wolf in fox's clothing

“Yeah. We’ve got our routines down, it’s mostly just spacing and stuff. The court is kind of a challenge,” she says, gesturing vaguely at the giant plexiglass box that takes up most of the floor space, like Libba could have somehow missed it. “We don’t have to deal with that for, like, basketball.”

Sometimes, it was easy to get caught up in it. The pressure, the need to perform and exceed expectations and prove herself. Sometimes, Libba forgot that she was good. That she had been scouted by top colleges before her hiatus. That she could have had her pick. That she could put in half-effort and still be better than a lot of the rival players. Even when it felt like her chest was emptying out, like she had to run on die, run on collapse into tears, score or think about her brother. She was still good.

Libba nodded as Jordan went on, looking up at the encasement of their home. “I dunno how you guys do all that.” She flipped her hands about to indicate the daring flips and such that the Vixens performed at each game. “And we appreciate you adjusting yourselves to fit our venue.” Another smile, this one genuine, reminiscent of Libba as she had once been. Maybe with a layer of flirt beneath everything else.

There’s something like bile in the back of his throat. Not caring would be easier, would be better than wanting to do something, wanting to help, and being useless—or worse, actually making things worse. And he’s useless, too, because he can never quite get his head out of his own ass and focus on other people, even when he wants to. Libba’s hurt, and he’s still self-absorbed enough to get his own feelings hurt in the process.

But then she’s wrapping her arm around him, a different configuration of limbs that doesn’t seem to exacerbate whatever it is that’s hurting her, and he may be emotionally incompetent but he’s able to take her weight as it leans into him, help her hobble towards the court doors. The crowd is silent in that eerie way it gets after injuries, like it isn’t exactly what they came here hoping to see, part of what makes this sport so exciting, and it feels oppressive, leaving the stumbling cadence of their steps, the slight squeak of their court shoes against the floor, Libba’s labored and pained breathing to sound loud like gunshots in his ears, so much so that when Libba does speak, he’s momentarily confused.

And, in truth, the game is the furthest thing from his mind right now, an uncomfortable realization when he does catch on to her meaning. “Right,” he repeats, because the tone of her voice says its important, “Faster on the left, got it.”

They’re off the court, Libba’s helmet clattering to the floor and Abby moving in to look at her and Colin just stands, useless, for a moment before he realizes that there’s nothing for him to do, now, but get back on the court. But his moment of indecision is telling, and when he does turn back towards the court doors Wymack’s in his path and Indigo’s stepping onto the court, and he doesn’t know if he’s ashamed or relieved to be benched, but there’s no point in arguing so he just sinks down next to Libba, places his hand palm-up on his thigh in offering: “You can squeeze it if it hurts.”

“What’re you doing?” Libba asks through grit teeth. “Get back on the court!” She gestures widely to their team, to the play starting up. That only lances pain through her side, though, and she makes a small noise, eyes clenching shut.

Then Colin’s hand is there and if it were anyone else. If it were anyone else, Libba wouldn’t take him up on it. She’d scoff and hide her pain and tell him she was fine. But it’s Colin. No one knows her like Colin. Slowly, she reaches over, takes his hand. Squeezes hard because fuck, does it hurt. “You should be out there,” she says quietly. But she’s torn -- she wants to win and Colin playing is their best chance at winning. But she also wants him there, with her. Always wants him there with her. She wants his hand in hers.

“Colin...” she sighs out after a moment. Breathing hurts, sitting still hurts. There are tears caught in her eyes, in her throat. She searches for more to say but can’t think of the words. It’s just a distress that she can’t vocalize, a disappointment in herself for getting hurt, for not being able to play, for screwing up. For rendering herself useless. It still burns through her, that need. To play, to prove herself, to win. To eat up all the anxiety and uncertainty and simple sadness she’s had roiling through her system since... since Bailey. Since home. Since coming back.

Justin just shook his head, unsure of what he could share or if his voice was strong enough to give her a proper answer at the moment. “Are you okay?” He asked softly, his eyes quickly moving to her ribs even if they weren’t on display, as if jsut by looking at them, he could figure out what had happened to her or to come up with a way to fix it. He’d been out for most of the game after he had been given that red car, but he knew that a few of his teammates had been hurt pretty bad. Libba included.

He took the cup from her, his eyes moving back to her face and downing it in one go, his entire face scrunched up at the face. Yeah, he failed to see how good alcohol was for anyone else, but at this moment in time, he could use it. He could use the numbness. “Tonight we won, but I lost.” He mumbled under his breath, sighing loudly and looking over at her with sad eyes. “Sorry about your drink, by the way. I’ll get it back for you in a second. Promise. Even if I don’t know how you even drink that.”

And that was exactly it: he’d lost. He had lost himself in the game, he’d seen how rough the other team was playing, he’d seen the tackles and he’d lost it. And it wasn’t even about the red card or missing the next game, but it was the fact that they had to physically pull him away, that it took two people to do it and that it reminded him too much or what he’d worked so hard to be the complete opposite. That, of course, he couldn’t just get a new life and ignore where he came from or how he had grew up. It was enough to make him want to throw up.

She grinned when he took the cup but that expression faded to something like shock when he took the whole thing in one go. “Whoa,” she mumbled out. Libba could drink a lot of people under the table, really, but that was impressive even for her. “It’s all right. Whiskey isn’t the funnest drink but it does the job the fastest.” Huffing out a breath, Libba moved closer to the boy.

“It’s all right, you know. The red card, I mean. We all lose it sometimes. I mean, I think Sasha has it lost more often than found.” She rolled her eyes a little. “And besides that guy was an ass. And you were looking out for Day.” Her mouth set in a line and she dropped a reassuring hand to Justin’s shoulder. “No one, like, thinks any less of you for what happened, you know?” She tilted her head to one side, trying to get a better look at the boy’s face. “You don’t have to feel bad about it.”

His hand rushed to his head, imagining a crushing blow by a thrown Exy ball. Those things were no joke. When Vikram gripped a ball he thought he was holding a piece of limestone and with the way the players whipped it out of their racquets at full speed he’d die after one hit to the noggin. “Yeah, you’re right about that. I want to live to reach my first midlife crisis before then.” He walked over to his camera, checking out the few bits of footage he got before mentally cursing at his mistake. “Offensive dealer so that means you’re more of a striker than a backliner or is it more of an all-around kind of deal?” Vik’s days not hoisting a camera around was spent learning the rules of Exy and seeing first hand the fast pace and brutality surrounding it. “Your games are played here. Without Foxhole Court you wouldn’t have a home. Besides, you can see how big it is with all the negative space.”

It would sure get him out of her way, out of her life, away from her brother. A glance to the camera. “Is that still on? Like, recording?”

A shrug at his questions. Normally, Libba could talk about Exy all day, explain every nuance. But this was Exy and her. She didn’t want to open up. Except, she found herself slipping, admitting, “Sometimes. I used to play striker, so it’s…” the sentence trailed as she realized what she had said, took note of the fumble. “I mean. But. No, it’s an all-over. I mean. I like to go back and forth. Help out on the backline. With defense.”

Swallowing, she pivoted quickly, whipped the ball at the goal box. If the sensors had been live, it would have lit up red. “Whatever that means – sounds like bullshit to me, but if you got a cool shot then cool.” Her shoulders were squared as she trotted off for the ball. “Are you ready for the game?”

It could be ridiculous for anyone else, a fight in the court? A few punches here and there? People getting hurt? Blood on the floor? It was a part of the game, it was a part of getting checked in. And Justin did that several times through the games but this time, it hadn’t been a check in, it hadn’t been tackling someone to the ground. It had been his fists connecting against someone else. It was so scary to him, that he couldn’t even handle that tonight they had won. Because punches and blood and scars had been a part of his everyday life at some point, and he had always been on the different end of the spectrum. He had been him tonight.

A shiver ran down his spine as the cool breeze hit his skin, or at least he tried to think that was really it and not the guilt slowly showing its ugly head and giving him a heavy heart and then he looked up when the front door opened and someone else stepped out. He doubted they were looking for him, Justin had never been the heart of the party and by no means was he someone that people missed easily; he’d always kept to the shadows even as he got older. Still, he let out a long sigh and looked up. “Please tell me there’s something stronger than jello shots in there. I need to forget what happened tonight.” He muttered as he shook his head.

So she was slumped awkwardly against an inside wall, trying not to put too much weight against her hurt ribs. Or side or hip or whatever the hell she had hurt enough to make pain radiate through her. 

It had been a game no doubt. And Libba was happy for the win, ecstatic, really. But overpowering that was gut-clenching anger -- at herself. Because she had gotten hurt. And hurt. This wasn’t the usual post-game lumps and aches. And she wasn’t the only one carrying herself a little more carefully. Beck and Arlo, too. And probably some others... The game was a little...tenuous in her memory. 

The heat of many bodies all together combined with the alcohol and the pain... Libba could tell it was all getting to be a little bit too much for her. She stumble-staggered to the front door then, leaning against the jamb as she went. There was someone outside in the fresh air when  she got there -- her Exy Prom date. “Justin,” she said with a smile. But that immediately fell off at the sound of his voice, at his request. “Uh, I found some whiskey?” she said, holding up her cup as an offered. It was mostly alcohol, just a splash of coke to cut the edge. 

“Why’d you wanna forget?” she asked -- as soon as she did, though, she regretted it. She knew why; the fight. red blood, yellow card, red card. Justin on the sidelines -- Justin who never fought, never raised his voice...  “I mean. Sorry.” She struggled for something to say but came up empty. Pitching forward unsteadily, she leaned against the banister of the porch. “Here,” she said, shoving her cup at him. Who was she to deny anyone the opportunity to forget? To numb it all away?

His time with the Foxes, both on and off the court, has been stripping back layers of defensive selfishness, and these past few games on the court have been like playing with blinders off for the first time. His field of vision is wider, his awareness is greater. —he can’t say yet if it’s made him better. Maybe it’s just a distraction. In their first game of the season, that lack of selfishness had taken him right off the court and out of the next game.

This game, Libba hits the ground over and over again and he’s flinching behind his visor each time, something worried bubbling up underneath all of his game day focus and determination because, this? This is not normal. This isn’t healthy. If he could stop play and take her by the shoulders and shake her, he would.

But he can’t until she goes down and takes too long to get up, and then he’s crossing the court as the whistle blows, his racquet clattering to the floor behind him—it’ll only slow him down. He doesn’t care if he isn’t the closest player, he gets to her first, wrapping an arm around her waist and leaning against her side to support her. “Come on, it’s okay, lean on me—we’ll get you off the court.”

There are tears in her eyes, involuntary against the pain. Maybe, just maybe, a little of it is from the anger, the bitter defeat. Because she has to get off the court -- she can’t deny it. She can barely stand, can barely breathe. She can’t play. And even if she could, she wouldn’t be worth anything to the team. “Fuck,” she spits out.

Gingerly, she stretches her arm, on the good side, around Colin’s waist. Uses his lanky frame to support her weight. Uses the slope of his shoulder pads to hide her face from the crowd, the other players. She knew her face was flushed over pink and red, from pain and emotion. “They’re faster on the left,” she pants out as they move toward the door.  Her voice was reedy, clearly pained. If it was anyone else, she would have been mortified. But it was Colin. Colin could hear her hurt, could see her in pain, upset, destroyed. She didn’t mind, not with him. “Okay? So keep your head in the game, look to the left.”

“Oh yeah. I’m tryin’ to make you jealous ‘cos I know you’re in luuuurve with me,” Eliana said bemusedly, pulling off the cap for the tequila bottle. “We gon fix this lack of alcohol in the punch immediately,” she said like it was a pressing matter, pouring the tequila into the punch bowl. “There there. We good now.” The silence that filled the air between them was awkward, to say the least, Eliana widening her eyes as she waited for her friend to say something, anything. And then it clicked.

Libba hadn’t meant feeling the effects of the alcohol. Had she been wearing rose-tinted glasses for so long that she hadn’t noticed? The differences in her best friend had been blaring in her face ever since she returned and – fuck. She definitely did not want to ponder the possibility that she definitely noticed but was too selfish to do anything about it. Swallowing down the guilt, she let out a small scoff. “Please. My date is from a rival team, do you see me giving any fucks? No. If they hot, then well… they hot.”

“Yeah, and that’s you,” she replied, jumping right over the awkward halt in their conversation like skipping over a brook. “I’m too much of a Fox to date anyone else.” Besides the only team she would be able to stomach would be the Trojans and they were just too good. Yes, she had been looking to join up with them last year, before finding the Foxes but... Well, that was last year. Libba needed a little more edge to her partners.

Nodding toward the girl Eliana had come with, Libba conceded, “She is hot, though. I’ll give you that.”

She’d stepped onto the court because she’d wanted to feel like she belonged somewhere, both on the court and in her sports-crazy family. But as much as she tried, she never quite clicked on the court; and she still didn’t quite fit at home, either, and her family never did make it to her games. Even know that she’s been playing or cheering for Exy for over six years, her father and brothers don’t know much about the sport beyond their initial assessment that it was too violent for Jordan to play—or, like football, for any girls to play.

Maybe she never proved them wrong, though she kept with it long after they thought she’d quit. But it’s hard to watch the female Foxes—watch Libba—and imagine anyone saying they don’t belong on the court. But she doesn’t quite expect the response she gets, and her smile wobbles slightly at Libba’s response, unsure what to make of it.

But she’s nothing if not polite, and so she perseveres, though the smile she pastes on now is more beauty-queen than before, when it’d been all simple, uncomplicated delight. “Aw, don’t sell yourselves short. You were pretty incredible last game. And yeah, sorry to steal it from you, but Coach Wymack’s letting us have it for the next two hours.”

Libba passed a hand over her hair, suddenly very aware of how sweaty, tangled and matted it was. “S’all right. I need to collapse and shower and eat. ...Not necessarily in that order.” Snuffling a little, Libba found her water bottle near the bench. Drank a healthy swig from it. Her eyes stayed on Jordan, though, assessing. Tried to see something of Grant in the girl -- they were both Captains after all. Both leaders, heads, called shots... “Have a lot to practice before the game?”

Her shoulders rolled in a shrug. “Doesn’t matter to me, really. You’re the one that’ll end up with a ball to your head, y’know?” She passed her racket from one hand to the next rapidly, relishing in the sting against her skin, the sound of metal and flesh. “Dealer, yes. Defensive, no.” No, Libba was one of four offensive dealers. Heading for an equipment case to the side, she picked out a ball. “Why did you want to film in here now, anyway? You missed practice.” What good was an empty court for filming?