#foxesstart

Sitting in the stands, he's not sure what outcome he was hoping for. Oh, he knows the right answer, knows it's something like: the Foxes will always be my team, and I'm rooting for them to succeed. But that feels like saccharine bullshit, the kind of media-ready soundbite he was never good enough at saying even when the Foxes really were his team.

Now they're not, and watching them win their way into the Championships without him feels like shit, actually. Being closer to Exy than he's been since he gave this all up and ran back to Florida only to end up more fucked than he's ever been in his life feels like shit, actually.

No one invited him to Eden's, technically, after the game, and he's not sure if that means his invite was implied or if he's crashing a party that no one wants him to be at. But it doesn't matter, because Eden's is where he wants to be after watching the game for one very simple reason: they have alcohol, and he wants it.

So he's drunker than he should be by the time the fists start flying and the cops show up, but it doesn't take him long to get with the program. And, when he does, he knows he has to get the fuck out. That there's no way he can let the cops pick him up at a bar brawl in South Carolina when he's only here because Wymack convinced the court in Florida that he'd be on his best fucking behavior while they sort things out, going to school and Exy practice for a team he isn't even fucking on like a good boy that shouldn't go to prison even if he did get caught running away from the scene of a crime with a fucking gun.

So he knows what he has to do which, incidentally, is the thing he tried to do before: he runs. But he doesn't fucking trip anybody, just grabs the sleeve of the Fox closest to him and drags them both down a back hallway and out a side door, keeps fucking moving until they're a few buildings down and it's clear that no one's chasing them.

"Fuck," he says, raking his hands through his shorn-short hair and then bending over double with his hands on his thighs to brace himself, breathing hard less from the exertion of running away and more with something that feels like panic. "That was close."

Dayton’s migraines always start the same—a dull ache that doesn’t settle in any specific area, so mild that he almost doesn’t realize it’s there. There’s a fleeting thought in the back of his head that it might become something more, and he should try to get ahead of it with his medication, but the thought is gone a second later, and then suddenly it’s too late. The migraine gets worse. It throbs so noticeably in his eye socket that it feels like there’s an ice pick going through it, and at that point, he can’t do anything but hide away in the darkness and hope that sleep eases the pain.

It doesn't take much problem solving to figure out what triggered it today. He just spent the last week on the road with his parents, where had to wake up at the crack of dawn to get in as many hours of driving as possible. Then, after finally arriving in Palmetto, it took them the entire afternoon to move in his stuff. While his dad did most of the heavy lifting, he still had to make a lot of decisions about where things went.

Dayton also just met his new roommates after he spent so long with hardly anyone but his family. There's suddenly going to be all these names he'll have to memorize—something he didn’t expect to be such a difficult task, but he's already struggling to remember his two roommates. Was the one with the man bun Charlie or Jasper? He'll have to make a cheat sheet or something.

This whole day is just...overstimulating.

Dayton promised his family he can do this, though. He can do this. Besides, it won’t always be this bad. He mostly has good days now. He probably gets a migraine once a month outside of the abnormal stressful day. People get migraines all the time, though, so it’s not like it’s a big deal or anything. 

After his parents reluctantly say their goodbyes, and remind him of all the promises he made, Dayton is left alone for the first time since before the accident, and it's both freeing and a little daunting. One step at a time. The first thing he wants to do is explore the Fox Tower, so he forces himself to ignore the throbbing in his eye and leaves his room. He barely makes it a few steps down the hall before he sees a familiar face from the games he's watched on TV, but the name just isn't coming to him right now. He blames the migraine.

"Hey!" Dayton greets, forcing a smile as he squints at his teammate, struggling to open his eyes fully. "I'm Daeshim Tan. Fuck, I mean Dayton Tan. But it's whichever you want to call me, really. Um, "fuck" isn't part of my name, though. But honestly? I wouldn't be too mad with that nickname. Day works, too."

Of all the indignities Grant faces now that he's a Fox, mandatory therapy might be his least favorite. Fifty minutes sat on a couch, staring at Wymack's pet psychologist in silence, when he could be in practice. How does that help him play better? How would that help anyone?

Last semester, he only rolled his eyes when it was his turn. This semester, they've got a tiebreaker game to prepare for, so Grant tells Wymack what he thinks of the whole thing—or more specifically, he says that Betsy Dobson is a fucking waste of time when he returns to practice. It earns him cleanup duty.

As far as punishments go, it isn't the worst one. He doesn't mind extra time on the court, even if it's collecting racquets and stacking cones. It reminds him a little of high school—the only good parts revolved around Exy, obviously, when he put in more time than anyone else on the court before and after practice, when he thought all his hard work was going to amount to something. Maybe he can take advantage of the space for extra practice, make up for the time he lost sitting in front of Dobson. Somehow he can't stop trying, stop caring about Exy, even when he's stuck spinning his wheels in Fox orange.

It would be better if Wymack let him deal with cleanup alone, instead of assigning him a partner. "You can go, you know," Grant tells them now. See, he can be nice—even if it has nothing to do with freeing them from responsibiity, and everything to do with Grant preferring his own company to any of his teammates. He's about to see them all again soon enough anyway, because even he can't ignore the luxery of free alcohol at the Vixen party tonight.

As he speaks, Grant leans down to scoop a ball and balance it on his racquet. He bounces it once, twice, and then hits the ball towards the supply closet. It lands, only to bounce and roll far enough away that he'll have to chase it down anyway to truly put it away. "This doesn't need to be a two person job," he adds, as he walks over to grab the ball with his free hand instead. "I promise I can handle putting equipment away."

You can't hide in here forever, Wymack said to him, after a week or so of Bryce staying his apartment and doing just that. Watch me, he'd said, knowing it was a done deal even then and so, here he is, in a gym surrounded by Foxes on a Tuesday morning like he never fucking left.

If he hadn't left, if he'd stayed, he'd be getting ready to play for a spot in the Championships. Instead, he's sitting on the sidelines, haunting the team he used to be the fucking Captain of, waiting to see if the lawyers that Wymack hooked him up with can strike a deal to keep him out of fucking prison. Keeping his fingers crossed that they'll send his brother there instead.

Although, who knows—maybe, if he had stayed, the Foxes wouldn't have this shot at all. Maybe he'd have kept running the team right into the fucking ground. The fucking butterfly effect, or whatever.

He listens to Wymack, with one notable exception. Figures that, after however many years of picking up lost causes just like Bryce he knows what he's doing, what he's about. But if Wymack made Bryce Captain and he sucked at it, then which of them fucked it up worse? He's stared at the back of Wymack's head for days now, wanting to ask—What did you see in me? You must be kicking yourself now, huh?—but he hasn't been brave enough yet.

But brave is what he needs to be now, walking into a gym full of Foxes he left behind. He's never been big on apologies, and he isn't about to start now. Not when it feels like he'd never be able to fucking stop if he started, like he'd just have to bleed and bleed until there was nothing left. Easier not to, even if it doesn't make him very many friends. Never back down, never explain.

"Need a spot?" He asks, keeping his tone level, his face blank. Like it's just another day in the weight room.

He isn't about to ask for the reverse. That seemed like a surefire way to end up with a barbell to the neck. Though that'd solve a few of his problems, at least.

It's a strange thing, starting over. Perhaps stranger still when these are half familiar faces around her as she approaches Fox Tower. There's the goalie Nico faced down on the court before, and here's the striker who beat her to the ball last game. They'll be her teammates soon enough—more accurately, they are her teammates already. The transfer is official; the paperwork signed.

Nico misses her old ones, but she missed her sister more. This is the closest they've been in years. She's been aware of that since she parked in Palmetto. One more hour, skipping Palmetto entirely, and she could see Alondra.

It's not that easy, of course. Nico's already submitted her application for visitation, but even once it's approved she'll have to schedule her visit. Make an appointment, meet in their designated spaces, talk only about the kinds of things that wouldn't get her letters rejected. She's read all the rules back to front, and more than one time. There's nothing else she can do to prepare right now, so she might as well meet the Foxes as their teammate, rather than their opponent.

From the outside, it must look like an oppertunistic move. She'd worried about that endlessly on the drive over. Her uncle had smiled, reassured her. He'd pointed out the obvious: how could Nico have known that this year the Foxes would have one more shot at the Championships?

It was reassuring. Enough that she'd told them to go back without helping her move in, to beat the holiday traffic back home. It isn't like she's some starry-eyed freshman.

Now that her family's gone, Nico's doubts creep back in. It's enough to make her linger in the lobby too long, avoiding her new roommates. Long enough that someone else enters the lobby, finding Nico with her doubts, her bags, her scrambling for an introduction. How much did Wymack tell them? Surely the Foxes knew she was coming right? Had there been time to include that, amidst Wymack's eager message that they should all come back to campus right now?

"Hey," she finally manages. There. Getting started is always the hardest part. "Happy new year. Hell of start to the season, right?" She sticks out her hand, overly formal in her bid to make new friends. "I'm Nico."

For once, Sterling feels good wrapping up the year with his birthday. Having a New Years birthday has always been the worst. He never gets to celebrate with anyone except for his family, and the day is always a reminder of all the things that Sterling didn't accomplish that year. 2020, though? It was a fucking whirlwind, but overall full of a lot good things.

Sterling has two boyfriends he can now take home because he finally told them his secret. They didn't play a totally shitty season for once, and it's not even over just yet. Thanks to the Terrapins fucking up, all they have to do is beat the Gamecocks and they get to play in the Championships. There's still a chance that Sterling can provide a decent life for him and his mom after he graduates.

There's still a constant weight on his shoulders, and it's only growing heavier the closer he gets to graduation, but he's trying not to think about that today of all days—his 23rd birthday. He's finally spending it at his favorite place and with his favorite people. It started off strong with a morning practice where he got to yell at the other Foxes for not pulling their weight and now it's finishing strong—by watching the ball drop on the TV in the common area.

There's only a few minutes left until midnight, so Sterling moves to the kitchen to pour himself another mixed drink. He has a good buzz going and he wants to carry it into 2022. After mixing a drink of mostly vodka and some coke, he turns to his teammate and smirks. "Don't forget who this night is really about just because the ball is about to drop," Sterling reminds them, not for the first time tonight. He's always the champion for birthdays on this team, so there's no way in hell he's not going to champion himself.