do not lose yourself

The way the game stops when someone’s hurt: whether it’s her teammate down on the court, or when she’s the one left standing over somebody, wondering what happened. Exy is muscle memory, split second decisions. She’d seen the striker coming for her, and she hadn’t thought, she’d just braced herself, used their own momentum against them. 

She doesn’t 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 didn’t. No without someone helping them, at least. She hadn’t meant it, and she doesn’t think she’s sorry. At least, not as sorry as she should be. But it was still her fault. 

But they’re moving on. Somehow, it doesn’t feel like it’s sunk in yet. How they can lose two games but still come out on top. She feels shell-shocked, almost, like everything’s swirling around her but it’s not quite real, or she’s not. Like it’s a dream. She wonders when it’s going to sink in.

But then—almost 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 it’s real, but it always feels like a fight. Something she has to choose, and keep choosing. Because even if she doesn’t deserve it, she still wants it so bad.

“Just following the crowd, I guess,” 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, she’ll follow them anywhere. “You’re from around here, right? You know where to find a good time?” 

A part of her is screaming to stop right there. Another part is Betsy’s soothing voice, coaxing confession after confession about her time in high school, and how terror and anger always mixed well with alcohol. It’s 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 doesn’t 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. That’s all she’s ever done. That’s all she’ll ever do.

                   ((( it’s always easier than sobbing until her tears run dry and realizing all over again how empty she feels. )))

At Glory’s question, she blinks once, twice, and then gives a belated nod. “Yeah, I’m from around here. It’s been long enough that I can’t quite navigate as easily as before, but I can be a proper guide when the situation calls for it.” 

She should stop there. But the anger surges, overtaking any semblance of logic. Besty would be disappointed. But Alis doesn’t quite care for the future right then. “We can lead the crowd if you want. What club atmosphere are you in the mood for?”

The athlete tended to keep her head down on most days, she didn’t like causing trouble and she certainly didn’t enjoy being the center of attention, so her speaking up was probably out of the ordinary. Most of her life she was fine with just being alone, but as of late, she had kept herself up with the thought that she didn’t want to be entirely alone and unknown her whole life. She didn’t want to just disappear the die she finally bit the big one, she wanted to make history sure, but she wanted people in her life to remember. Not that she expecting that from Alis, it would be silly to think so given the few interactions they had, but making an effort to talk to people would be a step in the right direction right? 

Nibbling at the inside of her lip, she listened as her roommate spoke, nodding slowly at the explanation. It seemed complicated, but like most thing, probably easy when you got the hand of it. “How did you pick it up to begin with? It’s a unique hobby, at least, I haven’t seen too many people do it, if any our age. Not that it’s a bad thing-” She was rambling, and she pursed her lips together as she creased her brows together, glancing at the thing in her hands instead of the girl’s face.

“It looks cool…i don’t blame you for trying to busy yourself. Airports aren’t exactly the most comfortable places to be stuck. I never traveled much before college Exy.” She admitted with a tiny shrug, tucking her knees to her chest, resting her chin on top of them as she let out a slow sigh, “What pattern are you working on? I like the colors…also if you get bored and want to grab a snack, stretch your legs or something, let me know. What are roommates for, right?”

“I just ---- found a pic on instagram, and was curious enough to still look for more information about it.” Almost the whole truth; she did come across a picture while casually browsing craft tags, but she had wanted to know more. She had been consumed with the desire to learn how to do it, and just --- just do it.

And she was lucky that the items shipped in before the flight. Already, she had enough yarn looped through that the outline of the fox was slowly coming together. “Yeah, this is helping a  bit to just --- block out the noise. Can’t control delays, so might as well just focus on something I can control.”

It’s been a difficult lesson, to understand what’s in and out of her control. It’s one she still struggled to accept from time to time. Maybe it was easier for this occasion because a delay meant less time in Chicago. And that meant less time in the place that almost led to her demise.

“It’s a simple fox design,” she replied, slipping another yarn into place. It would look cuter if she brought the black yarn, to complete the eyes and nose. But she didn’t, and right then, there was only an outline. But it would look cute in the end, and maybe that was all that mattered.

When Olivia mentioned snacks, Alis paused, head tilting. She wasn’t necessarily hungry, but ---- she didn’t want to deny the offer either. What are roommates for, right? 

“Sure, we can stretch our legs. I’ve been sitting long enough. Where to?”

louis: I have an EMERGENCY

louis: anybody that knows anything about makeup and shit pls help 😭😭😭

Fuck the delay. Grant’s going back out on the court tonight—in Illinois of all places—and that thought fills him with even more endless, restless energy than normal. It’s nerves, Grant’s mature enough to admit that. Physically, he’s cleared to play, so long as he puts his brace back on during the game. He’s gone through PT, he’s talked to Wymack, he’s done everything he can: but there’s no guarantee that tonight will go well, for Grant alone or the team as a whole. He could be out of practice. He could reinjure himself. He could play well and they could still lose. 

Unless they don’t play at all. Unless the delay takes that from him, his triumphant return to the court ruined before he has a chance to even try for  it.

So Grant doesn’t want to be trapped in the airport. He wants to be in Illinois, wants that for perhaps the first time since he was a child, and he isn’t. 

This won’t be a proper homecoming—Freeport is only a few short hours in Chicago, but it’s long enough that they had their own teams, their own world. He played in Chicago though. They traveled there, when his team was doing well enough. He played Alis’ sister in Chicago, because for her, this is a homecoming. 

Alis looks startlingly calm despite that, focused on some task he can’t begin to understand, and Grant pauses in his pacing for a brief moment to watch the methodical process. He imagines this kind of thing could be soothing, in a way. Probably better than his relentless circles around the waiting area. “I don’t do crafts,” Grant reminds her, even though he’s the one who was staring at it, watching the loops of yarn and Alis’ careful movements. “You weren’t kidding when you said you did though.”

She should be relatively calm that Grant is the one inquiring. She already freely admitted to him her interest in crafts, the randomness of the activities and the satisfaction in the finished product, and it should be fine that he’s watching. But her heart stammers, and she doesn’t lift her head just yet.

It’s not his fault that he’s wrapped in reminders. Of course, the game is enough of one; Chicago is her hometown, and she’s sure that this game has already ran through the local headlines. But Grant’s presence is enough to topple the blockades she’s built for this game. Any game in Chicago should feel like home, but she’s desperate to stay away. She’s not afraid of ghosts, but she lives with the echo of one whenever she looks at her reflection. And being in Chicago, being on that field ---- it represents everything she’s wished to erase. 

But her mother is still there, waiting and hoping, and Alis knows she’ll be watching tonight, even if it won’t be in the stands. It’s gone unspoken in the years after her mother found her on the bathroom floor that it’s healthier for Alis, that it’s better for their relationship, that her mother doesn’t sit in the stands. That Alis is better without her support displayed so plainly, as if Alis isn’t tied to Evie’s shadow. As if she decided, all on her own, that this is what she so desperately wanted to do with her life.

Grant is a reminder too, that she’s not here for the same reasons he is. He defends the goal for a sport he loves, for a purpose he wishes to prove over and over and over again. She’s there because she owes something to the girl Evie was and what she could’ve been. And at the end of the day, that’s not a good enough reason to play anymore.

Swallowing, she forces herself to nod. God, she can’t bear to look at Grant, and she has to work her jaw, prepare her voice so it doesn’t sound pitiful when she speaks. “Nope, no joke. Lucky me, this time I could bring one of them along for the ride. And it’s come in handy for now.”

Once the delay was announced, Leo pulled his hat down over his eyes, put on his sunglasses inside, no matter how douchey it made him look, and tried to take a nap. But it hasn’t been working: the gate is busy, people with delayed flights with nowhere to go, their stress and unhappiness really messy with his overall vibes; his legs are stretched out in front of him, trying to get comfortable as he slumps down in his seat, and people keep bumping into them as they move up and down the aisle. 

And, well, maybe he was never going to nap anyway: they have a date with destiny, yet another game with their season on the line, and they’re fucking late. 

Mostly, though, he just not sure if he wants to talk to anyone. He’s nervous, he’s pretty sure they’re all nervous, and he thinks that maybe if he can just close his eyes and pretend not to be, then he can keep it together, keep himself from spiraling. He’s gotten better with the pressure, with how many elimination games they’ve played this season, but he knows how bad he can get. He doesn’t want anyone to see it on his face, like that’ll make it even more real. 

There’s a boarding call, and he cracks his eyes open over the top of his sunglasses—but nope, it’s just another flight. Before he can close them again, he sees Alis across from him—and she looks up, seeing him seeing her. 

He has no idea what she’s doing with all that yarn, but it’s enough of a distraction for him to latch onto. It’s better than the nap that’s stubbornly eluding him. “What the hell is that?” He asks, nodding to the hook in her hand as he twists his snapback around on his head, pushes his sunglasses up and away from his eyes. “They let you fly with that thing? It looks like some kind of—medieval torture device.”

It’s not that she’s intimidated by anyone on the team; god, she had to get over that quickly when she first began playing Exy. But she’s cautious all the same with not giving pieces of herself too quickly. They’ve been used against her, and the world is a cruel teacher when it continues to take and take and take.

But she has to try; in all her therapy sessions, it's come down to using the methods she's learned to push herself to try,, even if she’d rather let the world take over again. It’s what has worked best for her, really, choosing to take a step, choosing to withdraw from the bad influences, choosing to continue this life of Exy to find --- something. And it was a choice to try this craft in the middle of the airport, exposed before her teammates. These were the consequences --- or rather, the circumstances --- prompted by a choice, and if there’s judgement, then she will have to decide how to respond, and how to accept whatever is thrown at her.

So she lifts her head and holds Leo’s gaze, trying for a smile. For now, it feels genuine enough. “I am kind of surprised too, that they didn’t throw this out,” she says as she twirls the hook. It’s awkward though, the weight of the handle too much for the motion, and she’s soon awkwardly fumbling with it. Settling it in her lap, she continues with, “I think because it’s small enough, and, I guess, not too pointy? I took a chance because they usually allow crotchet hooks onboard, and so.....I guess latch hooks are fine as well.”

Clearing her throat, she held up the canvas for Leo. “So I loop yarn through these holes with the hook, and match the color of the yarn to the designs. Kind of just --- making a mini rug? Saw it online and thought to give it a shot, you know?”

She didn’t pry much into her roommates lives, half because by the time she got to her room she just crashed after practices or just exhaustion from stress about the championships being so close but so far away, but another half is that lingering memory of what happened last time she got close to someone from Penn State. Zia was ripped away from her, for defending her, and the guilt always brewed beneath the service. But at least she found the Foxes from it, Olivia didn’t regret her decision to come and play for them, even when people called her crazy for it. Said it would ruin her chances of going pro, of getting signed. She didn’t care, she’d always defied the odds, and this would be no difference.

But this wasn’t about her, it was about Alis, as she sat across from her at the airport. Right now, they all should’ve been in the air, and there was with feeling of anxiety lingering around the large room as they awaited to be cleared and done with this delay. Olivia hadn’t flown too much in her life time, typically her father said driving saved more money, but he wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box. Airports were like little cities, each had their own charms, but she didn’t want to be stranded in one with a big game on the line. She was bounced her knees as she picked at her cuticles, trying to focus on something, anything, to ease the tension in her body.

That was when she watched Alis dig into her bag and pull something out, brows creasing as she tried to piece together would it was, peering behind her glasses as she realized what it was. It reminded her of something her grandma probably would’ve loved, but that wasn’t anything bad, it looked…relaxing. A blush hit her cheeks almost instantly though whenever she was called out for staring, clearing her throat as she reached for her water bottle for a large swig. “Oh…uh, I don’t, know how to do that.” She motioned to the work she was busying her hands with, shrugging her shoulders, “It looks really cool though…what are you working on?”

A pang of regret hits sharply as she heard Olivia’s voice. There wasn’t any logical reason to act so cowardly in front of someone she shared a living space with. Olivia wasn’t one to pry, and an interest in what she was doing --- because this was something uncommon --- shouldn’t have prompted hesitance on Alis’ part. 

She peered to Olivia, lips pressing together as she noticed the flush flooding the other woman’s cheeks. “I didn’t know how to do this a few weeks ago, so you’re fine. I don’t know how common this really is.” She leaned forward, the canvas in one hand and the latch hook in the other. “Essentially I’m just looping yarn around this hook, popping it through the squares here on the canvas, and it’ll knot into place. And it’s just matching the colors on the canvas with the yarn you have. These are usually rugs, but I found these nice fox designs, and I just ---- thought it was nice.”

Swallowing, she leaned back against her chair, trying for a smile. It was --- weird talking about these things. It’s not anything about Exy, and at this point, only Grant knew of her interest. And that happened on a whim. Now, she basically ---- invited people to inquire about what she was doing. And maybe she wanted them to know, maybe she just ---- wanted to be known for something outside of Exy.

           ( if she was truly honest with herself, she wants to be known as alis tan of the foxes, lover of crafts and not alis the former twin, the girl trying too hard to be her dead sister. but unwrapping that would have to be for another day )

Licking her lips, she tried for a smile. “It gives me something to do while we wait. Otherwise, I’d probably be freaking out a little more.”

She’s fucking pissed off.

Frustration on Alis isn’t clear-cut anymore; she’s spent years sculpting her expressions to hide whatever she wished. Sweet smiles and nonchalant shrugs were enough for her mother, her teammates, her coach. Perhaps, in a different life, she could’ve been an actress; after all, she convinced everyone that just one more pill is fine, one more shot won’t ruin me, i don’t ever feel as if i’m dying ----

Really, her only tells were the way her fingernails dug into her palms as she opened and closed her hands to fists. But she could mumble a valid reason for that; the nerves of a win haven’t quite left. 

But it’s a second game in a row she’s failed as a goalkeeper, and the anger at herself boils. She may not always know if this is her path in life, this game of Exy, but she’s playing it now, and she’s doing poorly at a time when she cannot afford it. If she’s playing for Evie --- if she’s doing this for herself --- god, she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know anymore.

This anger hasn’t visited her in so long, she doesn’t know what to do with it.

But they’ve all arrived at the hotel, steps rushed, excitement coursing through the air, and she turns to her nearest teammate. And the blonde shock of Glory’s hair greets her, and her words run ahead before she can properly filter them: “Got something off the top of your head for celebrations tonight?”

Alis opts to sit while others begin milling around. The news of the delay leaves her heart racing; they’ll have enough time before the game despite it, but the what ifs linger, a precursor to familiar spiraling. And she’s not keen to becoming paralyzed by her own nerves, not in the middle of the airport. 

There’s nothing any of them can do about the delay. She can’t change the circumstances as much as she wishes she had the power to do so. All she can do is wait, and try to pass each agonizing second by remaining busy.

And where this would cue mounds of homework, she, for once, completed her work earlier in the week. Instead, she reaches into her carry-on, drawing out materials for the sudden curiosity that gripped her attention over the last few weeks. Latch hook rugs appear ---- a little messy, but there’s a certain charm to the method. She didn’t quite expect to be so hooked, but she’s been watching different videos for so long, she finally convinced herself to purchase a few mini canvases. And the fox designs on each are not only adorable, but absolutely fitting.

She didn’t pack the boatload of yarn that arrived with the kits, but she brought along two colors to use along the way. And lucky her, security didn’t confiscate the hooks, so she doesn’t have to painstakingly use her fingers to loop the short pieces of yarn through the squares. She figures she’s got about an hour or two’s worth of something, be it fun or something distracting.

But right as she starts, that nagging sense of being watched causes her pause. “You can join in if you want,” she says without looking up. There’s hesitance and a hint of strain wrapped in her words; she doesn’t wish to see the gaze of someone judging her for this craft, even if that may not be the case. She can handle a few jabs --- nobody stayed on the team for long if they couldn’t ---- but she’d rather avoid immediately seeing who’s teasing her for this. “I have enough materials for two if you want something to do.”

Location: Room 324 Date: March 18th Time: 5:34 PM

“It’s called Brunswick stew.” Her voice was softer than the sound of the cut of knife, blade meeting the cutting board with each dice of the potato in her grip. She remembered a time when the knife in her hand had seemed more daunting, child sized palm barely wrapped around the handle, intimidated by the sharpness and size of the weapon. No, not weapon. Tool. But before being expected to take the helm of her father’s kitchen, Marley had seen it used more for the former than the latter. Waved carelessly around as the means of a threat, or more carefully aimed with precision, though it was always the carelessness that was scarier. The unpredictability of it, dependent on his anger, and the strike that had been made against him. 

She’d mistakingly told him of her sister’s running away, in the kitchen. She should have known better. Should have waited until after dinner, but before the drinking, for that sweet spot in the middle where his belly was full and his mind was sedated by it. The food had almost been ready when he’d began calling for her sister. Once should have been enough for her to come running (had she have been there, there wouldn’t have had to have been a first call), but when the sound of her footsteps did not appear, he called again. The second call alone was enough to trigger his temper, her name called louder, more demanding, and still met with silence. His face had turned redder than the stew, hand hitting the counter and making Marley jump with the force, spit flying from his lips with the third, booming call of Emma’s name. It had been three calls too many, his body thrusting forward to go find her for herself, hand instinctively grabbing at the knife on the counter, and though not being there, being in no real harm, Marley found herself speaking up out of pure and utter instinct, to spare her sister. She’s not here, her voice tore through the tense space. Initially, she feared not reaching him, him finding Emma’s empty side of their room for himself. But his body stilled in the entryway of the kitchen, almost eerily so, the only movement being the rising and falling of his shoulders. What do you mean, she’s not here? She did not see his lips move, but could hear the clench of his jaw. She, she’d tried to swallow down her fear, but it sat there in her throat, mouth suddenly dry as she tried again. She’s gone, papa–Marley had barely blinked by the time that he’d turned on her, crowded her against the counter with such force her hand instinctively fell to the stove for balance. Searing heat met her palm, but her focus was on the blade of the knife poised at her throat. What do you mean she’s gone? Where is she? Where the fuck is she, Marley? 

She’d been making Brunswick stew that night, too. Had to clean it up off of the kitchen floor, the cabinets, the ceiling…

A sudden sting brought her back, glancing down to find that she’d since found the end of the potato, but the tip of her finger. “Shit.” As to not contaminate her work, she was quick to pop it between her lips, already moving towards the kitchen sink and turning on the faucet. “Fingers aren’t part of the recipe, I promise.” She gave her guest a half-hearted smile, sticking her hand underneath the running water. “It’s been pretty chilly, lately. Best time to make it.”

“Christ, Marley, I sure hope fingers aren’t part of it.” Alis already tore a paper towel sheet from the roller, on stand-by as Marley moved to the sink and turned on the faucet. She walked into the kitchen for the smell, and had only arrived a few short moments before Marley seemed to snip more than a slice of potato.

But Marley sent a half-smile her way, a means of assurance, and Alis sighed. “It is chilly, and the scent is already enough to warm me up,” she admitted. It was a dish unfamiliar to her, something that her mother certainly didn’t make in her lifetime, and Alis wasn’t much of a cook herself either. Most of the time, their meals consisted of frozen food defrosted and cooked on a pan. Simple to make, considering her mother’s work schedule and Alis’ lack of energy after ---

She stopped her thoughts, gaze quickly darting to the cutting board. “Do you need any assistance? Or is the stew almost done anyways?”

For some, it never would be.

Carter knew that; the fact burned into the back of his mind and into his very soul. He should have known that a long time ago. In those angry eyes, in those closed fists, in the bottle of a bottle. No… no, he knew that in those. He knew there would never come a day when he was good enough even at his best for that man. He’d never known he wouldn’t be good enough for those tender hugs, in the soft eyes brimming with tears, and the outstretched hand that would always fall.

But for these vultures, Carter hoped one day there would come a day of being good enough. Not for himself. Carter could go forever trying to push himself and prove himself. He wanted a day to come when the Foxes would be good enough–for everyone.

“Our best will be good enough–it is good enough. Half of them just don’t want to admit it. The other half is just blind.”

He shrugged his shoulders and leaned back on the bench, stretching out his arms. “I don’t think Grant of Wymack would let them come too close to really bother us all that much. But you can’t shut them out completely. It’s easier to pretend like they’re not there even if it sounds hard. Just focus on what you’re doing. Then again, I’ve had awhile to get used to all the fucking chaos that comes with being a Fox.”

She wished she could whisk away her comment, as it wasn’t anything nice. Too depressing, too forceful in the reminder that for those like Carter, this was it. The next few games might be their last, and they had to believe the best was good enough, was great enough, to make it to the top. To shine a light on their talent and be wanted by the pros. 

But Carter echoed a sentiment she heard for a while, and one she held close. Licking her lips, she replied, “It is stupid how they don’t want to admit it. That we can be the better team. That throughout the years, we have been. That we are.” It’s silly and it’s frustrating, how her pride fluctuates. It burns hot now, where moments before there was no spark. But that was the strange magic of being with the Foxes. It almost had her believe she was doing everything right.

Taking another swig of her water, she nodded to Carter’s advice. A short chuckled escaped after she swallowed, shaking her head. “Well, this is the third year I’ve been here, and you’d think I’d be used to the chaos. That the cameras and the press and everything else would be easier.”

It would have been fine for Evie. She would’ve thrived. 

   Disappointment seemed to be the reigning anthem for the Palmetto Foxes, so the sentiment made Indigo smirk. She, herself, had been a banner of disappointment for her family for as long as she could remember. Hell, the blonde would even bet that most of the students here involved with Exy, as either a Fox or a Vixen, had been on the receiving end of that judgement more than once. 

   Pressing her body forward in the stretch so her ponytail flipped down in a cascade of blonde strands, streaked with color, Indigo sighed long and hard. Maybe she shouldn’t be so eager to be temperamental right before a big game. “No, I get it. It sort of sucks.” 

   That was as good as Alis was gonna get, for now. “Disappointed? Let them be. They’ll see,” Indigo added before leaving her stretch, shaking her body out and turning, hands on hips, to better face Alis. “You know they can smell fear, right?” 

She wondered if Indigo thrived off of fear. 

They can smell fear, she said, her eyes glittering in a sense of wildness Alis couldn’t possess. But maybe it wasn’t that she took thrill when others feared; it was the challenge others were hesitant to face. She would face it head-on, uncompromising and prepared, ready to prove to the naysayers just how wrong they were. 

Sometimes it could be foolish, but it was something admirable too. The younger girl held herself in a way Alis couldn’t quite yet --- in a way she may never be able to. But it was ---- it was nice to think that one day she could.

“Smell fear? I figured they couldn’t smell much pass their own bullshit.” The tease didn’t exactly fall flat, but it wavered in delivery. No, she wasn’t quite there yet.

Grant snorts. It’s undignified, even by Fox standards. The answer should be obvious though—has Grant ever wanted to unwind with something that isn’t Exy? He’ll be forced to now apparently, but it isn’t his first choice. It never would be. 

But Grant’s only human. He worries about the draft and he worries what it will mean if he doesn’t get drafted. He doesn’t have anything to fall back on. His major is pointless, something he’d chosen specifically for the easy nights and lower units. He doesn’t have a family he’s kept in touch with outside of this team. He doesn’t even have a hobby. There’s Exy. There’s the Foxes. He has a shot at keeping one of those things after his graduation, but now this injury threatens to take even that away.

“No, not really,” Grant admits, and that must be the answer Alis expected. “Exy’s it for me.” That  obsessive nature’s gotten him this far though, and even when he fears the worst about the draft, he can’t bring himself to become anything else. He loves Exy, and for Grant that means letting it consume his time. The alternative, giving it anything other than his all, doesn’t seem worth it. 

It doesn’t do much to further the conversation though, and Alis is trying. Grant can try too. “Sometimes I’ll watch movies. Akira and I went to a horror movie marathon for his birthday.” In November. It’s March now. Since then, Grant’s fairly certain he’s only watched Exy recaps and games from other teams. “You’re into arts and crafts?” 

A large part of her isn’t surprised by his answer; it’s expected, especially with how often they circled one another, before and during Palmetto. As she struggled after finally joining her high school’s Exy team, he thrived with a drive she desperately tried to imitate before she finally faltered. But that drive shaped him to be the best; a proper leader, an essential piece to this team, and if he said anything different, that would’ve shocked her.

But a smaller part, unbidden and unwanted, is surprised because maybe he should want something else too. Have something to partake in that didn’t revolve around Exy, if only so he could relinquish some of the weight he carries. And so this injury wouldn’t derail everything. 

But she doesn’t have any right to think such a thing, not when she can’t pry away from a shadow she willingly reached for.

“I can kind of see you being into the horror genre. That seems up your street,” she finally says. Never mind Akira’s birthday being in November. Never mind that the sometimes probably meant when someone else finally convinced him away from Exy strategies. Those things didn’t have to be mentioned aloud.

The cameras on the court leave him restless now, in a way they didn’t before. Grayson’s not an idiot; he knew that signing on with the Foxes meant media attention. Up until recently though, he was lucky enough that it didn’t matter. Outside of Dubois itself, he was boring. Grayson threw a few punches and gave a few apathetic answers in press duty, and no one cared beyond that. 

It’s his own fault that things have changed. He’s the one who butchered press duty and begged for the cameras, who drew in the attention of a podcast like First Degree. So even now, with the full knowledge that these scouts are here for Exy, he’s uncomfortable. Grayson’s spent the entire practice today looking away, keeping his head down, doing anything he can not to stand out. 

“You planning on going pro? Because if not, I don’t think you have to worry about them,” Grayson says. The reassurance is for himself more than Alis, if he’s honest. He still doesn’t follow Alis’ gaze, determined to keep his back to the cameras as much possible. “They’re mostly here for the fifth years anyway.”

She’s heard the murmurings around campus about the podcast. But when it comes to anything that slights her teammates, she doesn’t care to pay further attention; if it’s about herself, sure, she’s curious enough to stomach unjustified critiques on her personality. But everything else is noise that she can dismiss for her homework.

Now, on the field, the clips of phrases that she managed to catch in those moments flood back, scrambled and barely making sense. And she knows this is only the case because Grayson is the one who replied. He’s trying to reassure for her sake, and she knows enough through her own struggles that he’s trying for his own too. 

The past cannot change; she understands this lesson. But it always, always hurts.

“I don’t know yet. About going pro,” she admits. She’s said it aloud before; it’s a regular question that follows each of them. But she still can’t decide what she wants for herself. Without thinking of Evie, without thinking of anything from before Palmetto. What she wants for her future, when she had stopped dreaming of having one for so long, is difficult to decide.  

“But I do know that I’d rather they keep their eyes on the fifth years and not me. As selfish as that is.”

Sasha has her camera face on, the one she slips into like it’s second nature. Considering she grew up around them, it is second nature. She’s all smiles, even though she knows that it won’t fool the cameras or the scouts. Everyone knows how volatile she is on the court, and she’d be surprised if a single professional team was interested in drafting her. She’d be a liability. Still, it’s fun to play into the whole “America’s Sweetheart” thing, and she doesn’t have to worry about graduation for another two years. 

She’s got her gaze locked in on the cameras when Alis speaks up and spares her a quick side eye. “Obviously,” She laughs. “It’s much more newsworthy if someone breaks an ankle than if we all play perfectly.” 

The camera guy lowers his camera and busies himself with fiddling with the buttons, giving Sasha a chance to give Alis her full attention. “What? Did that one Saturday of media training not prepare you for this moment?” She asks with a smirk.

As a child, she did dream of fame. Not as something attainable, but it was the creation of fantasy, the indulging of a life that wasn’t hers, that made it so appealing, so easy, to slip into what she would do should her name be written in the stars. Back then, she never considered Exy as a pathway to that future. It was fantasy, and it would remain that way.

But then Evie was ripped from life.

Alis still doesn’t view Exy as a means to fame because she doesn’t wish for it. Part of it all still feels like fantasy, seeing her name in print from time to time. The thought of people looking at her, determining her ability for a professional team, lingers in her head for longer than she wants. She strives to be a better player, but it’s because she owes it to Evie.  She owes everything to a sister who would be proud; she owes everything for what she’s stolen from a sister she cannot apologize to.

“Truthfully, I think we would benefit from a whole week of media training,” she replies, a slow sigh soon following. “Would make it easier to --- ignore the unneeded. And the damn flashes of the cameras.”

They don’t bother her, the reporters. Mostly because she’s used to being looked through instead of at, because she knows people will see what they want to regardless of any Fox’s intentions. They’re fiction writers — the pressmen hovered in swarms outside the plexiglas — but then again, so are the Foxes, peddling the bullshit that anyone who’s ever been discarded can find a home.

“Vultures. Well, they certainly do seem to like trash,” she replies, resting her racquet against the team bench. “Not that you’re trash or the team’s trash, just that…their news is…trash, and you’re pretty not trash, so… Yee-haw.”

Her snort is wrangled as it escapes; it’s an ugly noise truthfully, but there’s a hint of a small smile before Alis swipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Only spit dribbled down her chin, but god, it would have been a different story if she was still sucking water.

“Yeah, yee-fucking-haw to how trashy Exy news can be.” She shakes her head, shoulders shaking as she tries not to burst into laughter and draw attention to their conversation. They don’t need the vultures attention, nor Wymack’s.

“You’re pretty not trash too, Beck. Don’t forget yourself as we got about categorizing.”

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.”

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.”