#tfcstart

Brayden feels stupid for sulking, especially because hiding after a game is starting to become a tradition for him. They’re in a good enough place that this loss doesn’t seriously ruin their chances, but he feels like they no longer have that grip on Championships that they used to. The Ravens beat the Trojans, and they can’t even beat the Bruins. Maybe, his mistake was thinking he could actually do this in the first place, finally prove himself. It feels like a one-sided competition anyway with his brothers weird encouraging text messages and surprise birthday presents. Or Landon is just so unbothered by the Foxes that he’s not even considering the possibility they’d do better than the Ravens. 

He lets out a groan and buries his face in his hands, annoyed with his own train of thought. This is the reason he stays with Betsy every summer and has to see her twice a month, because he just can’t stop. He knows he’s come a long way since he first joined the team, but there’s a difference between knowing and feeling. And sometimes, he feels like he’s still that lost eighteen year old, especially when his hands tremble like this, and he craves something stronger than a cigarette. 

Placing the cigarette between his teeth, he buries his trembling hands in his jacket pockets, tucking his chin against his knees in an effort to combat the cold breeze. Smoking on the roof during winter wasn’t the smartest idea, but he feels too caged in his dorm right now. He hears the door bang open behind him and doesn’t even react, still tucked in on himself. “Hey,” He greets, words muffled by the cigarette. “Here to join the party? Good luck, it’s fucking freezing up here,” He makes an effort to sound unaffected, but he’s pretty sure it doesn’t work. He’s a fucking terrible actor. 

After their back to back wins, the mood is understandably somber tonight, but Sasha didn’t want to spend her night moping with the others. They’re still in Championships, and Sasha had a great time playing striker, while also getting a good hit in without getting kicked off the court. That’s how she finds herself in some house party she’s pretty sure belongs to a group of football players. It’s a little too frat boy for her, with keg stands and beer pong, but has a few shots and finds a way to enjoy herself.

But eventually, it’s stops being fun, and just hot, sticky, and sweaty, so she waves off the random person she was talking to and escapes out the front door. She shivers when the cold air hits her cheeks and zips up her leather jacket before pulling out a cigarette, lighting it as she heads down the driveway. 

All she hears as she starts her walk back to the Tower is the muffled music and her heels clicking against the pavement, and it’s weirdly peaceful. Each drag from her cigarette only further relaxes her, and the few shots leave her pleasantly buzzed. She doesn’t get too far when she spots a familiar figuring walking in the direction she just left. “If you’re heading for the party, I’d turn around. It’s a bust,” She advises as she flicks ash from her cigarette. 

Here’s the selfish thought. 

Grant’s spent so much time considering what will happen if the Foxes win this year. He’s obsessed over what it means if they lose too. Whatever the outcome though, whether it’s a dream or a nightmare, it’s with him at the head of the team. Grant’s never thought about what happens if they do it without him. If he’s on the bench—for the last few months of the year, or even for good. It could be the same result either way, when this is his last semester as a Fox. No one will recruit an injured athlete in the Spring.

Exy is a rough sport. Grant’s followed it since he was a child, and he’s seen careers cut short from injury time and time again. He’s always known that was an option, but he’s never considered that it might be his career on the line so soon. The goal feels like a safe space; he protects it, and it protects him in turn. No one else is allowed beyond those markers, and that means no one is allowed to even touch him, let alone tackle him.

Until he dives for the ball, caught up in the grit and fear of the death match, and it all goes wrong.

Maybe Grant’s catastrophizing. Nurse Winfield had tried to reassure him, but he’d felt something twist when he went down, he’d only managed to leave the court by leaning too heavily on an obviously concerned Akira, and she can’t give him answers yet. It’s too soon to say,  Nurse Winfield said. When the swelling goes down, and if nothing’s changed, I can order an X-ray tomorrow when he’d pushed for more. So there’s nothing he can solve tonight then, and that’s horrible. He can only press the ice pack against his knee, make sure the bandage is wrapped tight, and hope for the best.

He hates the uncertainty. The anxiety. He’s restless and angry and, most of all, useless from his current perch on Leo’s couch—because of course Grant’s still here at the victory party, still determined to acknowledge the importance of this win, even if his knee fucking hurts. The sharp, brutal ache of it does nothing for his mood.

When Wmyack told them all to enjoy the night, Jen took it to heart. While the Foxes didn’t win, they’re acting like they did, and Jen is reveling in it. That’s part of being a Vixen, just kind of going with the mood of the team they cheer for. They’re grateful there’s a party tonight, because it’s always a little disappointing when they spend their away games in their hotel rooms, especially in a cool city like Chicago. 

The night is kind of a blur, but Jen knows they spent the majority of it dancing between celebratory shots. Now their skin is tacky with sweat, and their makeup is smeared underneath their eyes, but they’re the kind of drunk where everything is too fun to worry about little things like that. At some point, someone must’ve ordered a pizza, because now Jen has a slice of Chicago pizza in each hand, one for themself and one to pass on to anyone who may need it. 

They weave through the crowd, shaking their hips to the beat as they navigate their way around the room until they bump into someone. “Pizza delivery!” Jen exclaims as they hold up the slice they haven’t bitten into yet. “It’s important to soak up the alcohol, and I hear it’s against the law to go to Chicago without eating pizza so…” Jen ungracefully shoves the slice in their direction, a too big smile on their flushed face. 

There’s a door that Leo keeps closed. 

It’s been years, now, since his father died. After the funeral, Leo spent almost a year here, in this house, untangling his father’s legacy, separating out what pieces of it he wanted to keep and which he wanted to sell, trying to ignore the guilt that came along with it. In that year, though, and the years since, Leo has never managed to clean out the master suite, his father’s room. Every time he’s tried, he’s found himself quickly overwhelmed, running away again. Closing the door behind him, keeping it closed.

The people that come in to clean the house, so it doesn’t settle into dust and disrepair while Leo’s away, go in there, Leo knows. But they know to close the door behind them, too, and so Leo can pretend that it stays that way. Sealed off from the world. There’s a safe in there, Leo knows, in the back of the closet. He doesn’t know the code, even though he’s tried to guess it. What could be in there, though, Leo doesn’t want to guess. Carefully avoids thinking about. 

The door is standing ajar now, and he finds himself drawn to it. The only thing worse than setting foot in there himself is thinking of one of his teammates in there. 

It’s no one’s fault. Leo opened the doors to his house wide, tonight, like he was back in high school for a night. There’s nowhere else in this house that’s off limits, so why would anyone think this room is? It’s not like he’s put a lock on it, because that would feel too weak. Like giving up. 

He pokes his head in, though he keeps himself hovering on the threshold, leaning against the doorframe, not really going inside. “Hey, you’re—” he says, keeping his tone as light as he can, as friendly as he can, though he’s sure there’s some strain creeping in, “—not supposed to be in here. Sorry.”

It’s not that he’s engrossed in the gossip site, but there’s a strange curiosity that he can’t shake. He’s not engaging with the site, not like its target audience would, but the nagging thought that people could emit such an air of cattiness through words is it’s own form of impressive. But to him, it’s also unnecessary the way these people try to inspect into others’ lives to then spread information to the rest of the world.

“Not to state the obvious, and I’m sure it’s been said so many times throughout this year, but ---- anyone else think Foxwatch is just fucking creepy?”

Alanna is not a morning person. Especially not the night after a party, especially not when their flight isn’t for ages. In a better world, she’d be asleep for hours still. Actually, in a perfect world, she’d sleep right through this hangover. In the real world though, she wakes up at 6am with a horrible taste in her mouth and a head that’s pounding enough to keep her awake the rest of the morning. 

She isn’t sure how long it takes her to roll out of bed and track down painkillers and water, to get dressed and do her makeup as well as she can in this state, but she doesn’t feel much more like a person by the end of it. She needs food. She doesn’t want the continental breakfast either, with its sad looking collection of fruits and oatmeal packets and plain coffee creamers. 

But the prospect of facing Chicago alone? Alanna can just see herself getting lost and missing the flight. Or, worse, calling Cade to come find her in the nick of time—making her the exact opposite of the cool, independent step-sister she wishes she was. 

Thankfully, there are familiar faces in this hotel even at this godawful hour, and Alanna stops the first one she sees. “Hey, any chance you’re hungry? I need bacon. And hash browns. Maybe some eggs too. Definitely a fancy coffee with lots of milk and sugar.” 

Every month, like clockwork, the Everharts have sent Raleigh a care package. There’s usually a box of tea in there, and there’s a corner cabinet in the Vixen Den’s kitchen that Raleigh has monopolized for herself to hold it all, ready for her to unleash her wrath on any Vixen who takes what doesn’t belong to them—what belongs to her. 

She’s not good at sharing, even now that she’s got more than enough to share. Jealously hoards every token of affection she receives, no matter how many of them there are. Because she still remembers a time when she didn’t, when it seemed like she didn’t have anything at all, that all the remnants of her old life were slipping through her fingers, and she had to fight to defend what shreds of herself remained. 

Now, though, she imagines packing it all up in a box at the end of the year, ready to be loaded into her car and driven back to Houston, and it all seems a little silly. It’s just tea, after all. 

She thinks about these things, now. Back in September, it felt like this year would never end. But now, somehow, it’s March. Like she could just blink and her last remaining months at Palmetto will be gone, just like that. Like, maybe, she’d wish that time would slow down, just a little bit. 

Today feels slow. A sunny afternoon, a couple hours between the end of her last class and the start of practice. Time to waste. “You want a cup?” She asks with a slight smile, barefoot and leaning against the kitchen counter. “This isn’t an offer that comes around often, but I’m feeling generous."