glxryhoskinsâ:
The way the game stops when someoneâs hurt: whether itâs her teammate down on the court, or when sheâs the one left standing over somebody, wondering what happened. Exy is muscle memory, split second decisions. Sheâd seen the striker coming for her, and she hadnât thought, sheâd just braced herself, used their own momentum against them.Â
She doesnât know what the odds are, the ones that they play with every time they step on the court. Maybe, nine times out of ten, a striker gets back up after a hit like that. This time, though, they didnât. No without someone helping them, at least. She hadnât meant it, and she doesnât think sheâs sorry. At least, not as sorry as she should be. But it was still her fault.Â
But theyâre moving on. Somehow, it doesnât feel like itâs sunk in yet. How they can lose two games but still come out on top. She feels shell-shocked, almost, like everythingâs swirling around her but itâs not quite real, or sheâs not. Like itâs a dream. She wonders when itâs going to sink in.
But thenâalmost everything about this year has felt like a dream. She wants to sink her teeth into it, hold onto it tight enough to believe that itâs real, but it always feels like a fight. Something she has to choose, and keep choosing. Because even if she doesnât deserve it, she still wants it so bad.
âJust following the crowd, I guess,â she says to Alis with a smile and a shrug. She wants to be around her teammates, wants to be as close as they were after Akira scored their golden goal, when everything was the crush of her teammates around her, the roar of their shouting voices. After that, sheâll follow them anywhere. âYouâre from around here, right? You know where to find a good time?âÂ
A part of her is screaming to stop right there. Another part is Betsyâs soothing voice, coaxing confession after confession about her time in high school, and how terror and anger always mixed well with alcohol. Itâs always been a constant battle, the urge to slip back into old habits that drove her to ruin against the lingering want to continue moving forward. They crash against one another, like two wolves fighting over the same kill. Some days, the fight is distant, something that still exists but doesnât impede with her daily actions.
Some days, like right then, the battle is at the forefront, a crescendo that near deafens the world around her. All she can focus on is the anger, and the terror, and the want to scream.
But she still swallows that scream. Thatâs all sheâs ever done. Thatâs all sheâll ever do.
          ((( itâs always easier than sobbing until her tears run dry and realizing all over again how empty she feels. )))
At Gloryâs question, she blinks once, twice, and then gives a belated nod. âYeah, Iâm from around here. Itâs been long enough that I canât quite navigate as easily as before, but I can be a proper guide when the situation calls for it.âÂ
She should stop there. But the anger surges, overtaking any semblance of logic. Besty would be disappointed. But Alis doesnât quite care for the future right then. âWe can lead the crowd if you want. What club atmosphere are you in the mood for?â












