peace out

They don’t believe Carter.

It’s a sudden strike, the sureness of this thought. Despite the progress they’ve made in viewing their teammates as friends and not opponents, that the Foxes are conceptually and actually different from their prior team, they can’t fathom that Carter wanted to check up on them. At least, not because of genuine concern. They did run from the field, and as grateful as they were that Wymack decided not to force them to return to the field, they know what this looks like to the general crowd. River wouldn’t be surprised if they were to be called out for their lack of sportsmanship within the next few days.

While they didn’t display the worst behavior the Foxes had to scramble to cover in the press room, it was still a mark on the Foxes nonetheless. And they can’t help the nagging thought that all Carter wishes to do is ensure that River won’t fuck up next time.

“I’m fine,” they say, and they know it’s a lame excuse, since they’re still in their uniform as if it’s armor. But while it can be obvious they’re not fine, the reason can be easily hidden. “Just — irritated, that’s all. You didn’t need to check up on me, I just needed —- something. That wasn’t out there in the crowd.”

It’s so common, the words hardly make Carter even blink. He can’t count how many times he’s heard those two words in the course of five years. In the course of his life. Somehow those two words are a safety net, something so easy to fall into and never worry about anyone pressing any further.

The irritation was somewhat noticeable but Carter hadn’t been sure if they’d felt that from Carter’s appearance or from whatever happened out on the court. Either way, Carter isn’t in the business of pressing. “I did need to check up on you,” Carter said with a shrug of his shoulder, the one not pressed into the lockers. “Sometimes Foxes have a tendency to feel like they can’t talk to anyone, I’ve been there and done that, and I don’t want anyone to feel that way. Whether we’re close or not, my door is always open--when there is something wrong.”

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. 

“But it’s a stupid complaint at the end of the day, right? They aren’t as important as the points in this next step to the championships.” 

“It’s always surprising. You’d think at some point it would stop; someone would just bend down in defeat and admit it but I think that day that happens... hell must’ve frozen over. Granted, maybe hell is actually cold.” His eyes look far away for a moment, contemplating what the reality would be like if hell actually was frozen over this entire time. Is there even a hell? Life might be hell but that’s far too depressing of a thought.

“But that’s the right way to think, focus on the next step to the championships and the points. Especially this next game, we need to try to make some ground. I’d rather us be ahead of the curve.” It was always better to be ahead of the curve, to keep ahead of most teams so there’s a comfortable bit to fall for a bad game.

Location: Fox Tower parking lot

Date: March 17

Time: After game

Jack hadn’t made up their mind. Fox Tower was just steps away and their bed was in there, which certainly called to them after the game. The smart thing would probably be to head up and down enough NyQuil to stop thinking about the loss, but the buildings on campus felt practically claustrophobic even out here. The more tempting thing to do would be to get in their truck and drive out into the country, somewhere the sky wasn’t drowned out by orange streetlights.

For now, though, they sat on the tailgate of their truck. Most people had filed back in from the game or were out at the various parties, so there wasn’t all that much foot traffic to be watching. Probably for the better though, at least until they spotted a familiar face in the crowd.

“Got a cigarette?” they called out, trying their best to look like they were neither pathetic nor stalling. “There’s– uh– nothing in it for you but good karma, sorry.”

Carter wasn’t sure what he wanted to do with himself. There was a sourness to him in the aftermath of the game. Sure, they got points and that’s what mattered at this point but a loss would always be a loss. For the second time in one semester alone Carter let himself slip and get angry--the result evident in his now taped up hand that ached down to his wrist.

There was a lecture waiting for him but he’d deal with that another day.

Outside, the fresh air feels nice against his hot skin from his shower after the game. For once he doesn’t feel like going out to a party. He’s hardly in the mood and he’s almost sure he’d bring down a party. At the very least he could go for a walk.

“And sometimes our best isn’t good enough.” Automatic, the way she uttered the hardest lesson she has learned. Almost listless. Almost — defeated. She didn’t quite believe it sometimes, how her best wouldn’t guarantee her a victory. But there always remained a reminder when she looked at her reflection and saw Evie instead of herself. 

Swallowing, she murmured, “Sorry, that was, uh —- very negative. At the very least, our best might also be enough to impress.” 

She knows they matter to the fifth years, and for those younger too. The shot of going into the pros meant catching eyes early, of names being written for the next year when these rounds are made again. She knows this. And it’s a sharp pang of guilt that she’s unsure if they really matter to her.

If she’s living for Evie, doesn’t that mean she should want pros? Didn’t Evie have those aspirations past putting on a college jersey?

It’s sudden, the pressure against her chest at the realization that she can’t — she doesn’t remember.

“Thank goodness that their cameras are far away then, huh?” she says as she fiddles with the nozzle of her water bottle. Up and down, up and down. “I think those flashes would hurt that focus a bit.”

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.”

Indigo: if youre joking right now i will actually cry

Indigo: we could do readings together

Indio: carter i have an outfit for you

Carter: INDIGO I would NEVER

Carter: an outfit you say? 👀👀

Indigo: you.... are a palm reader?

Location: Fox Tower Roof Date: March 15 Time: Post-Game (open)

Brayden feels stupid for sulking, especially because hiding after a game is starting to become a tradition for him. They’re in a good enough place that this loss doesn’t seriously ruin their chances, but he feels like they no longer have that grip on Championships that they used to. The Ravens beat the Trojans, and they can’t even beat the Bruins. Maybe, his mistake was thinking he could actually do this in the first place, finally prove himself. It feels like a one-sided competition anyway with his brothers weird encouraging text messages and surprise birthday presents. Or Landon is just so unbothered by the Foxes that he’s not even considering the possibility they’d do better than the Ravens. 

He lets out a groan and buries his face in his hands, annoyed with his own train of thought. This is the reason he stays with Betsy every summer and has to see her twice a month, because he just can’t stop. He knows he’s come a long way since he first joined the team, but there’s a difference between knowing and feeling. And sometimes, he feels like he’s still that lost eighteen year old, especially when his hands tremble like this, and he craves something stronger than a cigarette. 

Placing the cigarette between his teeth, he buries his trembling hands in his jacket pockets, tucking his chin against his knees in an effort to combat the cold breeze. Smoking on the roof during winter wasn’t the smartest idea, but he feels too caged in his dorm right now. He hears the door bang open behind him and doesn’t even react, still tucked in on himself. “Hey,” He greets, words muffled by the cigarette. “Here to join the party? Good luck, it’s fucking freezing up here,” He makes an effort to sound unaffected, but he’s pretty sure it doesn’t work. He’s a fucking terrible actor. 

“I don’t even think I can feel the cold,” are the words that leave Carter as he comes upon Brayden. Apparently he’s not the only one who is looking to find a moment to hide away from everything. Maybe not hide. Carter just needs to escape for a bit. Downside... he can’t hide away from his own thoughts as much as he wishes he could. “No real reason to party.”

Maybe if they would have won then Carter would feel a bit better but his attitude is sour by the results of the game. Points. It’s about points. He knows that but he still can’t get over the loss.

“Here,” Carter offers up the blanket that’s around his shoulders. He runs hot blooded as it is, better that it serves someone else. “I’m guessing I’m not the only one who feels a little out of it after that game?”

location: locker rooms date: march 15th (post-game) open

They should leave. It’s been — hours, hasn’t it? The game has long ended, and they’re still here, hidden among the rows of lockers, staring at their cellphone. Words are lost, and each breath is a battle, a struggle to remain calm. But their hands still shake, and they can’t stop seeing the image of walking out of the room and their father still sitting in the stands.

They’re finally, finally feeling fucking great about themselves, that even with a gut-wrenching loss, they have people who understand and work to be better. They escaped, and they thought that maybe, maybe their father wouldn’t dare reach out again. They knew that the press would be invested in the Foxes, understood that their face would be placed online as part of the unexpected underdogs, but River didn’t think — didn’t want to believe in the chance — that their father would follow them here. But when they recognized the frame, caught that steely gaze, they couldn’t — they wouldn’t —-

Did Dana know? How could they even tell her?

Footsteps then, and they suck a harsh breath, shooting to their feet. “I’m — Someone’s still here.” Somehow, their voice remains steady. Somehow, they keep their hands still. “I’ll be out in a moment.”

Carter’s not happy about the outcome of the game. Yes it was the points that matter at this point in the championship but he still wants the wins. It’s clear he’s getting on edge too every time he gets into a scuffle on the court that’s more than just the normal Exy squabbles. He has too much riding on the next few games. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to forget about the Foxes in the mix of it all no matter how upset he may be about the game.

He didn’t see them after the chaos of the game. He didn’t see them leaving the locker room along with everyone else. For awhile, Carter just talked with Wymack about everything, a reminder given to him to keep his head on straight. But as soon as the conversation is over, Carter goes in search of River.

Indigo: omg you finally got your palm read

Indigo: you tapped into your psychic powers

Indigo: oh! you want me to give you a tarot reading!

Carter: i've always been tapped into my psychic powers

Indigo: well my day is shit so

Indigo: send me an emoji that sums your day up

Indigo: i'll guess what happened

Carter: 🔮

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 surmounting pressure had been building over the course of the year. Carter had felt it weighing down on his shoulders the closer the year came to graduation. When the year officially turned, it only grew worse. Carter did his best to handle it in stride but he’d broken a few times. Particularly bad the night of Grant’s injury unbeknownst to everyone except Wymack.

Now here watching a few others run drills, Carter could feel the pressure building once again and it was setting his nerves on edge. The prying eyes were partially welcomed--Carter desperate for someone to take interest. But he knew very well that they were waiting for exactly that. Someone to fuck up. “That just means no one can fuck up. We do our best.”

Easier said than done with those watching them.

Grayson’s good with animals. That’s one thing he’s always been proud of, if only quietly. That’s probably what they like about him anyway—when he’s with the horses on the ranch or in a stable, that’s the closest he used to get to calm. True calm, not apathy. He used to get the two confused too. 

His world is bigger now, even if it’s only by one more town. And, like many good things in Grayson’s life, the greenhouse is new to Palmetto. The humidity, the green shoots and their rapid growth, the quiet nature of everything inside of here. Grayson doesn’t come here as often as some, but every now and then, one of his courses involves a hands-on component. 

Inside of the greenhouse, Grayson’s section is small these days: six seedling pots, the beginnings of what will become beans at some point, if his soil science course taught him how to mix the compost correctly. 

Back home, they don’t grow anything. They raise livestock, and they go on rides, and Grayson’s watched the neighboring farms fail as years go on, their careful cover and crops give away to abandoned land. He’s likely going into a pointless major, if he’s honest. If he doesn’t end up on Sharpe land, he’ll hardly be able to afford a new ranch or farm—whatever alchemy keeps his dad in business even as others are pushed to the side, Grayson won’t have it.

Grayson doesn’t get far into the greenhouse before Carver waves him over, and Grayson obliges. Plants aren’t his thing, technically, even after three and a half years of Agricultural Sciences, but maybe Carter just needs a fresh eye. “I don’t think people come here to mess with anyone’s plants,” Grayson says, bemused. It’s a greenhouse. He shrugs. “I don’t know, man. What do you usually do with them?”

Carter certainly didn’t believe that. He could think of at least ten people who would willingly come to sabotage his plants. A travesty considering Carter loves his plants and he tries to be nice to nearly everyone. Nearly. He could think of a few people who would always land on the shit list whether they liked it or not.

“I usually just water them and make sure the soil doesn’t need to be changed out. But this looks like someone did something. Maybe there’s just a ghost in here,” Carter said as if that would be the clear alternative. He wouldn’t put it past any ghosts hanging around to do such a thing.

“Also, you’re so passive about this--someone could have come in here and willingly ruined these poor plants without a care in the world. They didn’t do anything wrong?” Carter picked up one of the little pots and held it up, the wilted flowers drooping. “Cruel people. Cruel ghosts. The world needs to care more about plants. Trees. Life.”

Grant’s not going to call Carter crazy for that. He’s got his own brand of seemingly absurd belief about this team—or at least it was absurd, until these last few years, when the Foxes managed to qualify for the Championships back to back now. It’s gratifying that Carter might have the same, but for Grant’s well-being. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promises Carter. He can echo that belief back, at least, even if optimism is harder to come by tonight.

Exy, the Championships, even the draft—to a certain extent, Grant can control those things. The Championships rely on the entire team, but Grant captains that team. The draft will be up to the recruiters, to the pro teams, but Grant can do everything in his power to prove himself to them. 

This, though? His knee? It’s his own body, and apparently it’s something he has no control over. It will heal in time for him to finish out the season or it won’t: Grant can’t change that now.

“We’re going for X-Rays tomorrow, I think,” Grant says. Carter only wants to help, and despite his bleak mood, Grant can be grateful for that. He can trust Carter, and that means giving him the full story: the fact that Grant isn’t actually sure he’ll be playing alongside Carter in the pros after all. He can promise it, but it doesn’t mean anything yet. “Before we head home, if I’ve got my say. Depends on how swollen it still is by the morning. Until then…I don’t know. She couldn’t give me much info just sitting beside the court.”

X-Rays were good. They’d tell the amount of damage... figure out just what would be needed for recovery. Carter was praying it would only be a large amount of rest and then Grant would be back on the court. Captain at the helm of the S.S. Foxes.

They couldn’t play without Grant. Well.... they could but Carter would hate to play without Grant. Fives years together. All the ups and downs. The arguments and quiet moments. All the pep talks and late night practices. It was five years of history that Carter wasn’t willing to let go. He didn’t give a shit who he had to pray to or what he had to do to get Grant back on the court and healthy.

“If you want someone to take you or come with...” Carter trailed off with a shrug of his shoulder. Grant might have someone else he’d want with him. Or no one. Carter wouldn’t really blame him but he’d be spending every second pacing and worrying until they got back. When it came to the Foxes, he loved all of them. Even the ones who didn’t want anything to do with him. Carter was more than ready to lay down everything for any of them but Grant? Grant’s at the top of that list.

He always would be until the very end.

Location: The Foxhole Court Date: Friday, March 8 Time: Championships Watch Party (open)

Glory’s watched games from the bench, but she’s hasn’t spent many in the stands: the court looks smaller from here—funny, when you’re playing, it seems like the whole world, like the rows and rows of seats stretching towards the ceiling might as well not exist.

She doesn’t watch many Exy games at all, outside of the video review that they do during practices. She’d rather be playing, can’t sit still and watch games without feeling an itch in her fingers, in her feet—wanting to curl around a racquet, wanting to run. The game feels different from the outside, through the screen: she can’t hear the players’ breathing, the slap of their feet on the court. Even the hits seem muted, the thud of the ball against the Plexiglas, or when it snaps soundly into the net of a racquet. 

The games are staggered, but they still overlap some, and it’s hard to keep them straight as they switch between them, checking the scores that will determine the course of the rest of the Championships. Right now the Sundevils and the Buckeyes are on the screen, two teams she’s never played, and the score is neck-and-neck. 

Play stops. A yellow card. She’s taken custody of one of the bowls of popcorn that’s been going around, and she’s grinning around a mouthful when she asks: “Who’ve you got winnin’ this one? We could make it a bet.”

The watch party for Carter is a time to kick back and relax. He’s not worried about anything--not yet. He already knew the Ravens would make it. That would be an upset of a century if they didn’t. When the time came, he’d look forward to crushing them. For now it was a matter of sitting back and watching to see who else would make the cut. They deserved to relax after their latest win and before their upcoming wins.

Maybe he was being optimistic.

Not so shockingly, Carter didn’t give a fuck.

It was his last year and while he was stressing out about graduating and the draft, he’d also reached a moment in his life of holy shit.

“Come on, Buckeyes. As much as I hate them and want them to lose, it isn’t like the Sundevils are any better.” He reached over to snag a few pieces of popcorn from the bowl. He wasn’t about to take the whole bowl from Glory.

There aren’t many people in the greenhouse and Carter’s thankful for that. When there’s too many people hustling and bustling around inside of the greenhouse, Carter feels like he’s not able to actually enjoy his time--too busy moving out of the way of other people and overhearing who slept with who and who is going to fail their next class. Besides, Carter felt like gossip was toxic to plants.

Right now he’s working on the rose bush in the very back of the green house. He’s sitting on one of the old metal stools, trimming back some of the branches while also looking at his Impatiens that clearly did not do well. They’re wilting and he can’t seem to figure out why. Carter’s done them a million times over, babysits them like they’re his own children. But somehow something had gone wrong this time.

Setting down the shears for the rose bush, Carter leans over to his Impatiens and pokes at the dirt. Moist. Perfect.

“Carter. Slow down,” Grant orders, stern, because Carter’s spiraling and Grant’s the one wrapped in bandages. In a way, it’s comforting. It gives Grant an excuse to act normal—or at least in charge—despite his position on the couch with crutches only a few feet away. Carter is external, something that Grant can focus on that isn’t his own anxiety. “No one ‘did it’. It’s Exy. I was just the unlucky one tonight.” 

On a bad day, Exy’s a blood-sport, but even on a good day it’s full contact. People get hurt, even when they play well—maybe especially when they play well, when they take those risks, when they throw themselves into the game. And Grant gives Exy his all, every single game, every single time. Maybe it was only a matter of time, even from his space in the goal.

Grant shifts, winces. “I’ll take those painkillers though actually, thanks. The crackers are a good idea too, as long as you’ve got them.” He leans, manages to grab Carter’s offerings from the coffee table beside them. He’ll try, for Carter, but he isn’t good at playing the patient: too irritable, too proud. He doesn’t want to worry about recovery times and injuries, he wants to be back out on the court by Monday.

It’s only once he’s swallowed the painkillers that Grant addresses the rest of Carter’s comments. Or doesn’t address them, as the case may be. “I’m exhausted, so we’re going to pretend you didn’t say any of that,” Grant says, even as he knows full well who Carter means—Grant’s not trying to sneak around, because there isn’t anything to hide, but he hasn’t done a great job of making it look completely innocent either. From his hotel room to New York at Christmas to the alleyways of Los Angeles, Grant’s been spotted with the same person time and time again. 

The more accurate version of Carter’s ramblings would be that no one touches Grant but the people Grant allows, but the fact that he’ll let Akira in close doesn’t have to mean anything. Even if it does, he’s certainly not going to get into it with a third party before he’s ever spoken to Akira about it. 

Grant accepts a pillow next, navigates it to better elevate his knee. Carter isn’t looking at it, and Grant doesn’t know if that’s better or worse. Is it politeness or pity that turns Carter away? “Where’d you even get all this? Did Leo help?”

Carter pouts but tries not to let it get to him. Grant isn’t really in a mood to mess around and Carter knows he has trouble discerning when it was the time and when it wasn’t. For Carter, tough situations like this are the times when he tries to laugh things off, play around and lightening the situation up. Maybe it was the Akira thing? Or the hooking up bit? Probably both.

A bit more dejected, Carter hums as he looked around the room as if a good answer to the question could be found somewhere else. “I got it from around the house...” he starts with the truth. “Did Leo help? No... Does Leo know? No...” With a quick flash, he’s grinning as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “But come on, do you really think Leo’s gonna be mad? It’s a few pillows, crackers, painkillers, and some water. We all want our captain feeling better and ready for the next game.”

There would be a next game. Carter had plans to go pro alongside Grant and he wasn’t about to let anything get in the way of that.

Location: Las Vegas, Leo’s house Date: March 1st Time: Post-game (open)

Here’s the selfish thought. 

Grant’s spent so much time considering what will happen if the Foxes win this year. He’s obsessed over what it means if they lose too. Whatever the outcome though, whether it’s a dream or a nightmare, it’s with him at the head of the team. Grant’s never thought about what happens if they do it without him. If he’s on the bench—for the last few months of the year, or even for good. It could be the same result either way, when this is his last semester as a Fox. No one will recruit an injured athlete in the Spring.

Exy is a rough sport. Grant’s followed it since he was a child, and he’s seen careers cut short from injury time and time again. He’s always known that was an option, but he’s never considered that it might be his career on the line so soon. The goal feels like a safe space; he protects it, and it protects him in turn. No one else is allowed beyond those markers, and that means no one is allowed to even touch him, let alone tackle him.

Until he dives for the ball, caught up in the grit and fear of the death match, and it all goes wrong.

Maybe Grant’s catastrophizing. Nurse Winfield had tried to reassure him, but he’d felt something twist when he went down, he’d only managed to leave the court by leaning too heavily on an obviously concerned Akira, and she can’t give him answers yet. It’s too soon to say,  Nurse Winfield said. When the swelling goes down, and if nothing’s changed, I can order an X-ray tomorrow when he’d pushed for more. So there’s nothing he can solve tonight then, and that’s horrible. He can only press the ice pack against his knee, make sure the bandage is wrapped tight, and hope for the best.

He hates the uncertainty. The anxiety. He’s restless and angry and, most of all, useless from his current perch on Leo’s couch—because of course Grant’s still here at the victory party, still determined to acknowledge the importance of this win, even if his knee fucking hurts. The sharp, brutal ache of it does nothing for his mood.

Someone’s nearby, and Grant doesn’t move, despite taking up most of the couch. “If you need to sit down, feel free, just—be careful.” As if someone inadvertently jostling him can do as much as landing wrong in the bottom of a pileup.

Carter is a man on a mission.

There’s a silent apology that Carter mumbles off to Leo before he officially raids the home. Carter’s already got two pillows cradled to his chest and now he’s raiding for ibuprofen or naproxen or even tylenol. And once he’s managed to obtained a pill bottle that remains in a death grip because no one is taking it away from him—Carter goes in search for snacks. A party is not the best idea for finding a healthy snack and he ends up grumbling when all he can surface is crackers.

Pillows, crackers, medicine. The last thing Carter picks up is a glass of water and he’s cutting his way through the house to get to his destination. Whoever tries to talk to him, Carter ignores. They’re not his concern right now. That would be Grant who is on the couch and Carter finally makes it with everything somehow balancing in his arms and hands. “I’ve got pillows to put under your knee, I’ve got pills if it hurts too bad, I’ve got a glass of water, and only fucking crackers cause that was the only shit I could find.”

Carter sets the glass of water down on the coffee table along with the pill bottle and the box of crackers. He’s trying not to look at Grant’s knee. He knows what’s going through the other’s head. Injuries are scary—a constant worry. But injuries in your last year without knowing if it’s a career ending injury? Everything hangs in the balance and Carter knows if he was in the same position, he’d lose his mind.