Back in Palmetto, it feels like last week could have been a dream: Did he really go home? Did they really win in the death match? Did Leo really win a fight, after months spent playing his own failure out in his head, dreaming it was different, dreaming that he won?
Of course, back in Palmetto, the death match now behind them, some of the immediate rush has worn off. Leo won a fight, Leo earned his red card—and he doesn’t regret it, but it always stings to sit out. But, at least, when he gets back on the court, it won’t be with his fight against the Ravens hanging over his head, painting him as an easy target: a player who didn’t fight—who, even when he started fights, couldn’t finish them, who hurt himself more than he hurt his opponent. A fucking joke.
He wants to control his image. He wants people to see him as he wants to be seen. So many times, he feels like that’s been taken from him—even if the only person that took it from him was, well, himself. He failed on the Ravens. He failed on the Foxes, too: struggling so many games this season without a point, breaking his hand in front of a screaming crowd.
But, if he’s turning things around, then he’s doing that, too: He scored against the Rebels, another goal added to a tally that’s growing, even if it’s still modest, still far away from the scoring title he won on the Tritons; He showed that he could throw a goddamn punch, that he could stand his ground on the court, that he could make someone bleed.
He holds onto that, as he watches the games that will help determine who they play in the next round, knowing that—for the first game, at least—he won’t be playing. “If we go fast we could hit up a drive through,” he offers, looking up at Arlo with a grin, making his keys jangle in his pocket so it’s clear he’s offering to drive. “Or, like, make a beer run. We could turn this into a drinking game—say, take two drinks every time the commentators manage to shit talk us even when we’re not on the court?”
He doesn’t expect Leo to respond. In fact, even directing the question at him in the first place had been a shot in the dark. For a long time, Leo was one of those people on the team that felt almost....unreachable, to him. Preoccupied and self-internalized in a way that Arlo truly couldn’t understand - though, not for lacking of trying.
He’d reached out a few times, sure. Tried to offer the other striker advice. A listening ear. Something. But, he’d always come away from it feeling like he’d done more harm than good.
In the end, he’d backed off. Opted to give Leo space - room to try and figure out whatever it was that was bothering him so much. (Because, for some Foxes, space has been the only thing that’s ever mattered. That’s ever helped. Space and time.)
So, he’s surprised when the other striker answers. Even more so when he seems genuinely interested in hanging out with him. Surprised, but happy.
“I like the way you think,” Arlo replies with an earsplitting grin, eyes crinkling with mischief as he begins to trek down the bleachers toward the exit. “As long as you don’t care what I’m drinking, that is.” He throws over his shoulder, shrugging lightly. “Not a beer person, but, I still think we can still make this interesting. You ever have kombucha? It’s... pretty fucking rank. Sasha made me try it a few weeks ago because, according to her I ‘eat like a seven year old and need more probiotics in my diet’”Arlo rolls his eyes before continuing, “but it tastes like actual fermented piss.”
“I say we hit up that fancy corner store a few block over and grab some. That way, when we take shots, it’s punishment for both of us.” Arlo pauses momentarily, turning back at the bottom of the stands to fix Leo with a slightly apprehensive look. “That is, unless you like kombucha. In which case: one, please forget I just went on a totally off-base rant about it and, two, we can go get burgers?”
