Archive of Our Own

“Andrew, look. They have little eagles with Exy racquets!” Nicky gives the small stuffed animal toy a squeeze and it squeaks irritatingly, prompting a delighted grin. “This one’s even wearing your jersey. You should get it for Aaron, the girls will drive him absolutely insane with it.”

Andrew very deliberately does not take off his sunglasses as Nicky waves the toy around in front of his face. Calling it an eagle is generous; it looks more like an incorrectly proportioned chicken, with American colours splashed across its chest and wings.

To Nicky’s left, Kevin scoffs. “It’s not even holding a goalkeeper racquet. It should be wearing my number.”

“Aw.” In Nicky’s hand, the chicken-eagle bows its head. “Mr Eagle is very sorry to disappoint the great Kevin Day with his lack of Exy knowledge. He’s only here to support the troops.”

“You can tell Mr Eagle to take his embarrassment of a racquet and shove–”

Turning away from them both, Andrew takes a few steps away in an attempt to escape the pedantic bickering. Shelves overflowing with stuffed animal toys of various shapes and sizes line the aisle, organised by country and discipline. Secretly he’s already locked onto a cheetah in Kenyan coloured running shoes and a turtle with a miniature set of swimming goggles emblazoned with the Australian flag for Aaron’s girls. He’s nothing if not a conscientious uncle, after all.

It’s still early, and the little souvenir shop is almost entirely empty save for the three of them and a tired looking cashier. The girl doesn’t even blink when Andrew drops his bounty on the counter, only just stifling a yawn as she starts to scan the items. He’s about to swipe his card when a third toy finds its way into the mix; a rooster in red, white, and blue.

Kevin shrugs, unapologetic. “It’s to support Jean. He’s nervous.”

“And I’m paying for it, why, exactly?”

Kevin shrugs again. “I don’t have any euros.” 

Andrew, barely resisting the urge to throw the rooster at Kevin, shakes his head before turning to pay.

Gifts stowed, they leave the shop. Kevin marches ahead, followed by Nicky and Erik holding hands. Andrew brings up the rear, idly watching the smoke of his cigarette rise and dissipate in the crisp morning air. They’re not far from the entrance to the Olympic Village where Andrew and Kevin leave Nicky and Erik to their search for a cafè in favour of picking up fruit bowls and protein shakes before settling in for their slot at the gym. 

As always, Kevin draws looks and attention wherever he goes; which means Andrew gets to run through his workout in relative peace. There are still stares and whispers as he makes his way through the spacious gym, but his grasp on any foreign languages beyond German and minimal Spanish are rudimentary enough to ensure he wouldn’t understand shit even if he wanted to. 

When he stops for a drink of water an hour later, muscles burning pleasantly, it’s to an empty space where his water bottle and towel previously stood.

“Where’s my shit?”

Kevin, perpetually close nearby, levels him with an exasperated stare. “Maybe they went to refill it.”

Before Andrew can get close enough to take Kevin’s bottle instead, a figure in a blue shirt appears beside him. In his hands he’s holding both Andrew’s water bottle and towel, as well as an apple and a small bag of mixed nuts.

“I refilled your bottle for you.” He holds it out towards Andrew with a small smile. “I fetched a fresh towel and snacks too, if you like. Took the apple from the top of the pile and all, so it won’t have any bruises. Nuts are good too, but I can get roasted and salted ones if you prefer.”

Irritated, Andrew snatches both the bottle and the towel from the man’s hands. A split second later he takes the bag of nuts too. For the apple, Andrew only has a dirty look to spare.

The man smiles again, wider this time. “Not a fan of apples?”

“I’m not a fan of strangers taking my things or offering me food.”

The smile disappears immediately, only to be replaced by a toothy grin a second later. “Oh, you know, just doing my job, seeing as I’m a volunteer and all.” The man gestures down at himself and the monstrosity of a t-shirt he’s wearing - a t-shirt Andrew somewhat belatedly notices has the words ‘Paris 2024 Volunteer’ stamped on it in big white letters.

“But you never know,” the volunteer continues, folding a pair of well-muscled arms over his chest. “I might be an intruder. Maybe I was sent here by the evil Queen with a poison apple, and there are seven dwarves waiting for you to come clean their house for them. This is Paris after all, you never know.”

Tossing the nuts and towel to the ground, Andrew pointedly unscrews the bottle to take a deep drink. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

“No?” A handful of dark brown curls flop over the volunteer’s forehead as he considers Andrew with a look of faint amusement, fingers tapping out an unsteady rhythm against his bicep. “I’ve been told I’m pretty funny.”

“You’ve been lied to.”

“Oh well.” The volunteer shrugs then casts a glance at Kevin who, in an attempt to catch Andrew’s attention, has started loudly gathering together their things. “There are worse things in life to be lied to about. Good luck with the competition.”

A moment later he’s gone, leaving Andrew behind to pretend to listen to Kevin’s ridiculous rundown of observations on Andrew’s form.

“Minyard! When I say ‘team meeting’, I mean the whole team. Buds out and brains on, please.”

Coach Adaeze Daramola’s voice rings loud across the team bus, effectively cutting through the nervously excited chatter of the gathered Team United States Exy players. It’s supposed to be a twenty minute bus ride from the Olympic Village to the Exy venue at the Yves-du-Manoir Stadium, but the additional convoys cars and busses headed towards the stadium added on top of every day Parisian traffic has them crawling along at a truly anxiety inducing pace. Beside Andrew, Kevin is bouncing his knee like he’s about to take off. In the seat behind them, Jeremy Knox is entirely absorbed in the activity of whistling some stupid pop song on repeat.

If Andrew cared enough about Exy or the Olympics he might have matched any of his team mates’ nervous antics. As it stands, he doesn’t give enough of a shit to join Kevin in his state of anguish, so he keeps his earbuds in and his music turned up until Daramola throws a protein bar at his head and snaps at him to listen.

The sun is only just nearing the beginning of its descent by the time they reach the stadium shortly after five. Whoever they put in charge of organising the Exy games has had the foresight to schedule them all for early evening, which leaves the mornings and afternoons free for gym sessions and a light practice, followed by a carbo-loaded meal and a little downtime before the bus ferries them off. Andrew is particularly appreciative of the fact that he gets to sleep a little longer than usual, despite Kevin’s repeated attempts to get him up and out for a run at the asscrack of dawn.

The bus spits them all out in the underground stadium car park, idling patiently as they unload their gear. A swarm of volunteers in blue shirts are already on site to assist so Andrew steps back, hands stuffed into the depths of the pockets of his Team USA joggers. He’s standing a little to the side, watching Kevin snatch his bag from the hands of a volunteer and hug it to his chest with a trademark scowl, when a familiar voice pipes up to his left. 

“Is he always so… possessive?”

Andrew doesn’t have to turn his head to know it’s apple boy, and he can’t help the quiet snort that escapes him. Possessive is an impressively accurate way to describe Kevin Day in most matters of life - doubly so when it comes to Exy and all affiliated gear or accessories. Andrew might find it tedious or annoying, but that would require dedicating more than the minimum required amount of brain cells to thinking about Kevin or Exy, and he’s simply quite unwilling to do so. 

Once he eventually turns to glance across his shoulder he sees apple boy smiling that same, private little smile. Distantly Andrew registers that, up close, apple boy is undeniably attractive. His curly dark hair tumbles over his forehead in a way that nicely frames his face. His eyes are a comforting shade of brown, skin tan. He’s also roughly the same height as Andrew, which makes for a pleasant change.

“You should see how he sleeps. Full gear, racquet beneath his pillow.”

Apple boy laughs and in one movement turns that smile onto Andrew. It’s warm, but there’s something sharp and biting lurking behind his eyes and in the way he shows his teeth. Andrew has plenty of experience with sniffing out wolves in sheep’s fur, with withdrawing before the claws protract. Monsters lurk in every corner, wear every kind of uniform, and there’s something about the way the volunteer’s stare holds like he’s attempting to pierce Andrew’s defences that has him both weary and, inexplicably, a little turned on.

Before either of them can speak again Jeremy appears, grumbling and lugging two heavy bags. He’d drawn the short stick in the game of deciding who had to carry Daramola’s game luggage that morning, and Andrew watches without much sympathy as he readjusts the weight of the bag slung over his shoulder.

Apple boy rounds on Jeremy almost immediately, deft hands relieving him of one of the bags. The sharpness is gone from his smile, replaced by something goofy and disarming. Jeremy falls for it like a pebble into water.

“Thanks! Oh hey, aren’t you the guy who brought us all fruit and nuts after training the other day?”

Apple boy, the disloyal wench, nods. “Yeah. I’m Neil, by the way. Most of my volunteering shifts are for Exy games and your gym slots, so I’ll be around quite a lot. Figured I’d make a good first impression.”

“I think you’ve succeeded quite nicely there,” Jeremy says, already moving past them to follow the tail-end of the team disappearing through the glass doors and into the belly of the stadium. “But if you want to get on Andrew’s good side, I’d replace the nuts with sweets.”

“Sweet tooth?” Apple boy - Neil, Andrew reminds himself, questions, hoisting the bag higher over his shoulder. It’s just the two of them in the garage now, and Andrew’s fingers are twitching for a cigarette. Experience tells him that garages like this are usually crawling with security cameras and guards, and that Coach has the nose of a bloodhound when it comes to tobacco, so he cuts his losses and turns to follow Jeremy inside.

“I don’t see the point in not eating sugar when it’s available and better than anything green could ever hope to be,” Andrew replies, uncaring that he’s supposed to be an elite athlete. He’s not sure when pissing off Kevin became one of his biggest motivators to eat as little fresh produce as he can get away with, but it’s always satisfying to picture the steam coming out of his ears when he watches Andrew devour yet another mars bar instead of his designated, fibre-rich carrot sticks.

Beside him, Neil nods thoughtfully. “I don’t like sweet stuff myself, but I guess I can see the appeal.”

The corridor leading from the garage eventually opens up into a large area with stairs and lifts allowing access to the various levels of the stadium. Kevin is standing in front of one of the lifts with his foot on the threshold to keep the doors open, eyes narrowed in displeasure at Andrew and Neil’s leisurely pace.

“Any time today,” he snipes as they come into view, hefting his bag a little higher. “It’s not like we have a game to play in less than two hours. On the Olympic court. Because we’re at the Olympics, Andrew. Does that ring a bell?”

Unphased by Kevin’s gradual descent into insanity, Andrew maintains his pace as he meanders towards the lift with Neil in tow. Once they’re all inside, Kevin jabs a finger at the button that will take them to the floor designated for pre-game athlete use. The rest of the team are already there and waiting when the doors open into a lounge outfitted with several comfortable looking sofas, behind which a series of doors lead towards the changing rooms, the medical offices, the gear room, and the warm-up area.

Daramola looks even less impressed than Kevin had by their late arrival, though she forgoes scolding them in favour of launching into her standard pre-game talk. Andrew zones out a few minutes into her lecturing the newest backliner subs, eyes scanning the room before landing on Neil. He’s standing to one side with a few other volunteers, expression serious as they go about setting up a table with electrolyte drinks and water to be distributed throughout the match.

Confident he looks like he’s paying at least fifty percent attention, Andrew lets his thoughts wander. Neil truly does look ridiculous in the too big, screaming turquoise volunteer shirt and matching shorts. He’d only briefly caught a glimpse of Neil’s arm muscles, but the man clearly has the kind of body one would typically want to show off. Idly, Andrew wonders whether the oversized clothing is an intentional choice; they practically swallow Neil whole and, paired with the unassuming mop of brown hair, combine into a rather mousy appearance.

He continues to watch Neil as Daramola rounds on the strikers and the dealers, gesticulating animatedly as she talks. She won’t bother with him in the end. After five years as the United States’ national team coach, and consequently five years as Andrew’s coach, she’s learned through firsthand experience that lecturing Andrew on anything even remotely related to Exy is an exercise in futility. He’ll go out onto that court in the USA’s colours and he’ll stop as many goals as he can be bothered to stop. Beyond that, he simply doesn’t care enough.

Behind Daramola, Neil’s joined one of the female volunteers in setting out the individual team jerseys. They’re collected and washed after each game, and now that the qualifiers are over and done, they’ve been replaced by brand new models. Andrew plucks his from Neil’s hands once it’s time to change for warmup, raising an eyebrow at the smile he receives in return. There’s none of that sharp inquisitiveness in it that he’d glimpsed before, and Neil doesn’t speak to him much beyond a quick ‘ don’t let in too many goals ’.

Kevin corners him in the locker room once they’ve all changed out, anxiously fiddling with the hem of his jersey. Andrew hasn’t seen him this nervous since they’d left Palmetto and gone pro, which is especially annoying considering the reason behind Kevin’s fraying nerves is currently enjoying the luxuries of VIP seats and complimentary drinks in the stadium above their heads.

“Are you ready?” 

Andrew ignores him in favour of checking the straps on his armour.

“Andrew. Are you?”

“What does it look like I’m doing, Kevin?” Andrew asks eventually, straightening up to wave his gloves around in front of Kevin’s face. “Get the fuck out of my face.”

Kevin takes a step back but persists nonetheless. 

“Promise me you’ll take this seriously?”

“I don’t make promises for free.” Lie. He’s already given away far more than he’d ever been willing.

“What do I have to do to make you put in the effort?”

“Go away. I won’t ask again.”

Too many bruises to count, and Kevin still hasn’t learned his lesson. “Andrew.”

“You have nothing I want,” Andrew replies coldly, baring his teeth like it’ll frighten Kevin off for good. All it does is make him roll his eyes but he does, finally, retreat.

The stadium is a living creature when they make their entrance. Exy’s steep popularity surge hasn’t diminished in the slightest, and there’s a surprisingly large contingent of Team USA fans in the stands, many of them waving flags or home made banners with Kevin’s face pasted on them.

Daramola gathers them together for one last team huddle before releasing them onto the court, a fierce fire burning in her eyes. As one of the youngest, and one of only three female coaches at international level, she has much to prove. She claps them on the shoulder one by one as they pass her, looking so much like she’d rather be joining them on court than staying on the other side of the plexiglass, that Andrew mockingly offers her his racquet.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” she mutters, wisely keeping her hands to herself once it’s just her and Andrew left outside the court, “but just think about how it’ll feel when we win. Take pride in something.”

“Boring,” Andrew drawls, fingertips tapping against the butt of his racquet as the announcer starts to call out his name and position, “Exy isn’t worth my pride.”

She regards him silently, and for a moment it feels like the entire stadium has gone quiet.

“Fine,” she concedes eventually, but there’s a stubborn set to her jaw that reminds him a little too much of Kevin in the first months after his escape from Edgar Allan. “Do it to spite them all, then.”

Now that he can work with.

The crowd roars its pleasure as the two teams settle into their starting positions. Andrew makes himself comfortable in goal, briefly considering the opposing German players before casting a glance to the side. Neil has his nose pressed up against the plexiglass like a wide-eyed child at the zoo, full attention focused on the ball as the whistle blows.

Don’t let in too many goals. He might have known.

They win by a comfortable margin. Andrew sees blessedly little action in the first half; Germany’s strikers spend the entire time struggling to get past Whickam and Vásquez on defence, and by the time he’s subbed out for Rivellin during half-time, they’re trailing the USA with a point gap of four.

The others are loud and raucous as they filter from the court into the changing room and then the lounge, high off an easy first win. In his pocket Andrew’s phone is blowing up with texts from Nicky. He and Erik had watched the game via screen from one of the external viewing venues, and now Andrew is being subject to an alternating mix of celebratory and accusatory emojis from his cousin and his apparently inconsolable boyfriend.

Andrew knows damn well that Erik cares about Exy about as much as Andrew does, so he mutes his phone and leaves them to it. In the lounge, a new set of volunteers are waiting with new electrolyte drinks and congratulations. Neil is nowhere to be found, so Andrew allows himself to be convinced into joining the team’s celebrations back at the Village. It’s tedious and tiring to remain in their presence after a game, but if there’s one thing Andrew appreciates about this group of athletes, it’s the enthusiasm with which they take to celebratory drinking. 

The individual rooms are too small to host more than their intended two inhabitants, so they converge in one of the team lounges of the Team USA House. Someone whips out a speaker the moment the drinks start flowing and they settle in for a cacophonous game of Truth or Dare. Andrew finds a spot in one of the armchairs a little to the side of the main activities, idly sipping his drink. They’re under strict orders to tone down the alcohol intake during their stay in Paris (Andrew had skimmed then deleted the email from the USOPC), so the selection of drinks is limited to whatever Whickam had managed to get his hands on. 

Still, it takes off the edge, and Andrew’s content enough to sit and watch the commotion from afar until the topic inevitably returns to Exy.

“Shit, Great Britain really hammered New Zealand there,” Rivellin crows, head bent low over her phone as several others clamber to see. “Their backliners are fucking huge.”

“What was the score?”

“Eight to two. Jeez, that has to sting.”

“We’ll have to keep a close eye on them,” Kevin announces drunkenly, jabbing a finger in Rivellin’s direction like Britain’s success is personally her fault. “They were shit in the last two World Cups, but they’ve recently signed some new talent.”

Kevin’s tirade is largely ignored as the rest of the team clambers to see Rivellin’s screen or dig out their own phones.

“Fuuuck.. That striker is unreal.”

“Shit, do we have to play them?”

“Not if Minyard keeps letting in so many goals.”

Andrew shoots them a collective middle finger before standing up, any progress of leaving for his room waylaid by Kevin’s appearance by his side. He’s become a weepy drinker in his old age, and Andrew is tired and ready for bed, but he allows himself to be pushed back down into the armchair with only a raised eyebrow and a sigh of displeasure.

“You did good today,” Kevin begins, the sincerity of his message somewhat compromised by the hiccups interrupting every second word. “S’good. Good stuff. Keep the balls out.”

Low-hanging fruit, Andrew decides. Not worth the effort of making the joke.

“I think we should strategise for the next game. Egypt’s not great on paper, but they’re powerful on offence.” 

“Here’s an idea,” Andrew drawls, using Kevin’s arms to pull himself to his feet before swinging them around and depositing the striker in the now empty armchair, “talk to your Exy friends about it. I’m going to bed.”

“Wait-” Kevin makes to reach out before stopping himself, eyes wide and imploring. It’s almost enough to make Andrew miss the days when alcohol made Kevin angry and haughty; full of resentment towards the Ravens, Riko, the world. What sits before him now is a man lost. Kevin might not know it, but Andrew does. He’s achieved almost everything there is to achieve; they’re five games shy of adding Olympic Champions to their résumés, and once the high of winning the gold wears off, Kevin will realise that he’s reached the top. There won’t be anyone left to yell at, no team left to whip into shape, no medal to be coveted. Personally, Andrew craves the day he’ll be allowed to hang up his gloves for good, but for Kevin it’ll be a nightmare.

“I’m not doing this with you,” Andrew cautions quietly, removing himself from grabbing distance lest Kevin forget himself again. “I don’t care. I don’t want to strategise. I want to go the fuck to sleep.”

Kevin waves a hand at the huddle of bodies that is the rest of their team. “They’re not listening. You always used to listen.”

He hadn’t had much of a choice, then. His promise to Kevin had been a noose around his neck, the only thing tethering him to earth when the drugs threatened to lift him up up up and away.

“Oh, is that what this is?” 

Kevin blinks dumbly at him, and Andrew’s lip curls in disgust. 

“Are you sad because no one’s willing to treat your word like gospel anymore? Have you finally realised that we’re playing with pro’s now? This isn’t college anymore, Day. You’re not the hero swooping in to save a miserably shitty little team. Everyone here is just as good as you. Time to shit out the stick.” An over exaggeration, perhaps, but his point stands. Kevin’s still one of the best players on the team - even Andrew can admit that - but this new brand of self-pity is nauseating. “Do you want me to go fetch your dad so you can cry a little?”

“No.” Kevin huffs, irritated. “Fuck off.”

“Finally an order I’m happy to follow. Good night, captain. Don’t wake me up when you’re done here.”

The win against Egypt is tighter, with Kevin scoring the winning goal in the last three minutes of the second half. Everyone’s panting and dripping with sweat as they go through the motions of shaking hands with the Egyptian players before trudging off the court. Their departure is accompanied by cheers from the American fans and boos from the Egyptians, even though they’d all roared and cheered as one every time Kevin had stepped onto the court.

The mood in the lounge is less jovial than it’d been after their win against Germany, but it’s a celebration nonetheless. Andrew and Kevin excuse themselves early to go have dinner with Nicky and Erik, the latter of whom had used his finance bro connections to snag them a reservation at a restaurant not far from the Eiffel Tower. Jean is also there, fresh off a win against the Netherlands, and Andrew makes ample use of the USOPC’s monetary allowance. They drink champagne and eat a sixteen course meal made up entirely of bite-sized portions. It’s a warm evening and all around them, Paris is alive with noise and colour.

“This is what I like best about France, and Paris in particular,” Jean says, swirling the remnants of a very humble amount of wine around in his glass, “they don’t care who you are. I’ve been here for five months now and I can count on one hand the amount of times someone’s stopped me in the street. Both times they were American. Parisians are too busy being obsessed with their own lives to give a fuck about anyone else’s.”

“You don’t get a lot of Ravens fans out here?” Nicky asks, clutching a glass with a decidedly more generous amount of wine in it.

“Not so much.” Jean shrugs. “We do not have the same fanaticism with college sports as you do in America, I think. Sometimes people will stare at my tattoo, but it’s mostly because they’re judging me for getting one on my face, and not because they know what it means. What it meant.”

“Are you going to cover it up?” Erik tilts his head, wincing as Nicky kicks him under the table. “Sorry, I just- Kevin did his, right?”

“Everyone heals differently.” Jean shrugs again, elegantly setting down his wine glass. 

From across the table, Andrew leans back in his chair. He’s never particularly liked Jean, but even he has to admit that France has done the backliner a world of good. His hair’s longer now, almost to his shoulders, and he holds himself with more confidence and security than he ever did in Ravens colours. Kevin had spent an inconsolable month crying and whining after Jean had told him he’d been scouted by the French national team, forced to watch his last remaining hope of their childhood dream go up in smoke. 

Privately, Andrew finds it rather amusing. Here are what remains of the perfect court; one is dead, one is French, and one is on the US national team by virtue of an American father only.

“When are you coming back home?” Kevin asks, ever tactless. He’s currently busy eyeing Andrew over the mountain of ice cream that has just been brought to their table by a harried looking waiter, mouth a firmly displeased line.

Jean looks guilty at first, but it clears up quickly. “I don’t know. My contract with the Beavers ended, and I haven’t renewed or sought a new one yet. And if I’m being honest… I don’t know if I want to come back.”

That’s enough to distract Kevin from glaring disapprovingly at Andrew, head snapping up to gape at Jean. “What?”

“The local leagues aren’t much to look at yet,” Jean continues, placatingly. “But they’re getting better and better. Marseille and Strasbourg Alsace have already contacted my agent, and honestly, I haven’t turned them down yet.”

“I think that’s really great, Jean,” Nicky begins, only to be cut off by Kevin’s loud, startled laughter.

“You can’t be serious. What about Jeremy? What about… Him ?”

“He wanted to tell you this himself, but Jeremy’s retiring after this season. His knee hasn’t been the same since his surgery two years ago and he said he’d like to coach, or maybe even go back to school. He’s already spoken to his coach in Atlanta. It’s time.”

Next to Andrew, Kevin looks absolutely devastated. “But-”

“It’s okay, Kevin. When the time comes, arrangements will be made. I’m not who I once was.” Jean smiles tiredly; it’s the look of someone who’s long used to dealing with Kevin’s emotional reactions, but has spent just enough time away from him for them to be jarring again.

The rest of the evening passes in a slightly less comfortable manner. Kevin disappears from the table not long after Jean’s revelation, but no one bothers to get up to check on him; they’re all too used to the dramatics. Andrew also leaves soon after, fully intending on making the most of an empty room by taking a long shower and then going the fuck to sleep.

His plans to retire quietly are waylaid when, on the steps outside the Team USA House, he spots Neil. It’s almost entirely dark by now and Neil has swapped his grossly oversized volunteer shirt for an equally oversized hoodie. He looks up when Andrew approaches, squinting at the light of Andrew’s phone torch.

“Here with more apples?”

Neil grins, pulling down his hood. He’s empty handed save for a box of cigarettes and a lighter, the sight of whom immediately piques Andrew’s interest. Sensing this, Neil extends both.

“Nah. Just finished up a run. Figured I’d check if any friendly faces were about, but no luck so far.”

“Only unfriendly ones?” Andrew helps himself to a cigarette and the lighter, wasting absolutely no time. The first inhale hits his lungs like a brick, the second like a balm.

“Pretty much.” Neil retracts his hand once Andrew’s lit up, picking out a cigarette for himself. He lights it, then cups his hands around the cherry without taking a drag. “But it’s fine. I meet plenty of nice people during the day.”

“He volunteers and he runs. You must be a real hit back in Posh Fuck Country.”

This time Neil laughs, and it’s not an entirely unpleasant sound. Briefly considering the cleanliness of the stone steps, Andrew eventually takes a seat, conscious to leave a large enough gap between himself and Neil. Neither of them comment on it.

“Is that what you call England?”

Andrew shrugs, watching his next exhale rise to meet the pollution and fumes of the city.

“Well, either way, I’m not. A hit, I mean. Whatever that’s supposed to mean. I’m not famous or anything. I live in a shitty little city. Figured volunteering here would be a good way to see Paris.”

“And how’s that working out for you?” Andrew questions, making a show of slowly surveying their surroundings. The towering, rectangular buildings of the athlete houses hardly provide much of a view, and the few trees and small green patches planted to make the whole Village look a little less depressing are failing spectacularly at their job. Everywhere there’s concrete and sadness, like they’re trapped inside some invisible bubble beyond whose barriers the real Paris lives and breathes and thrives.

Neil’s smile is sharp and taut, eyes flashing. “So far I’ve seen plenty of locker rooms and arenas, and smelled plenty of smells I’d rather never have to experience again, so the jury’s still out.

Andrew can relate to that. He scoffs, pulling another deep drag into the depths of his lungs. “And you’re stuck on Exy. Shit luck.”

“I like Exy.” Neil shrugs, twirling his yet unsmoked cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. They watch in silence as the movement dislodges a clump of ash which promptly gets swept away by the breeze. “It’s cool to be able to see you guys play up close. I’d never be able to do so otherwise.”

“I should’ve known you’re one of them,” Andrew drawls. “Junkie. You should get a hobby.”

“How do you know I don’t have a hobby?” Neil tilts his head, and there’s that sharp look in his eyes again, the one that makes Andrew feel like they’re holding secrets and thrills of immeasurable depth.

“You’re spending your summer voluntarily watching Exy. That tells me all I need to know.”

"I like it. I like watching it, the adrenaline of it all. It's thrilling, don't you think?

"No." Andrew stands up after finishing the cigarette, rolling his shoulders. He’s tired, and although loath to admit it, feels a little sick from eating an entire 3-person-share desert by himself just to piss off Kevin. 

Moments like this still get to him. Getting older sucks, but it’s a challenge he’d never expected to face. How do you carve out a life for yourself when you spend the first twenty years of it convinced you won’t see twenty-one? It’s abject misery. One day the horrors are there and the next they’re gone, and life still trundles on like nothing’s amiss. Graduation had been a surprise. Being signed and moving to Boston for the pro-league even more so. Andrew doesn’t think he has the stomach for any more surprises.

He leaves Neil sitting on the stairs in silence, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, thoughts a million miles away.

The next week passes in a blur of gym sessions, training, games, and Neil. 

They beat Nigeria and draw with Ireland, clinching a spot in the semifinal against Japan by the skin of their teeth. Neither Kevin nor Daramola are happy with just how close they’re cutting it, and consequently neither of them have any qualms with showing this displeasure during practice. For Andrew, who’s used to Kevin’s temper tantrums and expectations of perfection at every moment, there’s no great change. He endures his gym sessions, and shows up to training and games, all with minimal complaint. 

If anyone notices this change in behaviour, they wisely keep it to themselves. Not even Kevin is naive enough to imagine that Andrew’s had a change of heart and is suddenly even remotely interested in Exy, and he’s left with a sour face and a half-hearted threat to mind his own business after cornering Andrew with a demand for an explanation. What they don’t know is that Andrew has taken to meeting Neil on the steps behind the Team USA House every evening after practice or games. Most often they sit together in vaguely companionable silence, both happy to be left to their own versions of smoking a cigarette in peace. Sometimes they talk, sharing little tidbits of information about everything and nothing. If Neil’s ever looked Andrew up online, he doesn’t mention it. His questions never venture into Andrew’s past, nor does he attempt to pry concrete answers to the endless rumours floating around on the internet out of Andrew.

It’s… nice. Neil is a reprieve from the constant yammering and yapping of his teammates, from the noise and filth that is Paris, and from having to think about Exy almost every waking minute. He’s calm, funny, and that stupid English accent is ridiculously attractive.

For the rest of the team, however, Kevin’s borderline aggressively controlling nature and constant sharp criticisms are a relative novelty. Save for Jeremy, who’s some kind of saint in a Californian body, every single one of them has, at one point over the past week, lost their temper with Kevin. It’s usually his own fault, so Andrew’s happy enough to observe these spats from his place in the goal; far away enough to not risk getting dragged into anything, but close enough to intervene should it become necessary. This happens only once, and the resulting black eye Vásquez carries off the court with him serves as message enough to the rest of them: they can talk back to Kevin all they like, but anyone looking for a physical fight will have a very irritated Andrew Minyard to contend with.

It all comes to a head two nights before the semifinal against Japan. It’s only been three days since their tie with Ireland and several antagonising long hours of waiting on the outcome of the Japan vs. Laos game. Andrew spends most of that time as far away from the team and Kevin’s anxious pacing as possible, but it’s almost impossible for him to avoid getting caught up in the tension when he returns to their shared room after a walk and a detour into a pâtisserie.

Chocolate smothered delicacy in one hand and room key in the other, Andrew is barely two steps over the threshold before Kevin’s on him like a bloodhound, eyes narrowed in displeasure. 

“Where have you been?”

Andrew holds up the baked treat in response, smiling a smile that’s all teeth.

“Seriously?” Kevin grouses, folding his arms over his chest. His eyes are bright and his cheeks flushed, hair tousled from where he’s been running his anxious fingers through it over and over. The room stinks of alcohol. 

All Andrew wants is to take a shower and enjoy his pastry in peace, then maybe sneak out for a smoke and Neil. Instead he takes a seat at the edge of his bed, gesturing for Kevin to spit it out already.

“You disappeared. You can’t just disappear.”

“Hm. Last I checked I was an adult who didn’t need anyone’s permission to go for a walk. Did things change while I was gone?”

“We’re this close to the final,” Kevin continues, pacing to and fro in the limited space between their beds, “we need to be focused. We almost lost to Ireland, and if Japan had beaten Laos… That would have been it. Do you understand?”

“Wait,” Andrew interrupts, pastry half-way to his mouth, eyes wide, “we’re almost in the final?”

Kevin’s glare is impressive. He’s starting to look remarkably like Wymack the older he gets. All that’s missing are the tattoos, some scruff, and experience with finding Nirvana in the face of irritating Exy players.

“Sometimes I wish you weren’t on the team, you know that?”

Andrew’s sigh is heavy and weary. “I wish that all the time.”

“Why can’t you take things seriously for once in your life?” Kevin snaps, entirely unperturbed by the look Andrew’s giving him now. He’s ceased his irritating pacing and is sitting on his own bed now, elbows on his knees like he’s giving a stern lecture to a particularly troublesome child. “Maybe you’d be happier if you did.”

“Careful, Kevin Day.” Andrew’s smile is all teeth, the pastry he’d so been looking forward to crushed in his fist. “You’re starting to sound like therapist number three. Do you want to know what I did to him?”

Kevin scoffs but he leans back a little, mouth set in an unhappy line. Andrew can tell that he’s just burning to keep going, to tell Andrew exactly what he thinks, what he’s always thought, of Andrew’s apathy towards Exy and all who sail in her. He’s especially irritating when he gets like this; haughty, arrogant, acting like the entire world owes him anything he wants by virtue of being Kevin Day. Andrew thought he’d trained the Raven out of Kevin long before they left Palmetto, but it seems he’d been wrong. 

“Look,” he starts, uncurling his fist to shake off the gooey remnants of his treat, “what you made me do to my croissant. I was looking forward to eating it. It was expensive.”

“You shouldn’t–”

“Ah. Don’t talk. I’m not done.”

Andrew stands up to sit beside Kevin instead, leaning in close. He lets his messy, chocolate smeared hand rest on Kevin’s shoulder, leaving behind a brown handprint on the striker’s freshly cleaned and pressed white team jersey.

“I’m going to the gym. I come to your stupid practices, and I play your fucking games. Sometimes I let a goal in, because I’m not a machine, but most of the time I don’t. For someone who doesn't give a single shit about this stupid game, I think I’m actually doing pretty well. Maybe I even deserve a small pat on the back for my efforts.”

When Kevin makes to move away, Andrew tightens his grip, fingertips digging into the wiry muscle of his shoulder in a way that makes Kevin twitch then go absolutely still. “Honestly, I don’t know what else you want from me.”

“A little more effort.” Kevin grits out, entire body tense and poised to run. That his touch is a threat, at least, Andrew managed to train into him. “You’re not taking this seriously enough. We’re so close to our dream of winning–”

“Your dream,” Andrew reminds him, “not mine. Don’t confuse me with one of your little disciples.” He stands up with one last squeeze to Kevin’s shoulder, relishing the little sigh of relief Kevin lets out when Andrew steps over to their tiny bathroom to wash his hands. The pastry really was expensive. Andrew watches the remains of flakes and chocolate swirl around in the sink before disappearing down the drain.

When he returns to their room, Kevin’s watching him with an accusatory frown. “What’s going on?”

“I’m done talking about this with you."

Kevin, in his typical brusque manner, barrels on uncaring. “Something’s going on. You’re being weird. What is it?”

“I’m in mourning, Day, have some sympathy.”

When Kevin tilts his head in question, Andrew simply points at the chocolate stain on his shoulder. A devastating loss. His stomach growls with sorrow.

“Andrew, fuck, I’m being serious. If there’s something distracting you–”

Tired, hungry, and thoroughly out of patience, Andrew lands a hard kick against Kevin’s socked ankle. He receives a high-pitched yelp and a look of shocked betrayal in response.

“I said, I’m done.” He repeats, drawing out his words to make sure they sink in adequately. “I’ve been done since we landed in this fucking country. It is not my problem that you can’t accept that, and it’s not my fault if you get hurt for pushing me regardless. I am going to leave now, and if you try to stop me or run your mouth again, Rivllin will be playing two full halves for the rest of the fucking tournament.”

Kevin doesn’t speak as Andrew gathers together his phone, keys, and the pair of cheap sunglasses he’d bought alongside the stuffed toys in case of an outing beyond the Village. A worthy investment; they’ve proven extensively useful so far. He sits on his bed and clutches at his ankle with a wounded expression, fingers gently massaging the muscle. It wasn’t a hard kick by anyone’s standards - it won’t even bruise, but it’s enough to get the message across. An unfortunate occurrence. Andrew hasn’t had to resort to bodily violence with Kevin for quite some time now, and he doesn’t feel good about falling back into old patterns. Bee would be disappointed. Aaron would say Kevin deserved it. He’s on the fence about whose opinion matters more in this matter.

Andrew’s almost out the door when he stops and turns around again, surveying the dejected looking heap of Kevin with clinical disinterest. He’s not as angry as he might have been when he was drugged. Maybe age has mellowed him out. But there’s tension in his shoulders, and the urge to flee cribbles incessantly beneath his skin. Back in the US he’d already be in the Mas, cruising towards the nearest highway at an illegally high speed. 

“If you speak to me like that one more time, I will give myself a set of scars to match yours and you will never see me play again.”

Neil is sitting on what Andrew has privately come to think of as their step when he walks out of the Team USA House, fingers twitching for a smoke. It’s early evening by now and most other athletes are either competing, eating, or warming down. This means that the staircase is blessedly empty, and Andrew can plonk his ass down without attracting any curious looks.

Neil grins. “Another satisfying day at Exy camp?”

“Fuck off.” Andrew’s already holding out a hand for a cigarette, entirely uncaring if anyone should see. Daramola’s already given him a hard time for smelling like smoke and he’s been making some kind of half-hearted effort to cut down, but Kevin’s bitching combined with the stress of the last two weeks have him itching for a fix. Neil happily provides both a cigarette and a flame after lighting his own, hands cupped around the cherry to trap the smoke.

“I didn’t see you at our last game,” he comments after a while, wondering when he’d started paying attention to whether or not Neil was present on the sidelines. “Not that you missed anything. Ireland kicked our ass.”

Neil snorts a little, staring out into the distance. “Yeah, those boys are faster and tougher than they look. Especially that backliner McIlhenny. He has a mean swing.”

“Big fan of the Irish team? I thought your lot and their lot were, historically speaking, not on great terms.” Kevin had written an essay about it once, back at Palmetto. He’d gotten a little misty eyed during his research, until Andrew reminded him that he’d never actually stepped foot on Irish soil before. That had been remedied immediately after graduation, and he’d dragged an unwilling pair of twins and a very willing Nicky along for the ride.

Neil pauses, blinks, then laughs awkwardly. “Not really. I worked on one of their games last week though, so I saw it up close. What about you? Any favourite teams apart from your own?”

Andrew doesn’t even support his own team, and he rolls his eyes accordingly.

“Not even one of the teams here? What about Britain, or Japan? They’re looking pretty strong.”

“Don’t let Kevin hear that. He’ll shit himself.”

Having discarded the butt of his cigarette Neil lets out a breathy laugh, leaning his weight back against his hands. “As if I’d ever get the chance to speak to Kevin Day. You play together in America, right? The Boston Blandings?”

“You look me up or something, Josten?”

The tips of Neil’s ears go slightly red but he doesn’t look away, brown eyes fixed unapologetically on Andrew’s face. There’s that sharpness in his gaze again, like he’s appraising Andrew under specific criteria known to no one but him. Sniffing out the enemy, looking for a threat. “Kind of hard to resist the urge when it comes to the one and only Andrew Minyard. You’re not exactly a run-of-the-mill player. Close friends with Kevin Day, best goalkeeper in your league, notoriously an asshole to everyone you meet. I don’t agree with that last sentiment, by the way, but what’s a man to think?”

“He can think whatever he wants as long as he keeps his opinions to himself.”

“Even if they’re positive opinions?” 

“No one has positive opinions about me, Neil.”

They sit in silence for a while longer, and Andrew allows his mind to wander. He’s fairly positive that by now, if Neil asked, Andrew would get on his knees and do unspeakable things to him. He’s almost tempted to breach the topic himself, but there’s something so enigmatic about Neil that he’s not sure the proposition would be well received. It’s not like the pickings within the Village are slim, either. He’d briefly entertained the thought of opening Grindr just to scope out the options before Kevin had interrupted him with Exy talk, thoroughly ruining the mood.

Eventually Neil stands up, brushing the dirt of his shorts with his hands. “Let’s go.”

Returning to the present, Andrew looks up with a quizzical expression. “Are you kidnapping me?”

Neil snorts. It’s a stupidly attractive sound. “Sure, if you want. I’d definitely win against you in a physical confrontation.”

“Please, don’t think I haven’t noticed what you’re hiding underneath those clothes.”

“Huh?”

“Your muscles, Josten, get your head out of the gutter.” 

Curiosity piqued, Andrew pushes himself to his feet. Technically he’s supposed to attend a light last minute practice session before their game against Japan tomorrow, but Neil’s invitation to get the hell out of dodge trumps Exy with ease. Kevin will throw a hissy fit and Daramola will bench him to hell and back, but Andrew can’t find it in himself to care. Rivellin isn’t as good as he is, so claims Kevin, but she can hold down the fort for once. 

“I like to jog, I guess?” Neil offers as they walk through the Village before stepping out into the city beyond. 

Andrew pushes up his sunglasses, falling into step beside him. I like to jog is total horseshit. A body like Neil’s doesn’t come from occasional recreational exercise, but Andrew doesn’t pry. Neil has been surprisingly considerate and respectful about bringing up Andrew’s past or reputation so far, and he’s long since decided to extend him the same courtesy. 

Neil leads him down the Rue Jean Martin then the Rue de Saint Denis, idly chattering away. Andrew stops briefly outside the Quai de Seine metro station, snapping a few pictures of the street and the sign on the wall. At Neil’s questioning hum, he shrugs. 

“Kevin likes shitty French literature.”

The metro takes them north to Montmartre, where they change trains and head east. Once they’re back up on the road Neil retakes the lead, coming to a halt outside a small red door set into the wall. The name 'Le Musée des Vampires' is painted on the wall above it, and Andrew blinks once before turning to Neil.

“Really? The vampire museum?”

“What?” Neil’s already pushing open the door, and he looks back at Andrew over his shoulder with a shit eating grin. “You’re not scared, are you? Hope you had a lot of garlic for lunch.” Then he’s gone, swallowed by the dark corridor beyond the door, and Andrew is left with little choice but to follow.

The small museum consists of a low, narrow hallway which opens into a room filled to the absolute brink with vampire themed crap. It’s dark and musty and so full that it’s hard to move, let alone see much. Neil rings the bell sitting on the small desk at the end of the hallway and a few lamps with red light bulbs flicker to life. They don’t do much for visibility, but it’s enough that they can avoid bumping into one of the many tables laden with vampire themed memorabilia. Once his eyes have adjusted, all Andrew can think is that this has to be one of the craziest things he’s seen - and that’s quite something, coming from him.

Every available surface of the room is covered with stuff. There are a thousand variations of mugs with fanged vampire faces on them, twice as many mirrors, and enough paintings to fill a wing of the LOuvre. Most of the art is pretty shit or extremely kitschy, but there are a few decent pieces. The walls are tapestried by posters and paintings, and Andrew can feel the stare of a hundred vampires fixed on him as he follows Neil through the room.

“What do you think?” Neil’s turned to face him, clutching what looks like a wooden stake that’s been painted red to give the illusion of blood. He holds it up to his chest, pointy side pressing against the fabric of his shirt. “This is the only way to kill me, Andrew. You have to take your chance before I come for your blood.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Andrew muses before pushing past him, suddenly intrigued by a collection of garlic-shaped pieces sitting in a basket next to the pile of stakes. He holds one up against the light, squinting a little. “What the fuck?”

“That’s brilliant.” Neil’s discarded the stake and is leaning closer, his breath tickling the side of Andrew’s neck as he inspects the various garlics in the basket. “Imagine how long it must have taken to fill this place. That’s like, proper impressive dedication.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

They continue onwards, slowly picking their way through the chaos. Neil disappears briefly before proceeding to almost give Andrew a heart attack when he explodes out of a coffin leaning against the wall, hands raised to either side of his head with his fingers curled like claws. Andrew swats at him with a wooden cross and Neil pretends to hiss in pain, covering his face with his hands. 

“Ah! Thou burns us! Murderer!”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re an idiot?”

Neil pretends to consider this for a moment before shaking his head, lips twitching into that secretive little smile of his. “Not that I’m aware. You’d be the first.”

Andrew, suddenly overly aware of how close they’re standing and of how stupidly fast his heart is beating at the proximity, wordlessly shoves past Neil. There’s a small and elegantly carved wooden sofa with red pillows in one of the corners, and he drops down into it to watch Neil page through a book a few feet away. He looks like he belongs in the museum itself, standing almost entirely still, curly brown hair falling over his forehead. He’s wearing his trademark baggy clothes and there’s a pleased little smile on his lips as he reads, eyes slightly narrowed in the dim lighting.

Andrew opens his mouth, kicks himself for being an idiot, clears his throat, then tries again. “What are you looking at over there, Abraham?”

Neil’s reaction is visceral. He drops the book in his hands back onto the table with a thud, eyes wide as he spins to face Andrew. All traces of joy and relaxation have been wiped from his face and he looks about a second away from legging it.

“What?”

Andrew raises an eyebrow before gesturing with his chin at one of the posters on the wall. A grim looking man with long hair, dressed entirely in black and holding a wooden stake dripping in blood stares back at them. Neil follows his gaze upwards, and Andrew watches his shoulders tighten before sagging in relief.

“Abraham Van Helsing? How are you a vampire lover who’s never heard of Van Helsing?”

“I’ve heard of him,” Neil replies defensively, quickly closing the book before stepping over to take a seat beside Andrew on the sofa. It’s not very large and they end up pressed together in the middle, legs touching from hip to knee. Andrew’s first instinct is to yank away and stand up, but when Neil turns a guilty look on him, he pauses. 

“Why did you react like I just announced I killed your entire family?”

“I misheard. I thought you called me something else. It doesn’t matter.”

It’s a dismissal if ever Andrew’s heard one, and he doesn’t press the matter. They sit in silence for a few more minutes before they’re interrupted by a low buzzing sound. Moving synchronously, they both reach down to check their pockets. Neil jerks away like he’s been burnt when Andrew’s hand accidentally brushes his and he stands up a moment later, holding his phone in his hand. 

“Sorry, I have to take this.”

Andrew makes a vague ‘be-my-guest’ movement with his hand and Neil steps to the side to take the call, lowering his voice.

“Yeah? Yeah. I know. I’m not, Stuart, I- yes. It’s fine, I’m being careful. I’m fine. I have to go, I’ll call you later. What? No. You did what? Jesus. Fine. I’ll call you tomorrow. Yeah, thanks. We will. Bye.”

Turning to Andrew, he gestures in the direction of the door. “We should go. It’s getting late, and you have a big game tomorrow.”

Andrew’s tempted to say fuck the game and pull Neil closer again, but he simply nods his acquiescence and rises to his feet. They pick their way back through the museum door where Neil leaves a generous twenty euro tip in a glass bowl, then they’re back out on the street, subject to the full onslaught of noise and sound that is Paris.

The trip back to the Village passes by in silence, for which Andrew is both glad and slightly disappointed. He swallows down the urge to press Neil about his reaction, then stops himself from asking whether Neil will be volunteering at the USA vs. Japan game tomorrow. Back at the Village, Neil escorts him to the bottom of the Team USA House staircase.

“Thanks for coming along today,” he begins, offering Andrew a tentative smile. “It was fun. Uh. Good luck and all for tomorrow. Not that you need it, but… yeah. I’ll be cheering for you. You’ve almost made it to the final.”

Andrew grimaces a little. Neil’s not quite as bad as Kevin when it comes to Exy obsessions, but he’s toeing the line of what Andrew deems a rational enjoyment of the game.

“Sure.” Then, because both his gut and his brain revolt against the idea of leaving it at that, “See you around, Van Helsing. Try not to get yourself staked while you prowl the streets.”

Neil’s smile grows into something sincere, and it's an irritatingly good look on an otherwise handsome face. “I won’t. Goodnight, Andrew.” And then he’s gone, leaving Andrew alone to face Kevin’s wrath and the deep rooted knowledge that he may be, in lay terms, just a tiny little bit fucked.

Kevin is a nervous wreck from the moment they wake up the next morning, harridly pacing between his bed and the door while Andrew attempts to blink the remnants of sleep from his eyes. He seems to have gotten over their little spat from the night before - he’d already been in bed when Andrew had returned, back facing the room, ankle lightly bandaged and elevated - and is now panicking over the upcoming game against Japan. 

Once he’s properly awake and dressed, Andrew grabs Kevin by the shoulders and steers him back over to his bed to perch him on the edge. It’s a mirror of their conversation the night before, only this time Kevin looks terrified in a manner concerningly similar to how he’d appeared in the first months after his escape from Edgar Allan. He’s shaking under Andrew’s touch, lips bitten raw from nervous chewing. It isn’t a full-blown panic attack just yet, but all signs point towards an imminent meltdown.

“Kevin,” Andrew begins, schooling his voice into something vaguely less monotone than usual, “look at me.”

Kevin shakes his head quickly, eyes squeezed shut tight as though he’s trying to withdraw into himself. It’s a regression back to the worst of times, and Andrew has to resist the urge to physically slap some sense back into the striker. 

“I said look at me,” he tries again, accompanying the order with a rough shake to Kevin’s shoulders. “Open your eyes and look at me. Keeping them closed isn’t going to magically solve all your issues.”

Kevin cracks open one eye to peer pathetically up at Andrew. 

“So you haven’t lost your hearing. Good. Now open the other one and we’ll get you through this.”

“I can’t…” Kevin begins, voice a hoarse whisper. He’s got both eyes open now and his gaze is fixed on some non existent point in the distance, eyes glazed over as fear and panic run rampage through his trembling frame. “There’s… one of them…”

Andrew takes a moment to think back to their last team meeting and the following discussion on Team Japan and their players. He hadn’t been paying much attention, too busy thinking about the way Neil’s hair caught the light in quite a nice way, but he remembers the way Kevin had grown increasingly more tense and fidgety beside him until Andrew had snapped and told him to fuck off onto his own sofa. It clicks a moment later.

“There’s a low chance that they’re related. It’s not an uncommon surname.”

“But how can you be sure?” Kevin whispers, turning that forlorn gaze on Andrew. It makes him look far younger than he is; vulnerable and fragile, a scared little boy with a broken hand who’s still scared of the long dead monster under his bed.

“I’m not. But it doesn’t matter. They won’t touch you.”

“But–”

“You don’t believe me? Let’s make a deal.”

Kevin stills, lower lip caught between his teeth. “What?”

“You heard me.” Andrew takes a seat beside him, mindful to maintain some distance. He’s been feeling raw and on edge ever since the night before; the prospect of any physical contact beyond the grip he’d briefly had on Kevin’s shoulders is most unwelcome. “If it is one of them, I’ll protect you.”

“How the hell are you going to manage that from goal?” Kevin asks, and the mild irritation colouring his words tells Andrew that any threat of a panic attack has been staved off for now.

“The same way I managed it during the last championship final against the cult team. Do you believe me?”

Kevin doesn’t look entirely convinced but he nods nevertheless, dropping his gaze down to his hands. The scars weaving across his knuckles have long healed into thin white lines, but Andrew knows too well that a cut doesn’t have to be fresh to carry the phantom sting of pain. 

“What do you want in return?” He asks after a while. “I have nothing to offer you.”

Andrew shrugs. “That’s true. Let’s call it a favour on credit. Once I figure out what you’re good for, I’ll let you know.”

The look he receives for that is sharp like chicken wire, but the deal is sealed. Andrew peers at the clock. There are around twenty minutes left before they’re supposed to be outside and on the bus that will take them to the stadium, and he’s desperately in need of some creamer with coffee before that happens.

Once he’s sure that Kevin won’t immediately dissolve into a puddle of sadness the moment he puts any weight on his feet, Andrew pulls away. They finish getting ready together in silence, dressing in their pre game team clothes before traipsing down the stairs to one of the lounges with a coffee machine. 

Idling at the side of the road leading out of the Village, the Team USA bus is already waiting to take them to the stadium. Kevin abandons him in favour of striking up a conversation on strategy with Daramola so Andrew hangs back, aimlessly landing kicks against the edge of the pavement with the tip of his shoe. Eventually the sound of his name being called draws him from his reverie and he looks up to the sight of Neil jogging towards him with a bright smile, two large sports bags swinging from either of his shoulders. He’s back in his volunteer outfit, hair still slightly damp from a wash, and once he gets closer Andrew’s gaze is immediately drawn to the stray water droplets clinging to the side of his neck.

“Hey! Glad I caught you. The volunteer bus broke down a few blocks away, so they’re having us catch rides with the teams. Any chance there’s still space with you guys?”

Andrew casts a look over his shoulder at the bus then shrugs. “If there isn’t, we’ll strap Kevin to the roof.”

Summoned like a taller, more muscular version of Bloody Mary, Kevin appears beside Andrew a second, expression indignant. “Why am I going on the roof? Why not someone else?”

Andrew considers this for a second. “You’d be taking one for the team. Doesn’t that make your little heart go pitter-patter?”

Kevin scowls. “Fuck you.” Then, to Neil, “Be careful with those bags. There’s valuable stuff inside them.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Neil begins with his eyes wide in a way that tells Andrew that he’s not sorry at all, and which will inevitably fly right over Kevin’s head. “I’ll try not to cause too much damage to your five dollar water bottles. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if something happened to them.”

“That’s not the point,” Kevin retorts, brow furrowed the way it does whenever he’s caught off guard by someone not actively worshipping the ground he walks upon. It’s rather refreshing to witness, and Andrew feels absolutely no need to intervene. “They’re an important part of our success.” 

“Your water bottles?”

“Yes.”

“Your water bottles are a vital part of your tactic to win today?”

“Yes .”

“You mean these water bottles?” Neil holds up one of the sports bags by the strap before letting go. The three of them watch in silence as the bag drops to the ground with a thud, and then Kevin’s pulling himself up to his full height, expression haughty.

“Who exactly do you think you are?”

Neil shrugs. “I’m just the water bottle guy.”

“Just the water bottle guy- Andrew, where did you find this clown?”

“Don’t look at me, I didn’t hire him.” Andrew drawls, entirely and effectively distracted by the way Neil’s volunteer shirt rides up to his midriff when he bends over to pick up the bag. The skin underneath his shirt is pale, littered with the angry red remnants of injury and severe scarring. Briefly he thinks back to Neil’s reaction at the museum, and to the way he shrinks in on himself when confronted with people other than Andrew. He doesn’t have the details, but the story tells itself; here’s another broken toy looking for salvation in distraction, the result of the failure of a mother and the shortcomings of a father.

Kevin stammers out a few more unpleasantries before they’re called to the bus. The ride to the stadium is short and uneventful, and Andrew spends the time focused on the way Neil’s sitting close enough Andrew can feel his body heat, but just far away enough that they’re not touching beyond the occasional brush of fabric against fabric. It’s considerate in a way that no one else bothers to be, and Andrew hadn’t even had to make use of his arsenal of threats for Neil to get the message. But that’s just it. For someone as carefree as Neil pretends to be, he’s just as twitchy as Andrew.

Then there are the scars, evidence of a cruelty Andrew is willing to bet was not restricted to the muscled span of Neil’s midriff. Watching from the corner of his eye as Neil chats companionably with Jeremy and Lin seated across the aisle, his fingers twitch with the urge to get that ridiculous shirt out of the way and to discover the hidden depths to all of Neil’s secrets. Andrew might have acted on the urge too, had Neil ever given him a reason or the impression of being a threat. Maybe he’s just growing complacent. 

They go through the motions once the bus spits them out in the stadium garage. Neil and the three other volunteers who’d hitched a ride with the team peel away before they hit the locker room to change, and Daramola gathers them all together for a brief yet effective speech on how she won’t hesitate to kick each and every single one of their asses should they lose. Kevin in particular looks grimly determined, and when Andrew meets his gaze from across the lounge, Kevin raises a questioning eyebrow.

Andrew shrugs, and when the eyebrow persists, nods once. Exy may be the bane of his already tedious and boring existence, but it’s nowhere near as annoying as Kevin will be if Andrew costs them the gold.

They’re met with a wall of red, white, and blue as the team takes to the court, the cheers of the fans so loud they succeed in almost entirely drowning out the sound of the announcer reading out the names and numbers of the players.

“Starting backliner for Team Japan, number eight, Chiyoko Moriyama!”

Andrew’s eyes find Kevin and he steels himself, ready to intervene. But there’s a resolute look of grim determination on the striker’s face as he stares at the slim figure that is Chiyoko, and he keeps his head held high once it’s their turn to march through the plexiglass doors and out onto the court. The crowd greets them with thunderous applause, matched with the sound of 30'000 feet stomping their approval at the sight of Kevin leading his team into the bronze medal game.

Neither Chiyoko nor any of the other Team Japan players pay Kevin any personal attention beyond the typical scowls of determination that come with facing an Exy legend on the court. If there is any relation, which Andrew doubts, she’s paying no heed to it. The American fans in the stands seem to have picked up on it too, and the level of noise somehow increases further when the two team captains shake hands.

Andrew feels the weight of the world on his shoulders as he gets into goal, overlarge racquet tucked under his arm. Somewhere in the crowd Nicky and Erik are watching, and Wymack as well as a few other Foxes had sent both him and Kevin texts of support before the game. Andrew would care as little about a bronze as he would about a gold, but the rest of the team seem set on the latter, and there’s only so much whining and complaining he can tolerate.

The sound of the plexiglass door being closed and locked heralds almost complete silence within the stadium. Both teams stand at the ready as the referees conduct their final checks before assuming their positions. The entire stadium inhales a collective breath, and Andrew feels his hands twitch in anticipation.

The whistle blows.

“That was incredible!” Neil’s eyes are wide and bright as he greets Andrew at the door to the locker room, enthusiastically offering him a bottle of water and a towel in exchange for his keeper racquet and thick padded gloves. Andrew accepts the trade without hesitation and spends the next few minutes concentrating on drinking as much water as physically possible without throwing up, and breathing deeply to calm his erratically pounding heart. The wild, jubilant cheers of the fans are audible even in the belly of the stadium, and the mood among the team is joyful and celebratory. 

Only Kevin and Andrew remain on the sidelines. Kevin’s standing in a corner with Wymack who’d appeared almost immediately after the final whistle blew; they’re deep in conversation, both of Wymack’s hands on Kevin’s shoulders while a prideful smile replaces his usual nonplussed scowl. Briefly Andrew imagines what it’d be like to have Aaron there. It’s been a while since they’ve spoken - seven hundred and fifty two days, his memory supplies - and he’s not sure he can even picture it. Would Aaron be proud of how he’d actually put in an iota of effort into playing this time? Doubtful. Since their graduation from Palmetto, Aaron’s gradually joined Andrew in his aversion towards Exy. He hasn’t come to a game since before the twins were born, and he’d barely taken the time to wish Andrew luck before the latter’s departure to Paris.

Andrew doesn’t care, not really, but he knows it makes Nicky sad. They’ve come a long way from locked bathrooms and broken promises, but it’s not always enough.

To Andrew’s left, Neil is still beaming. “You were amazing. That last save- how do you even move like that? It was art.”

“Careful,” Andrew murmurs, wiping a hand across his forehead. It comes back sweaty and grimy. “Your inner addict is showing.”

“You’re incredible, Andrew.” Neil continues on unperturbed, eyes alight. “I think that’s the best you’ve ever played.”

And then suddenly Neil’s standing a lot closer, eyes drifting across Andrew’s face before lingering on his mouth, the tip of his tongue darting out to wet his own lips. There’s a slight flush to his cheeks and his hair is a tousled mess, like he’s been running his hands through it for the entirety of the game.

“You’re incredible.” It comes out as a whisper this time, and before Andrew realises what he’s doing he’s grabbed ahold of Neil’s hand to drag him forwards and through the heaving mass of celebrating players and team staff. 

The corridor between the lounge and the cluster of small medical offices is empty when they pass through. Andrew’s hand is wrapped loosely around Neil’s wrist, a rabbit’s pulse beating beneath his skin. He opens the first door he sees with a nudge of his foot, and after a quick check that they’re alone and a whispered request of consent, Neil is pressed up against the wall and they’re kissing.

Neil’s mouth is burning fire and molten lava against Andrew’s, breath coming in short needy gasps as they kiss. It’s simultaneously too much and nowhere near enough, and Andrew curses his need to breathe when he has to pull away to allow air into his lungs. Opposite him Neil’s cheeks are bright red, lips kiss swollen and slick. His eyes are wide and the beginnings of a smile are tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looks absolutely delicious.

“What was that for?”

Andrew shrugs one shoulder, unwilling to move back even an inch. “Your reward.”

“Mine?” Neil muses as he falls back against the wall, tilting his head back to rest against the wood panelling. The long and elegant curve of his neck shines pale in the dim light of the office; leaving it unkissed and unmarked requires absolutely herculean effort on Andrew’s behalf.

“Yes. Did you enjoy it?”

Neil hums low in his throat, the pink tip of his tongue making a reappearance as he runs it across his bite-swollen lower lip. “You already know the answer to that question. I’m just wondering what I did to deserve it.”

“Consider it a prize for being an excellent water bottle guy.”

They kiss a little more and then Kevin’s calling Andrew’s name from outside the office, impatiently tapping his foot against the floor. Andrew steps out first, following Kevin back down to the lounge where the rest of the team have already started changing and showering. He doesn’t hear or see Neil sneak out after they’re gone, but Jeremy very effectively corners him in the back of the bus on the way back to the Village, leaving little room to ponder.

They have a four day break before they’re due to play in the final, so Daramola graciously allows a small team party to celebrate their success. Even Kevin seems eager to get some good alcohol inside him and the carousing lasts until late into the night. They’ve taken over one of the lounges in the Team USA House, filling the spacious room with players, staff, other American athletes, and a few volunteers. Andrew recognises most from earlier Exy games, and Neil shows up an hour or so into the merrymaking with a fresh load of alcohol and an armful of questionably healthy snacks.

He joins Andrew in one of the corners of the lounge after distributing the goods, all of which are received with enthusiastic cheers and hearty pats to his back and shoulders. They claim one of the sofas and get comfortable, happy to sit in relative silence as they watch the party drag on.

“Do you already know who you’re playing against on Friday?” Neil asks after a while, idly running the tip of his forefinger along the edge of his glass in a circular motion. He’s been sticking mostly to water, save for the few sips of beer he stole from Andrew’s bottle, and he looks unquestionably content.

“No Exy talk,” Andrew warns, extending a leg to prod him hard in the thigh with his toes. “Kevin might hear, and then he won’t shut up about it.”

“Kevin really likes Exy, huh?” Neil tilts his head at the prod, smiling around the rim of his glass. “Who’d have guessed?”

“He acts like he gave birth to it himself.”

The music in the lounge is playing as loudly as they can get away with in a house full of athletes still in the throws of competition, but Neil’s laugh is light and distinctive, and Andrew thinks he could pick it out over the sound of a construction site.

“It was his mum who invented it though, right? Would that make him Exy’s baby brother?”

“You’re sick in the head,” Andrew informs him.

The next days pass in a blur of gym sessions, training, and lectures by Daramola followed by lectures by Kevin. Neil is there and volunteering on the sidelines for most of it; he misses one of their training sessions due to working the Great Britain vs. Peru game, but he’s there the next day, smiling brightly even as Andrew notices a slight limp in his step.

Entirely unsurprisingly, the atmosphere amongst the team is tense. Kevin’s reached a whole new level of controlling which has been translating into increased yelling and more snide remarks whenever something doesn’t meet his standards. Andrew’s never bothered to try and meet those standards, but it’s obvious that some of the younger and less experienced players on the team are suffering. It comes to a head two days before the game when Kevin’s feedback misses constructive by a mile, and Daramola has to stop Whickam from decking him one. That night the bus ride back to the Village is deadly quiet, and Andrew can’t help but wish Neil were there as he stares out the window at the blurred lights and indistinct shapes of the city fly past.

He’s also not there the next morning when Andrew arrives at the gym for his workout, and he’s missing from the sidelines during their practice session. By this time the news that it’s Great Britain they’ll be playing in the final has breached containment, and the atmosphere in the Team USA House is buzzing. All day long athletes from various disciplines come up to Andrew and Kevin to wish them luck, unperturbed by Andrew’s apathy or Kevin’s anxious mania. Andrew doesn’t recognise any of them, but the upcoming game against Britain seems to have triggered some sort of wave of support for Team USA. Chants of the American national anthem follow them from training to lunch, and back, and even when they’re in the company of athletes from other countries the onslaught of well-wishes and requests to kick Britain’s ass keep coming.

By the time their last training session before the final finishes and they’re left on the side of the street outside the Village by the bus, Andrew hasn’t heard from Neil in forty-eight hours. He’s not worried; that would require him to care about Neil’s wellbeing, and that’s something Andrew is simply entirely unwilling to admit to. But he finds himself a little disappointed at the lack of Neil on the staircase outside the House, and what follows on the heels of that disappointment is mild concern.

Neil had kissed him back. Neil had said yes when Andrew had asked him, before anything had happened, and he’d kissed him back. It hadn’t been forced or unwilling. Neil hadn’t approached him with a ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech the next day. On the contrary: he’d actually cornered Andrew in one of the stadium bathrooms and kissed him so soundly that they’d both almost been late for the bus back to the Village.

Annoyed with himself for rejecting Neil’s offer of exchanging phone numbers when they’d first met, Andrew waits until Kevin’s locked himself in the bathroom for an hour-long, sauna-like shower before making his way out of the House and towards the Volunteer Hub on the other side of the Village. Exy is one of the few team sports whose final is scheduled so close to the closing ceremony of the games and the Village is eerily quiet as he walks. At the other end, at the reception desk of the building that houses most of the Olympic volunteers, Andrew’s faced with an apologetic staff member who informs him that there’s no record of a volunteer under the name of Neil Josten.

“All our volunteers are registered in the system.” The woman looks tired, and the smile she offers Andrew is strained. “Are you sure that’s his name? Is there a nickname he might have used?”

The memory of a poster and the look of fear in Neil’s eyes springs to mind. “Try Abraham.”

The woman glances back down at her computer screen as she types, nails clacking obnoxiously against the plastic keyboard.

“Sorry, honey. The closest I have is Alexander Johnston. Maybe it’s him?” Reaching out to angle the screen, she presents him with a picture of a balding man in his late fifties. Andrew leaves before she can turn the screen back, letting the door slam shut behind him.

Kevin’s emerged from the bathroom by the time Andrew returns to their room, wrapped up in a towel and bundled into bed. He looks up when the door opens, the dark rings under his eyes souvenirs of a restless past few nights.

“Where did you go?”

“Out.” Gathering his pyjamas, Andrew absconds to the bathroom to shower and get ready for bed. His fingers twitch for a cigarette the entire time, but when he pokes his head out of the main doors and lets his gaze sweep across the staircase beyond, it’s empty.

Back in their room, Kevin’s already switched off the light. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on? I know you. You’re distracted.”

“For someone who has as many powerful enemies as you do, your self-preservation skills are abysmal.”

“Or maybe I keep pushing because I want what’s best for you,” Kevin argues, sitting up a little to watch Andrew plug in his phone before crawling into bed. “I’ve known you for a long time now. This is what friends do for each other.”

“Oh? Is that what we are? Friends?” Andrew keeps his back to Kevin, blankets pulled up to his chin. It’s unseasonably warm for early August but his entire body aches from a particularly brutal last practice, and he’s never quite kicked the habit of trying to keep himself protected and hard to reach while asleep. “I didn’t know friends annoyed each other so relentlessly.”

“You don’t mean that,” Kevin continues quietly. “What’s wrong?”

“If I tell you, will you shut up and leave me alone?”

Somewhere to his left, a bedside table lamp flicks on. “I won’t even say anything.”

A tall order for Kevin Day, but Andrew knows he’s more likely to be left in peace if he talks than if he tries to block Kevin out entirely.

“I met someone. It’s nothing. He disappeared, and I don’t care.”

Kevin’s quiet for a long time. “Was it the water bottle guy?”

“Neil.” Andrew corrects. He rolls onto his back after a few more moments, stretching out his aching knee. “Turns out he’s a liar. I should have known.”

“What makes you so sure he was lying? Maybe he got caught up in something.”

Andrew shoots a long look across the room. “Is this your idea of not saying anything?”

“You’ve always been dramatic.”

“Fuck you.” Then, “I went to the Volunteer Hub. They said there’s no volunteer with that name in the system. Ding ding. Oh, do you hear that? Time’s up, conversation’s over. Don’t talk to me again.”

Sleep doesn’t come easily that night. Andrew can hear Kevin tossing and turning across the room, muttering underneath his breath as he does so. When he does finally fall asleep several hours later, it’s to the memory of big brown eyes, a mop of curly hair, and a warm smile.

“Andrew, can you believe it? It’s the year of our Lord 2024, and that man has a mullet on his head. An actual mullet , Andrew. That should be illegal. It feels like a hate crime.”

Nicky’s voice has taken on an irritatingly high-pitched frequency as it always does when he’s nervous. He’s standing in the stands directly behind Andrew, elbows resting on the barrier as they regard the lineup of the British team on the other side of the court. Somewhere off to their left, Kevin is conversing quietly with Rivellin and Daramola.

If he thought the crowd was rowdy during their game against Japan, it positively pales in comparison to how it is now. On both sides of the stadium the fans are roaring and cheering their support, flags and banners waving in the air. Currently they seem to be engaged in some sort of screaming competition.

“Good luck today!” Nicky continues, cheerfully oblivious to the chaos of noise around them. “Not that you’ll need it of course. Oh by the way, have you spoken to Aaron?”

At the look on Andrew’s face, he frowns. “You really should, you know. He feels terrible about what happened.”

Andrew highly doubts that. It’d been a stupid fight, as is often the case with them nowadays, the product of stress and tension combined with too much alcohol and Aaron’s pathetically bad sense of humour.

“I don’t care.” 

“Promise me you’ll at least try and talk to him after this is all over? He’s your brother.”

Andrew ignores him in favour of checking the straps of his gloves, and is rescued moments later by Kevin’s appearance by his side. Together they watch as the door on the other side of the court opens to admit the British team; they spill onto the court in a flood of dark blue and white uniforms, led by a tall figure with a buzzcut and shoulders wider than Kevin’s.

“Think we have a chance against them?” 

Andrew snorts humourlessly, picking up his helmet to tuck it under his arm. “All these years of friendship and you still think I give a shit if we win or not?”

“I’m sure of it this time,” Kevin continues, unphased. A moment later he grabs his own helmet, using it to gesture out at the court. “You see number ten, there at the back? The short one? Keep an eye out on him. He’s fast.”

Andrew follows Kevin’s arm until his eyes land on the figure. A set of blue eyes look up to meet his gaze across the court at the same time, and Andrew’s heart jumps into his throat.

It’s Neil. His hair is a fiery shade of auburn, cropped short at the sides instead of a tangle of brown curls, and his eyes are blue as ice, but it’s unmistakably him. He’s wearing the same blue uniform as the rest of his team, the fabric tight against his body in a way that displays the full extent of his lithe and elegantly muscular frame. In one hand he’s holding a striker’s racquet, in the other a helmet emblazoned with a ‘10’ and the English flag. Their eyes meet, and Neil smiles.

“We deserve to be here!” Daramola’s voice just manages to cut through the static in Andrew’s brain, and he drags his attention over to the team huddle happening in front of the court door. “Each and every one of you has worked so hard to get us this far, and I’m so proud. It’d be fucking amazing to get the gold, but even if we don’t, we’ve done great to make it to the final.”

“But we do want the gold,” Kevin interjects before she can continue, earning himself a light kick to the shin from Vásquez.

“Yes, Kevin, we’d all love to kiss gold tonight. So get the hell out there and show those British bastards what we’re made of. Let’s go!”

Andrew watches on as they roar in assent before lining up in preparation to take to the court. Overhead, the disembodied voice of the announcer is calling out the names of the British team as they take their positions. 

“Starting striker for Team Great Britain, number ten, Abram Hatford!” 

On the court Neil raises his racquet to thunderous applause. Andrew keeps his eyes fixed on him as the court door opens to admit them, Kevin in the lead. They march forwards in an orderly line before splitting up to take their positions. Andrew turns to head towards the goal, stopping abruptly at the feeling of someone tapping him on the shoulder. When he turns, Neil is standing beside him.

“Hey.”

Raising an eyebrow, Andrew stares at him.

“Okay yeah, I deserved that.” Neil tilts his head a little, biting back a smile. His voice is deeper now, accent less refined than before. It occurs to Andrew just how much effort he’d put into disguising his identity, and just how well it’d worked. He’d never noticed the coloured contacts or the fact that Neil’s curls were synthetic.

“Look, I can explain everything,” Neil continues, shooting a quick glance over his shoulder. “After the game, okay? I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for disappearing like that, and I’m sorry you had to find out about me like this. I swear I was going to tell you, I just… Never found the right time. Plus I was worried you’d hate me.”

“Hatford! Get your ass over here!”

Neil turns a pleading look on Andrew. “Will you give me a chance to explain myself? I swear I wasn’t spying on you guys or anything. I just wanted to see you play with my own two eyes, and then I wanted to see it again, and then we started talking and I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“Two minutes.”

Brow furrowed in confusion, Neil tilts his head. “Huh?”

“Once this stupid game is over, you’ll have two minutes to explain yourself.”

“Okay.” The confusion disappears, replaced by a smile, and Andrew kicks himself for being relieved that that, at least, seems to have been real. “Two minutes. I can work with that.”

Andrew nods and makes to start walking again when Neil’s hand lands on his shoulder again, pausing him in his tracks a second time. 

“One last thing. Don’t take it too personally when we win tonight, okay?”

And then he’s gone, jogging back down to the British side of the court. Andrew resumes his slow progress towards the goal, pulling on his helmet as he goes. Once he’s situated and turned to face the action, he watches the referee clap his hands to get both teams’ players' attention as the captains move to meet each other for a brief handshake.

The crowd roars, the plexiglass doors slam shut, and the last thing Andrew sees before the whistle blows is Neil’s grin disappearing behind the grating of his helmet.

- Six months later -

From: Josten

When are you landing again?

From: Minyard

It’s a surprise.

From: Josten

Oh cool, so you won’t mind walking to Cambridge from Stansted?

From: Minyard

You can’t keep making up words and expect me to believe that they’re real places.

From: Josten

Can. But seriously, what time?

From: Minyard

14:46.

From: Josten

Cool. I’ll be there to meet you :)

Andrew stares down at the phone in his hand for a moment longer before pocketing it and returning his attention to the flight information on the screen. He hates airports and flying almost as much as he hates Exy, but Neil hadn’t been able to get enough time off from training to visit Andrew in Boston, so it’s up to him to make the journey. Tightening the grip on the handle of his bag, Andrew starts off down the departures lounge and towards the gate.

He hasn’t flown since their return from Paris over half a year ago, and the thought of once again being trapped in a plane for ten hours fills him with dread.

Then he thinks of the warmth in Neil’s eyes when he looks at Andrew, of the way his cheeks dimple when he smiles and the sound of his voice when he’s on the phone to Andrew and trying so very hard not to fall asleep after a gruelling day of practice.

And so maybe, just maybe, sometimes, it’s worth it.