Chapter Text
“Ok so like, you make a V with your fingers, like this,” Garcia demonstrated with one hand, the other holding a thin piece of paper. Her fingers were straight, but there was a discernible tremor in her left hand that she couldn’t seem to control. It had made her earlier efforts in vain, which was part of the reason Neil now sat on the back porch of Wymack’s house holding a pack of rolling papers and a lighter. The other part, the part where he’d screamed so loudly in his sleep last night that Wymack had burst into his room with a gun, was a separate issue. Between Wymack’s propensity for waking up around three in the morning, Garcia’s inability to sleep more than a couple of hours at a time, and Neil’s restlessness, there was no hour at which the house was guaranteed to be silent.
Her dark eyes flicked to him, one eyebrow raised, and Neil quickly copied what she was doing. She didn’t comment on the fact that his fingers were crooked, that his V was misshapen, only nodded once he’d gotten his paper in the correct position.
“Ok, now the weed.” She tilted it out of an orange pill bottle, but considering it was the dead of night and she kept glancing at the screen door, as if she expected Wymack to emerge at any moment, he doubted that she’d gotten this from Abby. Neil followed her instructions, rolling the joint tightly and handing it to her when it was finished.
She took it with immense satisfaction, lighting the end and taking a deep drag and holding it in her chest. Neil lit his own cigarette when he was offered the lighter. It helped, some, with the itch that had grown underneath his skin as his body healed. Lately, he’d had the urge to just…step off the back porch and start running. Like every moment he spent sitting still was another opportunity to be tracked down. The smoke stayed with him for a heartbeat before dissipating, reminding him of golden eyes and strong hands, keeping him in place.
“You can have some,” Garcia offered, waving the joint, and for a moment Neil was tempted. He may have said yes, but her hands were steady in a way they hadn’t been when they’d both come out to give their sleeplessness to the night air. He shook his head, ignoring her shrugged shoulder. “My cousin is going to mail me some more next week. From California.”
“How did he get ahold of it?” Neil asked, mostly because he was aware that he hadn’t spoken out loud for some time now. It was cold enough for his breath to be visible for a moment, lingering like the smoke. It was colder in the dead of night, and harder for him, somehow, to muster the energy to keep the conversation going, when someone was awake with him. He didn’t understand how he could feel the energy buzzing deep within his chest and be so exhausted at the same time.
“I definitely did not ask that question. Do you have cousins? I mean, I guess not.”
“I do,” Neil corrected her. “At least one. I–“ He wasn’t sure how to explain Jamie. He certainly couldn’t imagine her sending him drugs, unless it was part of some greater scheme. He wasn’t sure how to explain it to Garcia when he barely understood himself, what his cousin’s interest in him was. When she’d torn so many lives apart and claimed she’d done it for him. Neil could almost see her here, the satisfaction in her voice as she purchased him a respite with blood he’d never asked her to shed. He’d missed whatever Garcia had said, and lost his chance to respond.
“Nevermind, we don’t have to talk about it. I mean, I just assumed you didn't have any family,” Garcia finished lamely.
Neil wasn’t sure how to respond to that either, so he stayed silent, suddenly too tired to explain.
He had people who felt like family, as he knew it. Who felt like Mary’s fierce protection and Nathan’s cold anger. He had Andrew, and Jean. His lips twitched as he imagined asking Jean if he could send him weed. He’d probably be willing, Neil thought.
“Some of my cousins hate me, but they would come if I needed them to break me out or something.”
Neil opened his mouth to tell her that Jamie hadn’t known that he was in the nest, but closed it just as quickly. They’d known. They just hadn’t cared. It was a foreign thought, to him, that relation meant expectation. He knew Andrew felt that his twin was owed his protection. Even Riko had been granted that. A light came on above their heads: Wymack, getting out of bed. He’d taken Kevin in before he’d known that he was his father. He’d taken in Andrew and Aaron, their cousin Nicky. The rest of the Foxes. Neil, now.
“Why didn’t they?” he asked Garcia, who raised both of her hands in surrender.
“Ask them, how the fuck am I supposed to know?”
Neil crushed the rest of his cigarette and turned his back, not bothering to close the screen door softly until he remembered that Abby was likely still asleep, and winced in apology. He fetched a cup and flicked the lever on the electric kettle to heat. Hot water and miso soup was almost foolproof, as far as setting the kitchen on fire went. The smell of it reminded him of the Nest, but it also reminded him that Tetsuji was dead, and it seemed like the flavor had much improved from that alone. Wymack appeared at the top of the stairs, his eyes tired and his hair in disarray. He didn’t say anything as he brushed past to start the coffee pot.
“You’re gonna be up all night, Coach,” Garcia admonished as she came back inside, leaning heavily on her crutches to make it to the table. Neil hoped that the smell of weed had fully dissipated, but it was hard to tell with the taste of his cigarette still clinging to his own tongue. He looked out again, past both of them to the back door, and wondered if he could get away with a second.
“Neil?”
The sound of his name drew him back into the kitchen, and he realized he’d missed half of a conversation when Wymack shook his keys at him.
“Where?” he asked him, but it was Garcia who answered.
“Court.”
“You look like you want to get out of the house. Actually, it looks like you might want to make a run for it.”
Neil froze, and tore his eyes away from the door. He swallowed, dread clawing through the numbness to wrap around his throat. When he was finally able to meet Wymack’s eye, after several agonizing heartbeats, he wasn’t angry. He seemed to be waiting for Neil’s response. He forced himself to breathe, the ache in his lungs telling him he’d momentarily forgotten how.
“Grab Andrew’s sweatshirt, no one will look twice,” Wymack advised, pouring his coffee into a thermos. Neil was grateful for an excuse to slink out of the kitchen, and less grateful to be squeezed in between Wymack and Garcia for the drive over.
The lights came on in a delay, like there wasn't enough power, or they were unhappy to be woken up at three in the morning. He'd been here before. Played here before, beaten the Foxes here time and time again. The paint was peeling, the wooden floors were so worn that no amount of oil and buffing could have made them shine. Neil walked out onto the court to the midline, watching the rows and rows of empty seats illuminate section by section. Garcia trailed behind him, the rubber of her crutches making a squeaking sound as they touched down. Wymack bolted the doors, carrying three racquets over his shoulder. He offered one to Neil.
“Two rules,” Wymack told him before he let go of the racquet. He stilled when Neil did, their bodies becoming aware of the tension at the same time. Neil swallowed, heard his throat click loudly in the silence. Wymack shook the stick once, gently, and stepped back so that Neil could breathe. “No running, and we don’t tell Abby.”
Neil lost interest in asking what he was supposed to do, other than not run, when his hands found their position on the racquet. It was lighter than the one he usually played with, but familiar all the same. He tested his range of motion, feeling the wound on his chest pull tight as he raised his arms. Andrew’s sweatshirt was soft against his skin, roomy enough that he could move well in it, and although it was strange to see orange out of the corner of his eye, he felt his body sink into the familiarity with such a sense of relief that he stumbled.
“Careful,” Wymack admonished. “Third rule: do not rip out your stitches.” He tossed him an easy serve, and Neil caught it neatly, his body crouching into position instinctively. He wasn’t warmed up, but he didn’t need to be with how slowly the pass had come. Garcia had shucked her crutches and was looking at him expectantly, so Neil tossed it to her in a lazy, slow arc that would have cost him blood with the Ravens. The second time he passed to her, she missed the catch, watching the ball roll away with detached interest. Neil couldn’t tell if she was high or contemplative, but her feet remained in the same position, as if nailed to the floor. Wymack chased after it without hurry, shooting a respectable pass back to him from the far side of the court. Neil snatched it out of the air and sent it back marginally faster, making him work to get his racquet up in time.
When Wymack suggested they mock scrimmage, Neil raised an eyebrow but complied, watching Garcia pick up her crutches and move to the goal. Squaring up against Wymack was not as daunting as he’d expected. Here on the court, the coach was just another backliner, just another obstacle to be dealt with. He was slow, and Neil felt the urge to sprint past him grow until the direction not to run nearly tripped him. He settled for juking, faking to the left and lunging right, sinking his shot past Garcia, who hadn’t even tried to block. She was still getting herself situated in the goal, one crutch in hand.
“Ok, slow it down,” Wymack said, pulling another ball out of his pocket. Neil imagined what the master would have said about this display, and couldn’t help letting out a huff of laughter. He didn’t think he’d ever moved more slowly.
He made a game of it, going so slowly that Wymack had a chance to impede him, that Garcia had at least a chance to try and keep him from scoring. Twice, she managed to bat his shots away and receive a gruff “good job” in response from her coach. Neil almost laughed, stopping himself at the last second.
Neil hadn’t known how tightly he’d been holding himself until the warmth of movement melted back into his muscles. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth, and he hadn’t even noticed. His chest, which had felt tight and sore, now seemed to have enough room for his lungs after all.
“Better?” Wymack asked after Garcia had begun to slump, after sweat had begun to appear on his temples. Neil realized that yes, he did feel better. He nodded, and shortly after they packed up, allowing the stadium lights to die behind them.
Once home, Garcia gave the stair a single disgusted look before moving to the living room and flopping down onto the couch. Neil had thought that not informing Abby of their whereabouts tonight was for the sake of his own healing injuries, but watching Wymack heave himself up the stairs made him reconsider. Neil watched him limp upward, giving him time to make it to the top before following. He drank his now-cold soup and considered his options.
He pulled his phone out from his pocket, flipping through the contacts he’d transferred from Andrew’s memory.
“Hatford.” The response was immediate; Neil hadn’t even heard the first ring. Stewart’s voice was professional, the “Hello?” that followed quickly after with just a hint of temper.
“I want to know what’s going on.”
“Neil?” Stewart couldn’t keep the pure shock out of his voice. “Jesus Christ, Mary, and Joseph, we thought you were dead. Where are you?”
“He’s not looking for me?” Neil couldn’t help the question, even though he knew the answer before Stewart gave it to him.
“No, kid. He’s still looking.” He said it slowly, like he was trying to figure out why Neil had called. “We’re in New York again, he’s increased the reward and called in some contractors. He’s not going to believe you’re dead until he’s got a body. Where are you?” he asked again.
“I’m not telling you.”
“Listen, I’m not in control of this anymore, if I ever was. There is–hold on.” He cut himself off, and Neil heard a car door open and shut. “The only thing that’s changed is that before he wasn’t paying for a body. Now he is.”
Neil didn’t know why that felt like a blow. It shouldn’t have been surprising, but somehow it was. He wished suddenly that he’d made this call earlier, while his body was still numb and the words couldn’t reach him.
“It works out for us to have him chasing you. He’s distracted, he’s blowing money faster than he can recuperate it. And he’s sending his people out looking for you instead of where they should be. It works for us. Who it doesn’t work for, is you. There are only so many places to hide.”
“He hasn’t found me yet.”
“My professional opinion is that it’s only a matter of time.”
“Why do you care?” Neil challenged. He heard Tabe’s laugh, cruel and awful, as he explained that Neil was worth nothing in a war that was beyond him. “You didn’t care when my mother–“
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Stewart snarled. His anger, so different from the false, cheerful facade he’d shown Neil in the beginning and the calm he’d answered the phone with, caught Neil off guard. “Don’t you dare say I didn’t care about Mary.”
In the silence that followed, Neil waited for the explanation. The reason Stewart hadn’t come for her, for them, for him. Why he’d been content to wait for years as the Moriyamas did as they’d liked, while Nathan Wesninski ruled his empire. Why he’d never so much as sent a letter.
Stewart was silent, and Neil couldn’t ask.
“We were going to use you as bait,” Stewart said, at last.
“What?”
“We were going to use you to lay a trail for Ichirou to follow, and then ambush him. That was the plan. You’d be free of him, Jamie would be free of her obligation, and the Moriyamas would be done for. You wouldn’t have been in any danger, but we would have used you to draw him to a location—”
Neil laughed. It started out as a hollow thing, but once it began it was hard to quell. “We’ve already done that. That’s how he got my father. Turned me loose as bait and cornered him. What did he tell you, that I panicked and ran?”
“What happened this time, then?” Stewart asked in lieu of an answer, and it was Neil’s turn to be absent an answer. “Because I know you didn’t come up with this on your own. It stinks of desperation. You ran with no plan, when you could have been a part of–”
“You never asked. You never thought once about asking–”
“No, of course not,” Stewart snapped testily. “We had no way of knowing what the situation was.”
“Yes, you did. You could have asked.”
“And if you’d been loyal to Ichirou? What then? Lose my men, lose Jamie, for what, taking the risk–”
“Of having a conversation with a whore, yeah, I get it.”
“Alright, then,” Stewart said slowly, as if he were thinking. “You know my position, and I know yours. You’re on the run, you’re injured, and every day that goes by is another chance that you’re going to be taken in. I can offer you safety, in London.”
“No.”
Stewart was silent for a moment, and Neil heard him take a deep breath before continuing. “Out of respect for your mother, and for our family, I would do this. We can discuss terms later, once this is over.”
Once Ichirou was dead, Neil was sure that’s what he meant. “You want me to–”
“Neil.” Stewart cut him off, his voice softer than it had been. “We have what we wanted: he’s hunting you. It doesn’t matter where you are, it matters that he’s looking. You could be on your way out of the country tomorrow.”
“How?”
“Shipping container. We do it all the time,” he answered immediately. “No one would know where you were or where you’d gone.”
Neil closed his eyes. It was Andrew he spoke to as much as Stewart when he turned him down, barely registering his uncle’s words that he’d call him back if he changed his mind. He was remembering Andrew’s tentative request that Neil not disappear. Not without telling him. Neil was suddenly desperate for a cigarette. For Andrew’s hand on the back of his neck. For his golden eyes to peel his soul bare.
He retreated back inside, tossing the phone onto the counter and shoving his head into his hands. His stomach dropped as the phone vibrated harshly on the counter; he wasn’t ready for anything else from Stewart, but he scrambled for it as he saw Jean’s name scroll across the screen.
“Are you alright?”
“Can I not just call?” Jean asked, and Neil’s shoulders slumped in relief as he heard the amusement in his voice. Behind him, Neil heard traffic and the faint patter of rain.
“Are you–where are you?”
“Still in Detroit,” Jean answered. “I stepped onto the balcony, to have some space. Renee thinks a sniper is a possibility, but Jeremy is distracting her.”
“She still won’t let you out on your own?”
“Non. Neither of us are allowed to be on our own,” Jean told him, and although the idea of it chilled him, Jean still sounded amused. “We are not to go anywhere without her, or Andrew. I am actually waking up to go to our last practice before we fly home, but I wanted to call and tell you about the week, if you wanted that.”
“Yes.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yeah,” Neil was quick to reassure him. “I want to know.”
“It is a mess.” Jean began, and Neil was momentarily distracted by how good it was to hear Jean’s voice, the amusement and disgust in it as he spoke about exy. It was like stepping back onto the court himself, hearing him speak freely. “There are nine travel spots and fifty players here. They’re going to keep bringing everyone to training camps through the winter and then name the team in the spring.”
“That sounds brutal.”
Jean made a scoffing noise that made Neil grin, halfway between derision and begrudging agreement. It was a noise Neil had heard often in the nest. “Muldani is ruthless. Someone must tell her that no one here is the reason she is no longer on the Amazons, she seems to believe it was one of us.”
“She’s giving you a hard time?”
“She is giving everyone a hard time. She put Kevin on his ass both days, just because she could.”
Neil laughed out loud, and got a withering look from Garcia that sent him back onto the porch for the third time that night.
“Federov is here,” Jean admitted begrudgingly. “He has not even looked in my direction; I have not heard him speak. His vice captain is also here. Danielle Wilds.”
“Is she good?”
“She is,” Jean assured him. “As is your Andrew.”
Neil felt his stomach flip in a not unpleasant way, and he could not quite clear the interest in his voice when he asked, “He’s doing well?”
Jean made another scoffing noise, and for reasons Neil didn’t quite understand, he felt the tips of his ears begin to warm.
“He is performing,” Jean assured him. “They did not even bother inviting many other goalies, his place is secured. It is the backline that is going to be the most competitive. They are working us hard; every time I come off the court there is a man waiting to wrap my leg in a sleeve, and then he follows me around with a box that pumps ice water into it. I can go nowhere without him. He is motivated. He is dedicated to my leg being very cold.”
Neil laughed at the image and Jean’s obvious annoyance. “I played some today, too.” It felt wrong to call what they’d done exy, but he wanted to tell Jean anyway.
“That is good. You are healing?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, Neil assured him. “I’m getting better. I just–”
“You do not have to decide now, where you will go,” Jean cut him off, as if reading his thoughts. “You can rest more before deciding.”
Neil agreed, as the voices of Jean’s partners rose in the background, and he heard Jean huff as if someone had just squeezed him from behind. Neil trailed his fingers down the cuff of his sweatshirt as they said their goodbyes. His last thoughts, as he finally climbed the stairs and fell into bed, were that Renee was right to keep her family close.
____________
“There’s mail for you here.”
It was such an improbable sentence that Neil was sure he had misheard. But Wymack was pointing to a cardboard box on the table with the corner of his own mail, indicating he’d heard correctly. It was addressed to David Wymack, with no indication that it was supposed to be opened by Neil, but Wymack had ripped open his letter and was reading with his back turned, so Neil grabbed a knife. Wymack’s eyes flicked up to him, but he didn’t say anything, just went back to opening his own mail.
The box opened easily, revealing a six pack of black socks. Underneath them were a few t-shirts in his size, and beneath them, underwear. Neil pulled them out, eager to swap the ones he wore into the correct size, to shed the too-large, alien folds of Wymack’s boxers that he had to force himself not to think about. Under them lay a travel kit of soap, and toothpaste. A thick bundle of cash in a bank envelope, nail clippers.
“Andrew?”
“Kevin.”
Neil blinked, confused, looking to see if there was an explanation tucked somewhere along the items of clothing. Kevin hadn’t so much as sent him a text; all of Neil’s Barons news had come in from either Allison or Andrew. If Andrew hadn’t told him, Neil wouldn’t have known that Kevin had his number, much less that he knew that Neil was currently sheltering with his father.
“Those stitches are ready to come out.” Wymack interrupted his thoughts, still not looking directly at Neil. He seemed to have decided that it was easier for Neil to speak without eye contact. Today, the mail gave him a ready excuse, although Neil was sure that it couldn’t have taken that long to read an electric bill. He allowed it, because he didn’t know how to tell Wymack that it didn’t matter how careful he was, how slowly he moved back and forth from the refrigerator to the stove; Neil was going to be afraid either way.
“Abby can do them tonight after work, or if you want to wait a few more days–”
“Now,” Neil said, forcing himself to hold the larger man’s eye when he looked up. He saw the surprise land, followed by a forced expression of boredom. Neil remembered it from the photoshoot, the expression of disinterest and blankness that he belatedly realized he also recognized from Andrew. Kevin had never quite managed to master looking disinterested when something interesting was happening.
“I’m not as good as–”
“I can do it,” Neil told him, picking the knife back up. He knew he didn’t want to wait for Abby; it was going to be an unpleasant enough task without waiting, and wondering, and imagining her doing it over and over until she got home.
“Nope,” Wymack said, finally abandoning his mail. The slap it made hitting the table was soft, but not soft enough for Neil not to flinch. “We have sterile scissors in the first aid kit. We’re not using a knife.”
“Kitchen knife,” Neil told him, unsure what caused him to think correcting Wymack was the move he wanted to make in that moment. He paused to see if the remark would go unnoticed, but Wymack nodded, once. Like what Neil had said made any sense.
“What if I show you where the supplies are, and you can do all the ones you can reach. And then when you’re done I can do the back?”
Neil thought about it, even as he nodded. Using scissors would be better than using the knife he still held in his hand. The sawing motion would make the thread vibrate, and it was a sensation that made his teeth ache to remember.
“Does that need to come with us?” Wymack asked, and in response Neil placed the knife gently next to Kevin’s box, picking out a set of clothing to change into instead.
Neil felt a bit strange, like he had run too hard, or slept too little, as he followed Wymack back upstairs. He listened with half an ear as Wymack set items out on the bathroom counter; he’d done this thousands of times, he didn’t need an explanation. Wymack stepped out of the bathroom and Neil stood where he’d been, not looking in the mirror, stripping his clothing off with hands that felt too numb for the job at hand. He focused on the buzzing near his wrists instead of the air brushing across his exposed skin.
“And then we can–Jesus Christ–” Wymack said from the doorway, startling him. Neil blinked at him slowly. He’d already seen his body, multiple times now. He told him so, flatly, reaching for the small pair of scissors and snipping the tail of one of the lines of stitches on his chest. They weren’t just neater than Jean’s, they were tighter, too, causing him to have to lay the blade flat against his skin. It didn’t hurt, pulling the other side and letting the thread slide through the holes, coming out neatly in one long strand.
“I have,” Wymack agreed with him in the voice that told Neil that his face was blank, again, without having to look over and see for himself. “But we can do this part by part. You could put your clothes back on and only take off the parts that we’re working on. I have a bathrobe, here, that I was going to put over your chest and arms.”
“Why?” Neil asked, and he heard Wymack take a deep breath before he answered.
“Wouldn’t that make you more comfortable?”
Neil thought about it, while he fiddled with the string of the next row. He didn’t want to look at his body, multicolored and washed out in the harsh lighting. He didn’t want to look at the mirror, either, or Wymack blocking the door. The third option made his throat close, so instead, Neil focused on the next strip.
“Your hands are shaking.”
Neil didn’t know what to feel, so he latched onto the anger burning in his stomach. “I know,” he snarled, slamming the scissors back down on the counter. The noise was satisfying, as well Wymack taking a step backward.
“We can take a break.”
“We just started,” Neil argued, but it was weak. If his hands were shaking there wasn’t any point in continuing.
“We can stop, sure,” Wymack told him. Neil hadn’t been aware that he’d said the last part out loud. “Or we can try it my way.”
Neil looked at him, and then away again as he stepped into the bathroom, gathering the supplies he’d so neatly set out. “Get dressed and meet me in the kitchen.”
Neil took his time, dressing in the clothing that actually fit him, running the tap on cold and washing his hands, his face. Being alone, and the cold water, helped push away the fog that had settled around him. As did the light streaking through the kitchen windows, the smell of coffee.
Wymack set two glasses on the table next to the supplies, pouring them each a couple of fingers of whiskey. Neil watched him drain his own glass and reached for his. The acrid liquid burned in both directions as he coughed it back up.
“What is that?” he asked, affronted.
“Whiskey.”
“No, it’s not,” Neil argued, feeling the liquid settle into his sinuses.
Wymack burst into laughter. “That’s twenty dollar whiskey, kid. You’re gonna have to get used to it.” Neil drank directly from the sink to wash the taste out of his mouth, and when he turned back around Wymack had a chair turned around backward and a bathrobe in his hands.
“I’m going to start on your shoulder and work down. You can tell me to stop at any time.”
Neil’s skin felt numb, and too sensitive at the same time. The first touch caused him to flinch even though he knew it was coming; Wymack’s hands were rough, but uncertain in a way that was foreign. But by the third row of stitches, Neil remembered how to breathe.
“I’m guessing whatever the Moriyamas had on hand is out of my budget.”
It was a statement, not a question. Neil could stay silent if he wanted to. He weighed his options, before offering, “He liked whiskey.”
“And you don’t. Do you have a drink you prefer?”
“No.”
The small pile of thread slowly grew larger. Neil hadn’t looked at his back, but he supposed that being thrown into a dumpster full of glass would have caused quite a few cuts. “I hope they don’t scar,” Neil joked, almost taking it back when Wymack paused.
“There are a few that won’t, I think,” he said consideringly. “Your tattoo is a little bit…affected.” He reported as if he were giving feedback on a poorly executed drill. Neil snorted in response. “The deeper ones might…blend in?”
“I’m not worried about it.” He rested his head on his arms, feeling a bit more at ease. This was familiar territory. “I used to do this with Jean,” he said. It was easier if he imagined Jean here, especially as Wymack’s touch dipped lower.
“You and Jean took care of each other in the nest.” It was another not-question, Neil wondered if someone had given him that advice, not to ask him questions directly, so that he could choose not to answer if he wanted.
“Yeah,” Neil agreed, “We took care of each other. Even if the team nurses would have done it, we wouldn’t have wanted anyone else–”
“Your team nurses weren’t allowed to treat you?”
Neil shrugged a shoulder. “I mean, if we got hurt on the court, maybe. But not for–it was better if we did it ourselves.”
It was silent behind him long enough for Neil to risk looking over his shoulder. Wymack was trying to keep his face blank, but Neil could see the anger in his eyes.
“I wish Tetsuji was alive to face consequences,” he said after a moment, causing Neil to fully turn around. Wymack took a step back and put the scissors in his back pocket. If Neil hadn’t been so angry, he would have felt foolish, arguing in the bathrobe.
“Why would you say that?” he challenged, but did not wait for the answer. “He’s dead, and that’s what he deserves. Jean killed him.”
“Easy, Neil, I meant that I–”
"Tetsuji was a piece of shit." Neil couldn’t resist making it worse. He heard his voice grow louder, and thought that anyone would have hit him by now. Whatever Wymack did to him, he’d brought it on himself. He might as well go all the way down, now that he’d started digging.
“He was a–” Neil had never had the occasion to say any of this out loud, except to Jean, whispered, hollow, on occasions they could be sure they were alone. “He was a bastard. A fucking bastard who deserves to rot. He liked it. He liked breaking people. He would have–Andrew–”
“Neil, it’s ok.”
"No, it's not."
It was out of Neil's mouth before he could stop himself. Wymack took another step back from him, retreating further as if he was afraid Neil was about to attack him. Neil certainly felt like he might. At the same time, his instincts screamed at him to apologize, to do whatever he could to make Wymack stop looking at him. He wasn't saying anything. But he was watching Neil's body shake with a calculation that felt as if he were about to cross the kitchen and slam Neil to the floor.
“You’re right, I’m sorry. It’s not ok. And it wasn’t ok, when it was happening to you and your friends.”
Neil was so surprised that he stopped trying to find ways to express the depth of his loathing, or to reach the back door before Wymack could, and paused to listen instead.
“I didn’t mean to say he shouldn’t be dead, I meant to say I wish he’d had time to suffer some consequences. I was so angry when they reinstated him. Just a fraction of the pain he caused should have been enough to put him in jail. And I wish I could have seen him pay for it, somehow.”
Neil snarled, his anger not spent. “He belongs in the ground next to his nephew."
“Both of them,” Wymack agreed, and Neil felt the fury that had been nearly suffocating leave him hollow as it burned out. In the wake of it was nothing that could keep him on his feet. He sat, again, taking a deep breath. He should apologize. In a moment, when it felt like he wasn’t drowning, he would apologize.
“You can yell at me any time you want, Neil,” Wymack interrupted his thoughts, handing him back his glass, now half full again. Neil downed it without tasting it and turned back around, silent permission to continue. “I won’t take it personally. And I won’t hit you for it either. I’ve never hit any of my kids, and I’m not about to start now. Even if Kevin does his best to deserve it, sometimes, that’s not the kind of coach or father I want to be.”
Neil scoffed lightly in response. Wymack’s knees cracked as he crouched to remove the last of the stitches.
“And you’ve more than earned it. Your anger. Hell, I’m both surprised and impressed that you didn’t kill Andrew at the beginning. I mean, I’m glad you didn’t. But it would have been understandable. Done,” Wymack announced, giving Neil privacy to handle the last of them, the ones on the inside of his thighs. Neil felt as if he’d spent the afternoon running laps instead of seated in a chair. He was suddenly exhausted, too tired to even acknowledge that Wymack had been right about having clothes on being easier. He stumbled up the stairs without looking back and fell face-first into bed, asleep almost faster than he could pull the covers over himself.
When he woke hours later, it was dark. The house was still, and the first floor was empty as he made his way down to the kitchen. Neil checked his phone, surprised to find that it was just after midnight, on Saturday.
Neil glanced at the television. It was less likely to explode if he couldn’t make it work, and the pull was so strong that he decided to risk it. He pushed the power button and then immediately began pressing the volume as quickly as he could, to mute the sound before it could wake anyone. He didn’t have to change the channel; it was already tuned to ESPN. He watched, impatiently, as the sportscasters spoke, their mouths moving, giving commentary that Neil neither heard or cared to. Finally, after what seemed to be ages, they switched to game footage.
He remembered Jean’s voice as he told him to try and not watch the games. How wistful he had seemed, as if he already knew Neil would not be able to resist. Neil felt the loneliness wrap around his neck and choke him.
There was Davis, his broad shoulders seeming so small from this far away. Playing with him, he always seemed to span the width of the court. The footage followed the ball, which meant Neil got to see Davis, Ash, and Kevin well before he caught a glimpse of Andrew. The Bayonettes finally managed to get the ball within striking distance of Andrew, who shut them down far too quickly. Neil barely got a second to view him before the rebound was snatched up and hurled up the court.
“Backline’s a little slow,” Wymack said, and Neil screamed. He threw himself to the wall so quickly that every joint in his body ached in protest. His heart fought its way up his throat as his feet scrambled for purchase.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I called your name from the stairs.”
Neil panted heavily through Abby rushing down the stairs, through Wymack explaining what was happening, through them reheating leftovers for him that he felt too queasy to attempt. He didn’t even try to peel himself off of the wall until Wymack had sat on the far end of the couch and turned the volume up, the familiar sound of feet drumming on the hardwood matching the beat of his heart as if it raced alongside them.
“There. Right there,” Wymack said a second before Andrew sent a shot flying back down the court. Neil hummed in agreement; it was all he could manage right now. “You can teach that, but it takes years. Andrew’s always had the timing right.” He looked over at Neil. “Do you want to see his tape?”
“His tape?”
“The tape that was sent out on his behalf. I know the Ravens got a copy, did you see it?”
Neil shook his head, and Wymack stood, opening the cabinet underneath the television and beginning to search through a stack of VHS tapes. Eventually, he found the one he was looking for, grunting as he stood and fiddled with the remote, cutting the Barons from view.
The court was outlined in tape and spraypaint, a harsh, blank wall on one side and a fence topped with razor wire on the other. Past the goalpost, Neil could see a watchtower and several basketball hoops bunched together. No stadium seats or crowd lined the court, and there were no jerseys to differentiate the teams. Just twelve players crashing into one another in a grainy mess. Neil could barely recognize Andrew, the video quality was so poor. He was several pounds lighter than the Andrew he knew, yet to fill out in the ways that he would in later years. But he stood in goal, unmistakable, and when the ball came his way the timing was nearly identical.
“He just had it,” Wymack told him. “When he got here I didn’t have to teach him anything about exy, it was all the other shit that tripped him up.” He put the game back on, and Neil watched the Barons wrap up their win without him.
Neil suddenly realized he was still standing with his back to the wall and forced himself to walk stiffly to the couch and sit down. Beside him, Wymack had turned his attention to a tall stack of files decorating the coffee table.
“What are these?” Neil asked, leaning forward to grab one of the files.
“Foxes,” Wymack answered curtly, rubbing a hand over his face. “Or rather, future Foxes. I’ve got funding for thirty this year-which is a hell of a lot of kids when they’re all in a room together making trouble, but nothing compared to the amount of coaches sending me play tapes. Everyone has a player good enough for a scholarship that’s just got too much baggage for a recruiter to risk signing. Every single high school coach out there has at least one kid who fights, or bites, or goes to bed hungry and thinks I can help.”
Neil opened the file to find a slightly blurry photo of a young woman with dreadlocks smiling hesitantly, a deathgrip on her racquet. Her jersey had a hornet on it, but Neil didn’t recognize the colors. The pages that followed were game stats; she was a goalie, and not a very good one. Neil flipped through the pages, unimpressed.
“What’s wrong with her?” he finally asked, causing Wymack to look up from where he’d gone back to reading. He squinted at the photo when Neil held it up, grunted, “Drugs”, and went back to what he was doing.
"Will you sign her?" Neil asked, replacing the file and grabbing another one.
"I'm not sure. I might try Garcia in goal."
"But she can't play." She’d been exhausted after their outing, sleeping well into the next day and moving with obvious pain.
"It's her choice, whether she tries or not. If she wants to, I'll help her. If she doesn't, that's fine. That's what a coach does. What do you think about this one?” He handed Neil a striker, and he dutifully read through their statistics as he thought about who was supposed to do what, and why.
After Wymack had gone back to bed, Neil brought his phone out again, redialing the number from a few nights before.
“Hatford.”
It was the beat of silence, the slightest hesitation before Stewart answered that gave Neil pause. The inflection was the same as before, but something was off.
“It’s Neil,” he said tentatively, but was cut off before he could say anything else.
“Nathaniel?” Stewart asked, echoing their earlier conversation. Neil had called from this number before; there was too much surprise in his voice, the incredulous tone, the quickly added “Where are you?” that set Neil’s teeth immediately on edge.
“I can’t tell you,” he said, playing along. “I need…I need…money.” Neil was unable to calm the tremor in his voice, but he thought, given the circumstances, it was understandable.
“I can send it, tell me where you are.”
“I can’t tell you.”
There was a beat of silence, that stretched, and stretched, until a new voice came over the line.
“Nathaniel.”
Dread rolled over Neil like a physical weight, like a backliner putting him in the wall. His stomach cramped so swiftly that it nearly brought him to his knees. It felt as if he were in the room with him, as if at any moment Neil would feel his hand on his shoulder, pushing him down to kneel. The room tilted alarmingly, and Neil heard his own blood roar in his ears.
On the heels of the terror, Neil felt a burning, near blinding anger. It was effective, dragging the fear down and drowning it, allowing him to shove it away as the urge to move, to lash out, overwhelmed him. For a fleeting second he wished that Ichirou was there. So that he could tear him apart with his own hands. So that he could remember the taste of Ichirou’s blood flowing past his molars, hear the way he screamed.
“Answer me,” Ichirou ordered.
Neil hung up.