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“Well you know that old saying: ‘Keep your friends close and make out with your enemies.’” — Shae Ross
Neil Josten shifted in the uncomfortable folding chair, the metal creaking under his weight. Twenty microphones were mounted on the table in front of him and his two teammates. Camera flashes blinded him, and it was a conscious effort not to ball his clammy fist in the loose fabric of his shorts as feedback whistled through the speakers.
He’d never be truly comfortable in front of the media. Two years of playing with the Falconers had cemented that fact in stone. But Neil suffered through it—fucking contracts.
A nameless reporter’s voice rose above the din, and Neil’s captain—Tony Clark, average striker and unreasonably reasonable person—leaned forward in his seat to answer.
Neil’s mind was elsewhere, far far away from the storm of noise and stuck on keys and late nights and clove cigarettes passed back and forth across the hood of a Maserati. He hadn’t seen Andrew in person for months. It was the longest time they’d spent apart since Neil’s fifth year, when Andrew was traveling with his new team and Neil had daily practices with the Foxes. A Facetime screen did not do Andrew justice.
But tonight, their respective teams were playing each other. Finally. Neil’s first glimpse of Andrew would be through the metal cage of his Exy helmet, but he had always liked how Andrew looked in his gear, so he didn’t mind.
Clark was still droning on about their training schedule and the “tireless dedication of the entire team,” and Neil felt his subpar media-training slip a little further from his grip. Pre-game press run-downs always bored him to tears. He’d literally been tortured, and sometimes he’d rather be back in that car than answering questions from these vultures in pressed suits. Whenever the Falconers’ management could maximize publicity on his and Andrew’s so-called rivalry, though, nothing Neil could say would get him out of these press conferences.
“Mr. Josten, Mr. Josten! Is there anything you’d like to say to Mr. Minyard before the match today?”
Right on fucking cue, Neil thought.
In their first pro-game against each other last year, Andrew had greeted him with a middle finger and his signature two-fingered salute. Neil had shot back a mockingly flirty wave, but no one else saw the affection behind their gestures—only the taunts.
Next thing they both knew, there were Buzzfeed quizzes and overly invasive questions in interviews and click-bait news articles—‘Minyard-Josten Rivalry?: From Teammates to Trouble.’ Overnight, their rivalry had become the most talked about topic in professional Exy, much to Kevin’s dismay and Andrew’s eternal amusement.
Neil was completely unsurprised by the reporter’s question, so he smiled his father’s smile—the one the press seemed to salivate at the most and derive a perverted sense of pleasure from—and leaned into his microphone: “Minyard better bring his all because we won’t be holding back.”
Clark had leaned back in his chair and covered his mouth. Neil was sure his side-eye was meant to intimidate him into keeping his mouth shut, but Clark didn’t really have it in him. A young blonde reporter called over the din that followed Neil’s response and redrew Clark’s attention.
“Mr. Clark! As captain, how do you feel about the intense rivalry between your teammate and the Bearcats’ goalie? Are you worried this game will become overly physical?”
“I’m confident in Neil’s ability as a player and in his dedication to this team.” Clark slipped him another look. “I know he’ll set aside his personal feelings concerning Minyard in order to play the game the way it needs to be played.”
It felt like a warning, but Neil just smiled again, a little sarcastic curl of his lip. Anticipation settled in his gut.
.:..:.
The Falconers’ stadium was a sea of green, interspersed with the reds and whites of the Bearcats. Neil didn’t think he’d ever get used to the roar of a home-court crowd as he stepped out onto a professional Exy court. He took his starting spot at the half-court line, the rest of his team already in position behind him, and waited for the announcer to call the away team’s roster.
Neil was itching to hear Andrew's name over the loud-speakers. To finally get his first glimpse of him since they’d said their lengthy goodbye in the parking garage at Neil’s apartment complex a month prior.
“Number seven, goalie Andrew Minyard!” The announcer’s voice echoed through the stadium, through Neil.
Andrew didn’t acknowledge the crowd as he stepped onto the court. The sight of him sent a rush of relief through Neil’s chest, relaxing his muscles and easing a weight he hadn’t even realized was there. Andrew's bulky goalie pads hid his true proportions, but his gait was achingly familiar.
Neil had lived in hundreds of towns, had slept in everything from tents to cars to ratty, nasty hotel rooms, but none of them had ever been home. Not till Palmetto. Till Andrew. Andrew had pressed those keys into his hand, had spent those late nights with him, and had passed those clove cigarettes back and forth over the hood of that Maserati.
Andrew was home.
Instead of walking towards his position in goal, Andrew headed directly for Neil. When he stopped in front of him, Neil quirked his lips and stood up straighter, boasting those small few inches of height he had on Andrew. Andrew tangled his fingers in the metal of Neil’s helmet and pulled him close, bumping their foreheads together and lingering. The gesture was achingly soft, and Neil closed his eyes. He barely registered the crowd’s roaring reaction, too focused on resisting the urge to place his hands upon Andrew’s biceps.
“I missed you,” Neil whispered, blinking open his eyes and hungrily drinking in Andrew’s features.
They stood in silence for the length of four heartbeats, and Neil knew it was absurd—ridiculous and unlikely—but he’d swear he could smell the alluring scent of Andrew’s pine and mint aftershave.
“Missed you, too, junkie,” Andrew murmured. He pushed Neil away with a flirty shove of his helmet and stalked to his position in front of the goal.
“The fuck he want?” Anna Spilski yelled from her dealer position in center court.
“Nothing!” Neil yelled back. “Just trying to rile me before first serve.”
“You good?” She pulled her helmet half-off and arched an eyebrow at him. Neil liked Anna; she was a fantastic dealer, and her personality reminded him fondly of Alison Reynolds—all boisterous energy and unflappable confidence.
“Never been better.” Neil grinned and tossed his racket from one hand to the other and back again.
The game began with an intensity Neil always relished, but by the end of the first half, it was borderline vicious and had definitely lost its charm. Yellow cards were being handed out like candy on Halloween, but Kevin would be proud that Neil hadn’t incurred a single one.
Andrew had played the first twenty minutes of the half and had promptly shut Neil out, all with a shit-eating grin on his face. (A real grin that Neil had seen more and more of these past few years.) Clark had managed to sneak one point past Andrew, but Neil’s lack of scoring wasn’t for lack of trying—Andrew just knew all of Neil’s tricks.
But once Andrew was subbed, Neil’s team racked up the points, and they managed to be two points ahead going into the second half, holding that lead well into the game.
Neil was sore all over. His thigh was throbbing from an “accidental” hit from the backliner’s racket, and he was almost positive his shoulder was going to need a proper icing before he left the stadium tonight. The second half of the game had broken down even quicker than the first, and with 15 minutes to go, the Bearcats scored, bringing the score to 4-3.
That one measly point made Neil’s backliner mark even more brutal, and the other man had more than a foot on Neil. That in and of itself made Neil’s job a challenge, but the backliner also wasn’t shy about his extreme dislike for Neil. He made his hatred crystal clear through vicious, borderline-illegal checks, tripping Neil up every chance he had, and uncreative taunts.
Neil’s silence in the face of these taunts was very obviously starting to grate on the backliner’s patience, and Neil knew what was coming next.
The next time Neil snagged the ball, he was closer to the wall than he would’ve liked. He’d backed himself into a corner, and the backliner took full advantage. Even though Neil attempted to brace himself, nothing could really prepare someone for 200 pounds of muscle and momentum bulldozing them into some plexiglass.
Neil’s breath left him in a whoosh. He collapsed to his hands and knees, trying desperately to draw breath into his lungs as black spots danced across his vision. A persistent, steady throbbing took up residence in his ribs, and Neil just knew he was down for the count.
Fuck, this hurt.
At long last, he managed to draw a painfully ragged breath. He coughed viscously and groaned when the action spread fire through his body. Neil raised his hand to signal to the refs that he couldn’t go on, and two of his teammates ran over to help him hobble off the court.
Just before he stepped off the court, he turned his head towards Andrew. No one else would catch what came next—not the fans, nor the media, nor the other players—but Neil had had ample opportunity to study the lines of Andrew’s body. He knew what to look for, how to catch the little things. At Neil’s small nod of reassurance, some of the tension drained from Andrew’s shoulders. Not all of it—Andrew would probably never trust Neil when it came to saying he was fine—but enough.
There were only five minutes left in the game, so instead of checking out his injuries on the bench like Neil usually insisted upon, his team doctor shuffled him into the PT office adjacent to the locker room in order to examine him. Neil was used to this part—the check-ups and the stern talking tos where he’s told to take it easy (that he rarely listened to)—but he’d probably never be used to strangers touching him.
The doc strapped some ice to his ribs and his shoulder and palpated the relatively minor bruise on his thigh. Bone bruise, the doc said, like Neil didn’t already know.
Neil didn’t relax until the door clicked shut behind him, and he was left blissfully alone to whittle away the minutes until the final buzzer sounded.
The cheers emanating from the locker room a few minutes later clued him in that they’d won. Abby would be proud he waited for the MD to return and remove his ice packs before he left the training room and rejoined his teammates. Neil showered slowly and carefully, and he gingerly pulled on his slacks in one of the shower stalls.
All he wanted as he walked into the locker room was his sleep sweats and one of Andrew’s soft t-shirts, but rules were rules; a suit was required for potential post-game photo-ops. He felt the stares of his teammates as he pulled on his button up, and he left the garment undone, hanging loosely.
Neil collapsed on the bench in front of his locker—which was really more of a fancy wooden cubby—and ran a hand through his damp hair, only to wince as the movement pulled on his sore muscles. With a purposefully even exhale, he checked his phone for any updates from Andrew, ignoring the post-game congratulations and worried inquiries from the Foxes. Nothing.
When he tossed his phone into his cubby, there was a large influx of noise from the door leading to the hallway, and Neil looked up. A usual amount of post-game rowdiness was expected, but this was different. Clark briefly caught his gaze from across the room just before, in a flurry of movement and a sudden escalation of sound, the door flew open.
Andrew shouldered his way past the security guard stationed in the hallway. The guard lunged for Andrew’s arm to haul him back out of the room, but Neil knew that was a good way for the guard to lose a limb.
“Leave him!” Neil called. Clark stepped towards Andrew and planted his feet, looking ready to start a fight on Neil’s behalf. “No, Clark. He’s fine; he can stay.”
As Andrew stalked towards him, dodging and ignoring Neil’s gaping teammates, he snarled out a low, “You idiot.”
Clark took another step and angled himself between Neil and Andrew, but Neil just casually pushed his teammate out of the way. Leaning forward like that hurt, but Neil didn’t want anything to obstruct his view of Andrew.
“What percentage am I at now?” Neil asked, a smile over-taking his expression against his will. A real smile, too, not his father’s menacing smirk.
“230%”
“Oh, but that’s an improvement!” Neil’s grin widened, and he tilted his head to the side. “I was at 250% when I brought Sir home two months ago.”
Andrew pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, saying nothing.
Neil looked him over. Andrew was in his dress clothes, too. His pale blue shirt was fitted across his broad shoulders, and he’d rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. The black armbands he wore were the ones Neil had gifted him last Christmas—the ones with the red stitching that had reminded Neil of the leather seats in Andrew’s Maserati.
When Andrew dropped to one knee in front of Neil, Neil got a whiff of Andrew’s sandalwood shampoo. He knew it wasn’t in his imagination this time—something brought on by the desire to be close to him—because Andrew’s hair was damp and freshly washed.
“Yes or no?” Andrew murmured. Neil nodded.
Andrew inched forward and pulled open Neil’s dress shirt to analyze the damage. Neil’s torso was already a mottled mess of deep purple and red, and Andrew’s expression twisted into a deceptively calm mask of rage.
“I’ve had worse, Andrew,” Neil murmured.
“Shut the fuck up.” Andrew shook his head and seemed to very purposefully unclench his fist. He muttered, “I’ll kill him.”
“And they say I’m the PR nightmare,” Neil drawled. “It’s illegal to kill your teammates, you know.”
“Fuck off,” Andrew said venomously. Neil knew the anger simmering behind Andrew’s hazel eyes wasn’t directed at him. He also knew anger was how Andrew expressed his worry. Neil’s teammates didn’t know any better, though, and they saw what they wanted to see.
“Hey, back off, Minyard!” Anna yelled. She balled up her jersey and chucked it into her cubby. “What the hell are you doing in here anyway?”
Andrew’s eyes didn’t leave Neil’s. “I’m checking on the idiot who let himself get pinned to the wall by a six-one backliner who’s got over a hundred pounds on him.”
“It’s not my fault,” Neil grumbled, surprised Andrew had actually deigned to answer. Neil fiddled with the buttons of his oxford, but Andrew batted his hands out of the way and buttoned up the shirt without any fanfare.
“It’s mostly your fault,” Neil’s coach interjected, appearing in the doorway of his office and crossing his arms. He leaned against the doorjamb and nodded at Andrew. “Minyard.”
Andrew tapped two fingers to his temple in greeting.
Neil huffed and bent to tie his shoes, only to inhale sharply and clutch his side. He hadn’t been this injured in a long time.
“Will you just sit still, junkie?” Andrew asked, switching to German.
“You’re not the boss of me,” Neil quipped back in the same language, but he let Andrew tie his shoes anyway. Andrew then grabbed Neil’s things from his cubby and shoved them into his own duffle, leaving Neil’s empty duffle in the bottom of the cubby.
“Let’s get out of here,” Andrew said.
Neil levered himself to his feet in jerky movements, and he let himself lean into Andrew’s hand when he gently smoothed down the collar of Neil’s shirt. This detail, the fact that Andrew was being his usual (secretly) caring self, must have been the thing that made everything click in his captain’s mind.
“You’re together,” Clark needlessly stated, his eyes wide and dumbstruck. “Like…in-a-relationship together.”
“Yes,” Neil replied, the same time Andrew deadpanned, “No.”
Neil glared at Andrew, but his heart wasn’t really in it; he was exhausted and way too happy to see Andrew. His glare morphed into a small grin when he saw the amusement in Andrew’s eyes.
“Why haven’t you said anything?” Anna asked.
“And why do you hype up the rivalry so much if you’re not actually rivals?” Clark added.
“Because it’s amusing,” Andrew answered, shouldering his duffle and heading towards the exit. “Let the mindless vultures think we hate each other—they’re not far off.”
“Rude,” Neil responded. He followed Andrew out of the locker room, leaving his dumbstruck teammates behind him.