Location: Foxhole Court Date: September 22nd Time: After Dinner (@berettalepore)
His bowtie is still tied snug at his throat, but as the night has gone on Leo has had to resist more and more the urge to tug it loose—despite all the money in the world, he and his father had never been exactly black tie. It’d been less buttoned-up than that, more debauched, nightclubs and flashing lights and dancing until his shirt stuck to his back with sweat, if he hadn’t already taken it off.
This whole thing is something else. There’s no darkness, no anonymity. Every step he takes, he knows he’s being watched, that the Foxes are under a microscope tonight. That they, probably, have been set up to fail. It’s enough to make him wonder if this whole thing was really a random lottery at all—but then, no one could have known that they were going to drop their first two games. That this banquet was going to be whatever it is now, instead of something marking their arrival, building on their success of last season, showing that they were meant to be taken seriously.
Instead, they’re the same fucking joke they always are. A Vixen punched out a player over dinner, and who knows if it’s going to go down hill from there. If it does, Leo just knows that it won’t be his fault—he feels much more sure of himself on the court as it is tonight than he ever does during a game. Here he can smile, and dance, and keep himself in control.
And amuse himself—and Beretta and Elior have been excellent for that tonight. "People might be making bets on whether you and Elior are going to fuck tonight.” He says, sidling up to her with a grin. “And they might be doing it because I started it. Personally, my money’s on you literally devouring him like a praying mantis, so see what you can do about that, would you?”
