get it right.

It’s a sunny August day in Chicago, only a few short weeks from the opening of the Exy season, and Grant Rollins has obviously just come from practice. His jersey is emblazoned with Rollins on the back, but he still spells it out conscientiously for the women behind the counter as he orders his drink—a large black coffee with two extra espresso shots.

That extra caffeinated kick makes sense. These past few years, Rollins has surprised everyone by becoming one to watch on the court. He’s stoic and steady as he sits at the table, but in the goal, Rollins is a powerhouse with seemingly endless energy. Blessed with fast reflexes any goalie should envy and the knowledge of Exy to match, it isn’t any surprise the Bobcats were vying for Rollins in June. 

She should be relatively calm that Grant is the one inquiring. She already freely admitted to him her interest in crafts, the randomness of the activities and the satisfaction in the finished product, and it should be fine that he’s watching. But her heart stammers, and she doesn’t lift her head just yet.

It’s not his fault that he’s wrapped in reminders. Of course, the game is enough of one; Chicago is her hometown, and she’s sure that this game has already ran through the local headlines. But Grant’s presence is enough to topple the blockades she’s built for this game. Any game in Chicago should feel like home, but she’s desperate to stay away. She’s not afraid of ghosts, but she lives with the echo of one whenever she looks at her reflection. And being in Chicago, being on that field —- it represents everything she’s wished to erase. 

But her mother is still there, waiting and hoping, and Alis knows she’ll be watching tonight, even if it won’t be in the stands. It’s gone unspoken in the years after her mother found her on the bathroom floor that it’s healthier for Alis, that it’s better for their relationship, that her mother doesn’t sit in the stands. That Alis is better without her support displayed so plainly, as if Alis isn’t tied to Evie’s shadow. As if she decided, all on her own, that this is what she so desperately wanted to do with her life.

Grant is a reminder too, that she’s not here for the same reasons he is. He defends the goal for a sport he loves, for a purpose he wishes to prove over and over and over again. She’s there because she owes something to the girl Evie was and what she could’ve been. And at the end of the day, that’s not a good enough reason to play anymore.

Swallowing, she forces herself to nod. God, she can’t bear to look at Grant, and she has to work her jaw, prepare her voice so it doesn’t sound pitiful when she speaks. “Nope, no joke. Lucky me, this time I could bring one of them along for the ride. And it’s come in handy for now.”

She loops another piece of yarn around the hook, and carefully slips it under the canvas square, lifting and pulling it back as the yarn knits itself to a basic knot. “You might like it if you try it,” she says, and thankfully, her tone sounds light to her own ears. “No pressure though. It’s just something to do if you want to busy your hands.”

Grant doesn’t think he’ll enjoy crafting the way Alis does. It’s the consequence of Exy for him. There’s nothing that can capture that same magic. Nothing that can occupy his body and his mind as well as defending the goal can. Exy has been it for Grant since he was a child, since his mom enrolled him on a whim—because it kept him busy while she worked late hours to keep the lights on, because it was one of the few free activities around, because Grant was so angry as a child and Exy was supposed to help—and he doesn’t think that will ever change.

Even if the worst happens and he isn’t drafted next year, he’ll still love Exy with all he has. And Grant’s only human; of course he’s thought about what happens next if this doesn’t work out. He doesn’t have any desire to coach or play for some pointless local team, but he knows he will if those are his only options. 

Maybe it isn’t fair to say Exy is the only thing he cares about then. He cares about his ambition too—this all-consuming drive to go as far as he can, to go further than anyone’s ever expected him to. In high school, he wanted to sign for a Class I team, and he rebuilt Exy piece-by-piece in Freeport to make that happen. Now, he wants the pros or nothing, and he’s hellbent on bringing the Foxes to victory too in order to fuel that dream. If he achieves all of that? If he steps foot on the court with a new jersey in the fall? Then he’ll want the U.S. Court next. He doesn’t just want to play; he wants to play with the best. He wants to be the best.

But for the time being, he’s trapped in the airport. Grant glances at his watch, the seconds hand ticking far too slow. They’ve got too many minutes left until now and their new boarding time and he’s all too aware of it. He can’t keep pacing pointlessly pacing back and forth though, especially not when it only makes him more anxious over the delay. 

         Unlike most of the Foxes, Henry doesn’t have to wonder what it’s like to play a game nearby their hometown. His is so close to Palmetto it’s uncomfortable. But they’re so far away from South Carolina tonight and he doesn’t have to worry about his dad. He can celebrate and have fun tonight. He can be himself and let go for once. It’s strange to be that way honestly, because he’s hidden parts of himself for so long he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to let loose, but he has let go. And it feels so good to be free. “We’re going to crush it,” he grins, not even caring that he shouldn’t be so cocky. Pride for his team is all he feels right now—and a happiness he hasn’t felt in a long time. It feels good.

         They aren’t dating. Or not officially yet. They’re just spending lots of time together. Practically any time either of them has free time. And he supposes, if he had the courage to ask, it’d probably work out in his favor. But he doesn’t—and Jack hasn’t asked either. He’s fine how things are though because, well, that’s a big change and Henry feels he’s just now getting comfortable with who he is. It’s the first time he’s ever said anything out loud about being gay though—and he’s surprised it doesn’t get more of a reaction from Grant. Then again, he keeps getting told that no one cares. This isn’t like telling Holland, where he just felt nervous and scared admitting the truth. It isn’t even like Holland getting caught dating a girl, when he felt terrified of his secret getting out. This time it feels like a weight has been lifted off his chest. And he feels free. 

         He’s used to drinking like this, used to more alcohol in his system. Henry gets drunk multiple times in a week. It’s his way of coping with his negative emotions. It almost feels different to drink when he’s happy. There’s a whole other feeling involved. Though perhaps the weightlessness comes from finally breathing out that he’s not straight—or maybe it’s a combination between the both of them. This isn’t Henry’s favorite way to relax. A good book and his bed seem like a much more calming way to spend an evening than a chaotic night with his teammates. He just wants to belong and not feel like everything is falling apart for once. Chicago Henry can be different than Palmetto Henry.

         Henry’s all smiles as Grant talks, despite it being more of a lecture than anything else. Of course, his captain would be more concerned about Exy. It’s almost enough to sober him up—though he’s pretty sure that his good mood is making him like this, not the alcohol. “Abby gave me the all clear,” he says, as if it wasn’t already obvious. Just some bruising. It probably looked worse than it felt. Honestly, he didn’t need yet another one of his teammates worrying about him. “It’s fine. Just some bruising. I feel fine. It looked worse than it actually was.” He wants to celebrate, to have fun and enjoy his youth before it’s too late. And damn he deserves a break for not getting a spring break like everyone else. “Come on, we’re moving on. We did it. It isn’t like we can practice more now. Dance with me and I promise to stop tripping over my feet during practice whenever Jack takes their shirt off.” There’s a wide grin on his face as he’s talking, wondering if Grant will even take him up on his offer. Henry held out a hand for Grant. “Please,” he pouts.

“Just be careful,” Grant says, despite Henry’s reassurances. “Because it looked bad, bruising or otherwise. Head injuries aren’t something to mess around with.” He’s grateful Henry’s in this good mood tonight despite it all, particularly when the entire team deserves to celebrate, but that doesn’t mean he knows how to handle the rest of this conversation. 

Henry’s got the wrong person for this and, really, that should be obvious. Grant’s spent four years as stoic and serious as he can manage—at first to make up for his freshmen year and later because it was genuine, because this is who is is despite half the team’s protests. Even before though, even when Grant was chaotic and trashed more often than he should’ve been, he doesn’t remember letting people drag him out onto the dance floor. It’s too crowded and claustrophobic out there, especially for someone who needs a healthy amount of personal space. His skin crawls just thinking about it.

“No, thanks,” Grant says. “To all of that. I’m happy for you, but I’m not talking about my teammates’ shirtless and I’m no dancer. Sorry, Henry,” he adds, because he does feel for Henry’s bright mood and brighter attitude. He feels that too, even if it’s for Akira’s final goal and their upcoming death match more than anything else. Grant’s celebration looks different though—less of Henry’s tipsy, unfocused gaze, and a lot more of mentally replaying tonight’s highlights from the game. They did well, despite the loss. They won where it counts and everyone knows it. That means it was a good night to be on press duty too, especially with someone like Leo, someone who understands the importance of good P.R. 

And that thought is more personal than it might be for the others. Grant wants good publicity for the team, sure, but for himself too: especially when he knows the were scouts in the audience tonight. Finally, finally scouts on a game he was able to play in. 

Akira doesn’t really have an answer for Grant’s question. It’s just…a thing. Here, in the privacy of Leo’s home…It feels less like a true Fox party even though all of them are here. Perhaps it’s because in here they’re safe from the prying eyes of the public. From gossiping nobodies desperate for the next great scoop. He doesn’t feel the need to look over his shoulder, police his personality. It’s kind of sad really. It makes Akira’s chest hurt, knowing that invasive publicity is such an integral part of normal Fox life. He hates it. He hates everything about it. He shrugs, still at a loss for words. “It’s a good feeling…don’t get me wrong. I just…Is it really a Fox party if you aren’t worried about someone looking for some gossip to spread?” Akira trusts…most of the Foxes and the Vixens…but without fail the nastiest rumors come from people removed from the group.

He sighs and drops his eyes to look at the tangled mess of his fingers. It’s a terrible explanation. He hopes Grant won’t ask for more. His embarrassment is soon forgotten in the wake of Grant’s next words. He…He hadn’t expected Grant would agree with him. Sure, he’d hoped he would. Hoped that in the aftermath of those damn pictures that they could still be friends. He would have understood if Grant had been upset with him. He had some much on the line right now. Bad press? It was the last thing he’d want. 

But hearing Grant say that?

It felt like a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He doesn’t try to hide the relief he feels because of it. He even manages to untangle his fingers. He’s nervous, but it’s easier to manage now. “The press is over it. Something about Trev publicly dumping someone who turned out to be twice is age?” He flaps his hand, dismissing it as unimportant. It is important, but Grant doesn’t need to know that it was staged. He still doesn’t know how he feels about that knowledge. “Some of my fan base is still talking about it but we…we’re not in the tabloids anymore.”

He shakes his head, upset. “He says we should stay away from each other a while longer, the press loves nothing more than revisiting shit.” He sighs and looks back up at Grant. “I want to go back to…” Normal? Whatever they had? Akira doesn’t know what to call it. Doesn’t know what Grant would call it. He swallows. “I don’t want to avoid you anymore. But…” He drags his fingers through his hair, messing it up. “But I’ll get it if you don’t want to because of…everything. People will talk. They’ll always talk. I get it if you’d rather not. You’ve got a lot riding on the rest of the season. I get it.” He sighs. “I just…yeah.”

“Well, thanks to Trevor for that one,” Grant says, tone dry. He wants to feel bad for Trevor, does feel bad for him, but he’s glad for the short attention span of the media. Because on some level Akira’s right; Grant has so much on the line this year. It isn’t only the Championships—it’s the draft at the end of the year, his rapidly closing window of opportunity to prove himself. And, objectively, he knows some extra press isn’t necessarily a bad thing. No one’s going to cast him out because he’s been connected to Akira in the press. They’re teammates; so what? Teammates spend time together. 

But he also saw how far Akira recoiled when the paparazzi took that photo. They’ve avoided one another for weeks now because of it and Grant doesn’t think that’s only because Akira’s worried for Grant’s presence in the media. Akira deserves a private life, as difficult as that may be to achieve with his ever-lingering stardom in the background. It won’t happen with Grant, who may not be as famous as Akira, but who isn’t a nobody either.

“We could be careful,” Grant suggests. “You know. There are plenty of closed Fox events like this one. If we sneak out again, go somewhere that isn’t just behind the club.” It feels like admitting to more than just casual friendship, if he’s that worried about what it looks like on the outside. 

Grant’s leaving soon though—it’s hardly the time to start anything new. He’d tried that, when Zia graduated. Seen that deadline as a reason to make their moments count rather than a reason to stay back. Look what happened there.  

   “Yeah, no shit. Your definition of fun is making us do suicides at practice,” Indigo mouthed off, lips pursed, but couldn’t hold off her smile for long. It was a party, and she loved parties, even if it did mean she had to occasionally feel lectured by her captain. Grant could boss her around on the court - but he wasn’t able to make her have any less fun at a party. He probably knew it, too. 

   Still, she couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness as she studied him, peeking out from the rim of her cup. What if this was the last time she and Grant were at the same party? The sigh Indi exhaled seemed out of place for the vibrant clothing and make-up she sported. 

   Knocking the rest of her drink back and tossing the cup into the bin, Indigo crossed her arms, squaring off and facing her Captain. “Alright, fine. We can half play the game - make me do something. I pick dare. This is your one and only chance to full control over what I do next. Pick wisely.” 

“What, that isn’t fun for you?” Grant says, deadpan. The smile that follows is quick and lopsided. He expects answers like that, but he doesn’t expect Indigo’s next bright idea—one-sided truth or dare. “That’s not what I meant,” he protests, because outside of the court, he has no desire to control Indigo’s actions. She’s giving him the same look she gets when she pushes too hard in practice though, somehow determined to play this game with Grant of all people. 

Grant regards her for a moment, half-amused despite himself. Maybe he’s getting a soft spot for the underclassman this year. It comes from the rapidly approaching deadline though, the fact that soon enough, he’ll be the fresh new face on some team. If he’s lucky, at least. 

The room is packed tonight. More reporters, more cameras than he’s ever seen. Tonight, they’d had the entire league’s attention: no other games to be a distraction, the biggest stage they’ve seen so far. They could have lost—one less point and it would’ve been a tie, and they probably would’ve lost the tiebreaker. Their season would’ve been over, and Leo would have been sitting in front of a room full of wolves, ready to lap up every moment of their defeat.

It feels unbelievable, every time they just scrape by—but, in the end, it doesn’t fucking matter. They could say that the Foxes barely qualified for the Championships, but Exy doesn’t care about barely. A win is a win, whether you win by one point or ten, in regulation of in overtime. They can say tonight that the Foxes barely made it to the final death match before the semi-finals, but when they face the Blue Demons again in two weeks, they’ll be on even footing. 

“The third round is a trip,” he says with a laugh, running his hand through his sweaty hair, sparing a thought for how messed up it probably looks for the cameras. With the celebration in the locker room, he hadn’t had time to fix it before coming out here with Grant. Next to him, Grant is smooth, polished—and Leo knows he has to be, their serious captain, probably all-too-aware of the scouts watching, like this is an audition he could fail. Leo’s a little bit looser, more likely to joke with the cameras. But he can get away with that, he’s not under the same pressure. He’s not a fifth year, and he’s never believed that Exy is his future. 

“Obviously, we’ve never been here before, but—you really have to adjust your strategy, change the way you play the game. Yeah, if this round was based on wins, we wouldn’t be moving forward—but, if this round was based on wins, we would’ve approached our two games differently, so who knows what would have happened.”     

Another reporter takes the mic, and attention in the room swivels again to Grant. Leo mostly expects it to stay there. “Grant, can you tell us more about your injury? You missed the game against the Bruins, and it looked like you might not come back for this one. How does it feel to be back, and for it to be in your home state?”

For all of Grant’s practice, he isn’t as loose as Leo is in front of the cameras. Grant sits straight up, spine stiff, too serious and stern in his answers. He calls it professionalism, especially now, in the final months of his fifth year. When it comes to the draft, it isn’t only about how he plays. There are politics to Exy, like anything else. The draft will be about who he is—if they think he’ll be a good fit, if they think his status as a Fox means he’s too damaged to play with any other team. Wymack putting him in front of the cameras tonight feels calculated, and Grant’s thankful for that. The more positive exposure Grant can get, the better. 

Those cameras turn back to Grant, as if on cue, and he waits expectantly for the question. How does it feel to be back on the court? That’s easy. The second half is more complicated but it’s hardly unexpected. Grant’s history with Illinois is messy and public. Grant’s life is public. Most days, he’s made his peace with that: as long as the focus is on Exy more than anything else. 

“Absolutely,” Grant says, with a nod. “It was a mild MCL injury—not enough to keep me out of the game for long, but as you saw, I needed some time off to be safe. I’m grateful to be back tonight, especially for such an important match, and I’m looking forward to playing in the next death match and beyond,” he finishes, staking his claim on both the semi-finals and the pros. Injury or no, he isn’t finished yet. 

How does he feel though, now that he’s here in Illinois? Grant’s not sure he knows the answer himself. It’s been a long time since this was home—longer than he’s been a Fox even. Throughout all the custody battles and the foster homes, the seemingly endless back and forths between foster placements and their own cramped apartment, he thought of home as his mom. Once she gave up, once he became part of the system for good? He’s hated Freeport since then. Hated all of Illinois, even. Palmetto is his home now.  

His mom wasn’t here tonight, obviously, and Grant didn’t expect to see her. He’s been in the  public eye again since his freshmen year, and she hasn’t once contacted him. He used to be angry about that. He used to think it was her responsibility, because she was the one who stopped fighting for him in the first place. After looking last year though, he’s got her address too—turns out she wasn’t that hard to find either. Turns out it’s harder to reach out than he’d thought, especially when he can say his focus has to be Exy, that the past is only a distraction in his final year. Maybe he understands her silence a bit more, despite the fact that they haven’t spoken since he was a teenager. After all, who are they to one another now? What would either of them say?

Grant expected to feel differently about Illinois, if he’s honest. He’s spent the past week preparing himself, obsessing over the idea of playing again in Chicago, obsessing over what it would mean to win or lose here. He expected tonight to bring up more than it has. But this was an away game, like any other. Illinois is a place like any other. He’s done what he wanted, all those years ago: he’s severed all ties and found somewhere new to build a legacy. That thought is more bittersweet than he’d realized.

“It’s great to be back in Chicago as a Class I player,” Grant says, because that’s the expected answer. “Growing up nearby, I used to dream about this. The reality is even better.” Someone in the background scribbles furiously in their notes, and Grant wishes he could read it. Instead, he’ll have to wait for the headlines.

Grant won’t say it doesn’t matter that they lost. It does. He’s competitive enough that any loss gets under his skin, especially when there were scouts in the stands to see it happen. But they’re still moving forward—and that matters more. They aren’t out of the running yet, and that’s so all encompassing, so goddamn important, that Grant still feels good as he faces down the press. Triumphant, despite everything. 

It isn’t just the Championships. Playing in a game tonight felt like coming home, so much more than simply being back in the state he was born in ever could. If there was any ever doubt that Exy was it for him, the past few weeks without it would’ve changed his mind.

He settles down in his chair beside Leo, looking out at the chaotic press of equipment and bodies before them. Grant’s disdain for the media is bred through years of unpleasant interactions with them, but there’s something to be said for the way everyone turns towards Grant and Leo right now. He doesn’t normally feel powerful in front of the cameras and microphones, but there’s no other word for it right now.  

At the beginning of Grant’s career, no one took the Foxes seriously. No one took him seriously. Now, there’s only one game between them and the semi-finals. He stood in front of the press at the first game of the season, all the way back in August, and he’s still here now. The Foxes are still here, when so many others have already flamed out and lost their footing in the Championships. Now, the same news outlets that would’ve gladly ignored or insulted them before are forced to report on the Foxes time and time again. Grant’s smile is practiced and calm, trained through over a decade of media exposure, but inside he’s viciously smug.

“First off, welcome back to Captain Rollins,”  the first reporter says. “Let’s talk about the obvious shakeup tonight. Your team lost both games, but you’ve still managed to qualify for the next death match. That’s almost unprecedented. How does that feel?”

“Well, I’m looking forward to playing the Blue Demons again,” Grant says, taking the first answer. “Other than that, I’m obviously thrilled to be moving forward. Would I have preferred to win tonight? Of course I would. But the Championships aren’t over yet.”

  Knowing where she stood exactly with their team captain wasn’t knowledge that Indigo felt she possessed. She’d been lippy her first year, focused on making herself large and important and less focused on listening and following direction. The two had seemed to reach a bit more of a common ground now, as she continued her second year on the team. Becoming a striker had nearly completely transformed Indigo, at least when it came to Exy; but she still had her moments, and Grant still had to tolerate them. 

   It wasn’t hard to see his restlessness. Indigo shared it, but wore it better, more chaotic in her natural element than he ever was. Grant’s reply wasn’t anything surprising, either. Indigo hadn’t expected much else from him. 

   “The match hasn’t started yet,” Indigo fired back, chin lifting defensively. Grant’s simple role of authority was enough to him a challenge for her, and she often found herself eager to defy, despite how soft she’d become for his leadership and mentoring. “And it won’t for a little while, which is plenty of time for you to do something fun for once. Come on, Rollins; it’s a party. You’re really not going to try and live a little?”

God knows he’s heard this complaint before. How many times has someone pressed him to have fun or to lighten up? Grant doesn’t roll his eyes, because that’s immature, because he’s the captain and Indigo is an underclassmen and a teammate, but he considers it. 

Indigo is talented, but on edge. She’s still an asset to the team—and more importantly, she listens when it matters, pays attention during a game and pushes for victory. If she needs to mouth off and call him boring at the party, he’s hardly offended. Other Foxes have called him much worse things. 

“Hadn’t thought of it that way,” Arlo muses quietly, relaxing further into his seat as some of the awkward tension drains from the air. It’s something that, if he’s honest, he hasn’t really allowed himself to contemplate that much. How finite their time on this team is. How fleeting this sense of family, of belonging, really is. 

After all, no matter how good any of them are, they’re all replaceable. That’s the nature of this shit - they eventually have to move on, and then they get replaced. It’s how it has to be, even if it stings. Even if he wishes he could just… stay. Indefinitely. Here. Where, despite all the chaos and unpredictability, things still manage to make sense. 

He releases a breath through his nose and forces himself to return to the conversation. To push down his lingering apprehension, his fear of the future, for another time. 

He rubs his palms on his knees absently, toying with a loose thread as he lazily sizes Grant up from across the table. “You got any front runners, right now? For Captain?” It’s something that, if he’s being honest, he’s more than a little curious about. He’s got his own pick, sure, but ultimately the future of this team is up to Grant and Claudia and Wymack. “I know it can’t be easy, picking out your own replacement but, ‘with great power comes great responsibility’ or whatever, right?” 

“Typically it’s the vice captain next,” Grant says, tone dry. Even if that were to change, it would be more Wymack’s call than Grant’s. It’s hard to think about now, but in a few short months this won’t be his team anymore. He knows, on some level he’ll always be a Fox. He knows, on some level, that  he’ll always be able to call Wymack if he needs him. But it won’t be the same.

That’s why this injury is so horrible, even if it is going to heal. Every game—every practice—he has left with this team is vital. His days with the Foxes are numbered now. He hates missing even more.

And what’s he going to leave behind? The captain who got them this close, injured himself, and sat on the bench while the rest did the real work? When Grant took over the captaincy, he didn’t spare much thought to the woman he’d replaced. Unfair, maybe, but he’d been so focused on his own excitement and terror going into the next year. She didn’t leave behind a legacy, not the way Grant wants to—with her there’d been no Championships at all,  let alone a Championship title. This injury means it’s even more important that they go further. He won’t be known for this.

Akira doesn’t cover his relief very well, his shoulders drop and some of the tension in his shoulders leaves him. Under normal circumstances he’d be ashamed to show how relieved he is that Grant doesn’t want something stronger to drink. He likes to think of himself as a strong addict. The kind of addict people in AA meetings aspire to be. Strong in the face of temptation. It’s a painful thing to accept that he isn’t…that he probably never will be. It isn’t strong to feel your mouth go dry or have your hands twitch and fidget. It feels a little bit like admitting defeat and Akira hates it. But he won’t let himself linger on it on, not right now. Tonight’s about celebrating. About keeping Grant’s spirits up in the face of such a late game injury.

And, to be totally honest, Akira just missed him.

Ever since the disaster in LA they’d been dancing around each other. Careful not to do anything that might be construed the wrong way. Careful not to add fuel to the media fire. The last thing Akira wanted was to muck up Grant’s chances at getting drafted. And it’s gone well…at least as well as possible. Akira has definitely had worse encounters with the press. But that doesn’t make him feel better about it.

He settles in more on the couch, angling himself so he can face Grant more when he talks. It’s a little like Grant asking that one small question was all the permission Akira needed to give himself to actually stay instead of flutter around him. “I don’t really know if this actually counts as a real Fox party.” Sure. The Foxes and Vixens are here, and yeah there’s alcohol. But the usual glitz and glamour of a celebration party gets lost when they aren’t out at a club. Not that Akira minds. Here, wrapped up in Leo’s house…he’s safe. They’re safe. He swallows.

“Not really the kind of house I can picture Leo in.” It’s a weak attempt at conversation and Akira hates it. He doesn’t want to talk about the game.. Because talking about the game means talking about Grant falling down and not getting back up. He doesn’t want to talk about the future because it means considering Grant not being there. He swallows again, working his fingers into knots, sighing and shaking his head. “I’ve missed talking to you.”

“Why not? The Foxes are here. The Vixens are here. I don’t think we need anyone else,” Grant says. He can guess what Akira means though. This has more in common with late nights in the Vixen’s Den than it does the last party they met at—in LA, in the club, in full view of the cameras. Maybe that’s the reason why Akira does stay, when Grant asks. There’s no one here who would sell their photos to the tabloids or to Akira’s rabid fans. Grant won’t pretend he gets along perfectly with everyone on their team, but he does trust them all, in the end.

And, as soon as they can claim some kind of privacy, Akira sits down beside him readily. It makes the past few weeks of strained silence even worse in hindsight, even if Grant understands why they’ve needed that space. Privacy is almost impossible for Akira, but that’ll only get worse if the press think he has some secret romance happening with a teammate. 

Grant told himself not to look at those photos, but of course he’d caved—he’s spent too long obsessed with his image, his story, the way people speak about him. He’s never learned to simply not care. 

Now that he’s seen them, he understands why Akira was so worried when he saw the flash of the camera. Maybe it’s the dim lighting of the ally or the startled look on their faces or simply the way Grant’s arm was draped around Akira’s shoulders, but those shots do look intimate. Private. They’re exactly the sort of thing Akira’s fans want to read into, and Grant gave it to them on a platter.

So Grant’s kept his distance as much as Akira has, at least until the publicity dies down. It’s a mutual decision. Akira’s agent, apparently, can handle the rest. That doesn’t mean he’s enjoyed it though.

Where: The Foxhole Court

Status:  @rollinsgrant

Anderson’s breathing was rough. In the quiet court the harsh gasps rang too loud. His chest rattled with each one, blocking out even the sound of the exy ball ricocheting off the walls. He stumbled. His racket missed the swing and the ball rolled away. A new sound cut through the court. A heavy racket tossed away in frustration.

His knees gave underneath him. And for a moment, Anderson let himself lay there. With the court against his back, and the rattling of his breath in his chest. The court should have been empty. With no one there to see him as his chest heaved. His heart was pounding, sweat dripping down his overheated body and soaking into his goalie amour. 

It wasn’t enough.

Anderson knew he was good. Exy was his life and he was fucking good at it but he wasn’t enough. He hadn’t been and they had lost. It stung. Even though the team would be moving on, they’d lost the game. And the next one would be no easier. Grant was still benched with his injury and Anderson felt the weight of it in his chest. He needed to be better.  With their captain out they needed to protect their goal without him. Anderson needed to protect their goal. And he wasn’t good enough. 

The court has always belonged to Grant, but the reverse is true too. Grant belongs to the court, in the goal, in the game. It’s horrible, now that it’s off limits to him. The crutches are gone, at least, but the brace remains. He still has physical therapy. He still can’t play. But Grant orbits the court all the same, and he finds himself spending just as much time at the Foxhole Court as before—but he brings his homework now, or notes from Wymack. Tapes from old games. He sits in the stands or the lounge and pretends.  

He’s on his way in now when he notices Anderson, already in the middle on some drill. Grant plans to leave him be, at first. If Grant’s on the bench, then Anderson must be working overtime. All the goalies are. If Anderson wants extra practice, Grant won’t interrupt him.

And then Anderson goes down, knees buckled. He doesn’t get back up. Grant’s own knee aches with some kind of stupid sympathy, but its the fear that makes him abandon his bag and run out onto the court—they can’t afford another injury, Anderson can’t afford an injury, Anderson shouldn’t have to go through what Grant’s gone through these past few weeks.

“Yeah,” Sterling drawls, the end of the word pulled out long and disbelieving, “’Fine’ isn’t the word I’d use, but you do you, man.” Even now, even here, there’s room enough for snark, despite the fact that his heart isn’t really in it. Sterling doesn’t like when people lie, and ‘fine’ smacks up against his filter, nowhere near passing as truth. This is Grant’s leg propped on a couch and his season teetering by a thread; ‘fine’ feels far away. 

And Grant is, as ever, unwavering. Other than the unusual sitting arrangement, there aren’t any outward signs that he’s weathering all this. So Sterling tamps down his concern, nods along with the question as Grant asks it, and grabs at the change of topic as readily as Grant sends it out. “Yeah, it’s fuckin’ great. Huge place. Super cool.” In the face of the seriousness of Grant’s quickly waning days as a Fox, the frivolity, the lavishness of the bottles and lights and music feels superficial and garish. Disrespectful, somehow. 

He picks up his cup again and wishes there was something in it; he’s always been bad at small talk, and exy feels off the table despite being the one thing he’s always felt comfortable talking to Grant about.  

“It’s my knee,” Grant says, tone too sharp in his frustration. Because that’s where Sterling’s sudden attitude must come from: this injury, the obvious elephant in the room when Grant acts like nothing’s wrong. Grant isn’t an idiot. He knows what this injury means—could mean. What will he gain by rehashing that with every single Fox at the party though? They should enjoy themselves. They won tonight. They deserve a celebration. “I can use whatever word I want.” 

Belatedly though, he realizes that Sterling was going to go along with Grant’s clumsy attempts at stoicism. Grant’s ruined it now. Changed the subject back only moments after Grant successfully moved it away from the bandages on his knee. 

Her mouth snaps shut out of embarrassment, how stupid of her to complain to Grant when he is actually injured, when he’s missing out on wins and games and here she is being completely and utterly selfish as he pointed out overdoing it can get yourself seriously hurt. Just like he was. Nodding slowly, she keeps her gaze on her hands, why does she feel like she’s about to cry? So she swallowed down the lump in her throat, shrugging her strong shoulders before speaking, “Uh….m-my dad did.” If there’s one person Olivia could be honest with, it’s Grant. She never vocally spoke to him about what happened to her, but he knew all too well of her nightmares, 

Olivia had always been tough on her self, a girl who always said what if too often in her own head, but it was only because that’s how she was raised. She could play an amazing game but her father on the car ride home would hound her about one little slip up, how she could’ve done this better, how she could’ve made this move different. It was like he was living through her, trying to make up for the many mistakes in his career. So here she was, obsessing over the fact she let two balls get away from her. That it wasn’t a landslide win when it very well could’ve been, and she put the blame on her shoulders as usual.

Her eyes finally drifted from where she was messing with her hands to Grant, her eyes almost shimmering as he spoke. He certainly was an amazing captain, trying to remind her that she didn’t suck, trying to raise her spirits. She could tell he cared, and she gave him another nod, “Yeah, I guess your right…” Liv murmured, pursing her lips together as she tucked her bandages into her bag, scooting over because she noticed the strain in his brows from standing there on a hurt leg. “I just…I want every time I’m on the court to play the best that I can and last night just, I didn’t. And I feel like everyone from my old school is watching, my dad is always watching-” Her words get stuck in her throat and she pushes up to her feet at the mention of something to eat, hell, she didn’t remember the last time she ate something. “Okay.” She agreed softly, hitching her gym bag over her shoulder with a little knit of her brows at the soreness in her body. “And Grant, thank you….for everything. You’re like, the only person who, gets me on a little more personal level. I appreciate you, a lot.”

For Grant, the captaincy is about more than what happens out on the court. It’s true enough that he holds the game above all else—for himself, but for others too. But Wymack trusted him with this team, despite Grant’s rocky start with the Foxes. He takes that seriously. It means putting himself on the line for the Foxes; it means doing his best to support them off the court too. Olivia’s gratitude is unexpected even still. Grant doesn’t ever feel like he’s done enough for his teammates, let alone gone above and beyond for Olivia the way every Fox deserves. Strategies come easily for him. The game itself comes easy. The rest of this is harder.

Maybe this is about Zia, the shared link to both their pasts. Or maybe it’s about Grant’s past, and Olivia’s too, and the way they’ve both stayed silent on teams that hurt them. He wonders if she survived that for Exy or for Zia or for reasons even Olivia can’t explain. Looking back, he’s never been able to fully understand his own. 

Of course, it’s different. They’re different. Despite Olivia’s words, Grant won’t assume he knows what it’s like to be Olivia Finch; former Lion, current Fox. But Grant knows about the media watching in the aftermath, the way the past follows you even when you’d do anything to carve a new legacy. It’s been over a decade now, and still, he can’t shake off his own history. 

They’re Foxes now though. Second chances; that’s Wymack’s party line,  and one Grant wholeheartedly believes in. “If they are watching, then they’re going to watch us take home the Championship,” Grant promises her. “They’re going to watch you win.” It echoes Wymack’s own advice to Grant, all those years ago: if you’re sick of them talking, give them something new to talk about. 

He’s made this promise before. He’ll no doubt make it again. In this, at least, he hasn’t faltered, even with his injured knee and uncertain future. The Foxes, at least, need to bring home the trophy, no matter what. Grant needs that, before he leaves. He suspects Olivia does too.