palmetto state foxes.

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.

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.

The Kai that's his teammate now doesn't quite match up to the Kai that was in his head back then, the one that was part of a matched set, two perfect Exy-playing children to two perfect Exy-playing parents. That Kai was easier to see as a rival, both on the court and just more generally, someone who seemingly had it all and made it look so natural.

Maybe that was never true, but it certainly isn't true now. Kai isn't part of a matched set anymore. Kai is a Fox, here with TK—and here with Mateo, who, despite the ways that other people may look at him and think he has it all, has never been someone that TK was jealous of, only someone that was his friend. First, it was because TK was happy with the life that he had, and then it was because TK knew intimately the scars that Mateo carried, saw firsthand the way the loss of his mother affected him.

TK understands that more now. He didn't lose his mother suddenly, he spent years watching it happen and waiting for the end, but it still didn't prepare him. Sometimes he wants to rage, too—mostly when he's with his father, someone who should care like TK does, but doesn't. Who stopped caring a long time ago.

But he's still himself, in the end. He's still more likely to shut down than lash out. What would be the point? He could have laughed at Kai's broken headphones, or kicked them, but it wouldn't have made him feel any better. He could have kept walking, but he didn't.

Though, honestly, at this point, maybe that would have been better. But it's not like he's about to say that to Kai. He isn't always nice, even if he looks like it in comparison to Mateo.

"You know," he says. "Instead of waiting for me to be a dick to you, you could just go ahead and be a dick first. It seems like you want to."

Exy should do that for him, but instead it only reminds him of Katie. Therapy should be another outlet, but instead stupid fucking Mateo's popped up in the same support group this semester, so Kai has to swallow down everything and pretend he's got nothing to share.

And now TK won't even be an asshole to him, won't take the bait, because apparently he's the well adjusted one between the two of them. Of course he is. Kai knows the mythos of the Foxes, knows TK's a Fox like Kai is, but TK's still got Mateo. He's also at least six feet tall, and has probably had the ability to grow a real mustache since he was twelve years old—as long as Kai's listing the reasons why he doesn't like TK.

Kai shifts, uncomfortable in his skin for more reasons than the tackiness of the tape drying against his chest now. TK saw straight through him. And there's no point denying what Kai was doing now, not when he's been so transparent that even TK can see it. Even now, he wants to be mad at TK for acknowledging it out loud, for forcing Kai to see it from TK's perspective—but yeah, Kai can admit that's just more of the same.

He drops his gaze instead, pretending his scuffed Vans are far more interesting than they really are. "No," Kai says. He stops, clears his throat, forcing his voice to settle lower down in his throat. If his traitorous voice chooses now to crack, then he really will freak out. "No, you're right. Sorry. I'm already being a dick."

In some ways, it hadn't been about Exy at all. She'd been at the end of her rope, then, beaten down by the Lions and the year she'd spent being her mouthpiece and their figurehead, playing the role they'd shoved her into once Zia was gone and Olivia wasn't and they needed someone to do damage control. She'd never really thought about leaving when Zia did, or about the Foxes—she was still determined to walk the path her father had set out for her, then, and determined to not think about anything else that might get in the way of that.

But, in other ways, it was still about Exy, because one of the worst things the Lion took from her was her love of the game. Two years on Pride Court, and she dreaded every practice, every game, hated anything that put her in close proximity with her teammates or in front of another reporter looking for another quote. Her play slipped, but she kept getting put on the court anyway, because it wasn't about that. And when all she'd ever been was an Exy player, one of the best Exy players, losing that felt like losing everything.

But once she signed the contract, once her father and the rest of the Exy world found out, then she had to think about everything else. Not just about survival, about getting away from Penn State and everything that felt like it was killing her there, but the reality of being a Fox, of playing for a team with one of the longest losing records in the league. About proving everyone wrong—and proving her father wrong, too, because for the first time in her life he didn't feel like he was on her side.

"I like us better as teammates, too," she says, smiling. She knows, now, that she isn't doing things alone, the way that she thought she was when she showed up at Palmetto determined to put the team on her back and drag them to the Championships. There are other people on the team who want this just as badly, who play as hard as she does: people like Claudia—and like Casey.

But does she believe that the Foxes can win? She wants to. And if she wants them to get anywhere in the Championships, she knows she has to play like she believes it. Do what she was always known for, what every high school scouting report said about her: Olivia Finch is a player that makes the players around her better.

"I don't want to make it back into the Championships just to get knocked out in the first round," she says, trying to make it sound like a promise, to sound as sure as Casey does. "I want to take it as far as we can, no matter who we have to take down. It's not like you and I will get many more shots at it."

"That's what I mean," they reassure her, because as much as they'd love to believe the Foxes could go the mythical all the way, walk out of this season with the trophy, Casey's played against the other teams going into the Championships. Casey, like Olivia, knows who they could be up against.

It isn't just raw talent, although there's plenty of that out there. It's a numbers game too. Larger teams can handle injuries, red cards, even simple fatigue better. More experienced teams have practical knowledge on how to face an Aggies' striker or Vandals' goalie, while most of the Foxes can only study old games and hope to apply what they learn.

But if the goal is to prove people wrong about the Foxes, to prove that the Foxes are worth more as an Exy team than people realize, then they don't have to go all the way to the end. No doubt everyone is expecting that the Foxes will get knocked out in the first round. They have to beat that, and then do as much as they can afterwards.

That does feel possible, especially after their win tonight. "But I think we've got a better shot at making it through this round than people think. Especially if we're lucky in the matches." Of course, if they do, then the death matches come next—and what felt intimidating even as a Buckeye could be terrifying as a Fox.

Olivia's other comment is a stronger blow against Casey's pleasant mood, even if it's true. This could be Casey's last shot at the Championships—if they graduate without offers, it could be their last shot at competitive Exy at all.

As they've already discussed, Casey's been wrong before. Casey's been forced away from Exy, and found a way to come crawling back. They know success in the draft isn't the only path to professional Exy, either. It's the one they envisioned for themself all through high school though, all through those first years as a Buckeye. Now, it's hard to imagine someone besides Wymack taking that kind of risk on a player with Casey's history.

It's easy to imagine a professional team wanting Olivia. Even as a Fox, she's had other offers—she chose this team last year rather than becoming a Vandal, and Casey's grateful she did.

"One more, technically," Casey says, stating the obvious. "But I'm focusing on this season," they add, which is equal parts truth and a distraction from what they're afraid waits for them—or doesn't—after the Foxes. And then, so Olivia knows this isn't some Zen and The Art of Exy style stance: "I'll freak myself out otherwise."

Put like that, she doesn't think she should feel so lost. There's a lot in her life that's going right: she got out of Owl's Bend and found Exy, found the Foxes and a place she could thrive in Palmetto, she's leading the Foxes into the Championships in her first season as Vice Captain, and she has Parker somehow still next to her, not going anywhere yet.

She's just not sure how to feel like she deserves any of it. Why she was the one to get out of Owl's Bend when some people never will, why Wymack picked her to be a Fox when she'd barely been playing Exy for a handful of years, why he and Claudia think she's the right person to lead this team once Claudia graduates, why Parker has stayed so patient when Glory doesn't think she's given her very much, not even everything that she wants to give her.

In some ways, her life was a lot easier when she didn't have to think about it so goddamn much. In Owl's Bend, she was a creature of feeling: she got angry, and she reacted; she found things that felt good, and she let herself get swept up in them. Now she stops and she starts, she thinks herself in circles. She's not sure if she feels less now, or if she's just gotten out of practice at listening to those feelings. She's not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

For a moment, though, when they're not actually getting arrested and Parker is hitting on her in a police station, she can try to let go and just let things be simple. Try to ignore the fact that, somehow, stringing together the moments where things feel simple doesn't seem to add up to as much as she thinks it should.

"I don't think I can. And I don't think I can keep him from murderin' us at practice on Monday, either," she says. "So you're probably right. If we're gonna die, might as well make the most of it before then and not sleep."

Tonight, though, he's more focused on getting them back to Palmetto. And far from tiring her out, the long ride home only makes her antsy—probably because of the earful they get. Wymack promises hell, but he still drives them home.

The antsiness is from the late hour, too. She knows this feeling. With enough sleep deprivation, you loop back around.

So it doesn't surprise her that she still doesn't want to go back to her room, especially not when she might be able to spend that time with Glory instead. Maybe if they could have the space to themselves, but Parker's got three roommates now. Nico's fine, she guesses—not as good as Olivia, not as bad as Indigo—but even if it were just her, that isn't what Parker wants tonight.

And as far as Glory's roommates, she didn't see Marley or Claudia at the police station—to no one's surprise, she's sure—so there's a solid chance they've been home for hours. Not exactly the privacy she's seeking. She hasn't decided if she wants to kiss Glory or spill her guts in the most embarrassing fashion, but either one will go better without other Foxes around.

It's been a long night, for both of them. But Glory seemed interested earlier, so: "Wanna go to the roof?" Parker offers abruptly, because she's found Glory on top of buses, and in trees, and somehow it seems like the roof is a natural continuation for their night. The best place for that alone time she'd wanted, at least, assuming no other Foxes try to sneak up there to lick their wounds. Maybe it'll even be romantic. Under the stars, or whatever.

It wasn't their choice to join the Foxes. They'd quite literally tried every other team they could think of first, desperate to avoid David Wymack and the reputation his team carried. Rock bottom would always be collapsing on the court, their worst habits becoming public knowledge, but accepting Wymack's contact felt like a close second at the time.

Most likely, everyone following their career—if anyone still was—could tell that too: that Casey popped up on the Foxes' roster last year because they had no other choice, rather than because they were genuinely interested in trading scarlett and grey for orange.

But so many of Casey's own choices have been mistakes—pushing themself to injury, taking the pills—so clearly it's better this way. Things evidently work out better when Casey isn't behind the reins.

"It'd be pretty hard not to be humble at this point," Casey says, which means everyone saw what I did. There's no point in trying to be proud of their past. It didn't matter that the steroids and the opioids only started their sophomore year. The revelation cast a shadow over everything, all those accomplishments that led to their tenure on the Buckeyes in the first place. Like maybe Casey was cheating that whole time, and nothing they said or did before could be trusted.

All they can do is rebuild now: do their best on the Foxes, even if this might be the furthest their career ever goes. Casey wants to believe they can do enough to find a pro contract still waiting for them after they graduate, but it seems unlikely. There are plenty of backliners out there without the stain of a doping scandal on their backs.

"But Olivia's not a diva, either," they say, feeling the urge to defend their resident actual former Big Three player. "You going again?" Casey adds, because Bryce is sitting up now, evidently resting. If Casey's still spotting him, they need to be ready. "Or are you all set?"

It feels like a minuscule silver lining that he doesn't have to worry about captaining them, that that's Claudia's problem now. He had to captain Zia fucking Mendez, when she was a fifth year who'd been to the Championships four times and he was a senior who hadn't been once. Worrying about how to handle her had quickly been drowned out by all of the other shit that came his way that year, at least. In the end, he'd mostly just left her alone.

Like he should have left Casey alone, probably. Bryce isn't their Captain, so they don't owe it to them to try and make nice. Not that he'd been trying to make nice. He'd been doing the opposite, hoping that he could use Casey's fall from grace to the Foxes to make himself feel better about his own fall from the Foxes to—wherever the fuck it is he is now.

But that had failed pretty fucking miserably. If anyone feels like shit here, it's still Bryce. At least that's nothing new.

He could struggle through another set, keep feeling out of shape and out of sorts while Casey is apparently so fucking zen about everything their life has handed them, but he'd probably rather pull out his own fingernails. There's a whole gym full of other Foxes: known and unknown, some who might hate his guts and some who might not give a single flying fuck about him—he can spin the wheel and take his chances.

Or he could just fucking leave. It's not like he's really a Fox; it's not like Wymack can bench him. Somehow, though, he knows he isn't going to. Wymack can't bench him, but he can look disappointed, and it turns out that still works as well on Bryce as it did when he was actually Wymack's player and not some has-been crashing on his couch.

"I'm good," he says, pushing himself off the bench and not bothering to wipe it down. Why stick around longer than he has to when he's already struck out? "See you around, I guess."

Colin has his collection of kitsch, shot glasses and license plate keychains picked up on his travels—a tradition that he kept up from those years on the road, even if more often than not he actually pays for them now—but it's been a little while since he's had cause to add to it. Even the addition of the Southern Eagles wasn't that exciting, because he'd already added Georgia to his collection from the drive from Palmetto to Florida.

The Championships are a different story. Out of the eighteen teams that made it, Colin and the Foxes have only played against three of them. The rest of them—from the powerhouses of the Big Three to the scrappier teams that aren't stalwarts in the Championships like the Foxes—have only lived on his laptop screen, in stats and highlight reel plays. He's never gone toe-to-toe with them, he doesn't know how he'll measure up against them.

It's exciting, but it's also terrifying: match up with the wrong teams, and his one appearance in the Championships could be over just as soon as it begins.

And, when the Championships are over, his time as a Fox will be, too. He won't have any more games in orange, and he won't have any more opportunities to try and convince a professional team to take a chance on him. He'll just have to hope that he's done enough to keep playing, to be able to make a career out of the thing he loves most in the world.

For someone who's always wanted to control everything he can, it's terrifying how much of his future is out of his hands. He can play as hard as he can, but in the end it won't be up to him, it'll be up to suits and scouts that he's never met.

And, before he even gets to the draft, he has to hope that their random first round matchups at least give them a chance to win enough to make it through to the first set of death matches. They had to fight their way into the Championships, but that was the easy part. It'll only get harder from here.

"I know who I don't want to play," he says, relaxing into the shop talk—as much as he can, at least, when it's the middle of the fucking night and so many of their teammates are still unaccounted for. "At least we'll be in the evens and safe from the Big Three—though I really don't want to get in between the Buckeyes and a repeat title, even if we've got a ringer in Casey."

And then he watched them throw it all away.

Because what was the fucking point in doping, when you were already that good? When you could've gone all the way just on your own talent? Casey must've known it would catch up to them eventually. That it wouldn't be worth it. They did it anyway. And now Casey's a Fox, just like Grant, so he can't even be excited that Casey's out there with him, that they're part of the same defensive line.

Of course, there's no denying the fact that Casey is still good. And Casey knows the Buckeyes better than any of them. It's been a few years, sure, but Casey's played alongside the Buckeyes. Been part of their practices. Sat in their strategy sessions.

But if the Foxes go up against the Buckeyes, it's still not going to be enough. The Buckeyes aren't Big Three, but they're close enough—especially for a team like the Foxes. Everyone knows the Buckeyes want to dethrone one of the Big Three, and last year they won it all. They'll be coming in hungrier than ever, and with their current roster, they've got the talent to back that ambition. Clearly, Colin knows that. They all do.

Despite all that, there's still part of Grant that wants to go against them. It isn't rational; he should be hoping for a series of easy matchups, for luck to place them against a series of teams that barely snuck into the Championships. Other teams like theirs. That way they can at least make it to the death matches, because even that isn't guaranteed.

Grant grew up watching Class I, imagining himself out there, but it's not like he daydreamed about playing against the Gamecocks. He fantasized about playing for a Big Three—and then, after Zia Mendez, just about the Ravens and the Trojans—and beating teams like the Buckeyes.

He didn't get any of his wishes—the ones Casey wasted—and he's not playing for a team that the Buckeyes would take seriously as an opponent. He still wants to know if he can block a Buckeye's shot.

"We'd be fucked," Grant agrees. "But it'd be less embarrassing to go out to the Buckeyes, instead of the Billikens or something."

Though, really, that makes sense in a way that Bryce can understand. He loves his family, sure, but not in the loudly declarative way that Nico seems to. He loves his family, but he's thought more than once about how much easier things would be for him if he didn't.

And, when he got into trouble, it's not like they were any fucking help. If he was in trouble, then Beckett was usually right there with him—usually next to him, because he hadn't fucking set Bryce up to take the fall any time but the last time. And it's not like he could ever rely on his dad for anything, whether he was in prison or out of it, unless it was to make things worse. And his mother—he thinks there's a part of her that would like to be able help, but it's not like she's ever known how to do it. She has no money, she has no time, and the time she does have she usually spends drunk. She kept a roof over his head when he was a kid, and will let him come back home unless his father is out of prison and says she can't, and that's all he can expect from her.

When he was in trouble, he called Wymack. Because Wymack was the kind of person who could make shit happen, who knew what to do and had enough resources and connections—even as a coach on a bottom-rung college sports team—to make it happen. Bryce called Wymack, and now he has a lawyer and a couch to crash on and a schedule full of college classes that will help him finish the degree he abandoned.

He gets to half-pretend at being a Fox, too: working out alongside them in the gym in the mornings, running drills with them on the court in the afternoon, partying with them in Columbia to celebrate wins he had nothing to do with. That part fucking hurts, but it's better than being in a jail cell in Pensacola because he couldn't pay bail, so who the fuck is he to complain?

"If you win an actual Championship game, you'd better fucking party," he says, with a hint his old Captain voice with no actual authority behind it. There have always been meek Foxes, but he's never really understood them, when his answer to a world that seemed stacked against him was to be loud, be angry, and take up space. It's just his luck to get stuck with one of them for the long trek home tonight. "If I won a Championship game, I'd flip a fucking car."

But sometimes it feels like her sister only exists in her memories. They write each other, of course. Sometimes they even talk on the phone. Alondra's never seen her room, though. She's never been to any of her games. None of Nico's current friends have ever met her, and her aunt and uncle don't like talking about her. Alondra's locked away, easy to compartmentalize, and the world's moved on without her.

Nico's moved on without her, leaving Alondra to occupy the edges of her life. Since they last saw each other in person, Nico's learned an entirely new sport, and cut her hair, and kissed a girl. Sometimes, she even daydreams about her aunt and uncle asking her to become Nicolina Fisher, even if she doesn't think she'd actually change her last name. She just wants them to want her enough to suggest it.

In the face of all that, the least she can do is talk about Alondra openly. And if anyone's going to hear the truth without writing her sister off, it's going to the the Foxes.

"My sister's at the Camille Griffin Graham Correctional Institution," Nico says, blunt around that mouthful of a name, her shoulders squared, altogether stubborn in a way she isn't usually. "She would help if she could." And that Nico knows to be true, has known it her entire life. Looking back, she can see Alondra's help wasn't always the right kind, wasn't always enough—but her sister was always there for her.

Depending on who you ask, that might've been the whole problem. That Alondra did something terrible, but she did it for the two of them.

Even so, he liked the idea of taking Casey down a peg. Hitting them where it hurt. But he can't even fucking do that, because Bryce throws out his barbs and Casey says it all worked out and I'm happy as a Fox. The words sound both completely saccharine and yet still so fucking honest, and they make Bryce grit his teeth grit his teeth against his failure to get under Casey's skin, tighten his grip on the bar until his knuckles go white.

Casey had a bad year, but it's over now. They got to pick up where they left off on another team, and now they might be going to the Championships. A heartwarming comeback story, if Bryce could feel something other than a kind of seething fucking jealousy about it. Bryce doesn't know at what point a bad year turns into just being a bad fucking life, but there's a good chance he's about to find out.

He forces himself to relax, rolls his shoulders and goes for another rep, then another. It buys him time: with this much weight on the bar, it's not like he can really chitchat. Mostly he just has to hope that whatever noises of effort are coming out of his mouth aren't too fucking pathetic, giving away how off his game he really is.

When he was a Fox, all he had to do was train and then play, do the bare minimum to try and not fail his classes. His days were structured, scheduled: gym in the morning, court in the evening, classes in between, homework and parties—but probably more parties—after all that was done. It was good. He did better when he was busy. But when he was back in Pensacola, no matter how much he tried to fill his days and find some fucking purpose, it never felt the same. It always felt like he was doing the wrong things. And now back in Palmetto again, in the same gym but feeling so much less than he was the last time he was here, he's pretty sure he must have been. At the very least, he could have found some more time to fucking lift.

He's glad he never said how many reps he was planning on doing: when he sets the bar back in its hooks and sits up on the bench to catch his breath, he knows he's pussied out and done fewer than he planned to—fewer than he would have done when he was still a Fox—but maybe Casey doesn't. And he still doesn't know what to do with Casey's whole—whatever. How fucking earnest they seem to be when Bryce is just trying to be a dick, so he just says: "So humble. And here I thought all you Big Three-types were supposed to be divas."

It wasn't their choice to join the Foxes. They'd quite literally tried every other team they could think of first, desperate to avoid David Wymack and the reputation his team carried. Rock bottom would always be collapsing on the court, their worst habits becoming public knowledge, but accepting Wymack's contact felt like a close second at the time.

Most likely, everyone following their career—if anyone still was—could tell that too: that Casey popped up on the Foxes' roster last year because they had no other choice, rather than because they were genuinely interested in trading scarlett and grey for orange.

But so many of Casey's own choices have been mistakes—pushing themself to injury, taking the pills—so clearly it's better this way. Things evidently work out better when Casey isn't behind the reins.

"It'd be pretty hard not to be humble at this point," Casey says, which means everyone saw what I did. There's no point in trying to be proud of their past. It didn't matter that the steroids and the opioids only started their sophomore year. The revelation cast a shadow over everything, all those accomplishments that led to their tenure on the Buckeyes in the first place. Like maybe Casey was cheating that whole time, and nothing they said or did before could be trusted.

All they can do is rebuild now: do their best on the Foxes, even if this might be the furthest their career ever goes. Casey wants to believe they can do enough to find a pro contract still waiting for them after they graduate, but it seems unlikely. There are plenty of backliners out there without the stain of a doping scandal on their backs.

"But Olivia's not a diva, either," they say, feeling the urge to defend their resident actual former Big Three player. "You going again?" Casey adds, because Bryce is sitting up now, evidently resting. If Casey's still spotting him, they need to be ready. "Or are you all set?"

And even when it wasn't about his mother, he tended to be quieter, more deferential. He wanted his teachers to like him, or his coaches—especially when he was younger, and playing on teams that waived his little league fees and gave him hand-me-down gear, it felt like being humble, being appreciative.

At some point, it became stifling. He was so serious, so proud, and it left him alone with no one to rely on and nothing in his life to really enjoy—no Exy, no Mateo, and not much of anything else, either. And when he wanted to stop being deferential, when he wanted to dig his heels in and not go along with his father's plans to take him out of California and away from his mother, he'd needed Mateo to teach him how to do it. He'd needed him to stand up to his own father, too, to make it so TK could stay.

Because Mateo didn't care about what other people wanted; he cared about what he wanted, and he made it happen. Sure, he could be reckless, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. TK wants to be reckless sometimes, too, wants to not be so serious all the time and not spend so much time worrying about what other people think.

It's easiest to do when he's next to Mateo, following his lead. When it's just TK and Kai alone in the Foxhole Court lounge, though, he still defaults to being blandly polite. Mateo wouldn't, he knows, but he's not trying to be Mateo, who can start fights with their roommates on his own without TK's help, even if TK will step in when he has to to make sure Mateo's not fighting alone.

Kai seems to expect him to, though, or maybe he just wants to start a fight of his own. And while TK might not be as bold without Mateo's lead to follow, he can follow Kai's lead easily enough instead. And if Kai wants to pick a fight with him, even if it's just with him, he probably still won't like the outcome.

"Right," he says, shrugging his shoulders and huffing out a laugh that doesn't make it all the way to amused. "My bad. What was I supposed to do instead, kick them?"

Except TK is an old wound. And if TK's reasonable, then Kai's the crazy one. Kai's the asshole, because he can't accept whatever olive branch TK might offer—even if it isn't even a real one, because at the end of the day, it's always going to be TK-and-Mateo. Kai's outside of that. Everyone is, but especially Kai, because Mateo, at least, hates him. And the feeling's mutual—it's not like Kai wants into their dynamic. They can be brothers all they want; he just wishes they would've done it somewhere far away from him.

Technically speaking, Kai's never been a brother. He could claim it, he knows. That's the neat and tidy way to look at it: he's alwasy been a boy, even when no one knew, so he doesn't need to have any complicated feelings on gender.

But he only ever told Katie at the end. As much as he wants to believe she heard it, he doesn't have any proof. It's all wishful thinking, conjured up by some nurse telling him hearing was the last sense to go. For all he knows, they were lying to make him feel better. And if Katie died thinking of him as her twin sister, it doesn't feel right to erase that history.

He thinks—knows—that Katie would've accepted him. But even if she heard him, even if she thought of him as Kai before she went, he didn't get to actually be her brother. It's pointless, worrying over whether he can call himself a brother, whether he should still use sister. To the casual observer, he's an only child now.

Kai shoves the broken headphones back into his bag, a problem to deal with later. He thinks about saying it—can you just be a dick, please—but doesn't, obviously, because that's an insane thing to say to your teammate, especially the night before they play in their first Championship game. There's a chance Wymack sends them out there together tomorrow; Kai really should be playing nice, instead of leaning into high school feuds.

He doesn't manage it. "Or just keep walking," Kai says. "We're already coming from the same place and going to the same place. You aren't sick of me yet?"

Because Nico can imagine all the different ways Claudia might be viewing her new players. On the one hand, the Foxes have infamously struggled with a smaller roster before—at least once forfetting a game because of it. Nico and Dayton will be more bodies on the court if nothing else, able to step in to cover cards, fatigue, injuries.

But they're also new here, untested on the Foxes at a time when this team needs cohesion more than ever. If they win this upcoming match, the Foxes will be in the Championships for the first time in years. As captain, Claudia might not want two unknowns to contend with, especially one who has already proven disloyal to her team once.

Nico's already privately resolved to be a good decision, though, worth the risk of bringing her on this semester. Her transfer here was a selfish decision, but she can still be a team player.

"Perfect," Nico says, setting down her bag to dig in her pockets for her key card. "I can take it from here," she adds, nodding towards her other bag in Claudia's arms. "Thank you. Seriously, let me know if I can get you that coffee sometime."

Claudia wouldn't know from experience, but she always had the feeling it'd be harder to be a transfer than a brand new student. At least as a fresh-faced freshman, you come in with little to no expectations and learn as you go. As a transfer, you already got close to other teammates and got used to their play styles, and then you have to learn that all over again.

Maybe she's good at hiding it, but Nico doesn't look nervous or intimidated to Claudia. Hopefully, it'll be an easy transition for her, and a welcome once since it means being closer to her sister.

"Sure, I'll leave you to it then," Claudia says with a nod and a smile. "And I'll let you know if I ever want that coffee. We could always go after practice one day, but not because you owe me. I'll see you around?"

HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMBER!!🎂🎈🎁

But maybe Kai's break really was fine. When he doesn't offer up any more, Jasper takes the hint and doesn't question him, simply smiling and nodding instead. He doubts he'd want to get into it on a crowded dance floor anyway. He shifts his focus to Kai's dancing. He found the rhythm, but he looks a little awkward. Still, it's better than nothing.

When Kai turns the question about break back on Jasper, it's instinctive to give him same answer. It was fine. It's on the tip of his tongue, but the answers dies there when Kai asks about Exy.

Jasper can't help but do a double take, wondering if he somehow let it slip that his parents banned Exy talk after Jasper told them what Derek did. But then he realizes it's a normal question to ask about brothers who are constantly pinned against each other in the media.

For so long, Jasper went along with it—smiling for the cameras and pretending like their rivalry didn't affect their brotherly bond. No more, he decided over break. He's not pretending anymore. So, he gives Kai the real answer instead of the media-approved one.

"Yeah, we do, but Derek never lets that stop him," Jasper answers, his voice solemn. "He's really good at putting on a good face for the cameras, but at home he just...sucks."

“Really?" Kai says to Jasper, more surprised that there is an Exy ban than anything else. He tries—and fails—to imagine a world where his family didn't talk about Exy. It's always dominated their conversations at home, though. He's got Exy in his blood, he knows that. Passed down from both sides of the family. It's why it's so disappointing that he almost gave it up, that he still doesn't really care about this sport, not the way he used to.

He wants to win, of course. He isn't completely checked out. It's just that he still sometimes dreads game day, still catches himself expecting to see Katie's face when he looks over his shoulder for his fellow striker—but her face doesn't exist anywhere anymore. Not even in the mirror: his jawline is too sharp for her, the scattered wisps of an almost mustache coming in on his top lip now.

At least the changes to his own shape are good things. He had to transition. Faced with Katie's sudden death, with the knowledge that it could just happen even at seventeen, that he could be buried under the wrong name—not because his parents were bigots, but because he was too scared to tell a soul the truth—he'd finally spoken up. It was the right move, but somehow he still misses being a matched set. Or, no, not quite that. He just misses his sister.

It makes him frown at Jasper, jealous of the thing Jasper apparently thinks sucks. He'd always dreamed of playing Class I alongside Katie, but he'd take separate teams, now. He wouldn't even give a shit if he was in Jasper's exact situation, and Katie whooped his ass to win the Championships. “He's pretty competitive, then?"

Bryce quit the Foxes to go back and try and take care of shit for his family when it seemed like they couldn't fucking do it on their own, but sometimes he's not sure if he'd say that he liked them. He loved them, sure, but he still joined the Foxes in the first place to get the fuck out of Florida, to try and make something of himself separate from them. Maybe he's just not sure if he can love anyone at all without also hating them a little bit.

But he'd never minded the Foxes' notoriety. He got dealt a shit hand in life: from the father that couldn't keep himself out of prison, and who was better off there than terrorizing his family; to his mother who never quite learned how to cope without him and kept taking him back; to him and Beckett, who never learned how to keep themselves out of trouble, who knew how to take a good thing and ruin it—but none of that was a secret.

Maybe he's got secrets now: why he left, and why he came back. Though now that fucking College Exy Online was sniffing around during the tiebreaker game, he's not sure how secret all that will stay for long—at least the parts that are contained inside a police report. Some of those secrets are just shit that's locked up in his head, and he doesn't know how he'd explain that to anyone—not that he think anyone really fucking cares.

The Foxes were supposed to be his ticket out of Pensacola. He didn't mind their shitty reputation, not up until the moment he became responsible for somehow turning it around and found that he—couldn't. He was the same person he'd always been: a fuck-up, a Fox, someone who loved Exy but lost at it all the fucking time, but all of a sudden that wasn't enough, that meant that he was failing.

He's not the Captain of the Foxes anymore, so even though he's helping a wayward transfer find her way home after the night went south, he doesn't have to hold her hand and reassure her. So he just laughs—and, with all his relief at not getting caught by the cops, it might come out a little manic, but it feels good. "Maybe not normally, but definitely not never. If you want to fit in better here than you did on your old team, maybe you should get used to it."

She knows their relationship is different now. It would be no matter how she felt. There's no way they can exist as easily when every word they say to one another is monitored, scrutinized, filed away in some record somewhere. But it's also true that the version of Nico that Alondra knew best is gone—she doesn't idolize her sister the same way anymore, doesn't dream of the two of them living together forever. If Alondra walked free tomorrow, Nico thinks she would still choose to stay with her aunt and uncle, even if it might break her heart—and worse, Alondra's— to admit it.

But she still loves Alondra. That's still her big sister; her only tie to her childhood. She wants Alondra in her life in some way, even if that doesn't mean she wants things to be the same way they were before. That much has never been a question in her mind, despite everything.

She's lost in her thoughts enough that she almost misses Bryce's laugh, startling back to the present to learn that her question was clearly a stupid one. "Okay," she says, taking it at face value. She could tell him the truth here—tell him, you know, I used to help my sister rob houses. Admit that she was used to this, once upon a time, but she's forgotten how. That she doesn't particularly feel like remembering, honestly, even for the Foxes. Was she braver at fifteen, or just dumber?

That feels a little too much like false bravado though, bragging about something that she only regrets. She's pretty sure that isn't the secret to fitting in on the Foxes, either. "I'll try to get used to it," she says, instead. "Hopefully we'll just be like, too busy with the Championships to do this again for a while."

Of all the things her father taught her, that was one thing he didn't. She had to figure it out on her own.

But she knows that he knew it, that he'd lost just like she had. He'd been a Big Three player, a Raven in the bad old days where winning at all costs justified things that she knows she doesn't fully understand and can't even really imagine, but his professional career had been something different. He'd never been a star player. He moved up and down in the roster, from team to team, and he never won anything big.

Maybe they should have more in common now, but it doesn't feel that way. Her father's professional career was a disappointment, but Olivia's wasn't supposed to be: he planned out a path for her, and she was supposed to walk it exactly, and succeed for the both of them.

She strayed from that path, and she doesn't know exactly where the one she's on now will lead. Some days that scares her, some days she's filled with doubt—but tonight, she feels okay, better than okay.

She can't imagine how it must feel for Casey: Olivia chose between the Lions and the Foxes, but she was never suspended, she never had to face a future or even just a year without Exy in it at all. She's not sure how she would have handled it. She hopes she never has to find out, not until she's facing retirement at the end of a long, successful career.

"I wasn't too sure about it last year, either," she says. It shouldn't feel like a confession: she'd been angry in press duty; everyone saw the pictures of her in Idaho, talking to another team. Somehow it feels like one anyway—but, if anyone could understand and not hold it against her, it feels like it would be Casey. "It is good to be wrong. And it's good to win when you're actually in good company. It's hard to imagine—if everything stayed the way it was, we would've always been opponents."

As much as Casey believes in the Foxes now, they didn't before. They didn't pay the Foxes any attention as a Buckeye. It felt impossible that the Foxes could reach the Championships at all, let alone put up enough of a fight to be a threat. Their time was better spent studying the Lions, the Trojans—any of the teams they expected to fight for a win.

If they're honest, that's likely how the Buckeyes view Casey and the Foxes now. If they're thinking of them at all. Even more likely, the Buckeyes are too busy worrying about defending their title to spare a thought for the Foxes. Tonight is groundbreaking for the Foxes—and for the Gamecocks, in the opposite way—but for the top teams in the league, Casey imagines it hardly scratches the surface of what feels important to this season. No doubt, many are assuming the Foxes will be knocked out too quick to matter in the grand scheme of this season.

Olivia's right: it's good to be wrong, sometimes. Casey never would've joined the Foxes, not until the Foxes were their only option—now, it feels strange to envision the world where they still play on the Buckeyes, where they stand on the opposite end of the court from Olivia.

But what Casey really wants, now that they're letting themself imagine it, is proving everyone else wrong. They want to see the Foxes go even further than this. Qualifying for the Championships is one thing—one beautiful, thrilling thing—but how much more satisfying would it be to go far this season?

Saying it out loud should feel like inviting bad luck, but it's easy to be hopeful tonight. "I'd love to see some other people be wrong about the Foxes," they add, after taking a drink from their beer. "It feels like we could do it this year, doesn't it?"

It was easy to be rivals, back in California. TK stepped back onto the Exy court with Mateo and there Kai and Katie were, a formidable pair of strikers for him to measure himself against, to try and get the better of. But outside of games—or a few parties where they crossed paths, or the even fewer where they did more than just cross paths—TK didn't really think about Kai all that much. Or Katie. He didn't really know them, either.

But all that shared history seems to mean something more now that they're in Palmetto, far away from home and anyone else that knows them, even if it's just a little bit. TK doesn't really know Kai, but he watched their entire school district mourn the death of Kai's twin sister. TK doesn't really know Kai, but he played against him when he was one half of Kai-and-Katie and when he had to carry his racquet on the court alone. TK doesn't really know Kai, but he knew Kai before he was Kai.

And TK knows what it's like to lose someone now, too. Knows what it's like to miss his mother with everything he has, to mourn every day that she didn't live long enough to help him move into college, to visit for Parents Weekend, to watch him play as a Fox, to see him in the Championships. And now he has to feel all that, and look across the court or his dorm room at Kai, and wonder if he's feeling the same thing.

It all feels like a lot. A level of intimacy he hasn't asked for and doesn't know what to do with.

TK usually takes offense at the idea that he hides behind Mateo, lets him do the talking and make decision for him—but that's kind of what he's been doing when it comes to Kai. It just feels easier this way. Mateo doesn't overcomplicate things. He doesn't tie himself in knots wondering what he should do, what the right thing to do is, he just does what he wants—and he usually knows what that is. And he treats Kai like he's the rival he's always been, just another person for him to bait and piss off.

And it's not like he lets Mateo do jack shit, but he does let himself go along with it. It just feels easier. There's no Kai-and-Katie, but there's still Mateo-and-TK, the two of them against the world. Kai's on the outside of that, just like everyone else.

He doesn't quite mean to exit the locker room right behind Kai after practice, is halfway trying to loiter a little longer so they don't end up leaving at the same time and stuck, like, making small talk all the way back to Fox Tower. Unfortunately, that means that when Kai's headphones hit the ground in a messy clatter, he's the one standing right there, unable to just not say anything.

And what he says is: "Sucks. Those look expensive."

So now he's standing around, no headphones to hide behind, and no idea what to say next. Maybe he does prefer Mateo to TK, all things considered. He never has to make small talk when it's just Mateo. He never has to pretend that he's anything but upset Mateo's there.

There's another universe where it might've been fun to be teammates with them. Obviously, Katie's still around in this universe, because that's the main fantasy Kai indulges in. TK and Mateo are good strikers—their last game proved that much. In a world where just looking at them didn't remind Kai of everything he's lost, it could've been interesting to play alongside them instead of against them. Kai knew their playstyle even before they were all Foxes—he's seen Mateo slip past his backliners, and he's seen TK barrel through them. In theory, he should be able to pair up easily with either of them. He should be able to take all that history and make something useful of it.

It always would've been a little weird. Mateo would've been a dick no matter what, but Kai used to think it was funny. Kai didn't take it so personally back then, because he didn't feel so raw all the time. And he still would've kissed TK back home, still would've had to wonder if TK feels like, betrayed or grossed out that Kai didn't tell him the truth before doing that—but they probably would've talked about it by now, in this alternate universe.

In this world, that hardly makes Kai's list of concerns. He doesn't love being on a team with people who used to think of him as a girl, with someone who apparently liked what he saw when Kai was cramming himself into skirts and eyeliner—but if TK's upset, then it's his problem. They're not friends, now or back then. Kai doesn't owe him any explanations.

"Whatever," Kai says now, as he picks up his broken headphones. They were expensive, too. He knows his parents would replace them in a heartbeat—they've been texting all week dropping hints that they'd like to buy him a birthday gift. Kai's been ignoring them. He shouldn't have to explain that he doesn't want to celebrate turning nineteen, not when Katie's going to be seventeen forever. It should be obvious.

If he talks about it with his parents, he's going to end up saying something he regrets—maybe telling them to use their fucking heads—which is why he hasn't said anything at all, letting them assume he's just busy preparing for Championships. He doesn't need to feel guilty for being a shitty son—their only child left—on top of everything else. "It's fine, dude. I promise you don't have to pretend to care about my busted headphones."