hot, but at least there would be alcohol.
He opened the door to the suite, ready to head to his car to grab his last pack of cigarettes when he heard Claudia yelling down the hallway. The mention of “tattoo” caused him to perk in interest. There wasn’t much Brayden had interest in, but tattoos weren’t one of them, which led him to popping in to her room, leaning against the doorway. “What was that about a tattoo?” He asked with a raised brow.
The roof of Fox Tower was a place of comfort for Teddy which was odd for someone with a small fear of heights. He’d been spending a lot of time there since the game; it was quiet, it was secluded, it was a good place to clear his head and usually people that if you were on the roof, you didn’t want to be bothered.
Teddy had been, for lack of a better phrase, kind of a jerk since the game. He was pissed off that they’d lost and he’d been snippy the past few days, walking around with a face like thunder and snapping at anyone that looked at him for too long, even the other Foxes or the Vixens. It wasn’t usually this bad, lost games happened but it didn’t help what had happened after.
He wasn’t mad that his mom had turned up and he wasn’t mad that she brought along Jake, his step-dad. He was mad that they hadn’t warned him they were coming and that it’d thrown him off during the game, he’d been so worried about having to talk to them after that it completely blew his concentration. Jake wasn’t even a bad guy, quite the opposite actually; he was friendly and talkative, he wanted to know about Teddy and made every effort to let Teddy know he was a good person. It wasn’t enough for someone who grew up with a dad like Teddy’s.
It was dark now and Teddy had been on the roof for ours, Bacon lying on one side of him and on the other was his flask of coffee, a few books, a crumpled cigarette packet and his phone, which he’d switched off to avoid having to talk to anyone. It was getting colder these days too so he had a blanket around his shoulders that swamped his smaller frame. He was engrossed in the school work he’d fallen behind on and the sound of the door made him jump.
“Jesus Christ, don’t do that!” He exclaimed, looking up and huffing out breath to recover from the surprise. “You scared the shit out of me, what do you want?”
It wasn’t like Brayden needed an excuse to go up on the roof top. It was the best and easiest place for a smoke break. Sometimes he went up there to get away, and sometimes he went purely because it was easier than going out on campus. Today was one of those days where he needed a break. He didn’t know why he did it, considering he never bothered in the past, but he actually bothered to look up articles about the Foxes after their last game.
It was clear the media and the other teams were doubting their strength, after multiple close games and their recent loss. Usually, he wouldn’t give a shit what everyone else thought or if they lost or not, but with his brother still in the picture, and the Ravens game looming closer and closer, he didn’t want to be seen an embarrassment.
There was also the shit with Arlo that he tried ignore and deny, but it was becoming impossible when they kept falling back into each other. There was a lot on his mind, and he never learned how to manage stress in healthy way. At least chain smoking is better than the alternative. With a pack in hand, he opened the door to the rooftop, jumping himself when whoever was there first spoke up. “I just opened the fucking door,” Brayden muttered as he lit up a cigarette. “Am I allowed to smoke up here still or is it reserved for your picnic or whatever it is you’re doing?” He never minded Teddy. He was one of the only Foxes he could stand. He was just feeling defensive all around lately.
As always, Vivian finds herself checking over and over again to make sure everything would run smoothly tonight. At first the party had been a fun idea just for a little attention and fun but after the last game it was now a way of raising morale for the Fox’s loss. It was a strange concept to have that kind of pressure and more importantly to care about how it was received. Sure, she’d make fun of their sometimes surly ways and mysterious moods but Vivian did like the Foxes. The team was growing on her daily and even she felt a pang of disappointment at the loss. Not to mention, the interesting talk she had with her mother about future career prospects hours after the game. Safe to say, she needed her mind off of it.
So once the party’s in full swing so is she. Slightly drunk, she’s engaging in plenty of conversation with names she’d soon forget and dancing. The usual cool composure had almost completely melted away. “Do you know that I was supposed to be a child star?” Words are slurred and mixed with mischief as she randomly faced the person she saw. “Yeah, imagine a crazier Vivian Brooks. Probably popping pills with Miley Cyrus and whatever.”
Brayden’s costume isn’t much of a costume as it is a regular shirt and a baseball cap. He did make the effort of carrying around a hammer though, claiming he’s Chip Gaines from Fixer Upper. Usually, he wouldn’t show up at Halloween party at all, but Halloween is probably one of the only holiday’s he can somewhat stand, and he gets free alcohol out of it. He spends most of the party alone in a corner or outside smoking. He’s not there to dance or socialize with his teammates, but to get drunk and forget the game. Plus, the more he drinks, the more into his costume he gets, tapping his hammer against the kitchen counter and offering to flip people’s houses.
He’s pushes through the crowd to pour another drink when he runs into the Vixen captain, nearly knocking her over. Her random confession causes him to pause with furrowed brows before letting out a drunken laugh. “Sounds like it worked out for the better then,” He comments, taking a step back and running into someone else in the process. “Nobody wants to pop pills with Miley Cyrus. Child stars always become drug addicts.”
“You not having anything peppy to say? I’m shocked.” He drawls and rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat. He’s plenty angry, but Brayden can’t do anything about it–he manages a small smile to himself when he thinks about the fact that this must be what his teammate feels like all the time, even though it’s already starting to air on the side of exhausting more than it is therapeutic. He takes another pull from the bottle when it finds its way back to his hands, swishes the amber colored liquid. Normally he would try and say something here, make another joke or give a compliment, but he just can’t tonight. He’s completely drained of love for really–anything–at this moment, and Brayden would probably prefer if he kept his mouth shut.
He offers up the bottle again and hopes that says more than he can, keeps his eyes on the city living and breathing without any care for what happened on the court today. He doesn’t know what that’s like, he’s never known, and he doesn’t want to know what that’s like in the end–but it might be nice, at least for a few minutes. To not live and die like this. He spares a glance up at Brayden who’s gaze is locked on the same horizon, smoke drifting lazily from his cigarette, before he lets it fall to the concrete underneath him and he begins tracing idle shapes with his finger. “I don’t really wish I was at Ohio State anymore, but–” He pauses, doesn’t really know why those are the words that he chooses to say. “But tonight I kind of do.”
Brayden takes a seat beside the other Fox when the bottle makes it’s way back to his hand again, figuring this must be a thing now. He’s not complaining, because it seems like the only logical thing to do post-loss, get drunk. He rotates between his cigarette and the alcohol, taking a slow pull before passing it back to Casey. He remains silent, keeping all his anger and frustration with the results of the game locked away. There’s some sick irony in the fact that the first game he plays not partnered with Arlo is the one they lose. He knows the switch up didn’t effect the entire team too much, but it feels like the universe is laughing at him, reminding him that he can’t get away from the other, no matter how hard he tries.
As Casey speaks up, he snaps out of his thoughts and gives him a perplexed look. “Those fuckers?” He shakes his head in disgust. How Casey lasted as long as he did with them, he’d never know. Brayden would've walked out the door and chose homelessness over that bullshit. “Why the fuck would you want that?” One loss can’t be worse than playing for Ohio, at least. They can’t win every game they play.
Isadora knew what it was like to lose. She’d lost enough over the years to know what loss felt like. But it was a different sort of loss – in a way. Perhaps when she boiled it down, it was the same sort of emotions: anger, denial, disappointment in yourself and other people, sadness, even the feeling of hopelessness. It didn’t matter if the loss was something as simple as a game or more complicated, like the loss of faith in humanity. Technically they were the same. Looking at all the Foxes knew that they’d suffered a big loss tonight and even if Isadora knew so little about Exy, she knew that ending a winning streak was not something the team needed. Winning at everything though, was impossible. She didn’t want to give pep talks to everyone because that wasn’t something she could do. It was too stereotypical and Isadora was far too sarcastic to be the type to tell everyone that everything was going to be okay, when she didn’t believe that herself. She believed that things only got better because people made them better by forcing the situation to bend to their will. And she didn’t think that any of the Foxes wanted to hear that right now. So she wasn’t going to be the person that tried to cheer them up, as un-cheerleader-like as that was.
While the rest of her own teammates went off to do whatever they did after a game, Isadora found herself not wanting to go back to the Vixen Den. She instead found herself locking her gear up in her locker and heading to the nearest bar. Some people said that drinking away problems didn’t help. But Isadora didn’t care and she didn’t have any problems right now anyway. She wanted to be around people, without being around people that she knew.
Brayden shoved his hands in the pockets of his hoodie as stepped through the door of the bar, already tense by the amount of people in there on a Friday night. He didn’t like crowds or paying for his drinks, but the thought of being around the others after their first loss of the season sounded like torture. He would just pretend like everyone’s moping and whining annoyed him, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t give a shit that they lost today. In the past, he didn’t care either way, as long as he had a spot on the team, but he was making an effort this year. He didn’t want to be an embarrassment this year, so he was feeling this loss harder than expected. He would suck it up and drop some cash on a few drinks if it meant not having to face reality for a little while.
He slid into the only free barstool, next to a girl she vaguely recognized. She wasn’t a Fox obviously, so she must be a Vixen. “Uh Whisky on the rocks,” He requested when the bartender came to him, fishing out his ID and showing it to him. When he got his drink, he took a long sip, ready to feel nothing. Setting it down, he peered over at the potential Vixen. “You getting anything?”
Sometimes being in the position that he’s in makes him forget–or maybe it’s a conscious decision, that’s a dilemma for another day, that he’s just as young and stupid as his players are–or at least he has a right to be. He used to be the guy that would say what Brayden is saying to him right now, to take the win in stride and deal with the specifics on another day, that life was too short and all that jazz. He doesn’t really want to know who’s lurking in a hotel bar at this hour of the morning, and he’s not entirely sure that Brayden is going to last much more than a couple more minutes before he completely passes out, but it’s the thought that counts. That’s the whole point, he’s got plenty of steam that he could serve to blow off, and even though he and Brayden would never be bar hopping friends even outside of this situation, he’s offering and Sebastian isn’t in a position to refuse. “All right, all right. But you’re already pretty wasted, and am so not hauling your unconscious body to the bus or whatever. So water for you.”
He puts a hand on the striker’s shoulder to steady him as they walk to the few feet to the entrance of the bar, manages to settle them both on stools with only a few awry looks from the staff. “I don’t even know what to drink, when did I just let myself become so–lame?” He laughs gently and scrubs a hand over his face, worries his bottom lip between his teeth as he examines a menu. “You’ve been at it already tonight, do some coaching of your own and rerun the favor.” It’s a far cry from a packed to the brim LA nightclub like he used to do when celebrations were called for, and since he became a coach he hasn’t really felt like it was his place to be in the middle of things. It’s just easier to remove himself and be–that guy.
Brayden rolls his eyes and pushes himself up from his seat. It’s clear his coach doesn’t know shit about Brayden’s tolerance levels, because he’s fine. He’s drank much more than this without making an ass out of himself. “Yeah, whatever,” He mumbles, shrugging Sebastian’s hand off his shoulder as he leads the way to the bar. There’s only a few people there, probably lonely business travelers that have nothing better to do than to drink the night away. “When you joined Wymack’s staff,” He retorts as he shifts onto the barstool, taking his own menu and reading over the options. He can use some food as well, and he’s definitely not switching to water yet.
Looking up from his menu, he peers over the coach’s shoulder as he contemplates the best starting drink for him. He doesn’t know his liquor preference, but it seems like Sebastian doesn’t either. “What about a rum and coke?” He suggests with a half shrug. “It’s such a basic drink that they’ll probably card you just for ordering it. Margaritas are always a safe drink too,” He adds as the bartender turns his attention to him. “Whisky ginger, fries, and whatever he’s having,” Brayden gestures to Sebastian.
It’s a cliche at this point–a losing effort, a bottle of something strong, the roof of Fox Tower. But it’s the best he can do tonight with residual anger buzzing in his head, and a distinct desire to not be found by any of his teammates or anyone at all for that matter. He guarantees that if he opens his mouth right now what’s going to come out of it is going to be sharp, so he’s heading this whole thing off and just keeping it shut–removing himself until tomorrow when this might not hurt so much. He wants the sounds of passing cars below him and the lights in the distance to do something–to drown out everything else and just leave him with a comfortable numbness–but instead he’s still holding himself tightly, like the next person that walks through the door to the roof is going to start a fight.
When did it get to be like this? Lately every time he takes the court it feels like throwing his body at a brick wall over and over, hoping for something to break and instead just coming away bruised and angry. It’s all the worse because there isn’t a solution in sight at the moment; he’s not anyone’s coach, he’s not a one man defensive machine, how is he supposed to right the ship when no matter how hard he fights it just keeps hitting the rocks? He takes a long pull from the bottle he has with him and exhales, runs a hand through his hair–and of course the old metal door slams. He doesn’t make an effort to move and see who it is, just leans his head against he brick wall and pulls his knees up to his chest, offers up the bottle.
“Save the pep talk, if that’s why you’re here.” He says lowly, his voice rough from disuse.
Brayden had a feeling all week that their luck was going to end, and it turns out he was right. The Jackrabbits were brutal from the start, the proof being all the yellow cards they walked away with. It’s not a death sentence, but it’s a shitty feeling all the same. He doesn’t feel like being around anyone or talking about the game in his room, so he only goes in long enough to change into sweats before taking his cigarettes up to the roof. He knows before he even opens the door that someone else will already be up there, because someone is always on the roof. He’s come to accept that. At least the white noise from the cars below will be easier to handle than the chatter of the other Foxes.
He pushes the door open, cigarette already placed between his lips as he spies Casey against the wall, offering up the bottle in his hand. Brayden doesn’t hesitate to grab the bottle from his hands and take a long pull, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before handing it back to him. “I don’t have anything peppy to say,” He mumbles before taking a drag from his cigarette. “That was shitty.” There was shoving and a lot of general disorganization. He felt it particularly hard himself from his unfamiliar spot on the court. He didn’t realize how in sync with Arlo he became, until he had to play with someone else.
For a moment, all Arlo can do is stare, rooted to the spot, eyes wide and disbelieving. His hands - still buried in his hair where they were, only a moment ago, lathering shampoo into his scalp - awkwardly retract, moving slowly to cover his crotch. He coughs. Clears his throat and blinks, squinting against the soap trying to make its way over the protective ridge of his eyebrows and into his eyes.
His face is hot, from the water and the embarrassment and the sheer absurdity of the situation.
He tells himself not to look. That it would be a very bad idea for him to look.
…
He looks.
A second later his eyes are darting away, flitting between the shampoo bottle and the tiled floor and Brayden’s exposed chest and back to the floor-
This is torture. Some kind of freakish, divine retribution. He’s sure of it. Because he’s been waiting to see Brayden naked for months, months, and now that it’s finally happening he can hardly enjoy it because they’re both still mad. But, Jesus, he looks so good. Better than Arlo had imagined, honestly. His hair is still damp from practice, plastered against the back of his neck. His bare arms are slightly tanned, his torso cut and lean. (From what he saw, everything else was… great, too. Very great. The greatest.)
Arlo chances a look at the other striker, opens his mouth to speak, but he’s too slow. Brayden beats him to the punch.
“What do you mean ‘Of fucking course’?” Arlo spits back, grabbing Brayden’s elbow before he can move to leave. “Uh, last I checked, I was here first. You’re the one who barged in on me!”
Arlo doesn’t get mad often. It makes him feel sick to his stomach. Twisted up and confused and off balance. He hates getting angry, but, right now, he doesn’t exactly have much of a choice. He scowls and takes a step forward, further into Brayden’s personal space, poking a finger into the other fox’s chest.
“What the hell is your problem lately, anyway? Look. I get that the banquet was… crossing some sort of line. I get that I fucked something up, and I’m sorry for that. I’m really fucking sorry. But, Jesus!” Arlo throws up his hands in exasperation. Shampoo slides down his chest in thin, soapy lines. “How long are you going to keep punishing me? I’m tired of walking around on eggshells. I’m tired of avoiding you! I’m tired of acting like our friendship never existed. I get that I messed up, before, but… I don’t know what you want me to do. I can’t take it back, Brayden. And, even if I could, I don’t want to! You know why?”
He’s probably about to cross another line. Cause another rift between them. But, he’s gone this far, and honestly, he’s tired of holding back.
“Because I like you. A lot. And, it’s not like it was ever secret. I told you myself, after the first time we hung out. I’ve always liked you. And I don’t regret that, even if you might. There…. There aren’t many things that make me happy anymore, alright? In case you hadn’t noticed, my whole life has sort of imploded in the last year. But, being with you… I feel better. Normal. And I can’t stand the way things are between us, now. So….” He trails off, eyes stinging.
He tells himself it’s just the shampoo.
He tightens his grip on Brayden’s elbow.
“Tell me what to do.”
Arlo’s hand grips his arm before he can leave, and Brayden has never had to try so hard in his life not to look down, because Arlo is touching him. Naked. In the shower. This sort of thing only happens in sitcoms, not real life, but Brayden has somehow found a way to literally stumble in on the other in the shower when he’s actively trying to avoid anything to do with him. It’s definitely not something he planned on doing, and now that it’s happened and Arlo prevented him from leaving, he’s at a complete loss of words. It doesn’t help when Arlo retorts with logic that he has no argument against. He did barge in on Arlo, something that only he would do on accident. That’s the frustrating part.
Before Brayden can come up with a sarcastic response and leave, Arlo moves in closer, leaving little to no space in between them. His gaze drops before he can stop himself and his entire body shivers in response. He’s spent the past few months thinking about how fucking attractive Arlo is and how much he wants to do something about it, but stopped himself because of his rule. Now that they’re this close, undressed, he can barely remember what his rule is in the first place.
He’s so preoccupied with keeping himself under control that he misses the first few heated words from Arlo, tuning in just in time to hear Arlo blame himself for what happened at the banquet. A bitter laugh escapes his lips. It’s not fucking funny, but Brayden wants to laugh, because the best part of this entire thing is that it’s his fault. Sure, Arlo pulled him on to the dance flloor and probably got too close, but Brayden’s the one who kissed him. This isn’t one of those books where the character can’t tell who initiated the kiss, only that it’s happening. It was him.
Brayden still doesn’t say anything, but Arlo doesn’t exactly give him a window to, seemingly unable to stop now that he’s started. As he says those words again, Brayden flinches in his hold, eyes going wide. He always knew there was something more to “I like you,” but he didn’t want to accept it. He still doesn’t, but he’s not an idiot. He knows what it means when his chest feels too tight when he’s around Arlo--how gravitates towards him without meaning to and can’t say no to him. He kissed him, for fucks sake. Of course, he fucking likes him too.
Tell me what to do.
Letting out a breath, he gives himself a moment to look into Arlo’s wide, pleading eyes and feel the hand on his elbow as steam surrounds them. “Fuck,” He whispers before he’s grabbing Arlo by the waist and pushing him against the closest wall, under the spray of the shower. Bodies flush together, he dives in for a bruising kiss, his hand gliding along Arlo’s wet skin and settling on his lower back to pull him in closer.
Three wins to their name, and Brandon should feel like they have more momentum than this. But winning streaks are not something he’s had a lot of experience with, and he’s sure the other Foxes haven’t either, and he can’t help but feel a little bit like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. For their luck to turn.
None of them got to where they were by being content with their performance: part of being an elite athlete is always seeking to improve, to perform better—and if there’s such a thing as a perfect win, Brandon hasn’t seen it yet. But Brandon’s not sure if they can fix all of the missteps from the last game before the next one—especially when new problems seem to present themselves without warning.
Like Brayden in practice this week. Since their conversation at the beginning of the season, Brandon had thought that he was focused, steady—a player he could rely on.
And yeah, maybe it’s good to see him putting in the extra time, but it’d be better if he used practice for its intended purpose and did it right the first time. “My job doesn’t end when your practice does—there’s a lot of video I have to review to make sure we’re prepped for the Jackrabbits.” He stops in the doorway of the court, leaning against the Plexiglass. Not quite inside. It feels like where he belongs, now.
“It’s not your shot that needs practice, it’s your teamwork.” He says, keeping his tone one of neutral observation instead of accusation, not sure if that’ll really be enough to help. “What’s up with you this week?”
Brayden wrinkles his nose as he goes back to dribbling the ball. He still doesn’t have any idea what he wants to do after graduation. It always seems like there’s two options for Exy players, go professional or join the staff, and Brayden doesn’t see himself doing either. He doesn’t have the passion to play for a professional team or spend his time reviewing tapes of old games. He’d lose his fucking mind. As much as he can’t put himself in Brandon’s shoes, he can imagine why he chose this after he couldn’t play anymore. What else is there?
“Anything interesting on the tapes?” He asks flatly, more to steer the conversation in a safe direction than out of genuine interest. It’s not like he doesn’t care at all. It’s probably important information to know. He’d rather talk about that than his performance during practice, at least. He can’t blame Brandon for asking. Any coach would. But there’s no way he’s telling any of the staff that he’s playing like shit, because he’s an idiot and made out with another Fox.
“I’ll save that for my session with Bee,” Brayden pauses his dribbling to give Brandon a pointed look. He’s not talking about that with him. Most likely, he’s not going to bring it up to Bee either, unless she works her button pushing magic and gets it out of him. Brayden knows he needs to get it together and not bring his personal shit on to the court, but he’s never been good at separating one from the other.
“Specific, thanks,” Lukas said brightly, not at all phased. He wasn’t actually sure what his own answer would be really. Well, he did. Given the choice, pretty much all his time would be spent wherever Jordan was, but he couldn’t always have his way. Palmetto was a close second. It was home now, after all. “Shit, yeah, I’ve been to both for cheer trips. I’m a big fan of roller coasters even though sometimes my height makes lap bars super uncomfortable.” How they got on this topic was beyond him, but he wasn’t going to complain. It was nice that someone had actually seemed to be down for small talk or actually just not being mopey for no reason. Brayden was fitting the bill more than he expected.
“Then there you go, problem solved.” He fell into step beside the Fox, a little extra pep in his step now that he actually had a plan. He was such a social person that just wandering around the hotel without any sort of aims tended to just make him feel listless, his own buzz shrinking. This was better. “Doesn’t a difficult win make it better? What’s the point of just steamrolling everyone? I mean, I never really cared about Exy before but I still understand the sport, and I can tell you all are already playing better this season. If you all keep trying to be perfect or whatever, everyone’s constantly going to be disappointed.” His little rant surprised him, but Lukas didn’t try to retract any of it, realizing he genuinely meant everything he said. “I think it’s been a great season.”
Brayden didn’t know how he felt about amusement parks. The last time he went to one, he was still a kid, but he was pretty sure he was so scared he nearly shit himself. He wasn’t sure if he grew out of that or not. Looking up at Lukas, he gave him a little smirk in amusement. “Yeah, no shit. What are you? Nearly seven foot?” He snorted. It wasn’t like Brayden was short by any means, but he had to look up to talk to him, so he could imagine that it would be difficult to fit that guy in a rollercoaster seat...or anywhere. He shook his head to clear his mind on the random tangent it was going on. He needed sleep, but knew it wouldn’t come if he tried.
“You’re asking the wrong guy,” Brayden shook his head with a quiet laugh. In the past, he didn’t give a shit about how they won, as long as they did. Most days, he didn’t give a shit if they lost. He never got why people beat themselves up post win, until recently. “I don’t know. I guess it feels like shit when the team won, but despite you, not because of you,” He explained with a lazy shrug. “Two yellow cards isn’t anything to celebrate over.” They were doing better than last season, but they were Foxes and nothing was easy. Even they found a way to make winning difficult. Brayden wasn’t trying to play perfectly, but he was also trying to do more than he used to. "Of course you do. You get to watch and dance around,” He rolled his eyes as they stepped into the lobby. The bar was off to the side. “I’d rather do that, but I wouldn’t look good in the uniform and I don’t dance.”
“Sleep?” Lilith parrots, sounding beyond disappointed with his choice, “You’d rather sleep than hang out with me? That’s fucking tragic, I. am. heartbroken. But if the cafeteria is where you’ll show me to then please lead the way!” She’s more than happy to leave her luggage here, with it being more trouble than it’s worth to carry around and nothing in there being sentimental enough to worry about. She has her phone, she has her purse, that’s all she really needs. And besides, if anyone does try to take anything, then that’ll be a cause for some well-timed drama. Not that she expects anything of the sort to happen, though.
“I’d rather sleep than do anything,” Brayden deadpans before grabbing his key off the kitchen counter and opening the door. “Do you know who your actual roommates are? Because unless you want to sleep on the couch, you’re not sleeping here.” He makes his way through the tower, expecting that she’ll follow along. Wasn’t this Grant’s or Wymack’s job? Brayden definitely shouldn’t be showing any new people around, because more than likely they’ll quit afterwards. “So this is the hall,” He gestures awkwardly. “Not much goes on here.”
Don’t read your own press was true for most people somewhat in the public light, but it was probably about twice as true for Foxes. But it’s hard to avoid when it seems like it’s Brandon’s job, and he can’t help the feeling, in the lull between their game against the Tornadoes and their upcoming game against the Jackrabbits, like the sharks are circling. There’s blood in the water: the Foxes beat the Tornadoes, but they stumbled, they showed weakness.
An overtime win is easy to dismiss, easy to argue that the Foxes were outplayed, that they just got a lucky bounce. Who knows, maybe it’s true. If it were, at least luck would have gone in the Foxes’ favor for once.
As a Coach, it’s his job to get the balance right: to keep the Foxes from getting complacent, but not let them get discouraged by their past mistakes. They’re still in the mix for Championships, as the regular season enters its second half, they have to stay focused, they can’t falter now. He doesn’t know if he’s achieving it, doesn’t know if it’s something he can do. All he does know is that he’s spending more time in the court than ever before—and that, from the sound of it, he’s not the only one.
“Practice ended awhile ago,” he calls, having followed some sound into the should-have-been empty court. “If you work yourself too hard, you won’t have anything left for the Jackrabbits.”
Maybe, it’s childish, but Brayden’s been avoiding his room ever since the banquet. He’s been finding things to do around campus or town, until he’s sure the rest of his roommates are asleep. At least this time, he’s doing something productive, choosing to avoid reality by getting some extra practice in. The last game was a messy one, and he’s not going to be the reason they have another. It seems like they’ve almost running on pure luck so far, and he has a feeling it’s going to run out soon. They can’t win every game.
He dribbles the ball idly in his hand before placing in the net of his racket and slamming it into the goal with more force than necessary, taking out all the pent up frustration with himself. He knows he’s been a mess at practice, and Wymack is probably ready to bench him for real this time, given the way he’s been purposefully not working with Arlo. He can barely look at him in the eye, let alone team up with him. He broke his own rule, and now he’s paying the price.
As a voice echoes through the court, he drops the ball in surprise, letting out a breath when he sees it’s just Brandon. “Yeah, well, I’m fine,” He shrugs and leans over to pick the ball back up. “I need the extra hour,” Or three, considering his performance during practice isn’t worth counting. “Why are you still here?”
Allowed to leave. For a moment, Lydia feels something akin to anger—she’s allowed to do whatever the hell she wants actually. She swallows that down though, recognizing that he’s just trying to be comforting, and she’s just anxious about the whole night. She must seem really transparent, then, if even Brayden wants to promise her that she won’t have to stand around and watch the Foxes fight. It doesn’t take a genius to see why Lydia would be uncomfortable with that. She hates violence in general, but violent Foxes make her skin crawl. Too bad she needs the paycheck from Wymack more than she needs her own peace of mind.
And…to be fair, they’re not all bad. Most of the current Foxes are pretty alright actually, at least as far as she can tell. She never understand their obsession with Exy, and she’ll certainly never feel like a part of their group, but working alongside them has been far better than expected. Truth be told, Lydia kind of enjoys the job. Paperwork is simple. Easy. Everything else in her life is so damn messy—it’s nice to sit down, go through whatever mess Wymack plants in front of her, and see herself making real, tangible progress. Maybe this is just the honeymoon phase though.
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll be the first to bail if it comes to that.” She clears her throat, considering. “If you see me flee, please tell Marley it’s not personal. I’m hanging out with her tonight. Except, you know. She’s way more social than I am.” Thus the hiding in the corner with Brayden, rather than hitting the dance floor as promised.
“Marley?” Brayden asks in surprise before he can stop himself, brows furrowing. He never thought of Lydia hanging around with the other Foxes before, but maybe that’s because he isn’t used to seeing her around them period. They wouldn’t know each other if it weren’t for Betsy and her “family” dinners. He figured that she’d avoid the others when she took the job, but apparently that isn’t the case. “I mean--yeah. Sure, I guess,” He shrugs. It’s a bit hypocritical for him to agree when he hasn’t seen his own date, since the dinner. If he wants to avoid dancing, it’s probably for the best.
“I came with Arlo,” Brayden suddenly feels the need to admit, scanning the crowd so he doesn’t have to see her reaction. “Not like...that. He’s my roommate. Thought he’d keep me from leaving too early.” Lydia doesn’t need to know any of this, especially his reasoning behind this, but for some reason he feels like she’ll understand where he’s coming from. “Haven’t seen him in an hour though.”
Luckily, he hasn’t seen Landon either. Maybe, he can make the time pass by just standing her with Lydia and avoiding the others. She’s technically apart of the team now, but she isn’t a Fox, which makes it easier to get along with her. Plus, they already know too much about each other.
Of course, Brayden would choose this moment to get involved in the personal lives of other Foxes. As long as Grant had known Brayden, the striker had seemed uninterested in this kind of thing, choosing to keep to himself rather than get involved in the seemingly abundant relationship dramas that played out on their team. Maybe it was because this was about Grant for once, who typically worked so hard to ensure that there was nothing to for people to gossip about when it came to his personal life. Or, more likely, maybe Brayden just didn’t want to focus on the video playing in front of them. “I meant,” Grant said, slowly. “That it wasn’t any of your business,” he finished, fixing Brayden with his best glare.
That hadn’t worked so far though, and that left Grant with only two options: continuing denying, or admit that Brayden had stumbled onto something. Grant didn’t want to act like Zia was a ‘dirty little secret’, and besides, he clearly wasn’t able to dissuade Brayden right now. Given his choices, Grant would rather admit the truth here: yes, this was important to Grant, because yes, Zia was important to Grant.
So he cleared his throat, keeping his tone serious so that the other man knew that Grant wasn’t exactly amused by his antics, despite the fact that Grant was going to cave and answer him. “Since the end of last year. And it’s not anyone else’s business either, alright? So don’t spread this around.” He paused, softening slightly for the next part. “Please. Zia doesn’t deserve to have her first year as a pro overshadowed by more people asking after her personal life, and you know the press would love a reason to get back into it.” Grant didn’t want reporters asking after his personal life either, but but he was still playing for the Foxes, and he knew what that meant. He didn’t have a chance at getting respect from the press at the moment, but Zia did, and that meant that they’d focus on her game and her talent for now. Hopefully. “So, obviously, I’m relying on your discretion here. And on the fact that I’ll make your life hell in practice if you’re off gossiping about me.”
Brayden didn’t get involved with gossip, because he didn’t care. Whether Grant was dating Zia or not wasn’t actually a concern of his, but he didn’t feel like watching the tape and there was just a lot of satisfaction in giving his captain shit. So, when Grant begrudgingly admitted it, he gave a smug smirk as he internally celebrated the fact that he was right. Grant was instantly defensive, not that he could blame him. That shit would spread like wildfire if the team found out.
“Alright, alright. Calm down,” He let out a snort as he shook his head. “I’m not fucking Perez Hilton. I have no reason to go around telling anyone. I don’t get anything out of it. If anything, it’ll be more torturous for me,” He pointed out with a raised brow. That meant actually talking to the people he usually ignored, and then he’d have to explain how he knew, and it all sounded exhausting. “Your secret is safe with me. All I wanted to know is if you were an Exy robot or not, and now I know.”
Grabbing his chips, he got up from the couch and stretched. “Well, I think I saw what I needed to see. I’ll let you call her back. This was very...informative,” He offered with a little shrug before laughing and making his way for the door.
“Must’ve forgot,” Lilith mimicks, eyes flitting back in a way most would see as disrespectful. She follows his gaze down to where her bags lay on the floor, catching the way it seems to bother him and opting to ignore it. “Anyways, Brays, since you’re the first one who’s been so nice as to welcome me, I think you should show me around. Show me the court, show me where I can get a bite, show me whatever else you think is even kinda important. It’s not like you have anything better to do anyway, right?”
He winces at the god awful nickname, too close to what his brother used to call him, but with a sickly sweet twist to it. It’s just his luck that his room is the one that she randomly chose to deem hers, because the last thing he wants is to be roped in to giving a tour to someone he just met. There’s a million other things he could be doing. “Sleep,” He retorts blankly, which is one of the million other things he could be doing. His stomach growled suddenly, reminding him he hasn’t eaten yet today. “But I guess we can go to the cafeteria or whatever. You probably want to know where that is.”
As soon as practice is dismissed, Arlo stomps off the court and back to the locker room in record time. He rips off his helmet and, in an uncharacteristic display of anger, chucks it at the row of lockers across from him. The metallic thump that follows the action rings hollow and wholly unsatisfying. He wrenches open the door to his own locker and snatches a towel off the shelf before sinking down onto the bench behind him, burying his face in the plush orange fabric.
A few moments later, the rest of the team begins to stream in. Everyone gives him a wide berth, chatting and laughing amongst each other. Every so often he can feel eyes on him, watching. Wondering. But he keeps his head down and stays quiet.
Eventually, the locker room is silent once more. Small puddles of water litter the tiled floor. Practice jersey’s are piled up in the hamper in the corner. Everyone else’s lockers are closed and their duffels are gone. Arlo let’s out a heavy sigh of relief. Tossing the hand towel to the side, he leverages himself up off of the bench and unceremoniously strips out of his practice gear, wincing at the collection of new bruises blossoming on his side. He irritably scrubs a hand through his hair and tries to let go of the tension churning in his gut. (Try being the operative word.)
He grabs his personalized caddy and a new towel and heads toward the showers. He’s always been grateful for the full stall doors. He doesn’t have anything to hide, not like some of them do, but… It’s nice. To have some small ounce of privacy in a space that, usually, he get’s none at all. He picks the one stall at the end that’s slightly larger than the rest, settles in, and turns on the water. As usual, it runs cold for a second before warming up. He steps under the spray anyway, shivering. It’s bracing, for sure, but it only makes the ensuing warmth that much betters.
He relaxes into the stream, spine sagging. He tips his head back and closes his eyes, mouth turned down in an ugly scowl. Practice plays out in his head like an obnoxious song stuck on repeat. It replays over and over and over again. He sees every missed pass. Every chance for them to score that was stubbornly thrown away. Every deliberate snub.
“Fuck him.” Arlo snarls to himself. “Fuck this.”
Every since the banquet, since that ridiculous, ill-advised dance, since that kiss… Everything’s been different. They don’t talk, anymore. They avoid each other like the plague.
Brayden can’t even look him in the eye.
Almost overnight, everything changed between them and it’s been… awful. The only person he could really talk to, really trust, just walked away. And, he still has no clue why. No clue what he did wrong. It’s infuriating. Confusing. (It wouldn’t have been so bad if not for the kiss. Because that kiss was so good.)
The worst part is he can’t stop himself from wanting, even now. He wants to talk. To pick up the phone and text him like nothing happened. To work together on the court again. He just… wants everything to go back to the way it was before. (But, that’s a lie, too. He wants before but he wants more, too.)
Arlo groans and leans back to rest against the wall behind him, head thumping almost painfully against the tile. Anger and hurt and confusion still course, red hot and ugly, through his veins but… there’s something else, too. Something deeper. He can’t get Brayden out of his head, no matter how he tries and… Well. Maybe it would be easier to just stop trying.
To give in.
The tell-tale creak of the locker room door pushing open abruptly derails his thoughts. Face flushing, he pushes himself back underneath the spray and busies himself washing up.
Brayden finds himself thinking for the millionth time in the past two weeks that he’s a fucking idiot. What was he thinking allowing himself to go to the banquet with Arlo as his date? And why did he dance with him? There were so many things that he could’ve very easily said no to, but didn’t--with very little push back too. The problem is he’s just fucking weak and can’t say no to Arlo. Those big brown puppy eyes get him every time. The worst part of this all is that Brayden knew from the start that if he didn’t stop this early on, he was fucked. He should’ve stuck to his decision to end their “friendship,” but the need to be around Arlo took over, which led to him to kiss him at the banquet. A kiss that he started.
The days following, he did what he did best. Avoided Arlo and ran off when he got too close. Allowing himself to admit that Arlo was his friend already took everything in him, he can’t do this. He feels too much--crashes and burns too spectacularly. If he lets himself fall for Arlo, he’ll fall to hard. Brayden can’t handle losing someone he trusts twice. So, he takes out the frustration with himself out on the other, not cooperating when Wymack pairs them together for drills. He missed Arlo’s passes, flubbed his attempts to score, leaving them glaring at each other as Wymack tore them a new one.
When the others flood into the locker room, Brayden takes a seat on the bleachers and waits. It’s childish, but he just can’t stand to be in the same room as Arlo right now, figuring he’d let everyone shower and leave before he goes in. With his phone in his locker, he has nothing to distract himself from his thoughts, replaying all of the stupid shit he’s done so far this semester, until he’s fuming.
He’s so lost in his own head when he finally enters the locker room that he doesn’t notice the sound of the running shower. He opens his locker with too much force and makes quick work of undressing and grabbing a towel before slamming it back shut. Glaring at his own feet, he all but stomps his way over to the showers and wrenches the door open to the first shower stall, recoiling in surprise when the steam hits his face, drawing him out of his daze. His gaze lands on a very naked Arlo, causing his lips to part in shock for a moment before he collects himself, the anger taking over once again. “Of fucking course,” He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head in disgust as he tries to look anywhere but at Arlo’s body. That’s the last thing he needs right now. “Just--forget this happened,” He gestures at himself, clearly flustered. “I’ll shower in the room.”
