this is for @ilgaksu for her biiiiirthday <3
“What the fuck is with you today, Minyard?” Wilson asks, somewhere between aggressive and honestly puzzled as he picks himself off of the floor.
Andrew shrugs, aware it barely shows under his bulky gear, and says, “Try harder.”
The ball’s already long gone down the other end of the court, cleared by Andrew with one hard swing. Wilson, scowling, turns and jogs back towards his backliner mark for this scrimmage.
“Don’t break them,” Cooper says. She sounds amused from her position as Andrew’s other backliner, and more relaxed than usual. That’s probably because Andrew’s doing her job for her. “We don’t have enough game-ready strikers on the roster for you to start injuring them just because you got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”
“Don’t let them get so close, if you’re concerned,” he replies, all boredom. Playing goalie means he doesn’t see much contact, but when they’re in his territory offence are fair game.
They might only be trying to get closer to the goal because shooting from a distance isn’t working out so well for them today. They can’t complain though - stopping goals is what the Rebels signed Andrew for.
He left Neil warm and not quite awake in his bed for this practice. They better make it worth his while.
“I notice you’re not denying that you’re in a bad mood,” Cooper calls, though her attention is already back on the ball. Andrew doesn’t bother to respond. This team is already overly invested in making friends with Andrew, and talking to them only seems to encourage them, no matter what he says.
He turns aside four more attempts at scoring before Rawlins knocks twice on the door to signal a change over, calling Andrew’s side off the court. He’s the last one out, which earns him the sole focus of the defensive coach.
“Good work,” Rawlins says. He’s a man of few words, which makes him considerably less annoying than most of the Rebels. “Your visitor’s up in the stands.”
Said visitor already has the attention of the rest of Andrew’s teammates, who are looking and muttering amongst themselves. They’re probably wondering whether he’s here to scout out their strategies. That’s ridiculous, because there’s no way Neil Josten can score on Andrew if he doesn’t let him.
Andrew hangs up his racquet on the rack and heads up into the stands, removing his gloves and helmet as he goes. Neil’s slouched in a seat about ten rows up, his feet up on the plastic back of the seat in front of him. He looks up at Andrew from underneath his eyelashes as he approaches.
Andrew gets a sudden and vivid sense memory of Neil this morning, fingers curled into Andrew’s shirt and his sleepy insistence that Andrew go to practice like his hands and mouth weren’t the things keeping him right there.
“Hey,” Neil says. His expression is characteristically serious, but his easy posture and the pink marks that Andrew left on his throat last night make him look younger than he is.
“I thought you were staying in bed,” Andrew says. Neil said that this morning: I’ll still be right here when you get back, with a luxurious little stretch against Andrew’s sheets.
Neil shrugs. “I got bored. Thought I’d come over and watch for a while. They were pretty casual about it.”
They would be - management knows about Neil. “So, are you feeling entertained now?”
Neil reaches out and hooks a finger into Andrew’s jersey, pulling the fabric taut between them. Andrew can just about feel the attention of his teammates narrowing onto that very over-familiar action.
From anyone else, it would be teasing. Neil’s face is ridiculously earnest when he says, “You’re playing really well.”
Andrew would roll his eyes if it weren’t for the gleaming intensity in Neil, the trace of heat that means I like you like this. Stupid as the reason for it is, Andrew likes that expression on Neil’s face.
“Yo, Minyard! Bring it in,” someone yells from the bench. Andrew doesn’t spare them a glance.
“Are you going to introduce me?” Neil asks, moving to stand like Andrew’s yes is a given. If Andrew were a liar, he’d say that’s the reason he puts his free hand on Neil’s chest to hold him in his seat.
“Not likely,” he says, and when Neil tilts his head back, mouth open like he’s going to speak, Andrew kisses him instead. Neil makes a muffled mmph! before going pliant and sweetly welcoming, his fingers in Andrew’s jersey just like a few hours earlier.
He’s rosy-cheeked when Andrew pulls back. There are several brave catcalls and the sound of hammering feet from below, which just serves to prove that all Exy players have a death wish. Fortunately for them, when Neil throws them a heavy-lidded glance and the corner of his mouth twitches, Andrew isn’t quite so interested in killing them.
Soft as Neil can be, there’s a very hard edge to the smugness of that smirk.
pixelskylines
stormborns
