Akira Sato

When Akira gave them that final point they needed, Brayden felt like throwing up he was so relieved. He realized near the end that they didn’t have a chance at winning, but there was still some hope that they could still somehow make it out of this alive. His hands shake as he sits on the bus, so overwhelmed with conflicting emotions. He’s fucking happy that they’re moving forward but dread sits heavy in his stomach. They lost their last two games and they’re nearing the end now. He’s pretty sure this was their last stroke of luck, and he’s not feeling very confident in their ability to win it all—or even come up second. 

He doesn’t want to spend this game like the last though, hiding away on the rooftop as he smokes through an entire pack of cigarettes. They’re in Chicago, which is a pretty cool place for a city, and even though he’s convinced this is the end of their rope, it still seems like they should celebrate. They lost twice and still get to move forward. 

So, when he gets off the bus, he doesn’t immediately disappear to his hotel room, lingering to see what the others are doing. Brayden flinches in surprise when Akira suddenly appears beside him, full of enthusiasm. And for once, he can’t hold it against him. He saved their asses after all, if anyone deserves to celebrate it’s him. He raises a brow in response, “Me?” He looks around as their teammates climb off the bus, he’s pretty sure it would make more sense for Akira to show up with any of them over him, but he won’t argue. “I mean, I guess,” He agrees with shrug and shifts awkwardly as he works himself up to congratulate him. “Hey—uh—nice work, man. We’d be fucked without you.”

“No. Not you. The imaginary friend I’ve had since I was six.” He scoffs, smiling wide and resisting the urge to sling his arm over Brayden’s shoulders. They’re friendly, sure, but Akira’s never sure which Foxes like that sort of thing and which don’t. “Of course I mean you. All of us Foxes need to go out tonight. We might’ve lost this battle but dammit we won the war, right? We’re going into the final rounds...and we’re going to kick ass.” Akira’s hopeful that by sheer force of his will power the Foxes will be able to kick ass the rest of these games. Take home the trophy. The win. Rub some smug Raven noses in something again. They have to. Akira will accept nothing less. He smiles wide though, bumping his shoulder into Brayden’s softly.

“Thanks. But...I’d have never managed to pull it off it weren’t for the rest of the team. I just got lucky.” He preens under Brayden’s praise though. It feels good to be praised. Feels good to hear that all of those extra hours are working. That the skills he’s worked tirelessly to hone are getting him somewhere. He hopes that the press junket will be talking about that shot for days. A tangible reminder to the world that Akira Sato can fucking play exy. He holds onto that feeling. He lingers next to Brayden, going no where fast. “You were fantastic tonight too. I mean...we all were. We were great. It was great.” He sighs. “Fuck. I’m just excited, you know? Proving all those people wrong just feels so good, you know?”

His smile softens a little and he sighs. “But we’re not going to worry about that tonight. Nope. Tonight. All about making it to the finals. Celebrating. You want to call the taxi or should I? I hurt too much to walk.”

         The game was intense, even though Henry missed a part of it. He’d whined at Abby that if she didn’t tell him what was going on, he was going to walk out in the middle of testing. He ended up being fine but was miserably forced to sit on the bench for the rest of the game. The loss was sickening though. As much as he knew they’d gotten enough points, they’d lost both games. They were still moving on. It made him incredibly proud to be part of this team. Especially when he thought his whole Exy career had ended his junior year of high school. It honestly was incredible to be part of any team, let alone a team like the Foxes. The wave of pride he felt for his team was overwhelming. Henry wished it always felt like that for his team. Despite the loss, they were alright. A small part of him wondered if his dad ever felt this proud of him—or if he’d never felt this way about his family.

         Everyone’s celebrating the Foxes win. It’s a crowd of Vixens and Foxes in the locker room. Henry didn’t feel great. His performance in the game wasn’t the best and even if he didn’t get a concussion, getting hit—even with a helmet—didn’t feel great. But he was going to celebrate with his team tonight. Celebrate, minus alcohol. Henry was happier than he’d been in a long time. Sometimes he thought about how different his life was now compared to four years ago, or even three years ago when he first started playing with the Foxes. He still wasn’t completely himself, huge pieces of his life were still hidden from the people he was closest to him. Henry would get there, eventually. Through all the celebration, he managed to get dressed back in his regular clothes, eventually heading to settle on the bus while everyone calmed down and made their way over.

         He found a seat on the bus, alone. At least until Akira slid in the seat beside him. Henry wrung his hands for a moment, awkwardly unsure what to say to his roommate. “Oh, please don’t say that. I wake up and this is just a dream, I’ll probably cry.” He couldn’t imagine what nightmare life he’d be waking up to if a dream about the Foxes losing a game but moving on was a good dream. “Planning on celebrating with everyone, of course.” Henry might not like being around all the Foxes and Vixens at the same time, but he did want to celebrate their success more than anything. To Akira’s second question, he turned around in his seat, trying to see if he could spot Jack in the crowd of people. When he spotted them, Henry turned back towards Akira. “I don’t think going with you is a good idea, though. No offense. It’s just… my…” he trailed off, unsure what to say. Henry let out a nervous laugh. The intention was probably clear. His roommates and Jack’s roommates might know how much time they were spending together, but the rest of the team didn’t know. And he wasn’t quite ready to come out to the whole team. “Anyway. We’ll be there. I mean… I’ll be there.”

“Don’t worry.” Akira says, settling into the seat a little bit more. He’s glad to be off his feet, even if it is on the seat of the Fox bus. “If I wake up and tonight ends up being some...wild dream or whatever. We’ll cry together.” He laughs loudly, closing his eyes and fully relaxing into the chair, arms crossed over his chest. He’s going to be out all night. May as well chill while he can. His good mood is dampened slightly by Henry’s response though and he cracks and eye open to look at him, thinking. His first reaction is to think Henry doesn’t like him, he wouldn’t be the first Fox to avoid spending time with him. He’s used to it by now. He can’t help the slight frown that flashes across his face at it. He hides it behind a relatively believable smile.

It’s not that Akira dislikes Jack. It’s that Akira just...really dislikes Jack. And for a brief flash of time he gets angry over the fact Henry hanging out with Jack is the reason behind his refusal. He can only imagine the things Jack might’ve told him. Not that Akira can honestly say Henry has changed much since he started spending more time with Jack. He’s still friendly. Still a Fox Akira likes spending time with. It probably helped, at least a little, that Henry spent even less time in the room than before.

“Between you and me I think it’d be more fun if just you came but...” He shrugs and closes his eye. He refuses to be put out by this development. He’s going to ride this high until he falls asleep tomorrow morning. “I’ll still be excited that you’re there. I want the whole team to come out to celebrate tonight. It’s a big deal. Winning. Just...gotta ignore the fact we didn’t actually win, you know?” He laughs again, already feeling the sting from earlier abating.

When Akira scored the go-ahead goal, the one that would send them into the death mach, Leo was on the court. For a second, he hadn’t realized that it had gone in: he’d been focused on his backliner mark, on trying to get some space around him in case the goalkeeper blocked Akira’s shot and Leo needed to be ready to pick up the rebound—but there was no rebound, because then the goal was lighting up red, because Akira had scored, and they were moving on. 

Everything after that felt like a blur. The last moments on the court didn’t matter, even when the Blue Demons scored again, like they were trying to rub it in, trying to psych them out ahead of their rematch. He only felt like he came back to himself again when he was sitting in front of the press with Grant, and even then it had been a struggle to hold it together, to show only the right amount of joy, the amount he could bear showing, beat letting the world see. 

But now that’s over with, and the rest of the night is theirs. The Blue Demons and their fans are going home disappointed; the Bruins, in a hotel somewhere paid for by the ERC, even moreso, having been forced to watch their season end surrounded by cameras and fans. 

They don’t matter anymore. Whatever happens after this belongs to them—and, even though he usually prefers a crowd, he wants it to stay that way. The Foxes and the Vixens, insular and close, celebrating this together and with no one else around, because no one else can really know what it means. Not to them. 

“Do I ever miss a party?” He says to Akira, who seems to mirror all of Leo’s restless elation, the joy that feels almost like disbelief—not that he didn’t think they could make it here, but that even in his wildest dreams he didn’t think it could feel so good. He bumps his shoulder against Akira’s, feels his grin ready to split his face in two. “That was a sick goal, man. Fucking sick.”

Akira’s smile grows even wider at Leo’s response. Of course he knows Leo’s good for a party. Leo’s always good for a party. It feels good to hear him say it though. To be honest though, Akira doesn’t quite know what to do next. He’s probably one of the last Foxes to be gearing for a party and now that he’s here...he’s a little lost. There’s one beat of awkward silence before Akira throws caution to the wind and launches himself into the conversation, pulling open his phone. “I still can’t believe I landed that shot. It was pretty much a hail Mary kind of thing.” He shrugs, grinning a little brighter as Leo bumps his shoulder. “You were pretty bad ass too. You were laser focused tonight!” Granted, Akira thinks all of the Foxes did a fantastic job tonight. Sure, they didn’t win, but they’d made it. They lost the battle but they’re still in this war. And Akira plans on fighting it to the end. He hopes the other do too.

“I’ll call an Uber.” He doesn’t usually, too risky, but it’s a quick matter of logging into one of his accounts. “I heard the party is going to be at this place a few blocks from the hotel. I know nothing about it but...may as well get there before the rest of the town learns it’s where we’re going, right?” He shoots Leo a grin. “Getting there early means getting the good stuff right?” Or course it does, Akira knows that. Know that is probably hasn’t changed in the few short years he stopped caring about that kind of thing. 

He doesn’t let himself linger on that train of thought. He’s not trying to get to the bar early to get his hands on the good stuff. He just wants to miss the crush of people that will soon descend on the bar. If he can slip in before the vultures catch on, the better. The car is quick, there’s plenty of Ubers waiting around the stadium for party goers coming from the game. Akira’s glad it’s dark when he opens the back door. “Last chance to say no.” He laughs, grinning wider at Leo, joking with him.

“Why not? The Foxes are here. The Vixens are here. I don’t think we need anyone else,” Grant says. He can guess what Akira means though. This has more in common with late nights in the Vixen’s Den than it does the last party they met at—in LA, in the club, in full view of the cameras. Maybe that’s the reason why Akira does stay, when Grant asks. There’s no one here who would sell their photos to the tabloids or to Akira’s rabid fans. Grant won’t pretend he gets along perfectly with everyone on their team, but he does trust them all, in the end.

And, as soon as they can claim some kind of privacy, Akira sits down beside him readily. It makes the past few weeks of strained silence even worse in hindsight, even if Grant understands why they’ve needed that space. Privacy is almost impossible for Akira, but that’ll only get worse if the press think he has some secret romance happening with a teammate. 

Grant told himself not to look at those photos, but of course he’d caved—he’s spent too long obsessed with his image, his story, the way people speak about him. He’s never learned to simply not care. 

Now that he’s seen them, he understands why Akira was so worried when he saw the flash of the camera. Maybe it’s the dim lighting of the ally or the startled look on their faces or simply the way Grant’s arm was draped around Akira’s shoulders, but those shots do look intimate. Private. They’re exactly the sort of thing Akira’s fans want to read into, and Grant gave it to them on a platter.

So Grant’s kept his distance as much as Akira has, at least until the publicity dies down. It’s a mutual decision. Akira’s agent, apparently, can handle the rest. That doesn’t mean he’s enjoyed it though.

Akira’s declaration is unexpected, and Grant’s gaze drops down to Akira’s hands, tangled together with what almost looks like nerves. It’s hard to feel nervous about this, with all that’s happened tonight and his knee still hurting, but Grant thinks he could manage it if he tried. “I’ve missed you too,” Grant says, instead. “What’s your agent saying? Are we—” he shrugs, gestures between the two of them. “Has the press moved on yet? Or do we need to work out some secret system for talking in public?” He’s only partially joking.

Akira doesn’t really have an answer for Grant’s question. It’s just...a thing. Here, in the privacy of Leo’s home...It feels less like a true Fox party even though all of them are here. Perhaps it’s because in here they’re safe from the prying eyes of the public. From gossiping nobodies desperate for the next great scoop. He doesn’t feel the need to look over his shoulder, police his personality. It’s kind of sad really. It makes Akira’s chest hurt, knowing that invasive publicity is such an integral part of normal Fox life. He hates it. He hates everything about it. He shrugs, still at a loss for words. “It’s a good feeling...don’t get me wrong. I just...Is it really a Fox party if you aren’t worried about someone looking for some gossip to spread?” Akira trusts...most of the Foxes and the Vixens...but without fail the nastiest rumors come from people removed from the group.

He sighs and drops his eyes to look at the tangled mess of his fingers. It’s a terrible explanation. He hopes Grant won’t ask for more. His embarrassment is soon forgotten in the wake of Grant’s next words. He...He hadn’t expected Grant would agree with him. Sure, he’d hoped he would. Hoped that in the aftermath of those damn pictures that they could still be friends. He would have understood if Grant had been upset with him. He had some much on the line right now. Bad press? It was the last thing he’d want. 

But hearing Grant say that?

It felt like a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He doesn’t try to hide the relief he feels because of it. He even manages to untangle his fingers. He’s nervous, but it’s easier to manage now. “The press is over it. Something about Trev publicly dumping someone who turned out to be twice is age?” He flaps his hand, dismissing it as unimportant. It is important, but Grant doesn’t need to know that it was staged. He still doesn’t know how he feels about that knowledge. “Some of my fan base is still talking about it but we...we’re not in the tabloids anymore.”

He shakes his head, upset. “He says we should stay away from each other a while longer, the press loves nothing more than revisiting shit.” He sighs and looks back up at Grant. “I want to go back to...” Normal? Whatever they had? Akira doesn’t know what to call it. Doesn’t know what Grant would call it. He swallows. “I don’t want to avoid you anymore. But...” He drags his fingers through his hair, messing it up. “But I’ll get it if you don’t want to because of...everything. People will talk. They’ll always talk. I get it if you’d rather not. You’ve got a lot riding on the rest of the season. I get it.” He sighs. “I just...yeah.”

Akira isn’t ashamed to admit that when the Foxes converged on him on the court...he’d cried. He’d hugged anyone who would let him throw his arms around them and then he hugged them all again. Screw the game. They could lose tonight and Akira wouldn’t care an ounce. They were going to the death match. They’d made it. The Foxes were going places. And the Foxes did lose but...Akira didn’t care. Barely even noticed the scores as they walked off the court, sticks on their shoulders. They’d made it. He felt weak in the knees just knowing it.

It’s a struggle to separate himself from the mass of celebrating Foxes and Vixens in the locker room, but he hurts and, if he’s being honest with himself, he needs a moment to himself. Needs a moment to breathe, to tell himself that this is real. That it isn’t a dream. And the warm water on his shoulders feels fantastic. He lingers there, water running down his body, head resting against the wet wall. Thinking of everything and nothing all at once. He plays the game over and over in his head, reliving the rush of scoring  over and over again. By the time he gets out of the shower the rush hasn’t faded. His hair is damp when he gets dressed and walks back out into the fray, gathering his gear and heading out to the bus to drop it off. 

He shoves it in the storage compartment and spends a little bit of time with Wymack by the bus. They don’t talk much, Wymack never does, but he puts his hand on Akira’s shoulder as he turns to leave and smiles at him an Akira’s heart soars. He’s on cloud nine as he leaves, headed for the nearest person he can find. He doesn’t even care who it is as he slides up next to them, still riding high. “I still can’t believe that we made it. It’s like...like I’m going to wake up and it’s all just a...dream. You know?” Akira fidgets, shifting from one foot to another and shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets. “You’re going to the party, right?” He smiles. “Come with me?”

He hasn’t had a chance to speak to Akira Sato since his explosive outburst with the UC Davis Aggies. Michael Cheng has advised him on the finer points of apologizing several times but he hasn’t quite found the will to put into practice. He meant what he said to Akira Sato then. It’s still true. Akira Sato should not call him family and no matter how much he wants to, how kind it would be to let him believe it’s true. It isn’t. Raph isn’t anyone’s family. It’s better that way. 

But it’s hard to remember that when he feels so deeply, horribly alone and Akira Sato is there, painfully caring even when Raph doesn’t deserve it. He’s asking Raph if he’s alright. Raph has never been able to not be alright. With Frank he’d only had to care about functional and non-functional, everything else had been secondary. Raph’s not injured beyond his slowly healing hand. He’s not sick. He’s slept a total for six hours within the last fifteen and his last meal was approximately 4 and a half hours ago. He should be able to tell Akira Sato that he is alright, able to function, able to perform. He should tell him to leave because the alternative is having Akira Sato stay, offering something he knows he cannot have when he is achingly, horribly vulnerable. 

But when he opens his mouth he can’t manage to produce a single world. His throat feels painfully tight and his eyes feel hot and he can’t think of anything else to do but bury his head further in his arms, head shaking. It’s the closest thing he can do to actually communicating, this small insignificant twitch of his head. No. He’s not alright. He’s not.

Akira doesn’t know what to do when Raph admits that he isn’t okay, burying his face and shaking his head. Any lingering anger he might have had dissipates in an instant. Not that there was much of it left anyways. He hesitates though, torn between throwing his arm over Raph’s shoulder or doing nothing at all. He knows Raph hates touch, it’s not a secret. But all Akira wants to do it reach out to him. There’s another beat of silence before Akira shifts a little closer, still not touching but close enough to him that Akira hopes Raph knows that he’s here. Listening. 

“My dad is from Japan.” Akira doesn’t really know where he’s going with this. But he knows that sometimes...the best help one can offer someone is a distraction. He keeps his eyes on the horizon, watching the stars. “So I’ve got a lot of family over there. We visit all the time. When I was really little I hated flying in planes. Like...hated, hated. There was this one time I ran away from my mom in the airport because I just wasn’t having it. They were frantic looking for me.” He laughs softly. He doesn’t recall this story, too young to remember it. But his parents were fond of telling it to anyone who’d listen. His mother especially. It’s probably the first time he’s told it to anyone himself. “They found me pretty quickly, thank god. Do you want to guess where they found me?”

He doesn’t really wait for Raph to answer. He doesn’t expect him to answer really. “I was in this souvenir shop, absolutely fascinated by the national exy team display. Pudgy little hands on this TV screen, jaw on the floor, absolutely enthralled. My mom always said that was the moment she knew I was going to be a star exy player.” He crosses his arms over his chest and sighs. “Ever since I was a little kid holding his first racket I wanted to get on the Japanese team. I still do." It may have been the most...direct route but he was on it. He pauses, sighing. He doesn’t know what to say. If Raph wants him to say anything at all.

Location: Fox Tower Roof Date: Thursday, March 21 Time: Night Status:(open)

The room is empty. Half of it is stripped bare. All of it is wrong. There should be a yellow comforter on the bed, a mess of video games and paper and pens on the desk, clothes in the dresser. It should not be empty. Lucas Ervine should be here. He isn’t.

Raph sits on the bed. The air here stills smells a bit like Lucas Ervine but that will fade in time Perhaps the ache will too. 

This shouldn’t come as a surprise. Raph should just be grateful he had the chance to be near him at all. He certainly didn’t deserve to be. People have always been impermanent fixtures in his life. Everyone leaves and they do not come back. Everyone except for Frank. This isn’t the first time he’s had this thought. He’s always known this at his core. But it is the first time this has hurt so much, cracking something inside of him and sliding it out of place, the broken edges of it grinding against his ribs whenever he tries to breathe. 

He leaves that place where nothing is right and the last trace of Lucas Ervine’s presence in his life is fading. The Fox Tower’s roof isn’t much of a hiding place but it’s close by and far off the ground and he can curl in the darkest corner furthest from the door and he can breathe through the awful, choking pain that’s filled his chest and he can try not to feel anything at all. 

He doesn’t notice when the Fox Tower door slides open.

He’s tired. But then again, he’s always tired lately. There’s just not enough time in the day to do classes and get ready for championships and have some time to himself. Not that Akira has ever really allowed himself the time to be alone much. If there’s time to be free then there’s time to be perfecting his technique or studying the opposing team’s tactics or, sometimes, doing his homework. So it’s odd that he finds himself wandering aimlessly this evening. There aren’t anymore games to watch and if Wymack finds out he was on the court this late at night again he’ll be out the next game. And if there’s anything he hates more than free time...it’s sitting on the side lines at a game. And he’s spent more than enough time watching the game from the wrong side of the glass this season, thank you very much.

He’s not all that surprised when his wanderings take him to the roof. It’s cliche, ridiculous almost, but the roof has always been a beacon for lost Foxes. A place to go when it all seems too much. Too big. Akira doesn’t spend nearly the same amount of time up here as the other Foxes, but he’s clocked hours staring at the stars. Last year especially. And as he pushes the door open and comes out into the chilly night air he knows he was probably headed here all along. It feels good.

He doesn’t notice anyone until he’s almost half way across the roof, too distracted by the stars and the cool air to be paying much attention. He pauses, half considering going back in and calling it a night. It’s Raph and...Akira isn’t even sure Raph wants him to be around. Their last real conversation had ended on such a poor note that he cringes thinking about it. He’s not mad, at least, not any more. Raph is...Raph and there’s no better way for Akira to wrap his head around that fact. And he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t missed him and all his...quirks. He hovers a moment longer before closing the gap and folding himself to the roof to sit next to him. Close, but not touching. “You all right?”

Sterling watches Akira speak, gaze unwavering. He looks restless, touching his own skin, but he’s talking, and it’s the most transparent Sterling’s ever seen Akira be. He’s bitter and ashamed. Sterling gets more details than he’d been expecting, and he wonders how many times Akira’s told this story. 

“So you didn’t actually hit the ground?” he asks. It’s not the only thing he’s taken away from what Akira’s said, but it snagged in his mind. It isn’t quite the ending to Akira’s story that he expected; It’s hard to envision a life where his parents caught him either of the times his life fell apart. In his mind, functional families are grass that looks so much greener from the other side. Akira’s parents could save his life, but they couldn’t save him from being a Fox? “And nobody else wanted you? Really?” Akira’s a good player, Sterling figures he had to have offers from other schools who would have wanted him the moment they found out he was on the market for a team. 

“And not everyone fucked up their own life,” he adds, because he’s always hated that broad brush he’d been painted with. As far as he’s concerned, he’s a Fox because of his mother’s choices, not his own. “Sometimes other people fucked it up for you.” 

Did he hit the ground? Maybe. Guess it depends on whose definition of ground you’re using. Akira says he didn’t hit the ground because there was never a public fall out. Never a magazine spread about him finally crossing the line. No headlines about the painful process of recovery. Sure, there was speculation. But never hard evidence. Akira hadn’t hit the ground, no. But he’d come close enough to it that he never wanted to go back there. He hears the mild disbelief in Sterling’s voice and elects to not be offended by it. He knows what it looked like. What it still looks like. But he also knows that it could have gone far, far, worse. “No. I didn’t.” His voice is soft. “But I came close. Really...close.”

Sterling’s next question catches him off guard. No one outside of Wymack has ever asked him that. It’s always been assumed that Akira picked them because they were the only team who’d take a washed up starlet under their wing. And it’s mostly true...but it’s not the whole reason. And Akira hasn’t told anyone that reason. It’s always felt...deeply personal. His hands rub at his arms harder, he contemplates not answering. Telling him something boring and predictable. But he doesn’t, in the end. It’s not like it matters anymore. “I only sent my tapes to Wymack.” He shakes his head. “No one else knew I was on the market....because I knew no one else would take me on and use me as a player. And I wanted to play so badly that...” He scoffs and shakes his head, staring off into the distance behind Sterling again. “I did not want to be some pretty press jewel for the Lions or the Terrapins or anyone else.” He feels small, admitting it out loud. “They’d have taken me on for no other reason than the press and the fans. Another cage. The same life I had in LA all over again. This time with mostly real exy.” He brings his eyes back to Sterling, deeply serious. “But I don’t regret joining the Foxes.”

Sterling’s rebuke is warranted. It’s unfair of Akira to assume that every Fox here had a hand in their fall. There are plenty of Foxes that are victims of circumstance here. He nods. “You’re right... and I’m sorry.” 

It takes her longer than it should have to draw her gaze from the cameras to Akira.  Her complaint feels unwarranted now. Yes, they’re unsettling, and yes, she has a right to be uncomfortable with their presence, but this is the extent of their exposure for her. In comparison to Akira, this is all she will suffer, unless she wishes to play past her career at Palmetto.

Swallowing, her lips part, throat dry despite her desire to say something – perhaps an apology, maybe a way to lighten the atmosphere she’s created. But Akira mentions gossip, and her mood darkens enough that her brow furrow and her lips set to a straight line.

“Would be hilarious if Foxwatch is there posing as a scout, wouldn’t it?” she says, inflection steady as if she’s not really asking a question at all. And truly, she isn’t. She knows the answer, and there’s little humor in it. “But – I suppose they’re nothing to worry about for today.”

Akira almost regrets not turning around to face her just seconds after he’s spoken. Her silence is unnerving and not being able to see her face puts him at a distinct disadvantage. He tries not to think about it, the last thing he wants his to face the cameras now. Let them see his name splashed on a real jersey. Maybe they’ll finally get the hint. He doubts it. Her joke falls flat...he’s not entirely sure she meant for it too. He doesn’t know Alis well enough to make that call.

He shrugs and smacks the butt of his racket against the floor. “They probably are. They’re practically everywhere. The vultures.” His disdain is obvious, he doesn’t try to hide it. On campus he might be relatively safe from the prying eyes of the press...but Foxwatch can be just as vicious when it wants to be. And they have been. They wouldn’t pass up a chance to be here, to watch the Foxes squirm under the scrutiny of the press.

“Who said anything about being worried?” Akria says, lying to both her and himself. He’s worried sick. He’s always worried sick then the press is involved. “Foxwatch is just campus gossip. They can’t do shit to us. Especially not if they’re stuck sitting in the stands. What would they find here? That Emmett needs to work on his footwork? Or that Kent is wearing mismatched pads? Pretty boring stuff to their usual fair.”

   For someone like Indigo, who makes it a personal goal at times to be offensive… it’s hard to be too mean or offend her. Despite the pastels and glitter on the outside, she was pretty tough when it came to opposition, especially when she was well aware that Akira personally held no real ill-will towards her. Sure, she rejected much criticism, and did not react well to being told what to do. Her sass to Grant during practice a few times, especially her Freshman year, had been enough to get her in trouble once or twice. Ultimately now, Indigo was working on lessening that side of her, since it stood in the way of her own ability to be great. “Well, I’m not gonna admit you’re right, but…” 

  She trailed off, and Akira should know that was as close as he’d get to her agreeing with him. Indi placed her stick next to his, the thin part decorated with a couple of durable, cute stickers. Her equipment was always impossible to mistaken for someone else’s. “Okay,” Indigo replied, joining him and trying to keep her expression from looking too bored. It was always hard to start small, work up, practice basics. 

   Maybe that’s why Akira was faster, quicker - just ever so slightly better. She wished Grant was here now to see her biting her cheek and following Akira’s instruction. “Yeah, whatever. Let’s do it - basics, drill, on my own.” 

“But I’m right.” Akira says, shooting her a grin and a wink. He’s poking at a bear and he knows it but so far she’s been rather placid about it. And he sees no issue with some light ribbing between teammates. He stretches out his shoulders and shakes out his arms. “We’ll start simple. Watch me.” He keeps his eyes focused on his feet and the blink of an eye his feet are moving in a seemingly complex rhythm and pattern. It’s over almost as quickly as it began and he’s barely winded. He looks at Indigo, smiling. “We’ll be doing that. Let me walk you through it and then we’ll get you started.” He nods and rolls his shoulders back. Slowing down was hard for him.

“The first thing you have to know is that it’s your hips, not your feet, that lead you where you want to go. Always keep your hips in mind.” He moves his for emphasis and then does the first step, then the next, and then the next. There’s five in total. A simple pattern that she’ll repeat at different speeds. “Memorize these five steps and you’ll have the best speed drill mastered. Simple is good.” He nods. “One more thing, stay on the balls of your feet. It’ll give you the ability to react quickly without wasting time getting moving.”

Akira steps back, giving Indigo a little room to work next to him. “You think you got that? We can run through it together or you can go out on your own instead.” He shrugs. “Either way, take it slow and only five reps of the pattern. Don’t want you to form any bad habits to early on.” He grins at her.

“I’m good,” Grant says, gesturing towards the water bottle beside him for proof. Even if Akira meant something stronger, Grant’s answer is the same. He’s already exhausted. He already feels vulnerable and out of control. Why make that worse? Grant’s always been a person of extremes though—he drank heavily until he stopped cold turkey, he was defiant and destructive until he snapped into place and became the person enforcing the rules. He prefers himself this way: sensible instead of senseless, authoritarian instead of lost.

This injury threatens to take some of that away. That’s how it feels, at least. It’s an irrational thought, and Grant knows it, but that doesn’t mean he can stop himself from worrying about that tonight. This is his body, and he didn’t allow it to be injured—it happened to him, and he couldn’t stop it. 

Akira has no real way of knowing whether or not Grant’s injury will heal in time for the rest of the Championships, but Grant doesn’t fault him for pretending it’s already true. The unknown is terrifying, and Grant’s tried very hard not to spiral into it tonight. He won’t pretend he’s been fully successful. “Looking forward to it,” Grant says. It’s the expected answer, and it’s a hell of a lot kinder to them both than saying god, i hope you’re right. 

He’s been so careful with Akira, since Los Angeles. He’s kept his distance when they’re out in public, when the team travels together, because he knows anything else could make it all worse. Without quite talking about it, Akira’s done the same. Grant misses not worrying about it. Misses Akira. But what else can they do? Grant still remembers the look on Akira’s face in that club, and he won’t be the reason it appears there again. 

They’re only surrounded by Foxes and Vixens tonight though. This isn’t necessarily privacy, but it does mean they don’t have to worry about photos or prying eyes or anything else that would exacerbate the rumors about them. It makes him more confident, and Grant clears his throat. “Do you mind just…sitting with me for a bit though?” Grant says. “It’s not much of a party over here if there’s no one to keep me company.”

Akira doesn’t cover his relief very well, his shoulders drop and some of the tension in his shoulders leaves him. Under normal circumstances he’d be ashamed to show how relieved he is that Grant doesn’t want something stronger to drink. He likes to think of himself as a strong addict. The kind of addict people in AA meetings aspire to be. Strong in the face of temptation. It’s a painful thing to accept that he isn’t...that he probably never will be. It isn’t strong to feel your mouth go dry or have your hands twitch and fidget. It feels a little bit like admitting defeat and Akira hates it. But he won’t let himself linger on it on, not right now. Tonight’s about celebrating. About keeping Grant’s spirits up in the face of such a late game injury.

And, to be totally honest, Akira just missed him.

Ever since the disaster in LA they’d been dancing around each other. Careful not to do anything that might be construed the wrong way. Careful not to add fuel to the media fire. The last thing Akira wanted was to muck up Grant’s chances at getting drafted. And it’s gone well...at least as well as possible. Akira has definitely had worse encounters with the press. But that doesn’t make him feel better about it.

He settles in more on the couch, angling himself so he can face Grant more when he talks. It’s a little like Grant asking that one small question was all the permission Akira needed to give himself to actually stay instead of flutter around him. “I don’t really know if this actually counts as a real Fox party.” Sure. The Foxes and Vixens are here, and yeah there’s alcohol. But the usual glitz and glamour of a celebration party gets lost when they aren’t out at a club. Not that Akira minds. Here, wrapped up in Leo’s house...he’s safe. They’re safe. He swallows.

location: foxhole court date: march 13th open

It was easier to ignore their presence when on the field; they were just a nagging thought popping up sporadically, but easily discarded when the focus was diving for close shots on goal. But now she’s on the side, pacing her intake of water as Wymack drives the second set of drills for the other half of the team, and her eyes can’t stop from glancing to the side.

The cameras, the scouts, the knowledge that they are all here, right now — they’re a stark reminder of how much she hates being fucking judged.

“It’s like they’re bloody vultures,” she grumbles under her breath. “Just — waiting for someone to fuck up.

The pressure to be great has rested on Akira’s shoulders since he first set foot on the court as a Fox but he’s never felt it quite so acutely as he does right now. All those cameras. All those eyes. It doesn’t help that there’s a wall of plexi-glass between him and them. It’s nearly suffocating and Akira has done everything in his power to show his back to them whenever possible. It helps his breathing, at least enough he can breathe. He hates the press, even when the press here is clearly for the sports content. Or at least...mostly. He pulls to a stop next to Alis, pointedly not turning to face her so he doesn’t have to look at the large glob of cameras in the stands behind her.

“That’s the press for you.” He says softly, letting the bottom of his racket clunk heavily on the floor. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed a breather until just now. He’s pushing himself for the scouts, desperate to prove to them he’s worth watching. Desperate to prove that the Foxes aren’t a joke.That they’re all talented players and worth every consideration. He hasn’t allowed himself the chance to look out and see if the scouts from the Japan team are out there. Won’t let himself. “At least this press is mostly just here for the sports content. It’s the ones who are looking for juicy gossip you have to watch out for.”

    “Speed drills? You’re already so fast,” Indigo commented, eyebrows raising and her head cocking sideways. She’d admired that sort of dedication just as much as it made her uneasy with her own level of it. Dedication to the sport as a whole, yes, she’d got that nailed down easily; but it was the ability to focus and train on one thing, especially her weaker areas, that was tough. Indigo liked the feeling of being good, of success, and winning. Focusing on what she lacked strength in was a discipline she had yet to master; something that, apparently, Akira was far ahead of her in. 

    Perhaps he’d be able to teach her a thing or two, even if he didn’t know it. 

   It was even harder to take constructive criticism. Indigo’s nose wrinkled up by his observation. The comment wasn’t a new one; countless time she’d been advised to slow down, put more thought into where her feet went, set up a foundation before bumbling on ahead. Her eagerness to hustle, shoot, and score took over, and it was true that her footwork could get sloppy in the process. “You’re just saying that because Grant said it,” She fired back with a smile, but gave a shrug and agreed to a few footwork drills all the same. “Let’s give it a shot though - maybe you can teach enough to impress him and make him quit the yappin’ about it.” 

Akira smiles at the compliment. Sure, he’s fast. But he could be faster. Could be better. So he practices it every chance he gets. “There’s no such thing as too fast if you ask me. And I’ve got to make up for my lack of power some how.” Akira’s never been a powerhouse striker. His shots aren’t like careening bullets on the court. But he can be instead. Any team who pays attention knows to pair him up with one of their fastest strikers or he’ll leave them in the dust.

He doesn’t miss the way her nose wrinkles when he tells her about her foot work. In hindsight he could have probably worded that better. Softer. Akira’s great a giving criticism...he sometimes needs to remember how to pad it. It’s easier when they’re in the heat of a teaching moment, but without that buffer it sometimes comes off as mean. He can only hope he didn’t offend her too much. He really does want to work with her. “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not.” He shots a small smile at her. “But Grant knows what he’s talking about so I can’t be too far off the mark.” There’s never been any question that Grant doesn’t know exy in Akira’s world. From the minute he met him to now he’d gladly take any advice he had to offer. 

“Impressing Grant is hard.” He laughs and nods, leaning his stick up against a nearby wall before heading back out into the center of the court. “We’ll start simple and introduce using our racket later. It’s important to always do the basics before advancing no matter what. There’s no such thing as mastering the basics so it’s important you practice them first before moving on to the next step.” He stretches his arms above his head and shakes out his legs. “I’ll show you a couple drills and then we’ll walk through them together and then you’re on your own. Sound good?”

The heat and noise of the club is all the more overwhelming for the few moments of peace they’ve had outside of it. Despite the flash of the camera outside, Akira holds Grant’s hand for longer than necessary, while they weave their way back inside and Akira texts someone. Grant doesn’t let go either. Not until Akira collapses into the booth. The whole thing feels like a blur in some ways. The one thing that does crystallize for Grant is equal parts anger and guilt. 

The guilt is easy to understand. He’s the one who brought Akira out there; he’s the one who chose to put his arm around him. That’s clearly what prompted the paparazzi photo. Akira and Grant on their own aren’t much of a story, but Akira and Grant in what appears to be an intimate moment, on Valentine’s Day weekend?

And then there’s the anger. Not at Akira, obviously, but at the one who’d photographed them. At the fact that maybe that was intimacy, or something like that, and it was ruined. Grant’s a Fox, and he doesn’t waste time railing against the world for being unfair—but this is unfair. 

Akira finally speaks up again, and it’s a barrage of advice.  Good advice, probably. Grant’s been strangely famous his entire life, but never like this. He’s never needed to leave a club surrounded by human shields. He doesn’t have an agent who needs to do damage control. 

“Akira,” Grant says. He has to speak up over the bass of the music, over Akira’s apologies. “This isn’t your fault.” If it’s anyone’s, it’s his—Grant’s the one who forgot how famous Akira was, what that would mean here in Los Angeles.  He thinks about Akira’s ‘fans’, the predatory way they flock to Akira. He thinks about how easy his own past is to find. There are so many people who know of Akira, even outside of the Exy world, and now they’ll know about Grant too. It only takes a fucking Google search to learn all about someone else’s version of Grant Rollins. To learn about Haskell. 

Grant doesn’t blame Akira for any of this. If anything, he’s more upset on Akira’s behalf than his own; a primal, protective kind of anger. But that isn’t the only thing he’s feeling. Grant’s afraid too—afraid of what it means if he’s caught up in Akira’s media storm now, in his final year as a Fox, and that isn’t fair to Akira. “I know how to handle the press,” Grant promises. He’s almost positive that’s true, even if this is a level he isn’t used to. “You can trust me. I won’t make this worse.” He clears his throat, takes in Akira’s restless energy and horrified expression. It seems wrong to leave Akira now, but he doesn’t know if it’ll be worse if he sticks around. There are photos out there now, of the two of them. Maybe nothing will come of it, but Akira obviously doesn’t think that’s the case.

They haven’t done anything wrong, but if someone reads too much into Grant’s expression in those photos, accuses him of something more than friendship—Grant’s good at lying, but that’s a problem too. The fact that maybe it would be a lie if he said there’s nothing going on, at least on his end. “Should we—do we need to split up for the rest of the night? Are you going to be alright?”

Not his fault? Not his fault? It takes a great deal of effort to not scoff and tell Grant that this is precisely all his fault. He’s the burned out superstar who doesn’t talk to the press anymore, making him a tasty catch for anyone looking for a headline. And to make matters worse he’s at the very club where splashy headlines about him are often centered. And worst of all, he’s surrounded by the people who put him there. Thinking about the wild tangle of events that have lead to this being his fault makes his heart race faster and it takes a great force of will not to fall into his rising panic. He’s handled this sort of thing...and Grant is right about a few things. He does know how to handle the press and Akira trusts him not to make this worse. Trust him so much that he’s at least a little bit confident that Grant might be able to put a spin on it that saves face for both of them.

There’s a part of him that just doesn’t care anymore. Fuck the press. Fuck the fact they’re always out for his blood. Who cares who he spends time with? Who cares that in a private moment something was happening. Normal people don’t have to deal with this. Normal people can wrap their arms around the person they like and not worry about the flash of a camera stealing it all away. But Akira isn’t normal. None of the Foxes are normal. And that’s what cuts the deepest really. Knowing that normality is out of reach in every aspect of his life. He drops his head, pulling his eyes away from Grant and the scattered drinks next to him. 

He just wanted to spend a few stolen minutes with the guy he liked. What makes him sadder is the fact he’s about to lie to him and tell him to leave him alone for the evening. It’s the last thing he wants to do. The last person he wants to keep on opposites side of the building from. But it’s necessary. Needed. Damage control is useless if he keeps heaping more fodder for the press to feed off of. He doesn’t look up when he speaks, mostly afraid to see the hurt he’s likely to see there. “I’m fine.” He swallows hard. “And yeah...we should...We should stay away from each other for a while...We can’t...I don’t want to give them anything more that they can use against you.” He looks up at last, not really looking at Grant, more over his shoulder. “I’ll talk to Trev and see if he can’t get some sort of distraction going for when you leave.” Another hard swallow and he stands up from the booth. He still feels on edge and jittery but with something to do it’s easier to pretend he doesn’t. 

Alanna won’t pretend to understand what Akira means when he says because I’m famous. Fame should mean more freedom. But, then again, the closest Alanna’s ever come to fame herself was falling in with a group of cheerleaders in Brookline, the ones everyone wanted to be. The girls Alanna wanted to be. That was a kind fame localized to Brookline High alone, but it still felt like magic when people’s eyes started to follow Alanna too.

At the time, it was worth the rest of it. The brutal competition just to stay on the squad and the shameful way she hid parts of herself away and the fact they hated each other. They still called it friendship, because they simply hated everyone else more, and Alanna had to act like it too, because that just one of the many sacrifices required to stay on the Varsity squad. 

She does understand Akira’s fear though, when he brings up rumors and the press. She’d heard plenty of rumors about herself back home—some true, some lies, all intended to hurt. That’s in Massachusetts though. It isn’t here, and Alanna doesn’t flatter herself that any of them keep up on her Instagram or Facebook feeds. “Well, I’m glad you have Joseph King then,” Alanna says. She still doesn’t get it, at all, but she thinks that’s probably the right thing to stay. “Did you like social media before? Uhm, before Hollywood, I mean.”

Akira’s glad he has Joseph King too, even though he can’t say the same for Joseph these days. He wouldn’t be surprised if Joseph King was eagerly awaiting the day Akira Sato stopped being famous enough to warrant emergency damage control calls at one in the morning. He nods in response, glad that she seems to be letting that particular topic go. It’s difficult to explain to someone who hasn’t been neck deep in his world before. And it’s cruel almost, but Akira doesn’t think Alanna would’ve lasted very long if she did. She’s too soft. Too kind. Too eager. Hollywood eats people like that alive and the people it spits out after it are shadows of who they once were. He’s got first hand experience there.

Her next question takes him a minute. His relationship with social media has been so skewed that trying to remember a time he’d enjoyed it was hard. He crosses his arms, thinking about it for a moment. “Yeah. I did like it. I wasn’t super attached to it in high school. Facebook. Twitter. All the big ones. Mostly because that’s what all the popular sports kids did. And when I first got cast for The First Court it was a great platform to show off on.” He smiles a little sheepishly at that. It’s not a secret. Go far enough back and you can read all of the slightly barbed posts and subtweets he’d published back then. Proving all the people who told him he was making a mistake wrong. Funny, thinking about it now, how right they’d been. He can’t help but wonder if those spurned high school friends felt vindicated by his fall. He doesn’t really want to find out.

“I only got on the other sites because Joseph told me to. It was pretty obvious which ones I knew how to use and the ones I didn’t.” Like Snapchat. That had been short lived. Naomi had not been pleased when Akira had gone silent on that front. Even to this day she was always asking him to be in her story with her. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew it wasn’t because she wanted to take a goofy picture with her brother. Maybe, in the early days. But not anymore. The thought makes him sad. “Social media was a lot more enjoyable before Hollywood, yeah.”

LOCATION: The Foxhole Court TIME: 15 minutes before practice STATUS: closed for @akira-sxto​

    If you asked her to her face about it, Indi would deny that she saw anyone as her ‘biggest rival’ on the team. She tried not to think of it that way, anyway; always looking for something to win, always craving the satisfaction of coming out on top. Just the thrill of success and a victory to boot. No, Indigo tried to avoid those thoughts, but years of boarding school had ingrained a deep sense of competition into her very soul. 

     Because of this, she was always to practice early, always was one of the last to wander off the court. She pushed herself until she couldn’t, and then tried a little harder. Being allowed to be a striker this year had been a dream come true  — she worked at improving harder than she’d worked for anything before. 

    Then again, it seemed like she wasn’t the only one. Every one of her team members had something to fight for; that was the difference between the Foxes and any other team out there. Currently, the team member who was the biggest on her radar for rival? Akira Sato. 

    I mean, damn. He had just about enough to prove as she did, Indigo figured silently. Yet here the two of them were, out early on field once more. Maybe he’d meant to show up this early, maybe not; probably didn’t matter. “You wanna maybe practice with me? We’ve got a while before everyone else gets here, so… may as well. Plus, it’s boring alone.” 

Akira has always been one of the first Foxes to show up to practice, sometimes hours in advance. Some times he hadn’t even left the building that night between practices. He’s better at that no, mostly because Wymack’s threat to bench him looms heavy over his head. But he’s still early to practices, always warmed up and ready to go. It’s not uncommon to see other Foxes up bright and early with him. Usually they keep to themselves, running their own personal drills and warm ups. Sometimes they’d team up but not often. He’d gotten there exceptionally early this morning. He can’t sleep, not with championships so close and Grant out for the count. He feels this drive to get better and better and it kept him most nights lately.

He’s already sweaty when Indigo walks up to him. He doesn’t know much about her, but what he does know is he’s leery of her. She’s wild and rough around the edges and despite having a whole season to get used to her being a striker...he’s still not used to it. There’s no denying her talent in the position it’s just odd. Almost as odd as watching Jen on the sidelines rather than on the court. He still wasn’t used to that either.

He pauses in his drill, already planning on starting over again anyways. He wipes his sleeve over his forehead, smiling at her. “Sure. I don’t mind a partner. I was working on some of my speed drills but I’ve been meaning to hit my my passing skills lately.” He lets his racket rest on his shoulder and he moves into the center of the court. He’s seen Indigo here a lot in the hours before practice and he admires her for that...and he’s always game to practice with other Foxes. "Unless there’s something else you wanted to work on. Your foot work could do with a little polishing.”

Akira’s distaste for his own fame isn’t a secret around Palmetto, but somehow it isn’t the answer Alanna expects. There’s dislike and then there’s hatred, and he’s clearly telling the truth when he uses the stronger word. She dutifully writes it down though. 

Alanna follows all of Akira’s social media accounts, of course. She’s seen his perfunctory tweets and Instagram posts. Alanna follows all the Foxes these days, and the Vixens too, but Akira is the one she knew about long before she considered coming to Palmetto herself. She’s known about him since he exploded into stardom ages ago, when all the girls in her school fell in love. A few years ago, she would’ve used even this silly school interview for bragging rights with them. Honestly, she still half wants to, even if she doesn’t speak to anyone from high school after the way it all ended.

She won’t go that far with it, for obvious reasons, but despite their clumsy, unfortunate interactions she’s still starry-eyed. Akira’s famous, truly famous, and that’s enough for Alanna. She’s got a whole list of questions she needs to get through for this project, but this is likely her one and only chance to interview Akira Sato himself. She’ll step carefully, but she doesn’t want to waste it either. So Alanna improvises, asks the question she’s actually curious about rather than the next one on her list. “Why don’t you just delete them then? Your manager works for you, doesn’t he? It should be your call.”

Akira knows Alanna’s next question isn’t one of the ones on her little question sheet. It’s too personalized and Akira can count on his fingers how many people here on campus probably employ a manager. He lets it slide though. It’s a perfectly average question and it’s not like she asked it out of the blue either. He sighs and shrugs. “Because I’m famous.” He says it like it’s obvious, like it’s something someone like Alanna should know. “The press would have an absolute field day with their stupid theories if all my social media accounts were to just go up in smoke. Probably start some rumor that I’d died or something.” He shakes his head. He doesn’t delete his social media accounts for that purpose sure, but he doesn’t delete them because he’s proud of the things he’s created. Proud of the fans he’d worked so hard to accumulate. 

He’s proud. 

And he’s ashamed.

It’s a difficult knot of emotions to explain to anyone, most of all someone who doesn’t remotely begin to understand how it all works. “It’s difficult, Alanna. But I’d never delete them. No matter how much I hate having to post on them these days.” He shakes his head and half smiles, thinking of even attempting to fire his manager. He’d never. “He does work for me. But Joseph King is good at his job. And I’ll never fire him because he makes me be active on Twitter.”