The punch is expected—wanted, even. Mateo doesn't say the shit that he does thinking they'll go their separate ways after. Win or lose, fighting makes him feel alive. He can finally give into that anger that's always simmering inside him, ready to burst at any moment. And Grant is always willing to indulge him, just as easy to set off as Mateo is.
When Grant shoves Mateo, he doesn't dodge him and he laughs as he stumbles back a few steps. Then Grant's fist connects with his eye, hard enough for Mateo's head to whip to the side and leave a bruise later. The pain makes his ears ring, muffling his words as he taunts Grant. "So I'm right, then? You are a Fox, just like the rest of us."
Mateo says "us," even though there's no actual incident that led him here. Most of his teammates are here because they had no other choice. Meanwhile, Mateo had plenty of choices. He could've bought his way into any school he wanted, he could've skipped the degree entirely and traveled the world, but he's in fuck ass Palmetto because it's what TK wanted.
Still, Mateo knows he fits the criteria. He has a tragic childhood that made him fierce enough to play Exy, but too vicious for the teams that want to play clean games. So he doesn't fight the fact that he belongs here—even if he did have choices—unlike Grant who'll never be accepted by another team.
If Grant tries to punch him again, Mateo isn't just going to let it land this time. He uses his height to duck down low and launches himself at Grant, aiming to collide into his stomach and tackle him to the ground.
Grant's first hit lands, satisfyingly solid against Mateo's skin. He tries to follow it up with a second punch, building on the momentum—instead, already overextended, he's unprepared when Mateo's shoulder drives into his midsection. He stumbles backwards, and gravity finishes the rest of the job.
He's down, Mateo somewhere above him, the impact rattling through Grant's back and driving the wind out of him. Grant reacts on instinct, elbow snapping up to connect with whatever part of Mateo he can reach.
He doesn't mind fighting—sometimes he likes it even, despite what people might think of goalies in their protected zone, or more specifically a goalie with Grant's past. But Haskell was never violent. He didn't need to be; Grant trusted him. If his subconscious drudges up bloodshed, it's usually Grant in control in his dreams, Grant fighting back in a way he didn't realize he could—didn't even realize he needed to—at twelve.
He slams the door on those thoughts, because the whole point of this—of everything he does—is proving none of that matters. This is nothing special. He doesn't shy away from violence because he's an Exy player. He'd be a poor player if he couldn't handle a fight.
Still, he doesn't like this, doesn't like being on the ground, because he doesn't plan to lose to his roommate. "Get the fuck off," Grant grits, throwing another elbow, this time taking the time to aim for Mateo's ribs.





















