In It To Win It

   “Yes,” Indigo admitted with a giggle, catching the pillow and pushing her face into it. She scooted over on her bed, patting the empty space invitingly in case Sydney wanted to come over to her side and lay with her. She tried not to be too pushy with her physical affection with friends. “I know, I know - it’s just hard to meet people with all the practice I’m putting in to be the best striker ever. A girl gets lonely.”

Sydney smiled before getting up and walking over to the bed, claiming the spot next to her. She appreciated that Indigo invited her instead of assuming. It meant more to Sydney than she cared to admit and went a long way in terms of their friendship. Because of that, she was able to open up a little bit more to the girl instead of others.  “Hand the phone over,” she stuck a hand between the two of them then continued. “I’m deleting it once and for all, best striker ever.” 

Right, so this is the part where Sydney, pushed by Betsy or by her own strange moral compass, tries to reach out to Grayson. It’s also the part where he ignores that olive branch. They’ve got their own little dance down, despite the way it’s shifted over the course of this school year—but he can claim that Syd’s been the catalyst there, showing up with teary eyes or accepting rides to therapy, all things Grayson can’t bring himself to do. 

He can claim that, but it doesn’t change the fact that Grayson realizes he wants to take her up on this offer. Sydney’s been through a media circus far worse than this for her own mom. That’s why he avoided her in the beginning—but now he has no idea how to handle this or what to say, and even if he doesn’t talk to her about it in the end, he knows Sydney understands. It helps that this invite is simple too. It helps that  he can pretend this has nothing to do with podcasts or Foxwatch or either of their pasts.

“Yeah, alright,” Grayson says, after a silence that’s too long. It’ll be obvious to Sydney that he was sizing up his options, sizing her up. It’s just as obvious that she waited out here to ask him this though, so they’re on equal footing, as far as he’s concerned. “I’m starving.”

Don’t push. Sydney has to repeat it over in her head to remind herself once Grayson agrees. They’ve managed to get this far in their friendship but she knew that there was always a chance one of them would run. They had been doing the same dance for years, switching positions depending on the time and place. It was something they were both used to, something they were comfortable with. 

The pause is obvious enough and Sydney had to swallow the sarcastic comment that threatened to fall from her lips. “No making fun of my car, okay?” A distraction. Small talk was never something she liked, but it had to do for now. Anything more might be too much. She swung the keys around her finger before moving towards the door, looking back to make sure he was following her. “Last time I gave someone a ride they kept saying how shit it was.” 

She thinks back to what Betsy told her at the beginning of the year, that it can’t hurt to reach out to Grayson one last time. Sydney had decided that it wasn’t worth the effort anymore. Forcing Grayson to talk to her was a waste of both of their times and would only result in the inevitable. But, the good doctor had been right for once. Reaching out one last time had been worth the last few visits worths of arguing. 

Status: closed for @mccraysydney​ Location: their dorm room 

   Sprawled on her bed, still wearing her day clothes and not yet her fluffy pajamas reserved for nighttime, Indigo giggled from her spot on top of the covers, phone in hand. A moment later, the noise that came from her lips was a groan, and the soft thunk of the device hitting her pillow could be heard next. “Syd…” She complained, voice a small whine before she leaned up on an elbow, pointedly looking at her friend. “Tell me not to drink the dumb bitch juice again. Tinder never ends well, but I’m so bored.”

All Sydney wanted to do was crawl under her covers and relax. After the day she spent in her studio and a practice that seemed to last even longer than usual, she was ready to do just that. She had just crashed onto her bed when Indigo said something, making Sydney prop herself up on her elbows to look at her. “Do I need to delete that dumb app off your phone for you?” A smile spread across her face as she tossed a pillow at her friend. “Remember what happened last time?

LOCATION: The Art Building - Main Hallway DATE: Sunday, March 10th TIME: Early Afternoon STATUS: closed @mccraysydney​

“Uh. Do you mind if I-”

“Shh! Just hold that, okay? You’re doing great. A little to your left- ah, nope, you know what? You actually had it perfect before. Can you go back to the right just a smidge? Yeah, yeah… Great! Right there. Don’t move!”

Arlo bites back a sigh. Barely. His arms are starting to cramp and he’s probably definitely not going to make it to his histology study group. But, hey - at least this random photography student is gonna have a killer fucking backdrop. Courtesy of him, of course. Him and his long arms and his stupid, stupid height.

This happens almost every time he steps foot in this building. Some devious little arts major sees him bumbling around the halls, bumping into shit and knocking shit over, and is like “Yes. That one. He’s perfect.” And then they conscript him into varying degrees of manual labor (usually holding or positioning various objects) and somehow shoehorn him into staying for hours.

You would think he’d have learned his lesson by now and started avoiding this place like the plague but…. it’s a known fact that they have the best snack machines on campus here. Hands down. 

And like hell is he giving up his Taki’s and grape soda. Like hell. 

Luckily for him, just as his elbows are really starting to quake, he catches sight of Syd wandering out of one of the rooms farther down the hall. 

“Syd!” He calls out to her, tone just this side of desperate. “Hey, fancy seeing you here. Are you heading to the thing? You know, the uh, team thing? At the court?” He surreptitiously raises his eyebrows and gestures towards the oblivious photography major that’s holding him hostage, expression screaming ‘Save me.’

Juggling school with exy had become increasingly hard for Sydney now that they were in the postseason. She barely had time to work on any of her assignments outside of class so when the opportunity finally arises, she takes it. 

By the time Sydney looks at her phone, she realizes it’s time for a break. Besides, if she has to mix another color together to get the perfect shade of pink she might just snap. She finally gets up from her stool and heads towards the door, stretching her arms above her head and wondering how much damage the paint fumes have done over the years. It’s not until a familiar voice rings out in the hall does she snap out of her thoughts. 

She picks up on what Arlo’s saying immediately. “Arlo, there you are!” Sydney jogs down the hall towards him, trying to hide the smile on her face; this wasn’t the first time she had to rescue him from someone in the building. She steps in between the two, much to the dismay of the photographer. “Sorry, but I have to steal him. Our exy coach will be pissed if we’re both late to the court. I’m sure you understand.” She offers a sympathetic smile, hoping it’s enough for them to get the hint and leave. 

She waits until the other student is out of earshot before turning back to Arlo. “Photography majors, am I right?” It’s no surprise to her that the other students in the art department fawn over him whenever he’s there. She was almost tempted to put up signs that said ‘LEAVE THIS MAN ALONE’  with his photo so he could come and go as he pleased. 

Sydney shouldn’t have been surprised, really. Foxwatch posted something about a podcast digging up Grayson’s past and doing a series on it for the next few weeks. And yet, when she read about it her reaction was shock. She was angry that people would go so far as to dig up old news just so more people could learn about something someone wanted to forget about. It reminded her of how angry she was when she was a child. Every feeling she felt back then came rushing back but tenfold. This was happening to someone she had known and it felt wrong that it was happening at all. 

The last thing she wanted to do was ambush Grayson; try to push her own past on him in some attempt to say ‘Hey, I get it. You can talk to me.’ So instead, she did the next best thing. After practice that morning she waited in the hall until she saw him leave the locker room. Sydney pushed off of the wall she was leaning on and smiled at him. 

“Hey. Wanna grab something in the dining hall?” It was simple, an invitation with no strings attached. He could say no and she’d be okay with it. She dangled her keys in between them. “I can drive.” 

“Everyone says that,” Grayson said. “You realize country is a big genre, right? It’s not just one specific sound.” He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, and then shrugged one shoulder when Sydney settled on a station. “Uh, sure, whatever. This works.” The point was background noise anyway. Something neutral to fill the silence, so neither of them would feel the need to. Otherwise, Grayson might say something stupid, like how did Betsy finally get to you? Or even worse, does she actually help?

Jen still saw her; Grayson knew that much, even if he hadn’t asked them why. Sure, he understood what people might get out of it, on some level. Betsy was patient. Intelligent. Doggedly determined to help this team, no matter that so many of them rejected her outright. But when Grayson entered that room, he shut down. It wasn’t like his story was complicated—tragic, maybe, but simple. He’d made a mistake, and someone else paid for it. It wasn’t a secret either. Grayson simply had no desire to drag it into the light specifically for Betsy’s sake, just as he had no desire to let her pick through for the painful parts, or the messy parts, or the blurry parts, or whatever else might interest her. 

A string of pedestrians crossed in front of the car, blocking the path, and Grayson slowed to a stop. Great. “So the artsy shit does it for you?” he said, nodding towards the radio. “Is that part of ‘being in touch with your feelings’? Or whatever you are now.“

“Or whatever I am now,” she rolled her eyes as she mocked him. “I’m not ‘in touch’ with my feelings or whatever. I-,” she pauses for a moment, unsure of what to say. She had been seeing Betsy regularly for a few months but she wasn’t sure how to describe what it was like. “I learned how to deal with things.”

The words felt jumbled and messy, like she didn’t believe them herself. But, it was true. Betsy never pushed her to open up but when she did, the woman was there to help Sydney process what she was feeling. They still hadn’t touched on anything big, but it was better than nothing. It took her four years to see Betsy outside of the required meeting once a year, so it came as no surprise to either of them that she was dancing around the issue for as long as possible. 

“Afraid that the good doctor is using me to convert you?” Her tone was light as she played with the seatbelt. It was a joke, a shitty one at that, but she knew that Grayson avoided Betsy as much as she used to. She wouldn’t put it past him to think her joke was a truth. 

Date: Sunday, Jan. 27 Time: 5:00 PM Location: Fox Tower Status: Closed @mccraysydney​

Raph is not eager to have this conversation. He’s not even sure how to have this conversation. He just knows that someone has to do it. There are still bruises on Sterling Walsh’s neck. Their next game is coming. The Foxes cannot afford to have an injured player on the field, no matter how much he enjoys being hurt. 

He is not certain about the identity of Sterling Walsh’s …consensual attacker, but he’s narrowed down the list of possible suspects over time by quietly observing the number of times Sterling Walsh glances at other people at inappropriate intervals during practice. 

Sydney McCray is his most likely candidate. This is unfortunate, given the fact that Sydney McCray is confusing and dislikes him. He does not know how to convince her that their unhealthy habit of sexually injurious behavior cannot continue during the Championships, so he does not know how to prepare.

He ends up loading his backpack with a little bit of everything, some money, red and orange Gatorade since she’s made her opinion on the blue flavor very clear, a particularly good looking cookie from the cafeteria, a knife he can afford to give up, and a bracelet he stole from a store in California. He’d intended to sell it but this seems like a far better use for it. 

He shoves layers of newspaper beneath his shirt so they sit over the plane of his stomach. It’s not the greatest body armor but it’s what he has available should she chose to attack him. He checks and double-checks his knives, one on his back, one at his ankle, and a final one strapped neatly to his wrist. Then, with nothing left to do, he goes to confront her. 

She’s alone when he finds her. That is good. Raph is not sure what he would do if there were someone there to witness this particular interaction. He walks close enough to speak to her but not so close that she can reach out and hit him, then he opens his mouth and starts the first part of the dialogue tree that he’s rehearsed time and time again in preparation for this encounter. “Are you the one who is biting Sterling Walsh’s neck?”

If there’s one thing Sydney loved to do, it was diving into a marathon of The Real Housewives of New York. She saved the last five episodes for a day when she had time to wrap herself up in a blanket and veg out on the couch for hours. 

Finally, today was that day. 

Normally she would watch from the comfort of her dorm, but there was a breeze creeping into through their window and at that moment, she preferred the warmth of the common area on the floor. So she wrapped her blanket around her shoulders, tucked her laptop under her arm and shuffled her way onto the main couch for some peace and quiet. 

“What?” She’s sure she misheard Raph, chalking it up to not paying any attention to him when he first spoke. Out of all the Foxes, she didn’t think he paid much attention to her after their encounter at the beginning of fall. She can feel a blush creeping onto her face the longer Raph stares at her and it makes her want to pack her shit and run. “Why would you think that?” 

Sydney takes the question with more grace than Glory had, the kind of smooth answer that Glory doesn’t think she could produce. She’d been on the bench, for that first goal, waiting for her chance to get in the game. It wasn’t a bad play by Sydney, it had just been bad luck: she’d been in the thick of things, exactly where a defender should be, putting herself and her racquet in between the opposing team and the goal. 

She knows that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow. And having to sit in front of the press and answer for it must just be salt in the wound. 

“Sometimes you just get unlucky,” Glory cuts in before she can help it, looking up from her lap and out into the crowd of reporters, unnerved at the way all the eyes and the cameras swivel to her. “Sydney’s a great player. It could have happened to anyone.”

And then, of course, attention shifts onto her. These are the questions they’d practiced, with the media trainers, the probing personal ones, the ones that they opened themselves up to when they put on a Fox Orange jersey: all of the Foxes had a story, and everyone knew it. It was the press’ job to try and sniff them out. 

Glory knows she’s lucky, in a way. Before she joined the Foxes, she was no one. From nowhere. A Jane Doe, like she’d never existed until she got picked up on the side of the road in Kentucky. She isn’t Grant. She isn’t Akira. She isn’t Casey or Olivia. People don’t already know her story. But that doesn’t seem to help when she’s staring down a reporter who has just asked her, in effect: what’s wrong with you?

“I, uh, started playin’ Exy in high school,” she says, slowly, finding the words as she goes. “I was in Louisville. I was in foster care. I didn’t ever think I could play in college or go to college or anything. I’m real lucky Wymack noticed me and liked my play.” She shrugs as she finishes, and can’t help but breathe out a small sigh of relief when another reporter steps up to ask a question, looking at Sydney instead of at her.

“The Foxes racked up three red cards in this game. What’s the message back in the locker room? How do you feel going into a must-win game down three players?”

Glory’s comment takes Sydney by surprise and she can feel a blush forming on her face. As much as she put her all into Exy, she never thought it actually showed. She never considered herself one of the “all-stars” of the Foxes so it was foreign that someone would say anything similar to that. The only time she listened to someone saying that was her father and she’d laugh it off. 

She mouths a small ‘thank you’ before looking back at her lap. 

“We’re lucky Wymack found Glory,” she leans forward to reply, moving the mic on the table closer to her. “She filled an empty spot that we desperately needed to fill and she’s doing it like a champ.”

It was only a matter of time before they were asked about their strategy. But, at the moment she had no clue what the hell they were going to do. Sure, they had been in worse spots before. But being down three players before such a big game? They would have to figure out a gameplan that worked without losing any more players. 

“I think it’s well-known that we’re a very emotional team, so the message right now is how do we channel that emotion into something other than red cards.” She pauses for a moment, trying to think of the correct words. “We know that it’s a do or die situation and we need to use that to our advantage. We’ve been in worse spots.” 

Forming the perfect answer for the Exy reporter was never Sydney’s strong suit. She had to pause mid-way through sentences, her hands moved around, and she could swear that everyone in the room could hear her breathing. All she wants is to get through this as soon as she can and get back to the Tower. 

She watches the next reporter stand and can tell that they’re going to ask Glory another question about her past. It reminds her of her first press duty and how invasive the reporters were. There were never any limits when it came to their questions, always prying for information and digging into their pasts just for a soundbite. 

Where: The Foxhole Court | Locker Room Date:  Friday, February 1st Time: 9:43 PM Status: Closed to @mccraysydney 

He’d torn his fucking gloves. 

But before he’d done that, he’d watched the ball ricochet off Syd’s racquet, and, almost as if in slow motion, go in a direction he couldn’t have anticipated. The goal had lit up red - not that he’d been looking. He’d watched her face fall as the buzzer rang. 

And then some shitstain in a shit-colored jersey had come along and sent her into the wall. The pass she’d managed sailed right past him as he started to sprint to her, knowing the second before it happened that her mark wasn’t going to stop. Her really big fucking mark wasn’t going to stop running before he crushed her. And then he didn’t.

Sterling saw red in a way he never had before.

It had taken her putting her hand to his mask and pulling his attention to her and away from the Jackal he was interested in eviscerating to get him to calm down. When they’d been pulled apart by an annoyed-sounding warning whistle from a ref indicating that the serve was about to be thrown, it crossed his mind - for a fraction of a second - that he could probably get to Syd’s mark, get his helmet off, and punch him in the face before a ref or teammate got to him to pull him off. 

But then they’d been thrown back into the fight, the constant, non-stop struggle that characterized the Jackals’ physical style of play, and within the next minute Sterling had decided he couldn’t risk being taken off the court when Syd was a walking target; his panic had hissed that another big hit like that could take her out of the game. The season. Their season. 

It was a few minutes later, as he’d been storming off the court compliments of a sub swap, racquet pinned under his arm, that he’d gone to wrench off his glove from his hand - completely forgetting the wrist-strap that would need to be unwrapped first. The force with which he’d pulled the fingers had torn the upper part of the glove away from the wristband at the seam. 

So he’d spent the rest of the game, agonizingly, on the bench. Angry about the glove. About Syd. About the steadily climbing number that wasn’t their own. About the way that all of it was out of his hands and there wasn’t a fucking thing he could do about it. 

So by the time they make it back to the locker room at the end of the game, back to the lockers they’d chosen side-by-side, he’s a degree shy of boiling point, anger making his shoulders rigid and his mouth a twisted sneer. 

He hears a sniffle from somewhere and turns to Syd to make a venomous mockery of it, mouth open, and freezes, her expression wrapping itself around his heart and squeezing tight. He can’t help the way his eyes search all over her, as if frantically looking for some kind of indicator as to what’s hurting her.

“Babe?” 

The mood in the locker room is grim at best. After the way things had gone down on the court, it came as no surprise to Sydney that it was silent when she walked in there from the bench. She made her way to her locker, moving as quietly as possible so no one would notice her and try to talk about it. The thought of having to speak about it to the press was bad enough, but having to talk about it with her teammates? She wasn’t up for that just yet. 

Sterling’s voice is like being thrown a life preserver while out at sea, saving her from her thoughts and bringing her back to the present. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t even bring herself to make eye contact with Sterling when he said something to her. Instead, she just stared into her locker, not making any effort to ready herself for press duty. “It’s my fault we lost. If I was paying attention that goal wouldn’t have gone in and we could’ve caught up.” 

Having him see her mistake felt like a slap in the face. Having him see her mark hit her into the wall was an even bigger slap. It felt like she was back in high school and someone asked her out to prom as a joke. It made her want to run off the court and pretend that she had never been there in the first place. 

Location: The Fox Tower Date: Friday, February 1  Time: Morning (open)

Jen shoves their hands in their coat pockets as they shiver violently, head ducked low in an attempt to protect themself from the rain. They aren’t dressed for this cold, rainy day, and they’re mad at themself for not checking the weather app before leaving the Den. After accidentally sleeping past their alarm, Jen had to make a mad dash to get to their first class and grabbed the first outfit they could find, which was a non-water resistant jacket without a hood. 

When they showed up to class, wet and panting from jogging across campus to get there, they found out class was canceled because their professor had the flu. Feeling damp and defeated, they decided to go to the Fox Tower instead of making the longer journey back to the Den, hoping someone would be around to let them in. 

The game is today, and the chances that anyone is lingering in their dorm instead of getting ready is low, but Jen is freezing and they’re willing to give it a try. As soon as the Tower is in sight, they run up to the front entrance and huddle close to the door to try and get away from the rain. Their hands are numb from the cold, prompting them to blow into them like they’ve seen in the Christmas movies. 

After what feels like an eternity of waiting, but was really only a few minutes, the door finally opens and Jen greets the person with a sudden, violent sneeze. “Sorry,” Jen sniffs with a bashful grin, “What I meant was, can I come in? It’s so cold,” They say through chattering teeth. They didn’t realize how bad they’re trembling until they tried to speak, and now they’re pretty sure they’ll never feel warm again unless they take a hot bath. 

Sydney couldn’t be happier with how she planned her schedule for the semester. With morning practices being so early, she was able to TA for one of the art professors she became close with over the last four years. The hour and a half class allowed her to escape the exy world for a little while every other day. As much as she loved the Foxes and the game, sometimes she needed a break from it. Plus, being a TA was a new experience and Betsy suggested she try something new. 

For the first time that she could remember, she was actually running early. After practice, she whipped up a quick breakfast in their kitchen—it was mostly pouring cereal into a bowl, grabbing an apple, and pouring herself some coffee— and skimmed through her unread emails. When that was done with, she looked through the syllabus and prepared herself for what laid ahead. 

She glances at her phone for the time and realizes that if she didn’t leave soon she was going to be late for the first day. Grabbing one of the discarded umbrellas from the walk from the car to the Tower this morning, she sets off for class. It’s only when she gets to the front door and sees Jen that she stops for a moment. “Yeah, of course.” Sydney gives Jen a small, albeit confused, smile. She knew they moved into the Vixen Den, but assumed that they were allowed in the Tower with their id. “You don’t have access to the Tower anymore?”

Sterling: it's too late, I'm drinking some already

Sterling: and all of yours is next

Sterling: but seriously that was one time

Sterling: how long are you gonna make fun of me for it just curious

Sterling: 🖕

Sydney: F O R E V E R

Sydney: 😇

Sydney: there's a sign with a photo of your face that says "DON'T LET HIM NEAR YOUR WATER"

Location: The Foyer Date: Friday, February 1 Time: Post-Game, Press Duty (@mccraysydney)

She’s gone this long without doing press duty, she hadn’t even thought to listen for her name until it had already come out of Wymack’s mouth. Maybe she should be thanking him: he isn’t throwing her to the wolves in a game where she’s had a red card, or even a yellow. Except for the fact that the Foxes lost, it’s as much of a softball as he can give her. 

But, of course, they did lose. Glory’s got a scowl on her face that she can’t wipe off as easily as she wipes the sweat from her brow, can’t make herself look pleasant after a game like that. She doesn’t try, it could be a story either way: if she smiles, she doesn’t care that her team just lost; if she scowls, then she’s difficult with the press. What’s the point in trying? She doesn’t know how to play these games. Even after she signed her contract and joined the Foxes, she still can’t believe that anyone could want to talk to her. 

The key, the media trainer had told them, weeks ago, is confidence. She’d scoffed, then, she hadn’t thought it would be a problem for her—she’d always been the stubborn one, the one who wasn’t afraid of anything. But as she takes her seat facing the gathered reporters, staring into the lights and the lenses of what feels like a thousand cameras, she feels herself faltering. 

She’s just Glory Hoskins. Just a girl from Owls Bend, Indiana. She doesn’t belong here. She can’t. 

“Tough game out there,” the first reporter says, and Glory imagines it’s supposed to be commiserating. “You guys looked strong against the Aggies, what happened?” Glory blinks, clears her throat. The microphone picks it up, and she just barely controls her wince. “Well, the Jackals are a better team than the Aggies,” Her voice sounds louder than she expects it to, echoing in the room. Her accent sounds thicker. She keeps going. “We just—lost. I don’t know what else there is to say. Obviously, I’m not happy about it.”  

She doesn’t know how much of an answer it is, but it’s what they’re going to get, and she leans back in her seat, away from the microphone. The reporter turns their attention on Sydney, then, and Glory gets a moment’s reprieve. “I’m sure that first goal is one you wish you could take back. Sydney, why don’t you walk us through what happened there?”

On any given game night, Sydney would’ve been glad to take press duty for the game. As much as she hated the press, it was easy enough for her to fake a smile and get through the basic questions they always asked. She would’ve even volunteered for it if the mood was particularly sour in the lounge that night. 

But, not tonight. 

Tonight she wanted nothing more than to sneak out of the court so she can crawl into her bed and sleep for the next eighteen hours. And on the nineteenth hour, she’d be on the court, running drills by herself to make sure it didn’t happen again. But Wymack had other plans for her that night. Was this his way of punishing her for her shitty performance?

The one silver lining she can find in the whole thing is that she’s paired with Glory. Any of the other Foxes would’ve been too hostile after that game. The atmosphere in the locker room was tense enough after their loss and the last thing they needed to do was take it out on the reporters. Sure, she has no clue if Glory’s a ticking time bomb but Sydney can tell that she’s a better option than Beretta or Kent. 

Of course, the first question they throw at her is about the goal. “It comes down to being in the wrong position at the wrong time.” In all honesty, she had no clue what happened. One second she’s searching for someone to pass the ball to and the next, the goal behind her is lighting up. She hadn’t seen the official replay of the goal, but she played every second of it over in her brain the entire time she was on the bench. “That first goal set the tone of the game and it’s completely on me.” 

Sterling: haven't yet

Sterling: you planning to start?

Sterling: do you need to focus or can I hang

Sydney: pls like i could ever disappoint

Sydney: nah you can hang

Sterling: you drive a tough fuckin bargain McCray, goddamn

Sterling: but you got it babe

Sterling: it'd better be a damn good kiss that's all I'm sayin

Sydney: 🥰 thank youuu 🥰

There was not a single thing she enjoyed about airports. They felt empty, uncomfortable, left her with a hollow space in her heart. Even with one as populated and bustling with people as this one was, she still felt put off by it, contributing to her inability to sit still. That, and her car, were the reasons she made the drive to California at the end of the school year and back to Palmetto months later. The only times she forced herself to by plane was for trips that weren’t worth the drive.

Having company eased the odd feeling in her chest, allowed her to focus properly on one person instead of being alone with her thoughts, thoughts playing on a loop of the same three things: she hated airports, she hated the cold, and her ears hurt. Sydney was as good a distraction as any, and probably one of her best friends (loose standards, considering she hardly saw anyone off the court and basically holed up practicing or getting high all day). “Not even one.”

She hadn’t let go of Sydney’s hand, partially because she was more starved for human connection than she realized, but also maybe because she was afraid that Sydney would leave her if she let go. “I figure there’s a bunch of shops in the terminal, lets go look through them and hope that it kills enough time so we don’t have to sit around and wait anymore.” It was better to do something, anything. “I’m pretty sure there’s a MAC store in this terminal, we could go play with makeup or look at that weird gallery we passed on the way in.”

As much as she hated to admit it, Sydney knew she had been a bad friend to Claudia as of late. She spent most of her time either in the studio, the court, or with Sterlin. The only time she was actually in their dorm is when she needed to sleep - and that was when she rolled in there during the late hours. The guilt began to eat away at her, sneaking into the smile she gave the other girl.

“Why not both? I don’t think we’re set to leave anytime soon.” She looked around them, trying to figure out which way to go. “Let’s try all the makeup at Mac and look super hot.” She pulled on Claudia’s hand in an attempt to guide them in whatever direction she thought the Mac store was in. Even if they didn’t make it to either location, she was glad to be spending time with someone other than herself. It was nice to hang out with someone instead of just sitting by herself, staring out the window. 

Sydney didn’t hate small talk. As a matter of fact, she thought she was pretty good at it and preferred that over actually talking to people. It was a social nicety and after a few moments, she could leave. “So, what’s been up with you?” The question felt weird leaving her mouth, as if the words were awkward and bulky. It didn’t sound right to her.