Location: Pasadena High School Timestamp: Senior Year
trigger warnings: Addiction, drug abuse, body image, neglect, and generally a lot of dark teenage Brayden thoughts
āCoach Wymack showed up when Brayden needed him most, interested in the notoriously fast striker that vanished from the court. And what so many others had looked over or disregarded, Wymack recognized, used to seeing the same signs in past recruits: the gaunt cheeks, puffy eyes, the track marks hidden under sleevesāall the telltale sign of an addict. Brayden knew that the Foxes were essentially a halfway house and would usually reject being seen as a charity case, but he was desperate to get away.ā
When the principal calls Brayden into his office, heās sure itās finally happening. Heās getting expelled. Honestly, heās surprised it took this long for them to finally kick him out. He barely shows up to class, ignores his homework, and completely abandoned going to exy practice. The bleachers have become almost a second home to him, or at least he spends more time there than his actual home.
It shouldāve been better after Landon left, one less person to breathe down his neck, but itās not. His mom has no one to fond over anymore, so she switches between giving Brayden disgusted looks or completely ignoring his existence. Itās like heās a ghost. He feels like a ghost, haunting the bleachers, completely numb and barely attached to reality.
The thing is, he knows how fucked up he is. That fourteen year old kid who got high for the first time feels like a stranger to him now. It just escalated so fast from there, and he only gets worse by the day. Heās starting to lose hope that itāll ever get better. Looking in the mirror terrifies him, because he doesnāt recognize the person looking back at him anymore. And he just doesnāt get how anyone can look at him and not see someone whoās practically a shell of a human. Maybe, they donāt notice. Maybe, they donāt care. Thereās fleeting moments where he convinces himself that he can stop using and beat this by himself, but then the cravings kick in, and itās too hard to resist. Especially when thereās no one to encourage him to stop. Ā
The door shuts behind him as he steps into the office, his hands tremble at his sides when he comes face to face with the principal, his coach, and a man he doesnāt recognize. If they expel him, his mom will definitely kick him out, and then what? Heās left to become some junkie living on the streets?
His coach looks him up and down with a sneer on his face before turning his attention to the other man. āWell, hereās Sykes. I donāt know why you bother, Wymack. The kid hasnāt been to practice in months. I wouldāve kicked him off the team, but I havenāt been able to actually track him down,ā His coach grumbles. āHeās good, yeah. Not as good as his brother, but one of the fastest strikers Iāve had on the team, but that doesnāt mean much when he doesnāt show up.ā
Wymack. As in David Wymack from the Foxes. Heās looking at Brayden so intently that it makes his skin crawl, and he canāt help but scratch at his forearm uncomfortably. Wymackās gaze follows the movement, and it makes him stop immediately and shove his trembling hands in his sweatshirt pocket.
āItās a good thing I didnāt ask for your opinion then. Can I talk to Sykes alone?ā Wymack asks, and his coach looks like he wants to argue, but he shakes his head and leaves the office.
āThis is my office,ā The principal points out with a scoff.
āYeah, thanks for letting me borrow it,ā He counters. The two seem to have some kind of staring contest before the principal reluctantly leaves. Maybe, he likes the idea of having two former students on a Class I team too much to put up a fight.
With the other two gone, Wymack crosses his arms over his chest and gives Brayden his full attention, whoās still hovering by the door and trying to curl in on himself to make himself less noticeable, eyes shifting frantically around the room.
The man studies his face for a beat before finally speaking up, āYou look like shit, Sykes. Anyone ever tell you that?ā
āMaybe, thatās just my face,ā Brayden replies flatly with a shrug, though his heart is pounding in his chest. Wymack is the first person to ever say anything, and itās both a relief and terrifying.
āThatās definitely part of it, but you werenāt born that way, kid. Iāve seen enough addicts in my day to know the signs,ā Wymackās face softens a little at that, but it does nothing to reassure Brayden.
āFuck you, you donāt know anything,ā Brayden snaps as he backs up towards the door, readying himself to escape. āIs this a fucking intervention? I thought you were a coach, not a fucking therapist.ā
His outburst doesnāt seem to phase the man though as he lets out a short laugh. āYeah, right. You ever hear of the Foxes?ā
Of course, heās heard of the Foxes. His brother plays for the team that put them through hell years ago. Itād be fucking ironic if Wymack was here to recruit him. Landon would be a Raven and Brayden a Fox, the two teams that always seem to be at war with each other.
āYeah, youāre like the halfway home of Exy. Iām not interested,ā His jaw clenches as he looks resolutely at his worn sneakers.
āIāve seen your reel, and youāre good. Fucking fast enough to have made a name for yourself, at least. But nobody seems to know why you just stopped playing. Donāt know how though, look at you,ā Wymack gestures to him, and Brayden knows exactly what he means--the gaunt cheeks, the sunken, red-rimmed eyes, the dark circles, and pale skin.
He spent the last few years wishing someone would see him, and it looks like heās finally getting his wish, but now he wants to take it back. He feels too exposed. All it took was one glance for Wymack to understand what his own family either doesnāt notice or ignores. Brayden continues to stare at his feet and avoids meeting Wymackās expectant gaze. He doesnāt have anything to say to that. He just wants the conversation to end, so he can go to the bleachers.
Sighing Wymack crosses the room and grabs a packet from the desk before shoving it towards Brayden. āI want to sign you on to the Foxes, Sykes. You need a lot of work, but youād make a good striker. Youād have a full five year scholarship to Palmetto, access to therapy, a meal plan, and you can stay with the staff over the summer if you canāt come back here.ā
Brayden hesitantly takes the contract with a trembling hand and stares down at it. He canāt make sense of any of the words, because they just blur together. He never considered college. He figured he didnāt have the grades for it, and heās not really in a place where can actually function on campus. He always wanted to do something with art, like become a tattoo artist. He could get a degree in art, and he wouldnāt have to come back to Pasadena. It all seems a little too good to be true.
āWhatās the catch?ā He asks, clearing his throat as he finally looks at Wymack.
āRehab. Iāve recruited plenty of addicts, but I expect them to try and get sober. Thereās a facility in Palmetto you can go to over the summer, and Betsy, our therapist, will work with you too.ā
Braydenās knuckles turn white as he clenches the contract in his hands, the paper practically vibrating in his grip. Heās thought about getting clean so many times, but he always wanted to do it by himself. He doesnāt want help or to talk. He doesnāt want a therapist asking how he feels about this and that and make him feel more pathetic than he already is.
Heās desperate though. He knows if he stays here, heāll either end up on the streets or continue to feel unwanted in his own house. He doesnāt even like Exy, but he can play for a few years if it means a scholarship and a place to live. Rehab is almost enough to make him refuse. The idea of it alone makes him sick with fear, but itās only a few months. All the celebrities seem to go, so why not him?
āFine,ā Brayden finally responds, swallowing roughly. āGive me a pen.ā


















