Chapter Text
It doesn’t happen like the way Jett had anticipated.
There were no fluorescent lights flooding the court, or a sea of crowds that struggled to stay in their seats, with their proudly worn green ‘THORNS’ jersey embezzling the stadium. And most certainly, there was no final showdown, nor stadium replicating the fiery pits of Hell, where the final couple of seconds would determine which team would be blessed by the Claw.
Rather, it happens on an unassumingly, terrifyingly normal Tuesday morning. The sun had barely graced the presence of the sleepy Vineland city, leaving but a shy ray of sunlight glimmering against the bars of the cool, metal cart. Like usual, it’s filled to the brim with basketballs from the previous training session. And like usual, there has to be someone getting reps in at an ungodly early hour.
“You’re going to wear yourself out,” Jett deadpans. Balls tumble out within seconds.
She says it like how the sun is a gaseous star, how the grass is green, and how nobody should not be on the showgrounds at a time like this except her, let alone growing athletes. All that she gets is the sound of strained grunts and balls rhythmically bouncing and sneakers squeaking upon the freshly swept ground, before it leaves a pair of hooves.
“Well, what’s wrong with getting some extra practice in?” Nothing but net. The ball whsps effortlessly into and past the hoop, and Jett has to take in a deep breath to figure out what to say next. Even with a hand massaging the bridge of her snout, Jett tries to ignore that damning smile her younger teammate flaunts, waiting for her to notice how yes, he does deserve more court time.
"Lucky shot."
"And who's to say you're the exception?" Will goes in for another shot. "It says Vineland Thorns Stadium, not Fillmore's."
Stupid kids and stupid Flo for drafting one with her shady methods.
But he’s smiling. Just behind the half-court line and far away from the ball dribbling further away from the pair, he whips his head to her, his tiny chest huffing and puffing short breaths, and obviously, he reeks of sweat and an abhorrent amount of strong scented body spray, so he's not really beating the stereotypical middle schooler allegations. But he looks so happy, just being here in this ancient court filled with highs and lows and unforgettable memories marked by legends past and present, making sure she knew that the court was his playground. So hungry for that fleeting moment of pure adrenaline.
And she can’t really say anything about it, really. It brings her back to all those unforgivingly bright and early mornings years ago, and she remembers in that exact moment where Dennis’s sharp whistle cuts her out of her trance, and how she’s suddenly an uprising rookie with a desperate hunger to improve everyone's doubts, no matter how big or small, wrong.
All for the love of the game, she recalls.
So instead, she palms the next ball, swallows her worries, and challenges him to their little game of ‘betcha can’t shoot that’. Predictably, she scoffs at his remarks, knowing he’s got her wrapped around his hoof. So what? Sue her for being emotionally stunted, it’s not exactly written in the description of professional Roarball M.
Time becomes non-existent for the next couple of hoops and shots, and the sun has long risen by the time Dennis catches on. Unimpressed by his nagging going through empty ears, he sentences them both to run extra laps around the court. They share a rare moment to laugh off the absurdity of the situation, just until the rest of the Vineland Thorns slowly creep in one by one.
It’s no big deal, lightwork even. Except, Jett barely enters her fifth lap when she suddenly stumbles over her legs, kneels over at the unexpected ache gnawing at her knee. Jett ignored it at first; persistent and dull, but man, did each step always feel like being shocked a thousand times? From an outsider's perspective, it appears that she’s simply fallen and is taking her time to gather herself, but it couldn't have been further from the truth.
Hunched over herself, she sucks in a hiss.
“Oh my god, Jett!”
“Hey, you ‘aight?”
“Woah woah, easy now. Don't put weight on it.”
Like a moth to a flame, her teammates rush to her aid upon realizing that she’s not getting up from her fall but simply wasn’t getting up. She tightly grips onto her leg, tail curled around the source of her discomfort. Jett and her team and the entire Roarball community knew the conclusion of their final game last season, especially how she wasn’t necessarily in the best shape. As a matter of fact, she hasn’t for a while. Not many Roarball athletes stay on the court past their mid 20s, let alone early 30s, media coverage reporting how Jett's just buying herself time when she’s just buying herself time not to shove her fists in their faces.
(“You should really stay off pawstagram,” Olivia offhandly mentions. They’re sky high above the clouds, flying far away from their hometown for a game. Jett’s willing to bet her career that everyone else is goofing off at the pool table, losing miserably to UNO with Modo present. “It’s like, really bad for your heart. And face. You probs don’t wanna deepen those wrinkles, can’t let those reports get the last laugh, can’t we?”
Jett gawfs and tells her how hypocritical she is, clicking and tapping away at her phone at the speed of light. Not looking up from her phone, Olivia gifts her with a feathered middle finger. Jett blows an exaggerated kiss in return.)
Jett refuses any help in her classic Jett fashion and collects herself. It takes a bit longer than she anticipates, awkwardly coughing into her fist because at least she can admit how unsettling it is for her team’s concern to be placed on her, but ignores it. “It’s no big deal, guys. Chill out.”
But it is, she stubbornly waves away the tiny voice whining in the back of her head. There’s a lot of injuries she’s dealt with in the past few years of her career, but this special kind of pain isn’t like anything she’s ever experienced.
Followed by a click of a pen on paper, Jett outwardly groans when Dennis’ sharp whistle ushers her back to the sidelines.
“C’mon Jett, look at yourself. You gotta take it easy. You’re barely in the right conditions to train,” Dennis shakes his head. A deep growl answers him.
Jett hangs her head low, that way, she can’t see the concerned faces of well, the entire Thorns team. And here she was thinking that she could rock up to training grounds 'fully healed'. It’s hard to think positive thoughts and digest whatever he’s saying given her position: recent Claw champion, decade long hometown hero of Vineland, role model for the future Roarball generation. This just isn't fair! It's so unbelievably unfair. Off-season preparations end in barely a couple months, so how is she expected to play at her prime when her body is rejecting the idea of intensity?
No, she gulps, feeling her face grow hotter by the second. No, no no. I can’t go out like this. The season hasn’t even started, so how could I let myself get this hurt? How could this happen? Why is this happening? Fuck, how do I get myself out of this mess?
Sharp snaps of fingers do the trick and forces her out of her daze. She expected Dennis to look unimpressed, but his brows are knitted and his lips are tight and suddenly, she doesn’t know which option was the better one. Perhaps none. But all in all, he looks pretty worried compared to everyone else.
Speaking of the team…
Everything happened so quickly and she isn’t sure what to focus on at the moment. But if there's anything she is grateful for, it’s for Will’s natural talent for not being able to keep quiet. In just a matter of seconds, he shoots a ball against Archie's horn, jokingly, smiling cheekily at his teammate's shocked look. Archie shakes away the dizziness. “What’s the holdup for? Thought you had your eyes on the game.”
“Oh, you're on, kid. You sure you wanna play that game?” The rhino beckons.
"Bring it on."
Will bounces the hollow ball between his legs a couple times before shooting it behind him, the ball soaring towards a charging Lenny. Olivia groans and complains how it’s ‘not fair’ once the ball circles into the hoop, leaving a proud Will and Lenny to share a fist bump, all before they try to win the next point. Seems like they mastered the classic Eagle 24.
And just like that, everyone started playing like nothing ever happened. Riling him his teammates and alongside with assistant coaches desperately trying to keep up, Jett feels her shoulders droop and sighs heavily.
She’s secretly glad that everyone has their focus turned back to training, grateful that they’re giving her the space to recollect herself. Jett wouldn’t want anyone to see her in this god-awful, pitiful state.
“It’s been a month,” Jett bemoans. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’ll take it easy.”
“And clearly you need a couple more, or else you won’t have any left in your Roarball career!" Dennis stresses. The paper attached to his clipboard crumbles slightly under his palms. "Is that what you want? To set an example to your fans that it’s okay to brush off life-altering injuries?”
There it is. That final conclusion cementing the reality she’s been trying to ignore throughout her recovery period, the mentioning of injury feeling like a sick jab to her heart.
It’s a bit unsettling how serious Dennis gets at times like these, and it’s easy to forget how this is the same person that told her that one wrong move, her actions and career will forever be immortalized in film for hundreds and thousands to see. Probably her fault for judging books by their covers.
(First and foremost, who even says that? She wonders if Dennis’ wise words of advice have traveled to the ears of her team).
Not looking up from the floor, Jett hears the metal bench creak under the weight of a dull thud. Man, they really need to find a time to replace it. Poor thing is barely holding up weren't it for the overlapping vines squeezing the metal legs together.
“Jett, I’m not playing around. I'm strict on this not because I want you to suffer, but because I care for this team, which also means I care for my players too. Equally. Even the ones with an ego as hot as Magma’s stadium," Dennis elbows her. Snarky old man still got it in him.
“Hey now,” Jett playfully pushes his arm. “I’m working on that.”
She sobers up quickly. Still, the harsh truth replays in the back of her mind like a broken record, no matter how many times he or anyone comforts her. It’s simply a fact. Dennis pats her back. “I just don’t want you to get hurt doing the thing you love. It’s one thing to play without regrets, but it’s another to be reckless.”
Her twitching brow smoothens out after a couple deep breaths. He’s right, she’s slowly coming to terms with how he isn’t actively coming after her but comforting her. It's oddly nice, yes, but also yes, she can’t deny that logic for long.
“When did you get so wise?” Her voice cracks slightly over the sound of everyone and everything happening in the background, but if he noticed, then he’s doing a fantastic job not showing it. “Guess you right, coach.”
“Y’know, Jett,” she looks up. He has this wistful look all over his face, watching the others compete for the last few points before the timer buzzes. “This wasn’t my idea to bring this up.”
Confused, she hunches over a bit. It’s easy to forget how she towers over the majority of the population, especially when most of her teammates are fairly close in height. “I was planning on bringing it up, but it seems like Will beat me to it,” her ear flicks at the sound of his name. He chuckles to himself. "Actually, I wouldn't even know where to start if it weren't for the kid."
"Dennis..."
Just in time, her head looks up at the sound of shrill laughter, undoubtedly belonging to a certain rookie. Will has his hooves pressed together, as if he were asleep, and sprints past a fuming Archie demanding a rematch. By adding fuel to the fire, he sticks his tongue out, leaving the assistant coaches no choice but to quickly move onto the next training schedule, before their team becomes disqualified from a lack of players on the roaster. Somebody ought to help them out, but surely, they can survive without their honorary coach for a couple more minutes. Probably.
Anywho, back on topic. Asking for further elaboration, Dennis brings up his clipboard that never leaves his sight. Jett cranes her neck closer to him and a quiet gasp leaves her mouth.
It’s usually filled with defense and offense strategies, athlete stats, and carefully curated notes from their opponent. However, stuck onto the corner of his notes on her athlete profile is a sticky note, chicken scratch writing messy and rushed and all over the place, but she’s able to decipher slowly but surely.
Yo coach, mind looking into rehab for Jett?? Don't tell her, but I think her knee's bothering her but idk, just putting it out there.
-Will
“I may not have been the best coach in the past, but what’s more important is that I'm here now," Dennis offers a weak smile.
That does it. A thick lump bubbles up in her throat. That's... something.
But yeah, she could work with that. She doesn't like it, but at least she isn't facing it alone, as selfish as it may sound. Fearing that her voice might betray her, she nods. "What do ya' say about going through your treatment plan? Sound good?”
A smile finds its way back to her.
The nagging voice in the fore-back of her mind doesn't go away to her dismay, but her future doesn't look as daunting as it did initially. It's comforting knowing what her options are and how she could quickly get out of this hellish situation and bring hell to anyone that dares challenge the Thorns. If there’s anything Jett's good at, it’s to never back down when things get tough. Even if it's her body that doesn't want to listen to her.
So, she actively listens to the options her coach gives, even offering comments while they wait for the medical staff to whisk her away for further examination.
Alright, she thinks. Let’s get down to business.