Location: Foxhole Court Lounge Date: Saturday, September 1st Time: Afternoon (@paxridley)
He’d made it as far as the lounge after their Saturday sprints, collapsing on one of the couches for a reprieve from his uncertain legs. Despite the soreness that he knows will come, it’s something of a relief to be in this state—like he’s been reduced down to nothing more than a set of aching muscles, like he couldn’t think more about last night’s game if he tried.
And something of a relief to feel like he’s been taken to task. Just about the whole team played like shit yesterday—the scoreboard showed it—and he didn’t play any better, didn’t do anything at all to help. Sometimes he feels like he needs a replacement for his father’s critical voice in his ear after everyone game, someone to say the things that he’d say so Leo knows he’s not just making them up. Sometimes he feels like a single harsh word might make his crack right down the middle. He knows he doesn’t make it easy on Wymack or Grant, trying to Coach him, trying to figure out what he needs. Most of the time, he doesn’t know either—until he doesn’t get it.
It’s not like he feels good—who could, after a game like that, after a grueling practice like that?— but it feels better than being left to his own devices to think and overthink his play. Not that he isn’t going to complain about it, though, making puppy eyes up at Pax from his position on the couch. “If you could just—hand me my Gatorade,” he says, his arm demonstratively outstretched to show that, no, he can’t reach far enough to do it on his own. “And then leave me here to die, thanks.”