#foxholestarter

[caseyhendrix-blog1]

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. 

[lilith-price-blog]

First impressions are everything. Or so everyone always says, all the damn time. Besides, it’s not like these are first impressions really – she met some of them briefly back when she first came to see Wymack, and she’s pretty sure that any of them that any of them who care enough for these first impressions to matter would have already read up on her anyways, leaving her fucked from the start. Oh well. No need to paint up a false pretense if they’ll just figure everything out eventually anyway.

“Hello. Howdy. Guten tag. It’s me. Is this my room?” Even if it’s not, she’s already halfway through the door and dropping her things down onto the floor – smile wide to the point of being unnerving.

[dominic-murphy]

Dom rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, groaning quietly at the way it ached. He must’ve slept funny the night before, which was his own goddamn fault for refusing to get off the couch when he’d fallen asleep there the first time. He shuffled quietly through the papers in his hands, his eyes scanning over the different line-ups of the teams in their district. He muttered something under his breath, scratching out a name or two. He kept track of who’d had issues academically in the past, wanting to know who was most likely to not even be a factor on the court. He had stats memorized at this point, though he’d never actually state it out loud. Wymack would give him that smarmy fucking eyebrow if he even mentioned it, so he acted like he didn’t give a shit about Exy and talked shit about it whenever given the chance.

But dammit, it was still his job, and the one reason he was still at Palmetto. A shadow crossed in front of him where he’d been reading, and Dom shifted slightly before lifting bored eyes. “I’m reading. Move.” Dom kicked at the other with one foot, trying to readjust himself on the bench where he’d made himself comfortable.

[braydenplaceholder]

At some point, Brayden lost Arlo during the room shift to accommodate the DJ booth. The whole point of being “dates,” the word still makes Brayden shudder, is to be each other’s buffer for the brothers they didn’t want to see. Wymack’s threat still resinates deeply with Brayden, so he quickly scans the room to see if he can find Arlo, hoping he doesn’t see a blonde in the process. A hand grips his shoulder, causing him to jump in surprise, whipping around to see it’s just Wymack. “Jesus fuck,” He curses, resting a hand over his pounding heart. 

“Wrong, but close enough,” Wymack comments. “I came over remind you what I said in our meeting. You’re staying here tonight. I don’t care what happens.” 

By the tone of his voice, Brayden can tell he’s not fucking around. He’ll take him out of the game in the blink of an eye if he fucks this up. Wymack’s tolerance for his bullshit is at an all time low after he stormed out of the interview. “Alright,” He agrees flatly, pursing his lips. He’s not going to argue, even if he wants nothing more than to leave. 

“I’m serious. You so much as go outside for a cigarette break and you’re done. You’re lucky I didn’t pull you out of the game for the shit you pulled last week. Couldn’t even keep it together for the sake of your teammate.” There’s a huge difference when Wymack is disappointed in him than when anyone else is. He actually feels guilty--hating himself for making Wymack doubt his place on the team. Even though he respects the fuck out of him, it just isn’t enough to fix his need to self-destruct. Which is why his gaze shifts from Wymack to search the floor again, needing to check if Landon is near--if he can overhear them. 

Wymack has known Brayden long enough to know what he’s doing and his expression softens slightly, “Stop standing here by yourself and actually hang out with your team.” 

“I have a date,” Brayden mutters, even though he has no fucking clue where he is.

Wymack clearly doesn’t believe him as he lets out an annoyed huff, “Shut up. And stay inside,” He suddenly looks at someone over Brayden’s shoulder and points to them, “That goes for you too.”

 Wymack moves on to the next person as Brayden turns around to see who’s behind him, wondering how much they heard. “He loves me,” Brayden smirks, just trying to not show how fucking uncomfortable he is. He can’t even erase it with alcohol this time. 

[sebnavarro-blog1]

It’s long past time since he should have gone to sleep, but he’s still awake and sitting at a table in the lobby of the hotel with his laptop open, playing game footage on what feels like and endless loop at this point. He has a headache blooming behind his eyes, he’s had one ever since he came off the court--his offense had provided a lead going into halftime and one of his strikers had won the game ultimately, but it had been by the skin of their teeth ultimately. He can't fix the defense, he wouldn’t know where to start, but if he can just--find some way to create enough offense to take the pressure off--he sighs and lets his head rest in his hands, drags his fingers through his hair. For the fifteenth time the player on the screen plants his feet and pulls to his opposite side, and he still doesn’t know what to do with that information. 

He stretches his arms over his head and groans, leaning back in his chair until the back legs are the only ones on the ground. He hears footsteps coming towards him and blinks his eyes a couple of times to make them focus, closes the lid of his laptop. “Unless you have enough coffee to make me forget my name and or a secret Exy playbook with all of the answers, I’m gonna have to ask why you’re still up.” He says with a small smile, even though he feels frayed at the edges. “Coach and all of that.” 

[teddyryker-blog]

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?”

[joelcarlyle-blog]

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.

[kentcheongs-archive-blog]

What. The. Fuck.

Those words were quickly becoming the motif of Kent’s evening. It started at the first remark from the Tornadoes, a hissed “what the fuck did you just say?” on the court line when one of their strikers thought they could get a rise out of the Fox, and they were right. That voice was the only other thing Kent could hear, aside from his racing heart and the slight ringing in his ear from the buzzer and his own cheers moments ago, as tensions settled and silence washed over the court in anticipation of the next play.

That first what the fuck apparently didn’t fly with the Tornadoes, and Kent could only find himself muttering “oh, what the fuck do you think you’re doing,” as sticks clattered to the floor and gloves fell after them, though the words weren’t meant to be heard. They didn’t need to be communicated when his body language did it for him, anyways, chest puffing out as his own stick and gloves hit the floor, sending a clear message: you don’t mess with Kent Cheong.

Fortunately, they wouldn’t. Unfortunately, the referees did. A whistle blew, and with it came a smug smirk from Kent, who immediately assumed justice would be served. Instead, the yellow card was shown his direction, the neon color reflecting in his eyes as they narrowed. “Wait, what the fuck?” he shouted, the first expletive that would immediately put the referees against him as he tried to argue his point. When the second was shown his way, he could only shout those three words again as he stepped off the court, fuming.

Now, wandering the halls, Kent was unable to let this anger wash away. He should have been able to let it settle; they won, after all. However, Kent was never the type of person who let things go. It all simmered within him, waiting for the right amount of heat to push him to his boiling point (which wasn’t very hard to achieve in the first place). So, instead, his anger burned red hot, causing the words to bubble up once more as he hissed at the person who approached. “What the fuck do you want?”