Archive of Our Own

The Foxes were out of championships.

Andrew didn’t really care one way or another, except that it was causing problems for him. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to ignore Kevin’s existence, but the man had a nasty proclivity to end up on the receiving end of punches. His grief sounded an awful lot like obsessive fixation. Truthfully, it was a miracle Matt made it as long as he did before snapping.

He had to correct him, however. The hypocrisy of that punishment and the bruises still ringing Kevin’s throat was not lost on him, but he had promises to keep.

It had been a week since the FBI showed them the photo of Neil, face pale and raw with burns. His uncle had already had him cremated, they said. A few of the more delusional upperclassmen tried to posit that it was another lie, that Neil had been stolen, not killed.

“To be quite frank,” Stuart Hatford said, folding his hands solemnly, “I didn’t expect you to want anything to do with him after you heard the news. I’m sorry for my presumption.”

The jar of ashes Hatford had magnanimously given them sat where the championship trophy would have gone. Andrew sat on the couch opposite while Kevin ran himself to death on the court. Time slipped away.

The ashes were silent, mocking on the cabinet. Andrew felt nothing. He hadn’t felt anything since he squeezed the truth out of Kevin in Binghamton.

“How can you just sit there?” Nicky demanded, his face puffy from tears. “What’s wrong with you?”

Andrew hadn’t answered. He hadn’t spoken all week, not to Kevin, not to Renee, not even to Bee. There was nothing to say. He let Neil go and the second he did Neil slipped out of his grasp like a breath of wind.

(And if a part of him was screaming, nobody heard it. Nobody ever had, after all.)

He hauled himself off the couch and wandered into Wymack’s office. He broke open the drawers one by one, not bothering to pick the locks, just wedging a pair of scissors into the seam and levering till the mechanism snapped.

He got through the desk and one of the cabinets before he struck gold. He lifted two bottles of whiskey from behind a stack of folders and left the office in disarray, ambling back into the lounge and sinking into the couch.

He was making good headway through the first bottle when Kevin returned, soaked with sweat and soggy with exhaustion. He took one look at Andrew, buried in the couch with a bottle in hand, and knew better than to speak. He sat beside him and held out his hand. Andrew passed him the bottle, the reek of Kevin’s gear washing over him.

They passed the bottle back and forth until it was empty. Andrew rolled it between his hands, watching the light reflecting within. The world blurred, leaning on him like a lead weight. A line strung out in front of him, a limit he never crossed. The second bottle whispering slippery lies. Oblivion. Relief.

Kevin’s eyes caught on the jar of ashes and got trapped there. “He’s really not coming back, is he?” he whispered, voice hoarse.

Andrew considered the empty bottle and the ache inside him that refused to ease. The upperclassmen could hope, but Andrew felt the ending in his bones.

“No,” he said, and reached for the second bottle.

The next day Andrew cancelled Neil’s cell phone and threw it away. He went into Matt’s room when the upperclassmen were out drinking away their grief and smashed his way into Neil’s safe by tossing it off the roof. The letter it held contained only secrets about Kevin, which meant nothing to him. The binder he flipped through, committing it to memory, before burning it, bills and all. He took Neil’s name off the insurance and left his car key on Nicky’s bed.

Piece by piece he dismantled every detail of Neil’s life, cut each of the ties that had kept him at Palmetto. Perhaps had he been unbound, he would have flown sooner and lived. A world with Neil distant but alive would have been preferable to one where he was close but dead.

There was no point in regret. But point or no, the path they’d chosen had led to a grave.

Nathaniel wheeled around the living room in circles. It was all he could do. His right wrist was trapped against his collarbone in a nest of bandages, nonresponsive fingertips poking out over his shoulder.

His left hand gripped the wheel, sending him in lurches around the coffee table, his best approximation of pacing. He was restless and itching for a run, constantly exhausted by the effort of healing but simmering with anxious energy.

He couldn’t run. His hamstrings and ankles were slashed, the muscles and tendons gouged nearly to the bone. Uncle Stuart had brought several experts in to study him and they believed with reconstructive surgery and physical therapy he would one day walk with an aid. Nathaniel didn’t believe them on principle.

The sounds of traffic wafted in through the open window. Manchester in April was really too chilly for open windows, but closing them was beyond Nathaniel’s capabilities. Stuart wanted him contained in this apartment, and right now Nathaniel was all too easy to contain.

It took several minutes of aimless circling to get within grabbing distance of the remote. He’d avoided it for two weeks. His Foxes knew the ugly reality behind Neil Josten now, and he didn’t want to know how they reacted. He wanted to preserve them in his memory, glowing and victorious after their match in Binghamton.

At least that’s what he told himself. If he had a phone, or internet, he would probably not be able to resist. Hence Stuart had given him access to neither. The only contact he could make with the outside world was with the pager button on his armrest, which would summon the live-in nurse from his apartment downstairs.

He scooped up the remote with fatalistic recklessness and spun to face the TV. He flicked through numerous channels before he found one running American Exy coverage.

A recap of the Raven’s semi-final match against the Trojan’s ran on screen. Without their King, the Raven’s scrambled and fumbled, losing by a narrow margin. Nathaniel let himself feel a small kernel of satisfaction. Stuart was still locked in negotiations with the Moriyama’s after the Butcher’s death, and Nathaniel’s one act since waking up in the UK had been to feed him everything he knew about Riko the Liability. Three days ago, word came through that Riko died in a tragic car crash during a post-game joyride.

Watching the Raven’s collapse with the loss of their captain and the sudden resignation of their coach wasn’t as satisfying as defeating them on the court would have been, but Nathaniel would barely fantasize about walking again, let alone playing. He’d gotten a year on the court and that was more than he’d ever expected to have.

Jeremy Knox’s brilliant grin was subdued during the postgame interview. “It’s kind of bittersweet,” he admitted. “Obviously we’re all here to play our best game, but it’s impossible to ignore the tragedy the NCAA is going through. I think I speak for the whole Exy community when I say our hearts go out to the Ravens and the Foxes for their recent losses.”

“Do you have anything to say about the revelation of Neil Josten’s identity as son of the notorious crime boss, Nathan Wesninski?”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Jeremy said calmly. “I don’t think it’s fair to speculate when we’ll never hear Josten’s side of the story. However, this is a good time to remind everyone that the Foxes will be hosting a memorial service for Seth Gordon and Neil Josten at the end of the month. The Trojans will be attending to pay our respects and honour the losses our friends endured this year.”

He politely dismissed himself and a reporter turned to the camera, eager to criticize Jeremy’s gentle words. Nathaniel sat back in his wheelchair, a hard lump rising in his throat. Memorial. They thought he was dead. Not gone, dead.

It was probably for the best, he reasoned. A clean break. Neil’s voice in his chest roared with the injustice of it, but Nathaniel felt only a low grief. The best part of his life was already behind him.

A knock at the door startled him. He switched off the TV, an involuntary stab of fear going through him. None of his father’s people would knock, but in his helpless state he felt at constant disadvantage.

Stuart entered the room and Nathaniel let his anxiety bleed into irritation. “Hello Nathaniel,” Stuart said stiffly.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he said coolly. It had been three days since anyone other than a doctor or nurse had visited him.

“I need a reason to visit my nephew?”

“We’re not that kind of family,” Nathaniel said. “You don’t have to keep up the act for my mother’s sake. She wouldn’t care either way.”

Stuart’s eyes tightened in anger and Nathaniel tensed for a fight, when pity and sorrow smoothed the expression away. “I understand your frustration—”

“Fuck you,” Nathaniel spat out, clenching his jaw. He didn’t want any fucking pity.

He turned away and resumed his circular pacing. Stuart waited, infuriatingly patient. Nathaniel hated him even more for that.

Finally, he rolled to a halt and bit out, “Close the window.”

Stuart did so and crossed the room, attempting to sit in front of Nathaniel. He wheeled away, bitterly enjoying the discomfort on his face. “Doctor Singh thinks you’re healthy enough to go into surgery now.”

“Great.”

“He thinks it’s best to start with cleaning up the graft of your wrist—those American doctors really did a hack job—but once that’s sorted we can progress to your knees and ankles. He can get you in for the first appointment on Friday.”

“Fine.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

“What do you want from me?” Nathaniel snapped, spinning to face him and accidentally overshooting, so he had to turn his head to glare at Stuart.

“Considering what I’m doing for you, a little civility would be appreciated,” Stuart said coldly.

“Forgive me for not bending my knee,” Nathaniel sneered. “You kept me alive. Great work. Pat yourself on the back and tell yourself my mother would be grateful. But don’t expect me to be fucking happy about being locked in a fucking tower.”

Stuart surged to his feet. He was short, like Mary, but he still loomed over Nathaniel in his helpless state. “I’m protecting you,” he snapped. “Your father’s people are still out there—”

“I know!” Nathaniel shouted. “And I hate them, and I hate my father, and I hate my mom for marrying him and I hate this whole stupid fucking life.”

His chest heaved, half-mended ribs aching at the exertion. He spun away hiding his face, hating himself the most for being pathetic enough to earn that sad, pitying look on Stuart’s face.

I just want to be Neil again.

He cradled that thought softly in his heart before wishing it away. The Foxes wouldn’t want him back, knowing he’d lied, that he was broken now beyond repair.

“I’ll send someone to pick you up on Friday,” Stuart said.

“Fine,” Nathaniel said, pressing his eyes closed to kill the red-hot burn threatening behind them.

A hand fell on his shoulder and he didn’t shake it off. What difference did it make? “I know things seem hopeless now,” Stuart said. “But it will get better. You’ll see.”

Nathaniel said nothing and refused to look at him as he quietly left the room.

“Would sparring help?” Renee asked, falling in step with Andrew as he left his suite. She’d probably been waiting out there to ambush him for hours.

He still considered the offer. Violence flickered close to the surface, like monsters rising in an ice-cold lake.

“If we spar,” he said, “I will probably kill you.”

“You need to work this out, Andrew. Holding everything inside will kill you.”

“Oh listen, another Bee. You know perfectly well I killed everything inside me years ago.”

“Have you talked to her about it?” Renee asked. “The rest of us have. Everyone misses him. You don’t have to endure this alone.”

“There is nothing to endure.” He is nothing.

“For the record, I don’t believe you.”

“For the record, I don’t care.”

“Hm,” Renee said. “If you change your mind about sparring, you know where to find me.”

Nathaniel tuned into the Foxes memorial service out of morbid curiosity.

(That, and he desperately wanted to see their faces again.)

The ceremony was held on the Foxhole Court, filled with chairs and tables and a podium bedecked in black ribbons. As promised, Jeremy Knox and what appeared to be the entire Trojan team were in attendance. They should have been glowing after their historic championship win, but expressions were solemn.

Reporters mingled with the guests, pouncing on the most recognizable of the Exy community and interrogating them with predatory glee. The school band, Orange Notes, filed onto a dais to one side of the podium and began a slow marching tune. The cameras zoomed in on the podium, where Coach Wymack stood waiting for everyone to settle down.

Nathaniel’s stomach sank. Wymack was dressed in a suit, probably thanks to Abby, but his expression was haggard, dark shadows like bruises under his eyes.

Orange Notes faded out and Wymack began. “Hello and welcome. For those that don’t know me, my name is David Wymack, coach and founder of the Palmetto State Foxes. For those that do know me, you know I’m crap at big meaningful speeches, so bear with me.”

He stopped, staring down at the podium, before raising his head and speaking clearly into the mic. “The Foxes ranked sixth in the league this year. You may think I’m callous for bringing that up, but if I know Neil Josten, he’d be kicking me if I didn’t. I have never met another person so committed to the sport in my life, and I have Kevin Day on my team.”

A smattering of smiles and weak laughter.

“We achieved more this year than anyone ever expected, and we lost more than we ever thought possible. In honour of Seth Gordon, I would like to introduce Allison Reynolds, defensive dealer for the Foxes.”

The camera panned over the front row, and Nathaniel stopped breathing. If seeing Wymack so worn down felt like a kick to the gut, this was like someone had taken a knife to his chest, carving out his ribcage. Matt and Nicky wept openly, Matt leaning against Dan with her hands buried between his. Allison was, as always, flawless, dressed in shimmery black, her expression as cold as an ice queen. Renee squeezed her shoulder before she stood and made for the podium.

A slideshow projected onto the court wall behind her played throughout her speech. Team photos, portraits and candids cycled through, all featuring Seth. Allison held her head high as she spoke, and Nathaniel could actually see her struggling not to swear on live TV. She called Seth a jerk three times and finished with I love you.

A picture of the two of them hung on the wall as she left the podium, Allison in a tiny pink dress and Seth in a ripped T-shirt and ball cap. Muted applause followed her to her seat.

She sat down with the team, and this time the camera swept the full length of the front row. Nicky leaned miserably against Aaron, who looked serious if not actually sad. Kevin’s head was bowed, staring at the court floor. And Andrew…

Andrew looked as he always did. His expression was perfectly bored, as if he was sitting in a tedious lecture not a memorial. Neil’s death had left him untouched.

Coach invited Dan up next, and she extracted herself from Matt and strode up on the stage with the same determination she did on the court. The slideshow on the wall changed and Nathaniel’s breath caught. It was clearly a screencap, taken from footage of a game. Neil’s hair was sweaty and bound up in a bandana, a fierce grin on his face and a winning score emblazoned across the bottom of the screen.

Dan stared up at the image for a long moment before it faded into a shot of the whole team lined up in their jerseys. She pinched her eyes closed, then turned to the crowd. “I had the privilege of being Neil Josten’s captain for the past year. More than that, though, I had the privilege, very briefly, of being his friend.”

Nathaniel hadn’t realized how close to the TV he’d gotten until his fingertips brushed the screen. He closed his hand and dropped it in his lap, pretending he hadn’t seen it shake.

Dan scowled down at the podium, unaware of Nathaniel’s unwavering attention. “There’s been a lot of people, recently, dragging Neil’s name through the mud. But we are not here today to remember how he died. We’re here to remember how he lived. Neil was the kind of person who put 110% into the things he cared about. Who didn’t think twice about putting himself on the line to protect the team. I remember the Neil that drew the team together for the first time since its founding. If we made it into championships this year, it’s because of him. Not because of how many goals he scored, but because of his stubborn belief in what we could be. Because he was the only one brave enough to challenge the divisions between our teammates.”

“When you remember Neil Josten, remember someone who carried a weight heavier than most of us will ever know, and still sank all his energy into helping other people. Neil could be rude, and blunt, and he had a mouth on him that none of us will ever forget, but he was also loyal and brave at every turn. He was the embodiment of the Fox spirit, and it would have been an honour to pass the captaincy on to him.”

She gathered her cards and tapped them on the podium to signify the end of her speech. The lines of her face were drawn tight over her sharp cheekbones. Wymack took the podium again.

“Now we’ll have minute of silence in memory of Neil and Seth.”

He stepped back and folded his hands. The camera drifted above the crowd, over dozens of bowed heads. One of the trumpet players began a slow, bugling tribute, and behind Wymack two banners were slowly raised into the rafters, updated championship banners with black ribbons in the bottom corners.

The Foxes appeared again, close up, their faces filling the screen. Neil made a strangled sound and switched off the TV, pressing his forehead against the warm screen.

He had to get to them.

The thought swelled in his mind, too big to ignore, and he let it. Stuart kept a bodyguard in the lobby, but Neil could probably find an exit if he took the stairs—

Fuck.

He gripped the wheel stubbornly and navigated to the door. He had to alternate between wheels, twisting his whole body to reach the opposite one. His breath came short as every bone in his torso protested, but he made his way to the door and unlocked it, shunting the chair through.

One obstacle at a time. His massive suite took up the entire floor, more luxury than one person could possible need, so there were at least no neighbours to contend with.

The elevator was to the left, so he headed away, finding a door leading to a narrow stairwell. He tugged it open and spent a frustrating minute trying to get his chair onto the landing before giving up.

He took a deep breath and slithered off the chair, hitting the floor with a painful thunk. He hissed, pressing his eyes closed before continuing, scooting on his ass to the edge of the stairs.

His legs were still damn near useless. One obstacle at a time. He braced his one good arm and swung his legs downwards.

It was slow going, lowering from one step to the next, but it still made sweat break out on Neil’s forehead. One floor later he was gasping for breath, and there were still six to go.

There had to be a faster way. He would be found at this rate. He gulped air like a fish and crawled across the landing, hauling himself with one arm, his other cradled against his chest.

At the head of the stairs he paused. Then, before he could think too hard, slid down it.

Every step jarred him, agony shooting through half closed wounds. A choked cry ripped from his lungs. His momentum picked up and he reached out instinctively to catch himself.

Fire lashed up his arm and his wrist buckled beneath him. He slammed into the landing, skidding across the landing to hit the brick wall with a crunch.

Hot, stinging tears streamed out of his eyes as he lay curled upon himself. Something wet soaked the back of his knees, and his wrist felt like it had been ripped clean off.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry…”

Stuart’s guard found him there a minute or an hour later, sobbing and clutching his wrist. “Fucking hell, kid,” he muttered, dropping to his knees. “You still with me?”

Neil pressed his eyes closed. He couldn’t even do this, he couldn’t reach the Foxes. He was nothing.

“Fuck,” the man said, and Neil heard rustling as he extracted a phone from his pocket. A faint ringing twice before: “Boss? No, no attacks, but he’s tried to pull a runner. Looks like he fell down the stairs. Hospital or call a doctor in?” A pause. “Yeah. Yeah. Alright.”

A moment later hands slipped under his back and thighs, gentler than he’d expected. Pain still rocketed through his mangled limbs as he was held against a broad chest. “Don’t know what you’re trying to pull,” the man muttered, slowly ascending the stairs. “You won’t get anywhere in this state.”

A slight bump made Neil suck in a pained gasp, but his mind lingered on the words. He wouldn’t get anywhere recklessly charging around.

He needed a plan.

They reached the top of the stairs and he was carefully placed back in his discarded wheelchair, but he was barely aware. An idea was starting to form.

And if there was one thing Nathaniel Wesninski was good at, it was plotting escape routes.

“I still don’t believe it,” Matt said, staring morosely at the beer can in his hand. “I keep waiting for him to walk back in and ask when practice is.”

“Too bad,” Allison said, cold as shattered glass. “He’s fucking dead.”

“Allison,” Renee reprimanded gently, but Allison waved her off.

“You want me to sugar-coat it? It’s been two months. You can stop living in a fucking fantasy land. Neil’s dead and life is shit.”

“How did this happen?” Dan whispered as Renee argued softly with Allison. “The freshmen will be here in two weeks and we’ve never been more divided.”

Matt wrapped a clumsy arm around her, nuzzling into her short, fuzzy hair. “You’ll manage,” he mumbled. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

Dan watched her two closest friends snapping at each other. Renee tried, but even she was cracking under the weight of trying to support the entire team. Allison retreated into her high place, spitting poison rather than address her own pain.

“I don’t know if I can do this again,” she whispered, and hid her face against his shoulder.

The injury to his only recently re-attached wrist led to an infection, which had him bedridden for five days. Overall, it put Nathaniel’s recovery back weeks, if not months.

“Doctor Singh suspects you’re suicidal,” Stuart said from the bedside. Nathaniel rolled his head to stare blandly at him. Stuart matched his gaze. “Are you?”

Nathaniel snorted and turned his head away. He hadn’t told anyone the real reason he’d been in that stairwell. When he eventually ran, he didn’t want his destination to be any more obvious than it had to be.

Truth be told, even with his body weak as wet tissue paper and his blood stream packed with antibiotics, he felt better than he had in months. He had purpose. He was going to get back to the Foxes.

Stuart sighed and waved the nurse in. His name was Andrew, which Nathaniel disliked for obvious reasons. If he had to, he always addressed him as Drew.

“Hey Nat,” the jovial man said. “Ready to get up and at ‘em?”

“Sure,” Nathaniel said, and Drew chattered as he helped Nathaniel transfer into his chair and kept it up until he had Nathaniel in front of the table. A tray of food waited there, conspicuously free of knife or fork.

“Want help eating?” Drew asked.

“I’m fine,” Nathaniel said.

“Cool, cool, buzz me if you need anything. I’ll just be downstairs.”

Nathaniel nodded and heard him collide with Stuart in the hallway. Their murmurs filled the quiet flat for a minute before they left together, followed by the distinct snick of a lock. A new measure, in addition to a guard stationed directly outside the door in case of emergency. Nathaniel pitied the poor shmuck stuck with that lame job.

He picked through his food methodically, though it was soggy and he left most of the vegetables. He abandoned them on the table and navigated to the bedroom with his cumbersome one-armed technique. Once there he pilfered a paperclip from his patient file. A second one he’d stashed on the bedside table.

He used his right hand as a brace to bend the paperclips into shape. One he folded in half and bent into a shallow L, to make a sturdy torque, and he straightened the other, with just a gentle hook at the end for a pick.

The empty liquor cabinet was hardly an ideal place to practise, but he couldn’t very well start scraping away at the front door with a gangster standing outside. He bent over awkwardly and began his tedious work.

It was difficult to hold the torque in place with his clumsy right hand, and his left wasn’t nearly as sensitive to the tumblers as his right had been. Frustration washed over him, then faded into background noise. This plan wouldn’t work without at least partial use of his legs. He had time.

“Did Doctor Singh mention the specialist to you?” Nathaniel asked, spearing a chunk of chicken with his right hand. A small ember of satisfaction lit in his chest. He still needed to wear a brace on his wrist, but his thumb and first two fingers were responding again, albeit without much dexterity. The other two mostly just open and shut with the curl of his hand, but he’d take it.

“No,” Stuart said, seated across the table with his own plate. “Why?”

“There’s a specialist in Switzerland who’s researching nerve regeneration. Doctor Singh thinks it might be beneficial for me to go see her.”

Stuart frowned. “Is that really necessary? There are plenty of doctors in the UK—”

“If it’ll help restore my hand, I want to go.”

Stuart’s frown deepened, but he considered it. Nathaniel held his breath. He’d been good, these past months, docile. The nurses reported him doing his exercises regularly, slowly opening up and talking more casually with them. Given they were his only human contact, it was somewhat inevitable, but he hoped it painted an encouraging picture for Stuart.

“I’ll talk to Doctor Singh,” Stuart conceded. “You’d need a passport and I can’t really spare any people for a long trip. “

Nathaniel nodded agreeably. “A short visit is fine. I’m probably not up to much more.”

“Hm,” Stuart said.

“There’s something else,” Nathaniel said, knowing better than to push too hard. “I was wondering if I could get some workbooks. Math, or Spanish maybe.”

“Why?”

“I was thinking if the next surgery goes well maybe next year I could go back to university or college.”

“That would be risky.”

“Everything’s risky,” Nathaniel said. “I’m not going to live my entire life in this flat. And no offense, but I’m not looking for a job with you.”

Stuart smiled faintly at that. “Your mother would never forgive me if I dragged you into the family business. I’ll see about getting you a library card. Gloria will take you.”

Nathaniel made a face. Gloria was largely tolerably, but she was too exacting to allow him to slip away to gain access to one of the library computers. Oh well, that had been a long shot anyway. Some books to take his mind off the endless march of days would be good. It’d been nearly eight months since he’d arrived in the UK, but while Stuart played at family and occasionally let Nathaniel out on strictly supervised outings, he was still undeniably a prisoner here.

“Thanks,” he said. Honey over vinegar, and all that.

The smell of blood saturated Nathaniel’s senses. He couldn’t even feel Lola’s hands on his shoulders, only the fire lancing up his legs.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please no. Stop.”

Stupid. Begging never helped. Nathan’s wide grin hovered above him. “Not running anywhere now, are we?” he taunted. “I think we’ll do the feet next, hm?”

His finger trailed up the base of Nathaniel’s bare foot and he jerked, sobbing, grasping at thin air. “I’m going to peel the skin off of your feet and carve the flesh from your bones,” Nathan whispered, his face spattered with blood.

“No,” Nathaniel gasped.

“Patrick, if you please,” Nathan said, holding out a hand. A shiny blade dropped into it, a wicked crescent hunting knife.

Nathaniel lunged, dislodging Lola, who had gotten lax as Nathan worked. She shouted furiously but Nathaniel didn’t care. He caught his father’s blade in one hand and slashed blindly.

Hot blood splashed against his face and then he was being hauled back, a powerful arm around his chest. He flailed backwards with the knife but an iron grip caught his wrist, forcing it down, down against the freezing concrete.

“You son of a bitch,” Nathan snarled, rising to his feet, a long, shallow gash slicing his face in half.

“Fuck you.”

“Lola, my axe,” Nathan said, voice icy.

Nathaniel struggled harder as the heavy axe appeared, Lola’s disgruntled face scowling down at him. “Hold him down,” he ordered, and she dropped onto his other arm.

The axe swung up into the air and Nathaniel saw what was about to happen a second too late. A scream tore from his lungs as the axe cut a silver swathe through the air.

For a second, nothing.

Then pain.

Hot, fiery, all consuming. It ate its way up his arm, from the stump of his wrist to his shoulder, his throat, choking him. He was screaming, thrashing, fighting the tangled restraints around him. His shoulder hit the floor and his eyes shot open, blind.

The carpet scraped against his skin as he grabbed for his wrist and found it—thick, scarred, but still there. He gasped for breath, slowly recognizing his room, his bed a huge shapeless mass beside him. He thumped his head against the carpet, rubbing his scarred wrist compulsively. They’d had to remove some tissue in order to reattach all his muscles and tendons and nerves, so his arm was forever an inch shorter than he expected. His father might not have come out of that night alive, but his handiwork survived.

Nathaniel lay there until his heart left his throat and settled back into his chest, the taste of blood fading into memory. He tugged the blanket up over his head and shivered, clenching his hands into fists in the blanket. Light filtered into the room slowly, like dust settling. Morning couldn’t come soon enough.

“Up you get,” Drew said. “Gently now.”

Nathaniel gripped Drew’s arm like his life depended on it and hauled himself out of the chair.

His legs protested immediately. Physical therapy was no replacement for regular exercise, and his muscles were waxen and slack. Triumph choked under thorns of grief.

Still, he took a very careful step forward. “That’s it!” Drew said enthusiastically. “You’re killing it!”

Nathaniel scowled in response. His legs were a tapestry of repairs, more foreign tendons than his own at this point. He took another determined step and Drew directed his hands onto the grips of a walker. His good hand tightened, white-knuckled, his other a clumsy, thick-fingered clamp.

He shuffled around the room once before his legs started to tremble from exertion. Drew eased him back into the wheelchair with a brilliant smile. “How was that?”

Pathetic, was Nathaniel’s immediate thought. His therapist would tell him off for that—not that he ever spoke to the man, but he had to listen to him ramble for an hour every week. “It was fine,” he said aloud.

“Don’t look so glum, chum,” Drew said. “You’ll be walking everywhere in no time.”

Nathaniel grumbled under his breath but managed to smooth out his expression by the time Drew was facing him again. Every step was one step closer to the Foxes, a move towards independence. Some days, however, the monumental nature of his task felt overwhelming. He could barely walk, let alone navigate stairs. In two months it would be a year since he last saw the team. Would they even want him anymore?

Drew knelt down and began stretching out his legs and massaging the older scars to keep mobility. Nathaniel shoved his pessimism down and submitted to Drew’s ministrations, closing his eyes and breathing while his muscles creaked in protest.

Andrew lay flat on his back as the stars hurtled around the sky in a swirling vortex. He tried to close his eyes against them, but his eyelids danced with vertigo.

“Hey,” a voice whispered. He cracked his eyes open and Neil blinked slowly back at him. The air stilled, pooling around them.

Andrew reached out and brushed his thumb across Neil’s cheek, wiping away the angry red slashes scarring his smooth skin. Neil exhaled and tugged their lips together, winding clever fingers through Andrew’s hair. Andrew passed his hands over Neil again and again, breathing him in.

“Thank you,” Neil murmured. “You were amazing.”

Andrew’s eyes shot open. Neil smiled at him, flickering in and out of focus like a poorly tuned radio. “No,” he gasped, trying to grab Neil, but his hands went through him.

Thank you. A ghostly whisper. You were amazing.

“No,” Andrew said. “Neil—”

He jerked awake in his bunk, his arm smacking against the bed post. A keen rose in his throat and died there, locked behind gritted teeth.

His breath came shallow and agonizing. He pinched his eyes shut and swallowed hard before disentangling himself from his sweaty blankets. He tamped down on his ragged breathing and swung his legs off the bed.

Across the room, the whites of Kevin’s eyes reflected in the pale morning light, but neither said anything. Andrew wondered if he’d spoken in his sleep. He set that thought aside as inconsequential and dug up his coat, heading for the roof.

He burst into the cold air, lungs too tight to work properly. He strode to the edge, watching the drop leap up towards his feet. He balanced precariously, stomach roiling.

It probably wouldn’t even hurt. He could just lean forward, let go. He sucked in a deep breath; it felt like knives in his chest.

“I hate you,” he said.

The wind whistled an empty reply.

Slowly, he lowered himself to a seated position, feet dangling off the edge. The cigarette smoke that followed burned like acid and tasted like Neil.

Creak, tap. Creak, tap. Neil leaned heavily on his left hand, his cane swinging beneath him. Gloria carried his bag. That was a major concession for her. If Neil hadn’t put it to the nurses, she would’ve made him carry his own things. Which he could, but he didn’t need them to know that.

He sagged over his cane, letting his eyes droop with exhaustion. They reached the elevator and Gloria grudgingly followed him in. He leaned against the wall as they lurched upwards. “Do you have the keys?” he mumbled.

Gloria grunted assent, brushing her short red hair out of her eyes as she rooted the keys out and tossed them towards him. He fumbled for them, dropping his cane. “Fuck,” he muttered, bending awkwardly to grab it. Gloria held the sliding door impatiently.

Nathaniel managed to maneuver the cane into his hand and twisted, crying out. “What the—” Gloria snapped, but Nathaniel stumbled, clutching her arm for balance.

“Shit,” he said. “My knee.”

He hunched over, rubbing his knee, and Gloria huffed. “Come on now. Ten steps.” She hooked an arm under his shoulder, taking most of his weight.

He managed to unlock the door and let Gloria dump him inside unceremoniously. “Need me to call that nurse?” she asked tersely. Maternal was not on her list of marketable attributes.

“I’m alright,” Nathaniel said, pressing his hand to the wall and limping into the hallway. “I’ll just rest for a bit.”

“Fine,” she said, and took the key, snapping the door shut behind him and locking him in.

“No, thank you,” Nathaniel said, straightening, drawing her wallet out of his pocket with a wicked grin. He strode down the hall to the living room, barely using his cane, and dropped to one knee in front of the liquor cabinet.

He knew the tumblers intimately by now, and it was the work of seconds to open it. The safe within took even less time; Stuart was not as careful as he could be when hiding the code. He withdrew his fake passport and medical papers, stuffing them into his jacket pocket.

He hurried from room to room, packing the few things he’d need with surgical precision. He piled a few pillows in his bed, but that was only a juvenile diversion tactic. He didn’t expect it to hold for long. His hands shook a little as he swung the pack onto his shoulder and headed for the window.

The window opened silently, the hinges freshly oiled with vegetable oil from the kitchen. Nathaniel sat on the sill and used his hands to haul each leg up and over and squirmed out onto the fire escape. He snatched his cane and pushed the window closed as best he could.

A thrilled grin tugged at his lips. The late summer air was humid and cool in the evening, stinking of car exhaust. He inhaled deeply and started down the stairs, leaning on the railing with his good hand to keep the impact off his legs. The metal frame rattled beneath him, the narrow alley darkening as he descended away from his top floor flat.

He reached the bottom level, a full storey above the street. Two years ago, maybe he would’ve risked the jump; these days, he needed to be more tactical. He unwound a line of curtain string and threaded it through the metal grate. He wrapped a t-shirt around his good hand, then looped the string around the t-shirt.

Before he could think twice, he turned around and lowered his legs off the edge of the fire escape. He dropped his cane behind him and clamped his feet on the doubled string, sucking in a deep breath and easing off the ledge.

The string creaked, tightening painfully around Nathaniel’s padded hand. He clenched his jaw as his muscles immediately burned, tugging like his shoulder would rip out of its socket. He let the string out a little and lurched downwards with a gasp. The string stretched ominously and Nathaniel didn’t wait for it to fail and slid the last few feet to land hard, his legs folding under him.

He gasped and untangled the string from his hand. It was already purple from constriction, but he was free. He was out.

No time to celebrate. He reeled in one end of the string until it pulled through the grate and stuffed it and the t-shirt into his pack.

A minute later he emerged onto the street, his hood up to shade his face. Eyes slid towards him, noticed the cane, and hurriedly shot away. He smirked and set off towards the bus stop, checking his watch. It didn’t really matter which bus he caught, so long as he expanded the search radius enough.

Nathaniel tipped the cabbie and climbed out of the taxi. His legs were sore and stiff from an evening on the move, but his wallet was stuffed with over two thousand pounds in cash and prepaid cards, Gloria’s cards discarded so he couldn’t be traced. For hours he’d hopped from bus to taxi, hopefully confusing his tail, and it had led here. Manchester International Airport.

He limped through the sliding doors into the cool air of the terminal. He scanned the area and found an information kiosk.

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, love?” the woman at the desk looked up, noticed his cane, and his scars, and immediately softened. Nathaniel was simultaneously grateful and sort of despised her for it. “Can I get you something?”

“I need to buy a ticket to Atlanta.”

“Do you have an adult with you?”

Nathaniel levelled his gaze at her. “I’m twenty years old.”

“Right! Sorry, love. Let me look up prices for you. When do you want to fly?”

“As soon as possible. Family emergency.”

“Gotcha.”

He fidgeted as she tapped at her keyboard. “Looks like there’s two flights leaving tonight, United or Virgin Atlantic. Or you could do a layover in Amsterdam and fly KLM.”

“Direct would be best.”

“Alright. Your best bet is with Virgin. I can book you in here, or you can buy your ticket online, it’ll probably be cheaper.”

“My phone is broken,” he lied, and pulled out his passport. “How much?”

Ten minutes later he was clutching a boarding pass for a flight leaving in three hours. The information lady had given him more than a few strange looks as he had to pay with three different prepaid cards, but he had five hundred pounds left and all he had to do was get through security.

He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants as he approached the entrance. With every passing minute he felt like Stuart’s people would burst out of every corner. They wouldn’t be dragging him to his death, but he was pretty sure if he had to live in that apartment any longer it would amount to the same thing.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are now beginning our final descent into Atlanta. Please ensure your seatbacks and tray tables are in the upright and locked position, and all luggage is stowed either in the overhead bins or under the seat in front of you. Thank you.”

Nathaniel stretched and suppressed a whimper. His legs were locked up in knots from being trapped in the uncomfortable seat for eight hours. He settled in and tried to ignore the pain shooting up his thighs from his knees. He slid the window shade open and studied the lights of the city rising below. It was barely four am. He had to assume Stuart had found the flight records for his fake passport by now. There would be someone waiting for him at the airport.

He tapped his fingers against his thigh in agitation. This was the trickiest bit. He couldn’t plan for how many people Stuart would send, or how well-armed. The plane bumped down onto the tarmac and Nathaniel’s stomach lurched. He was so close…

They parked at the gate and everyone stood. Nathaniel massaged his knee and resigned himself to waiting till everyone else debarked. He didn’t actually think he could stand right now long enough to get out of the terminal. The flight attendant came by once most people were gone.

“What can we do for you?” she asked chirpily.

“I think I need a wheelchair,” he admitted. “I didn’t realize how much flying would affect my knees.”

“Yeah, flying’ll take it out of you. Injury?”

“Skiing accident,” Nathaniel said, lips twitching.

“Ooh, that sucks. I’ll call an aide. Can you walk off the plane or do you need a transfer down the aisle?”

“I can get down the aisle,” Nathaniel said, and let her guide him out of his seat. His legs screamed in protest. His eyes ached with sleep deprivation. She fetched his cane from the overhead bin and he creaked his way to the door and fell into the chair next to the gate. A few minutes later a woman arrived with a wheelchair.

“Where to?” she asked once he was settled in the chair. “Baggage claim?”

“Just this,” Nathaniel said, indicating the backpack in his lap. “I just need to catch a taxi.”

She kept up mindless chit chat for the whole journey through the airport. She didn’t ask what was wrong with his legs, but he could tell she wanted to know; everyone did. He deflected her questions and scanned the crowds, looking for anyone out of place.

The one benefit of the wheelchair: he was fast-tracked through customs. The aide rolled him right through after the agent inspected his documents and gave him a patronizing smile. They caught the elevator down to the exit level. Nathaniel’s heart hammered as the door opened, but the way to the exit was clear.

They were halfway to the doors when it finally happened.

“Danny!” a voice cried out.

“No,” Nathaniel whispered, but he wasn’t heard under the torrent of words. A grinning man ran up to them. “Hey, Danny! Surprise!”

“Hi,” Nathaniel said, resigned.

“Thought I’d surprise you at the airport!” The man enthused. “I’ve got him from here. I’ll just return the chair to the help desk?”

“Well—” the aide fumbled.

“Great! Oh man, it’s gonna be so much fun having you visit!”

The man edged the aide out, to her bemusement, and steered Nathaniel away. “Try to bolt,” he said through a friendly smile. “And I will tase you.”

“Got it,” Nathaniel muttered. They bumped outside and past the taxi stand, into the parkade. Nathaniel craned his head but got a warning growl in response. He folded on himself, eyes shooting side to side. The airport was almost empty this early in the morning.

The wheelchair bumped and Nathaniel slipped, his leg twisting under the wheel. He cried out and crumpled. The man cursed, lurching to a halt and grabbing Nathaniel’s arm.

His free arm shot out like a snake, his fingers closing on the taser at the man’s waist. “Wha—” the man said, but he didn’t get any more out before Nathaniel jammed the weapon against his thigh and pressed the trigger. Electricity crackled and the man jerked backwards, but Nathaniel followed, relentless.

The man collapsed. Nathaniel retreated, gasping for breath, watching the downed man, but he didn’t rise.

There was no time to waste. He had minutes before the man was up again, and he didn’t know the area well enough to stash the body. He pocketed the taser, a small, phone-sized brick, and grabbed his cane, staggering down the pathway back towards the taxis on seizing legs.

He dropped into the first taxi he reached and gasped out an address, running on automatic. The taxi driver tried to make small talk, but Nathaniel just leaned against the window, not having to feign exhaustion.

He got out at the bus station and bought a map and a bus schedule at the convenience store within. His heart was hammering like he’d run a marathon. He tucked into a corner away from any visible cameras and studied the map, looking for a bus stop near enough to the highway that he could hitchhike from there. He traced various routes and settled on one that led to a gas station near the I-85.

He folded the maps and tucked them away before going still. A row of payphones stood across from him, like sentinels.

His cane squeaked against the floor as he slowly approached them. He had some change left over from the map, and he pushed it into the slot, heedless of the amount.

His finger hung over the number pad. He punched in the area code, the next three digits, then…

“Fuck,” he whispered, closing his hand into a fist. He couldn’t remember Wymack’s number anymore. He wracked his brain, but all he came up with was a sickening feeling of inadequacy. What would he say, even if he got through? Hey Coach, it’s me, please come pick me up?

Wymack would think it was a prank call. He dropped the phone slowly back into the bracket and limped towards the bus stand.

Nathaniel tucked his half-eaten sandwich into his backpack. His stomach was tight from nausea—and probably jetlag, though that would catch up to him later—but he hadn’t eaten since before he climbed out of the apartment, so he had made himself eat a little.

He studied the gas station parking lot critically. The dad with his two kids gave him a suspicious look, so he was out. There was still a crowd of others around, though, so Nathaniel would just have to try his luck.

He held his cane close to his side and tried not to limp obviously. “Excuse me?”

A man in a suit turned towards him. Not likely. He plowed on anyway, just in case. “I’m trying to get to Palmetto University, are you driving that direction? I’ve got gas money.”

“I’m going into town,” the man said dismissively, and Nathaniel nodded politely and retreated. He worked his way around the current cars until people started furtively jumping into their cars at his approach, and fell back to the gas station to wait for a new batch to arrive.

His cheeks ached from holding a charming smile. Three lots of commuters came and went, each deflecting him awkwardly or coldly. He sat down on a bench to rest his aching body and pulled out a water bottle.

“Hey, you the kid trying to get to Palmetto?”

Nathaniel tensed, eyes shooting sideways. The woman looked perfectly average, her shades completely innocuous in the rising sunlight. “Yeah, I’m visiting someone at the university.”

“I’m going almost all the way there. Want a lift?”

Too easy. A trap? He studied her, trying to spot a concealed weapon. Once he entered that car he would be at her mercy. “Where are you headed?”

“Greenville, but Palmetto’s just off the I-85, yeah?”

Nathaniel weighed his options. He couldn’t ask any more questions without coming off as suspect, so he tried humour. “You’re not planning to sell me off to human traffickers, right?”

She laughed, throwing her head back in genuine glee. “That’s the first time a guy’s ever asked me that. Nope, no human trafficking. You can take a picture of my license plate and send it to your friend if you want, that’s what I did when I used to hitch.”

Anxiety shredded at his nerves, but she seemed genuine, and he didn’t want to sit here any longer. “Sounds good. I can give you gas money.”

She waved him off. “That’s the best part of hitching, it’s free. Want any snacks while I go pay? I always have Pringles for road trips.”

Nathaniel shook his head and followed her pointing finger to a small blue hatchback. He went over to it while she disappeared inside and mimed taking a picture of the license plate in case she was looking.

Discreetly, he studied the car’s interior. No obvious weapons, but she could be calling in reinforcements right now. He stuffed that paranoid voice down. Sometimes the nice lady at the gas station was just a nice lady at a gas station.

Right?

The taillights blinked, making him jump, and the woman rounded the drivers side. “Hop in,” she said “Coke?”

“I’m not really a soda person,” he said as she offered a can and she shrugged, cracking it open. They pulled out onto the highway, and Nathaniel felt a tiny bit of tension bleed away as she turned in the right direction.

“I’m Michelle, by the way.”

He let out a long breath, his lungs squeezing. “I’m Neil.”

Michelle insisted on driving him all the way to campus. She’d spent the whole ride regaling him with stories of hitchhiking through New Zealand, with little prompting required from him, but she seemed to like him. And she didn’t ask about his scars or his cane.

“Where should I drop you,” she asked, taking the exit into town.

Neil checked his watch. If everything was the same, the Foxes should be in afternoon practice at the moment. “The Exy Court,” he said. “I can give you directions.”

He pointed her through the turns, his heartrate kicking up a notch as the streets grew more and more familiar. They pulled onto Perimeter Road and Neil stopped breathing entirely. The Foxhole Court erupted in front of them, huge and burnished in the summer sun.

A delighted laugh startled him. “Oh my god,” Michelle said, turning into the parking lot. “It’s so orange. Why is it so orange?”

“It grows on you,” Neil said, smiling weakly.

She pulled up to the curb and cut the engine. “Well, here we are.”

“Are you sure you won’t take any money?” he asked, pulling out a twenty, but she pushed it away.

“You listened to me talk for two hours, you earned it. Have a fun visit.”

“Thanks,” he said, too out of breath to say anything else. He levered himself out the door and Michelle waved as she pulled away.

His hand on his cane shook. He stared around the parking lot, not caring if he looked unhinged. Matt’s truck was parked just a few cars down. And just past that, the Maserati.

He hobbled up to it, heart pounding wildly. It looked just the same as he remembered, ostentatious and overpowered and he was here. The Foxes were just inside. He twisted, staring at the gate. Could he pick the lock? Probably, given enough time, but there were security guards and cameras and he didn’t need his return sullied by an arrest.

He checked his watch again, pressing his hand against the hood of the Maserati, warm from the sun. An hour till practice was out. He shouldn’t stay still—Stuart likely had people converging on the campus even now. But the idea of sneaking off and hiding was almost more frightening. Like if he missed them leaving practice he would miss them forever.

“Stupid,” he muttered, and sat himself at a picnic bench under a tree, pulling out his slightly squashed sandwich.

The sun slowly sank down the horizon, every sudden noise tripping a fuse in Neil’s chest. It was too calm. His lungs constricted, the air not able to get past his clogged throat. They were going to hate him. They would be so angry. He was so stupid—

The gate crashed open and Neil jerked, grabbing for his taser. A handful of athletes poured out of the stadium, faces he recognized from television but not life. Without thinking he fumbled for his cane, extricating himself from the table. He limped out onto the sidewalk, staring past the athletes now shooting him sidelong looks.

A familiar laugh echoed from the door and Matt emerged into the sunlight, his spiky hair damp from the showers. He chuckled, holding the gate for a freshman girl, looking up.

He froze. Neil rocked to a halt, staring at him, unable to form words. Matt stared back, his mouth slightly open.

“Hey, move it, some of us have places to be,” Nicky complained, trying to push past Matt and coming to a halt, hand still mid shove.

“Neil?”

Neil tried to smile and it came out twitchy and pained, but it didn’t seem to matter. Matt made a sound like a wounded bull and broke into a sprint. Neil flinched, tensing for impact.

Matt swept him into his arms, pulling him clean off his feet. The air knocked out of Neil’s lungs, but all he could hear was Matt’s voice, half sobbing, half laughing. “You’re alive!”

His cane fell from his hand and he clung to Matt, his fists clenching in his shirt. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and buried his face against Matt’s shoulder, shuddering. Matt’s arms tightened around him, squeezing so hard his ribs ached.

Nicky shouted incoherently behind him and Matt set him down just in time for Nicky to catch him, grinning from ear to ear.

“You little fucker,” he said, and tugged Neil in against his chest. Tears squeezed out of Neil’s eyes and he wiped them away, smiling weakly. “How the hell?”

He leaned back, looking between Matt and Nicky. “It’s a long story.”

“I don’t even care,” Matt said, rubbing his hand through Neil’s hair and pulling him into a sideways hug. “You’re here.”

Matt yelped and was abruptly shoved aside. Neil stumbled, losing his balance and then Kevin met his gaze and he stilled, staring into wide, disbelieving green eyes.

Kevin’s mouth worked, seeking words and finding nothing. He shook his head as if to clear Neil from his vision. “Your uncle said you were dead.”

It sounded like a plea. I believed him.

“My uncle is a liar.”

“Must run in the family,” Aaron said, coming up beside Kevin.

Matt made an affronted noise on Neil’s behalf, but Neil only nodded. Aaron looked conflicted, confused, but not maliciously. He made an aborted gesture, like he was about to grab Neil’s shoulder but thought better of it. “Well,” he said, awkward. “Glad you’re alright.”

Neil’s mouth curled up in a wry smile. “Thanks.”

An engine roared behind them and Neil turned and almost fell, catching Matt’s arm for support. The Maserati peeled out of the parking lot, tires skidding as it rounded the corner. In seconds it was gone, tearing down Perimeter Road at twice the speed limit.

“That asshole,” Nicky muttered. “I can’t believe—”

“It’s fine,” Neil said, though a small cold stone settled into his stomach, dampening the jubilance of the moment before. “He’s probably angry. To be honest…I thought you would all be angry.”

“About what?” Matt asked, outraged.

“About lying. And disappearing.” He hesitated. “And for taking so long.”

“Why would we be mad about that? Oh my god—oh my god we have to call the girls! Dan’s got a coaching job up in Detroit—”

“I know,” Neil said. “I watch all your games.”

“Of course you do.” Matt grinned, ruffling his hair again.

“They weren’t worth watching,” Kevin said, and they all groaned, shoving him, and for a moment it was like the last year had never happened.

“Someone gonna explain what the fuck is going on?”

Neil twisted and spotted a tall, lanky boy standing with his arms folded a few feet away. “You’re Jack Hardy, right?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Nothing. Just wanted to confirm that you’re as much of a worthless attention-whore as you seemed on TV.”

Jack’s face went red but Nicky crowed in delight. “Back from the dead for five minutes and already throwing shade!” He pumped his fist in the air. “Rip him a new one, Neil!”

“Neil,” Jack said, shooting a look around the original Foxes. “Like Neil Josten?”

“The one and only,” Matt said, squeezing Neil’s shoulder.

Jack floundered, and whatever he might’ve said was lost as Wymack’s voice boomed over all of them. “The fuck are all of you still doing here?”

The group parted around Neil, and he got a good look at Wymack, standing in the gate with a scowl on his face and a bundle of folders under his arm. His eyes skipped over Neil, came to a skidding halt, and shot back.

The folders slipped from his nerveless hands. His expression went blank, blinking owlishly. He took a tentative step forward, like reality would shatter if he moved too fast, and Neil looked up at him, heart squeezing in his chest.

Then the gap between them was gone and Wymack gripped his shoulders, staring at him like a ghost.

“Fuck,” Wymack whispered, and slowly pulled him into a hug, one hand holding Neil’s head against his broad shoulder. Neil exhaled, feeling Wymack’s trembling.

“Hey, Coach,” he murmured.

By unanimous agreement, they went back to Abby’s house—without the freshmen—Nicky and Matt talking a mile a minute into their phones as they organized flights and rides for the girls. Allison’s swearing was audible even through the phone.

The team refused to let Neil explain anything until the girls arrived. Abby broke down into tears when she saw Neil, then rallied and switched into general mode, directing everyone to get beds ready for the visitors and set the table for a take-out dinner. Wymack had recovered his composure and was blustering loudly to Abby in the kitchen.

Neil sat on the couch bracketed by Matt and Nicky. They hadn’t left him alone for even a second, and he felt simultaneously exhausted and brimming with warmth from their constant presence. Neil’s eyes drooped, but he refused to let himself sleep. He didn’t know how long he would have this, and he wanted to savour every moment.

“Dan and Allison should be getting to the airport soon,” Matt informed him. “I’m gonna go pick them up. Don’t go anywhere while I’m gone.”

He said it lightly but Neil couldn’t quite hide a flinch. Matt’s eyes softened immediately, giving him a quick hug—Neil couldn’t count how many of those he’d had in the past few hours—before heading out to his truck.

Nicky shuffled closer, wrapping an arm around Neil’s middle. For the moment, they were the only ones in the room, everyone else busy. Nicky buried his face against Neil’s hair, his breathing brushing against his ear.

Something wet splashed against his neck and he started, pulling back. “Sorry,” Nicky said, wiping his eyes, smearing tears across his cheek. “I know I shouldn’t be—but it’s just been so—” he exhaled heavily, reaching out to cup Neil’s face in one hand. “I’m just really glad you’re here.”

“Yeah,” Neil said, for once not minding Nicky’s clingy affection. “Me too.”

Nicky gave him a watery smile and then there was a tap at the front door. Abby answered and he heard Renee’s voice in the entryway. “I drove as fast as I could,” she said. “I brought some donuts for dessert.”

“You’re a gem,” Abby said. “I’ll take these. He’s in the living room.”

Light footsteps echoed in the hall and Renee slipped into the living room in a flurry of white skirt and pale blue blouse. She came to a halt in the doorway, her calm mask shattering with relief.

She crossed the room wordlessly and knelt in front of him, reaching up to cup his face in both hands, thumbs brushing against his scars like they weren’t there.

“Neil Josten,” she said, smiling. “You are an absolute miracle.”

“More like the opposite,” Neil mumbled, unsure how to deal with her radiant faith. She shook her head, smile widening, and pressed a warm kiss to his forehead. Then she retreated and perched on the couch beside him, taking his hand in hers.

“Renee’s joined the Peace Corps,” Nicky said brightly. “She’s basically a miracle factory these days.”

Renee shook her head demurely. “I’m hardly through training yet. My training group is fantastic, though they keep us too busy to sleep some days.”

“I’m surprised they let you get away on such short notice,” Neil said.

Renee’s eyes glittered. “You say that like you think they could stop me.”

Nicky laughed in delight and with a little prompting Renee filled the room with stories of her training and fond anecdotes about her new comrades-in-arms. It felt like no time at all until the door burst open.

“Where the fuck is he?” Allison demanded, heels clipping across the hardwood. She swept into the living room without an answer. She levelled a pink-manicured finger at Neil accusingly. “You little fucker—”

“Allison,” Renee admonished, but Allison ignored her and crossed the room in three strides, yanking Neil off the couch and into a crushing hug. Her fingernails dug into his back, sharp as knives.

She pulled back, putting her finger back in Neil’s face, so close he almost went cross-eyed. “You rat bastard. Haven’t you ever heard of a fucking phone? There’s an entire internet, but no, not good enough for Neil-fucking-Josten, you’ve got to stage a dramatic entrance—”

“Allison!” Renee said again, and this time Allison shot her a glare before returning her attention to Neil.

“I said nice shit about you! On television! That shit is immortal. I never get to take it back. Anyone can just look it up and watch me get all gross and emotional. Forever.”

A smile cracked across Neil’s face. “How embarrassing for you.”

“And who the fuck cut your hair, a blind drunk? You look like a possum made a nest up there.”

“I’ve been a little preoccupied.”

Allison scoffed, but Dan interrupted whatever she was about to say. “Stop hogging him,” she said, and Allison waved a dismissive hand, releasing him. Dan grinned, giving him a fierce hug and scrubbing her hand through the offending hair. “Should’ve known better than to believe your slimy uncle,” she said. “You’re too damn stubborn to die.”

“That’s a story I’m going to want to hear,” Allison said.

“I think that’s a conversation best had on a full stomach,” Abby interjected, poking her head through the door. “Speaking of which, dinner is served.”

The Foxes crowded into the kitchen where Kevin and Aaron had rearranged the dining table to make room for all of them. Boxes of take-out were cluttered everywhere from at least half a dozen different restaurants and they all dove in with the ravening appetite of college athletes.

Voices clamoured over one another. Allison regaled them with stories of the stuck-up fashion crowd in New York, Dan talked about her new team, Kevin criticized the newest Foxes, and everyone filled Neil in on the latest bets. Wymack excused himself halfway through dinner to take a call and returned a minute later to heckling about taking work home with him.

Neil barely spoke through dinner, soaking in their exuberance and joy. He tucked his right hand into his lap and ate one-handed, loading up on pasta and sushi and anything else that didn’t require cutting. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed at his ungainly hand—but he was, a little, and he didn’t want to risk derailing the conversation by drawing attention to his injury.

After the meal they migrated to the living room, piling pillows on the floor and perching on tables to make space for everyone. The chatter lasted a little while longer, but Neil could feel their eyes drawing back towards him.

“So I guess I owe you guys an explanation,” he said quietly. No one said anything, but he felt their attention like a razor blade. He chewed on his lip. “I don’t know where to start.”

“At the beginning?” Dan offered.

Neil looked up, meeting their eyes one at a time. His family. The only people in the world it would be worth reopening these wounds for. His eyes sought the one face that wasn’t there, and he buried the sting of disappointment when he still couldn’t find it.

“I was born Nathaniel Wesninski,” Neil said, and after that the words just fell out of him, pent up secrets eager to be aired. The Foxes absorbed it all without judgement, and Neil was home.

Neil cracked his eyes opened, frowning at the unfamiliar weight of an arm around him. The room came into muggy focus, the Foxes splayed out in slumbering heaps on the living room floor. Despite Abby making up the guest rooms, nobody had seemed inclined to split up last night.

Slow, creaking footsteps drew his eyes to what woke him. Wymack’s eyes flicked to him, already fully dressed and heading outside for his pre-dawn walk. Even Neil’s resurrection wasn’t enough to disrupt his routine.

Neil squirmed out from under Nicky’s arm carefully, grateful he was a heavy sleeper, and followed Wymack out onto the porch. He shook out two cigarettes and lit them, handing one to Neil. He made no move to go walking, which Neil was grateful for. He hadn’t done his stretches in three days, and he was stiff beyond belief.

“So, your uncle,” Wymack said. “Is he going to be a problem?”

Neil took a shallow drag on his cigarette to keep it alive, staring at the glowing ember. “He’ll have guessed I’m here by now. He’ll want to take me back to the UK.”

“And what about you? What do you want?”

“My father’s men are still out there. It’s not safe for me here.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

Neil rubbed his thumb over the burn scars on his knuckles, the cuts between them faded to silvery lines. “I put all of you in danger by being here. I wouldn’t ask you to do that for me.”

“You think anyone cares about that? Bullshit. Look me in the eye and tell me you honestly believe anyone inside that house would tell you to go, after everything that’s happened.”

“That doesn’t make it fair.”

“Life’s never been fair. We’re Foxes, we’re used to it. So I’ll ask again, what do you want?”

The cigarette scorched Neil’s fingertips and he dropped it in the ashtray, tucking his icy hands under his armpits for warmth. His chest felt tight and shaky. The words barely came out a whisper. “I want to be Neil. For as long as you’ll let me.”

“Then it’s settled.” Wymack pulled his phone out and thumbed through his contacts till he found the number Stuart Hatford gave him a year ago when he gave them a jar of ashes. He tilted the phone towards Neil. “You want to be here for this?”

Neil weighed that and finally shook his head. Wymack nodded and held the phone to his ear, the ringing just audible as Neil shuffled inside.

“Hatford? Yeah, I’ve got a bone to pick with you,” Wymack said, and the door swung shut, cutting off the rest of the conversation. Neil leaned back against it, his heart thumping.

“Neil Abram Josten,” he whispered, and for the first time it wasn’t a lie.  

The Foxes celebrated Wymack’s victory over Stuart Hatford with brunch downtown. Matt sent a text to the freshmen, cancelling morning conditioning, a fact which only Kevin complained about. Nicky left Neil’s side in order to loop Aaron into the conversation, teasing him about his unsociable habits.

Dan’s phone rang, interrupting Kevin’s rant about the upcoming season. “Yeah?” she answered. “No, I don’t know when I’ll be back. It’s a family emergency.” A pause. “No, not by Friday.” Another pause. “This isn’t fucking negotiable Paul. Oh, go ahead, fire me. Good luck finding someone willing to put up with your shit three weeks out from the season.”

“Yeah, tell him Dan,” Nicky said, and Aaron shoved him.

Dan stuck a warning finger at them. “I’ll let you know when I book my flight. You’re just gonna have to figure it out. Goodbye, Paul.”

She tossed the phone onto the table with an exasperated noise. “Fucking hell.”

“Now that that’s settled,” Allison said. “What’s our plans? I’m thinking Vegas—”

“We can’t leave right before the season!” Kevin said, aghast. “We barely made championships last year and—”

“Shut up, Kevin,” at least three people chorused, and everyone laughed, even Kevin rolling his eyes with something that might have been fondness.

“It’s alright though,” Neil said, when the laughter died down. “I’d rather just stay here for a while.”

“Good,” Wymack said. “I’ve got a whole pile of paperwork, and I’ve been looking for some help around the place.”

“Wait, Coach,” Nicky said, sitting bolt upright. “Did you just offer Neil a job?”

“That is what I just said, isn’t it?”

“That’s so great! Neil, isn’t that amazing? You can be Coach’s mini-me!”

Neil sat, his fork frozen over his scrambled eggs. “Just think about it,” Wymack said, noticing his stillness. “You don’t need to answer right away.”

Did he want it? Going to the Court every day to watch other people play his game, knowing he could never play again. The stadium brilliant and glowing like the first day he’d seen it, players dashing around inside, and him, locked out, hands pressed against the glass, but never able to pass through.

Another image rose up. Getting a job, living away from the Foxes, coming to the Court only for games, and those less and less frequently. A life where Exy would only ever be a hobby, a distraction.

“No,” he said. “I don’t have to think about it.” A smile tugged at his lips. “I’ll take the job.”

The Foxes cheered and celebrated until Wymack forcibly shushed them, the waitress shooting them poisonous looks from across the room.

“Oh my god,” Allison said. “Are you going to put him in charge of answering the phones? I can’t wait.”

Jet lag finally claimed him, and he was out cold by four o’clock in the afternoon. He woke at 2am, foggy but unable to sleep. He rolled over and over until he finally threw the blanket off and navigated out of Abby’s guestroom and through the dark hallways. He didn’t know where everyone was staying tonight, and the thought was a little unsettling.

He found a light on in the living room and slipped inside. Kevin sat on the couch with the dimmed lamp, a bottle of vodka on the side table.

“I guess some things never change,” Neil said, and Kevin blinked up at him, eyes surprisingly clear. Neil checked the bottle and saw it was still nearly full.

“Sit,” Kevin said, indicating the couch beside him. Neil sat down, leaning his cane against the side of the couch. Kevin held out his hand. “Hand.”

Neil hesitated for only a moment before putting his right hand out. Kevin gave his scars a cursory glance and turned his hand over, pushing his sleeve up to inspect the surgical scars on his wrist.

“He cut it off,” Neil said, and Kevin’s hand twitched, clearly remembering his own broken hand. He released Neil’s hand and he let it drop into his lap. They said nothing. There was nothing to say. Kevin knew the despair of losing Exy, knew there was no consolation for people like them.

“I had a year,” Neil said finally. “That’s more than what anyone ever thought I’d have.”

Kevin sighed heavily and reached for the vodka. He offered it to Neil, but he shook his head. Kevin shrugged and took a swig. His voice rasped as he said, “You should have been Court.”

Neil swallowed down the knot in his throat and moved to stand, not wanting to sit here while Kevin mourned his career. Kevin caught his arm, stopping him. His throat worked, trying to find the right words.

“When Riko died,” he said, “it felt like losing an arm. I thought he was my brother. It still hurts sometimes.”

“What’s your point?” Neil said, pulling out of his grip. He didn’t want to talk about Riko. He got what he deserved, and good riddance to him.

Kevin struggled to his feet, shaking his head. “I was wrong. He wasn’t my brother. You are. Exy or no Exy. We’re brothers.”

Neil’s shoulders sagged, staring at Kevin’s eyes, wet with booze and a year of belated grief.

“Yeah, Kevin. We’re brothers.”

Renee and Dan had to leave by the end of the weekend, their jobs calling them away. Plans were already in the works for a reunion at Thanksgiving. Neil hugged them goodbye and tried not to panic at the thought of them being so far away.

Allison didn’t give him time to freak out. She stuffed him into the front seat of her fancy rental car and refused to tell Neil where they were going until they picked up Nicky at the court.

“Shopping,” Neil said flatly.

“You have a toothbrush and one pair of clothes,” Allison replied, veering out onto the highway. “Shopping is non-optional.”

“I don’t see why we need to go all the way to Columbia for some clothes.”

“Hush, child. I know what I’m doing. I’ve ordered some of my new line for you, as well, it should be here next week, but we need to get you dressed properly before we present you to the baby Foxes.”

Neil scowled, but he knew better than to argue when Allison had her mind set. Nicky leaned over the centre console, grinning. “We’re going to have so much fun! It’ll be just like old times!”

“I distinctly remember saying I never wanted to go shopping with you again.”

“Aw, you didn’t mean that. You love me.”

“Ugh,” Neil said, putting his hand on Nicky’s face and shoving him backwards. He squealed in protest, but recovered quickly, filling the drive with chatter about all the movies Neil had missed. He had a sneaking suspicion he’d be looped into a lot of movie nights this year and found he didn’t mind all that much.

They pulled into the shopping mall in time for lunch and Allison took them to some fancy restaurant across the street before the real horror of the afternoon began. Neil felt resigned the second they entered a store. Sleek, expensive looking clothes hung in shining displays, and the glee in Nicky’s face did not bode well.

He held up a pair of jeans so skinny they looked shrivelled, grinning at Neil.

“No,” Neil said.

“Oh, come on—”

“No.”

Allison pushed Nicky aside impatiently. “Go find some shirts. Here, try these on.”

She thrust a bundle of pants into his arm and he gave her a flat look, hefting the pile onto his hip so he could carry it and use his cane at the same time. “Well?” she asked. “Chop-chop.”

Neil stumped into the fitting room and struggled through the ordeal of changing his pants. Once he had the first pair on, though, he paused.

He’d expected Allison to go for the same kind of clothes she and Nicky favoured: flashy, sexy and distinctive. These jeans, however, were just a muted slim-cut, more fitting than anything he usually wore, but not skin-tight. He rummaged through the pile and found the same theme.

He emerged for Allison’s inspection and gave her a sheepish smile. She smirked, sifting through a mound of shirts and tossing one at him. He retreated to the changeroom with less reluctance this time and changed again, pleased to find that the sleeves were long enough to hide his wrist.

Nicky whistled when he came out to show them. Neil rolled his eyes at his antics, but the afternoon no longer looked quite so bleak. Allison kept them going for hours, going from store to store to flesh out a wardrobe that was already shaping up to be twice the size of Neil’s old one. Nicky had to make two runs to the car to deposit their extra bags.

“This is too much,” Neil said as she whipped out her credit card for what must be the dozenth time.

“Bullshit,” Allison said. “Have you forgotten I’m filthy rich? Some would say it’s my best quality.”

“Some would say it’s your only quality,” Nicky mocked.

“Excuse you, I also have great tits. And have you seen my face?”

They bickered all the way to the barber shop, where Allison dumped Neil into a chair and raked her fingernails through his tangled hair. He risked a glance at the mirror and looked away quickly. He hadn’t had a haircut in nearly a year, and his hair hung around his face in ratty curtains, but even so, the scars on his face stood out stark and ugly, his father’s cold blue eyes staring out at him.

Allison’s fingers gentled on his scalp. She combed his hair back behind his ears. “Enough hiding.”

Neil’s instinct was to deflect, but he stopped himself. He’d promised the Foxes he would be honest with them. “It’s not that. I look like…him.”

His eyes tracked her in the mirror and saw her jaw clench in undisguised anger. “You look like Neil Josten,” she said, biting out the edges of the words.

Neil shivered and knew Allison felt it. He raised his hand to brush over the burn scar on his cheek, the skin warped like melted plastic. “I don’t like it when people look at me,” he admitted quietly.

“They’re going to look anyway. Fuck em. They couldn’t handle a fraction of what you have.”

“That doesn’t really help.”

“Does this? You’re getting a fucking haircut, Josten. Stop looking like your head is on the chopping block.”

“You’re such a jerk,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards.

“You know it. Now let’s get this shit done, we still have two more stops after this.”

“Two?” Neil asked, but she’d already stepped away to give her instructions to the barber. Nicky gave him a big thumbs-up and he returned a grimace.

He wanted to close his eyes while the man cut away his lanky curls, but he couldn’t make himself relax with blades so close to his head. He sat stiffly for the half hour it took to finish, and barely glanced in the mirror before climbing out of the chair and hurrying to where Allison and Nicky were waiting.

“Not even going to check yourself out?” Allison said dryly.

“You picked the haircut. I’m sure it looks fine.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she said, tweaking his bangs.

“It looks great!” Nicky enthused. “I mean you’d look good in a bowl cut, damn, but those curls are cute as hell. You should’ve grown your hair out a long time ago.”

Neil grumbled in response, but he had to admit he liked having the hair off his ears. It was longer on top, hanging down enough to tickle his forehead. He felt simultaneously ten pounds lighter and horribly exposed.

The next stop was a medical comfort store. “You can’t keep using that horrible thing,” Allison said, gesturing to Neil’s cane. “It looks like it came straight from the hospital. We’re going to get you something with class.”

The man working the desk raised an eyebrow at Allison’s bluntness, but Neil just rolled his eyes and let him take the measurements he needed. They left with two new canes, one in dark brown and one in black. Neil folded his old cane into one of the bags and took the brown one, rubbing his hand over the soft grip. He liked it, he decided. It was more discreet than the plastic and metal one he’d been using, and more comfortable too.

“We’re here.” Allison announced.

Neil looked up and found them in the entrance to a menswear store. “What?”

“We’re getting you a suit,” Nicky explained, sauntering in like he owned the place, his pink shirt practically glowing between all the dark blazers.

“Why do I need a suit?”

“For the banquet, obviously,” Allison replied. “You’ll have to go, as Coach’s assistant.”

“No,” he said, a frown creasing his forehead. “That’s probably a bad idea.”

“Too bad. You’re getting a suit.”

“That’s—”

Allison hauled him through the doorway before he could protest further. She’d allowed him veto power when it came to the rest of the clothing, but in this fitting she was exacting as a military commander, consulting Nicky for opinions but giving the final say on everything. Neil drifted through it in a daze, his mind elsewhere.

Taking the position as Wymack’s assistant would put him in the public eye. It wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed his mind, but he’d stuffed it down, spending the week catching up with the team.

He could no longer ignore it. If the news didn’t get out with the freshmen, it was only a matter of time before he was recognized. Then it would be a race for who would get to him first: the FBI or the Butcher’s circle.

When the fitting finally ended he followed Allison and Nicky to the car and collapsed into it with relief. He felt exhausted to his bones, ready to fold himself into his bed and sleep for a week. Nicky, surprisingly, fell asleep quickly in the back seat, leaving Allison and Neil sitting in silence as the scenery slipped by.

“What’s eating you now?” Allison asked, startling Neil out of his reverie. He studied his hands, picking his nails and checking to see if there was any blood under them.

“The FBI will figure out I’m alive soon enough.”

“Then we’ll deal with it. We’re not letting anyone take you away again.”

Neil exhaled softly, a little of the burn in his chest easing. “No,” he said. “I’m tired of waiting for other people to make the first move. I’m going to turn myself in.”

“Neil—”

“I’ll make a deal. My testimony in exchange for the right to stay. They’ll take it. They’ve been trying to take down my father for years, and now they have no way to track down his lackeys. I’m their only option.”

Allison glanced over at him for perhaps longer than was safe, considering she was driving, but then she shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips as she turned back to the road. “You better believe we’ll raise hell if they try to keep you.”

Despite the last few days, his throat still tightened, the protective ferocity of the Foxes catching him off guard every time. “I know,” he said.

“Don’t you dare get emotional on me, Josten.”

“Never, Reynolds.”

The police station smelled faintly of urine and lemon-scented cleaning agents. Neil sat in the interrogation room with Wymack. It had taken nearly half an hour to convince the policemen of who he was, and since then they’d been locked away to wait for higher authorities. Aaron had offered to contact his lawyer, Waterhouse, but Neil had decided he didn’t want any more strangers involved unless he had to.

Anxiety had given way to boredom hours ago. Wymack flipped open a folder, revealing another of the freshmen. Altogether, there were nine new people on the line-up that Neil needed to learn.

They were working into folder number seven when the door finally opened, admitting two men in suits and attitudes too big for regular law enforcement.

“Nathaniel Wesninski?”

“I go by Neil, but yeah,” Neil said, sitting back and folding his arms defensively. Wymack swept the folders into a pile and gripped Neil’s shoulder for a second before following a police officer out of the room.

“Agent Browning,” the first man said, then indicated his partner. “Agent Stetson. I’m given to understand you have a confession for us.”

“I’m not confessing to anything,” Neil said. “I want to testify against my father.”

Browning levelled an impressive glare at Neil. He matched it easily. “You’re coming with us. If you are who you say you are—and we’re by no means convinced you are—then this isn’t a conversation we can have here.”

“No, thanks. I’m staying right here.”

“I don’t think you understand—”

“I don’t think you understand. I’m not here as a favour to you. You’ve been chasing my father for years, but now all you have is a corpse and a bunch of leaderless gangsters disappearing into the wind. I’m your only lead, and I’m not here for free.”

“You think you can negotiate with us? I’ve got half a dozen crimes attributable to you. You ever want to see the light of day again, you’re going to have to play ball.”

Neil made a disgusted sound. “How long will you keep pretending you have the upper hand? Go ahead, lock me up. Good luck rounding up my father’s people, because you can throw me in a cell for the rest of my life and I’ll never give you shit.”

“Testify and we might be able to get you immunity and a new start in witness protection. You don’t get to ask for more than that.”

“Sorry, but that’s not good enough.”

“You’re in no place to make demands.”

“But I’m making them anyway. Here is my deal: I’ll testify for you, help you take down my father’s people. And you’re going to let me stay in Palmetto as Neil Josten.”

That brought the agent up short. He stared at Neil like he’d said something exceptionally stupid. Which perhaps he had. “You’re insane. You’ll be tracked down and killed in months.”

Neil shrugged. “Maybe. That’s my problem, not yours.”

Browning stared at Neil for another incredulous moment. “Stetson, a word,” he said, and the pair disappeared into the hallway. Neil let out a tense breath. He was walking a thin line here, unwilling to drag either the Hatford’s or the Moriyama’s into this mess. He’d discussed his lies and truths with a disapproving Stuart yesterday, but it all hinged on whether or not the feds took the bait.

It felt like ages till the agents returned, faces inscrutable. Neil kept his own carefully blank.

“Alright then Wesninski,” Browning said. “You’ve got your deal.”

Neil smiled.

Neil paused outside the stadium, staring up at the giant painted pawprints on the wall. He’d spent three days with the feds, but facing the Foxes was far more daunting. He tried to tell himself it was because he knew exactly how abrasive the type of people recruited to the Foxes could be, but he couldn’t deny the truth any longer.

He’d been back over a week, and he’d still not seen Andrew. Nicky gave apologetic excuses and Aaron shrugged it off, but it still twisted like a knife in his gut.

He would be in the stadium now, though. Wymack planned to introduce him to the team after morning conditioning. Apparently rumours were already rampant after Neil’s appearance last week. He grimaced, biting down on his anxiety and punching the code in at the gate.

The lounge was still empty when he arrived. Another couch had been jammed into the corner to make space for the growing team. Neil’s eyes were drawn to the wall in the corner. The collection of photos had only grown, featuring faces Neil knew only vaguely from television. He drifted closer, studying the photos. Obnoxious Jack was only in a handful, and almost always with a dark-haired girl Neil thought was Sheena Laker.

The others were a more mixed crew. The three newest players were in exactly one picture, dressed in their new jerseys and standing apart from one another. Neil tried to focus on the newbies, but his eyes drew inexorably over to the older pictures.

The snapshots of their old team dinners hung there beside squashed selfies. Neil traced his fingers over their smiling faces and then finally, inevitably, to Andrew.

He was only in a few photos, most of them still with his manic grin in place. The pictures after Easthaven tapered off. Sober Andrew couldn’t be bothered to participate.

The picture of the two of them at the airport was almost buried under new photos. He tugged it out, pulling the tape off the wall. Andrew and Neil faced each other, eternally, Neil’s face still unmarked, his real name hanging on his lips.

“Ready for it?” Wymack asked, and Neil started, instinctively covering the picture. Wymack raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask.

Neil smoothed his thumb over the corner of the photo and shrugged. “I just spent three days in federal custody. How bad can it be?”

“I will remind you that you said that later. I’m going to go fetch them.”

“Okay,” Neil said and waited till Wymack was gone to carefully fold the photo in half and slip it into his pocket.

Loud voices ricocheted off the hallway and then the Foxes were piling into the lounge, still sweaty and dishevelled from practice. One voice rose above the rest.

“Who the fuck is that?”

Neil folded his arms across his chest and gave Jack Hardy an unimpressed stare. Nicky shoved through the crowd to sling an arm around his shoulder. “Hey there, hot stuff!” Nicky said, angling his body to block Jack. “How’s life on the other side?”

Neil rolled his eyes and pushed Nicky’s sweaty self off him, but it had bought enough time for Wymack to herd the whole team in. “Hey Coach,” a girl drawled, propping a hand on her hip. “What’s with the new freak?”

“Shut the fuck up, Sheena,” Nicky shot at her.

Wymack waved him down. “This is Neil Josten, my new assistant. You have three minutes to ask questions before I want your smelly asses out of here and in the showers.”

“Didn’t you die last year?” a girl asked immediately.

“Obviously not,” Neil said distractedly. Andrew wasn’t there. Where was he?

“Are you really a gangster?”

“No.”

“What happened to your face?”

“A dashboard lighter.”

“This guy can’t coach us,” Jack snarled. “He barely played for two years before he got all fucked up.”

“I still played long enough to see that you think throwing the ball really hard at the goalie’s face is actually a strategy.”

A girl clutched a hand to her chest, aghast. “You mean it’s not?”

Several of the Foxes cackled at that, and Jack’s face went red, ready to snap.

“Great, time’s up,” Wymack said. “Get the hell out.”

“That was like forty-five seconds,” someone protested.

“I underestimated how much shit I felt like dealing with today. Get out.”

The younger Foxes filtered out, though Neil noticed Jack muttering. He’d already made at least one enemy. A pissed off teenager with a chip on his shoulder didn’t really phase him, though.

“Well,” Nicky chirped. “I think that went well.”

“He’s going to have to gain their respect,” Kevin said. “Avoidance will only work so long.”

“They’ll get over it. They’re just excited to have some fresh meat,” Wymack said.

“Neil will put them in their place soon enough.” Nicky grinned.

“I thought I told you fuckers to go shower. You’re stinking up the place.”

“Aw, Coach—”

“Out, Hemmick.”

Nicky flounced out and Matt bumped Neil’s shoulder with a grin as he followed. Kevin looked like he had more to say, but a look from Wymack sent him out the door.

Neil glanced around, trying to look casual. “Where’s—”

“He went ahead to the changerooms.”

“Right,” Neil said. “Of course.”

“They’re insufferable,” Neil said, laying on his bed in Abby’s house. After two months, his things had spread out more than he ever expected. It was strange having a private room of his own.  “Jack will deliberately ignore my strategy talks before games. Even Matt can’t get him to follow the plays.”

Renee’s lips quirked up in a smile. “So, all normal then.”

Neil grumbled a bit but couldn’t help a little pull at the corner of his mouth. On the screen, Renee’s hair was pulled back in a strict bun, a stark contrast to her usual floaty hairstyle. The pastel colours were still visible, knotted into the bun. “I can’t believe Wymack does this voluntarily.”

“No one is making you do it, either.”

“Guess I’m just stupid enough to stick around.”

Renee laughed. “And how are the others?”

“Good. Matt still doesn’t like being captain, but Kevin’s calling the new vice-captain by her first name, so that’s something.”

“From Kevin, it’s a glowing recommendation,” Renee agreed. “And how about Andrew?”

Neil looked away, shrugged. “He’s fine.”

“Neil.”

He sighed, looking back at her. “I have no idea. He doesn’t talk to me.”

It was the understatement of the century. Andrew hadn’t acknowledged Neil’s presence once in the two months he’d been back. His eyes slid elsewhere when Neil entered the room, and he didn’t respond even to direct questions.

“Give him time. He struggled a lot with losing you, even if he’d never admit it.”

Neil shook his head. It wasn’t that. “I betrayed his trust. He’s not about to forgive me for something like that.”

“How so?”

“What?”

“How did you betray him?”

“I lied. And even when I told the truth I lied by omission.”

“You lied to all of us. You thought you had no choice.”

“It’s different with Andrew. I made promises.”

“And did you break them?”

Neil fidgeted, remembering a conversation on the bus a lifetime ago, light weaving Andrew’s hair into spun gold. Don’t come crying to me when someone breaks your face. “I don’t want to talk about Andrew.”

Renee accepted that with grace, changing the subject. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it to Thanksgiving. I’ve used up all my leave to get away for Christmas, and I wanted to visit Stephanie for at least a day.”

“Allison will be furious.”

“I’ll admit I’ve been putting off telling her. She’ll probably call my CO and bully him into letting me go.”

“That’s not a bad plan.”

“It is a little tempting. But…I love it here, Neil. It’s hard to learn about all the injustice in the world, but we’re also learning how we can help. Even in the most trying moments I can look at the people I have with me and know that I am among friends.”

Neil leaned on his hand and listened to her stories for several minutes until finally his eyelids started drooping. Renee noticed immediately and chided him for keeping himself awake when he had to be at practice in the morning.

“You have to be up early, too,” Neil said, punctuated with a yawn.

“And I should probably go to sleep as well. See you at Christmas.”

“See you then.”

Neil closed the laptop and rolled over, but he didn’t go to sleep. Instead he pulled out his phone—a gift from Nicky—and texted Dan. At what point do I just kill Jack for the good of the team

The answer only took a couple minutes. arent foxes just the worst

How did you survive

take no shit

I am ready to break something

ya I remember one time one of my freshmen almost started a mob war

Hilarious

u cant control foxes, just point them in the right direction

We weren’t this bad

no u were worse

…that’s fair

go to sleep loser ur gonna need it

Thanks mom

love u

Neil stared at the letters on the screen, an odd warmth bubbling in his chest. He knew the Foxes were his family—they’d proved it the day he returned, if he’d needed proof. Every affirmation still glowed a little, like an unexpected treasure.

Night, he typed back, and climbed out of bed to turn out the light.

The Foxes made spring championships by the skin of their teeth. They spent the Christmas Banquet dodging the de-clawed Raven’s and then split up for the holidays.

Three days later Neil found himself sitting in a rooftop restaurant thirty stories above Central Park, sipping a non-alcoholic cocktail that was about three times as sweet as he’d like it to be. Nicky’s idea.

Matt stretched, yawning. “Well, I’m beat.”

“Me too,” Dan said, leaning against him. They’d been practically glued together all day.

“Psh, weaklings,” Allison said. “New York never sleeps.”

“I’m ready to be off my feet as well,” Renee said. “Walking around museums is more tiring than you would expect.”

“Fine,” Allison said, tossing back the last of her drink. “But we’re going hard tomorrow night.”

“You mean Christmas Eve?” Matt said with a wry eyebrow.

“I said what I said.”

“If there’s alcohol involved you know we’ll be there,” Nicky said.

“You’ll be there because I say so,” Allison said, waving over the waiter. She put everything on her card, ignoring various protests, and led them to the elevators. Neil noticed Nicky discreetly standing closer to him, noticing how tired he was from a day of nonstop walking. Worth it, though. He’d never had the chance to do something fun and innocent like visit a Natural History Museum while on the run. He found he rather liked it.

They crowded out onto the sidewalk. Renee shot Neil a non-subtle glance and fell back to walk with Andrew. He could hear their low voices but didn’t try to eavesdrop. Kevin was trying to lure Dan into a discussion about Exy while Aaron rolled his eyes. Matt and Allison bickered about plans for tomorrow.

Neil was so caught up in the glow of their presence that he didn’t even mind Nicky pestering him about shopping in Time’s Square. His eyes slid across the street, watching the never-ending flow of people in eccentric clothing.

A flash caught his eye and he glanced over to the alley. He jerked backwards with a shout and a knife flew by his face, so close he felt the breeze of its passing.

Romero Malcom burst out of the alley in a rage, face red and knife in hand. Neil didn’t have time to think. He threw his cane at Romero as a diversion and grabbed Nicky, who was shouting something that sounded like rushing water in Neil’s ears. Neil shoved him, hard, to get him away, and then he was knocked to the ground, the pavement slamming into his side.

He rolled over and hit something heavy and hard. Black boots lunged away from his head. Matt’s hands caught his, pulling him to his feet and shielding him with his body. He craned his head, twisting.

Andrew swung his knife at Romero, who was already bleeding from a gash on his arm. “Andrew!” Neil gasped, struggling against Matt’s arms. “No!”

Romero’s fist cracked against Andrew’s jaw, but he didn’t slow, grabbing Romero’s wrist and twisting. A snarl ripped from Romero’s chest and Renee appeared behind him, slamming her foot into the back of his knee. His knees hit the ground and Andrew brought his knife up against his throat.

Air whistled between the buildings. Andrew’s blade hovered against Romero’s jugular and Neil knew he was barely a hairsbreadth from opening his throat.

Someone screamed. The Foxes converged on Neil, blocking Andrew from view. He heard rather than saw Renee knock Romero out.

“Call the cops,” Renee said, voice like stinging ice.

Neil dug his fingers into Matt’s sweater and hung on.

It took hours to sort out Romero’s arrest between the NYPD and the FBI. Browning harangued Neil over the phone about Witness Protection. Neil refused.

At three a.m. they returned to their hotel, gathering in Allison’s large suite. A few of the others trickled away to their respective rooms, but Neil couldn’t relax. He felt agitated and jittery. In another life, he would’ve gone for a run.

He made up his mind and headed for the door, leaning on his cane and focussing on the pain in his knees rather than the thought of how close the knife had come to hitting Nicky instead of him.

“Where are you going?” Dan asked.

Neil tensed. “Nowhere,” he lied.

“You can’t go out,” Kevin said, sitting up straight. “It’s not safe for you. He could’ve had accomplices.”

A snarl of emotions twisted in Neil’s chest, rising like bile in his throat. For a moment he was in a different apartment, half a world away, under Stuart’s apologetic tyranny. It’s not safe. Stay here, do as you’re told. Be a good boy.

“There’s a garden on the roof if you need air,” Renee offered softly.

The anger bled out of him in an instant, leaving a small stone of shame. The Foxes were only concerned for his well-being, but for all he’d hated life on the run, he’d taken to imprisonment even worse. He nodded thanks to Renee and pushed out the door, limping to the elevator and punching the button for the roof.

He found the glass door to the rooftop greenhouse and slipped into the muggy, artificial heat. Several tropical plants hung down from planters, but the four long boxes contained nothing but vegetables, bright green and fresh. Neil ran his fingers across their leaves and wondered if they were product of the buildings long-term residents or the restaurant downstairs.

Outside the greenhouse the plants were hardier, dark green bushes and decorative trees with prickly needles to withstand the cold. Neil wandered the bare beds, which probably burst with flowers in spring. He reached the edge and leaned against the railing, staring out at the city, bright lights lining the black sinkhole of Central Park.

He breathed in deeply and tilted his head back, remembering another rooftop in another city. He could almost smell the cigarette smoke on Andrew’s breath. The smoggy sky didn’t betray a single star.

He blinked, the smell of smoke blowing over him, stronger than a memory. He scanned the garden and his eyes fell past the boundaries, to a small concrete area around the water tank.

Andrew sat next to the edge, past the railing, a cigarette burning out in his hand. Neil froze, wondering how long Andrew had been watching him wander aimlessly through the garden.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’ll go.”

He got his cane under him and turned to leave when Andrew’s voice caught him in place. “You can stay.”

He twisted to stare at him, but Andrew wasn’t even looking anymore. His eyes faced blankly outwards, the cherry of his cigarette flaring as he took a drag. Neil’s hand tightened on his cane, suddenly uncertain.

Finally, he pulled himself together and made his way to the railing, awkwardly climbing through. He sat a few feet from Andrew, crossing his legs and laying his cane down beside him. Andrew shook a cigarette out of the pack and tipped it towards Neil in question. He took it and lit up, barely aware of what his hands were doing.

He studied Andrew through the corner of his eye, inspecting the bruising on his jaw. His fault. Guilt jumped in his gut again.

“Take a picture,” Andrew grunted, not even glancing at him. “It’ll last longer.”

Neil huffed, his hand touching his pocket where he kept the photo of the two of them at the airport. Andrew didn’t say anything more, and Neil didn’t know where to start. He didn’t know how to bridge the almost two-year gap between them.

So he said nothing, just let the smoke swirl around them while the city continued to buzz beneath them, lit up like it was trying to replace the empty sky. His knees immediately started twinging from being folded under him and he stretched them out, leaning back on his good wrist.

No matter how he sat, something hurt. He fidgeted, adjusting and readjusting his legs to try to find an equilibrium, but there were too many aches to categorize. The gravel bit into his hands as he tugged his ankles in, pressing the soles of his feet together and leaning forward.

The hunched posture made his lower back hurt. He dug his fingers into his ankles and tried to stay still despite the discomfort.

Andrew sighed, flicking his cigarette off the side of the building. “Come here,” he ordered, shuffling closer and angling his body away from Neil.

Neil stared at him in confusion until Andrew grabbed his shoulder and yanked, aligning them back to back. Neil tensed, barely able to breathe as their bodies pressed together. He wanted to ask if this was okay but stopped himself. Andrew wouldn’t offer it if it wasn’t.

Andrew’s heat suffused him, relaxing all the kinks in his muscles and making him feel soft as putty. He melted against Andrew’s back, leaning back to form to his spine. It wasn’t really that much more comfortable than how he’d been sitting before, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

He dropped his head to rest against Andrew’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he murmured.

Andrew twitched. “Don’t,” he growled. Neil exhaled, closing his eyes, an involuntary smile tugging at his lips. Something shifted, like the last piece of a puzzle finally falling into place. He turned his head slightly so he could breathe in the scent of Andrew’s hair.

This was what he’d been missing. He didn’t know what they would be to each other now, after everything that had changed, but he didn’t care. They were never supposed to be strangers.

He leaned against Andrew and he held him up with ease, as solid and unmoving as a stone. The night felt warmer, and they sat there together for hours.

It became a routine. Each night, after the Foxes traipsed all around New York not-so-subtly keeping guard of Neil, he would sneak out of his room and to the rooftop garden, where Andrew would be waiting with a cigarette in hand.

The story came out in fits and starts. He didn’t know how much of what he told the other Foxes had filtered through to Andrew, but he never interrupted, just let Neil talk himself dry.

New Year’s came and went. Half the team wanted to go to Time’s Square, and the other half wanted to go to a club, so they compromised and went to a rooftop bar to watch the fireworks. They went to bed far too late, most of them too drunk to stand. Somehow, they still dredged up the energy for an after-party the next afternoon.

Neil stuck it out for a couple hours before sneaking away to his room for some peace and quiet. He shared his suite with Nicky, though it was large enough that they both had private rooms.

Neil dug through his bag for the bottle of scar cream and sat on his bed, flexing his fingers. The scar tissue stretched tight over his knuckles, inflexible and restrictive.

His door creaked open and he jumped. Andrew closed the door behind him with a click, and Neil froze, watching him nervously.

Andrew sat next to him on the bed and held out his hand for the scar cream. Neil handed it over wordlessly and Andrew studied the bottle for a moment before squeezing a little into his palm and holding it out in a clear offer.

Neil barely dared to breath as he held out his right hand and Andrew took it, fingers careful and deliberate as he massaged the cream into the burns and seam lines that covered Neil’s hands. The room shrank around them as Neil watched Andrew’s fingers move over his, flipping his hand and tracing the silvery lines on his palm.

Andrew pushed his sleeve up and stopped, fingers hovering over the strange, deep scars there.

“He cut it off,” Neil said. He’d admitted it nearly half a dozen times now, to one Fox or another, but the memory still made him cold. “It still doesn’t work right.”

Andrew accepted that with a nod and squeezed some more cream into his hand. He rubbed it into the old marks, his fingers firm but not painful. Neil’s heartrate kicked up a notch, his breath catching in his throat.

He normally didn’t bother with the scars that weren’t on his hands, but he didn’t stop Andrew as he methodically worked over both of his arms, massaging fingers making Neil’s skin soft and supple. He didn’t know how much of that was the cream and how much was the effect of Andrew’s hands on him.

Andrew squeezed a last spot of cream onto his finger and raised his hand, rubbing it into the burn scars on Neil’s cheek. He let his eyes slip closed, a shuddering breath escaping his lungs. His chest felt like it was burning, his ribcage crackling and caving in. He’d thought he wanted things to go back to normal between them, but he was wrong, so wrong. He wanted so much more.

It had been one thing to settle for nothing when he knew he was going to lose it all. Now he had a whole life ahead of him, and he wanted Andrew in it. Andrew’s fingers massaged circles into Neil’s cheek and he couldn’t help but lean into him. Andrew’s hand opened easily to the pressure, cradling Neil’s face.

“Neil,” Andrew murmured, too close, and Neil’s eyes blinked open involuntarily. Andrew’s face hovered a few inches away, golden and intent. “Yes or no?”

Yes slipped out like a prayer and then Andrew’s lips were on his and he was burning for a whole different reason. His breath tore out of him and Andrew’s hand slid into his hair, his mouth opening to Neil. Neil sank into it, relearning every inch of Andrew’s lips.

Andrew’s fingers tightened in his hair, tugging at his scalp. Neil balled his fists in his lap to keep from reaching out as Andrew pulled away, taking his warmth with him.

“You still owe me,” Andrew said, voice bald and bored like his hand wasn’t still knotted in Neil’s hair. Neil blinked at him in confusion. “Binghampton. You promised.”

“Anything,” Neil agreed. “What do you want?”

Andrew’s jaw worked, the ice in his eyes cracking and flaking away. He swallowed, twisting his free hand into Neil’s shirt.

“Stay.”

His voice was raw and broken and Neil’s breath caught, shocked out of him like plunging into an icy pool. He knew that grief, but he’d assumed—

Very slowly, like Andrew might blow away in the wind, he raised his hands, sliding them into Andrew’s hair and pulling their foreheads together till he could feel Andrew’s heat again. He could feel trembling, and didn’t know which one of them was the source.

“Yes,” he whispered, brushing his nose against Andrew’s. “Always.”

Nicky almost tackled him as he entered Allison’s suite, where everyone was gathered for the morning. “Neil! Where were you? You left last night and you didn’t come back and I was so worried!”

“Nicky—”

“Are those bruises?” Nicky said, grabbing Neil’s shoulder and inspecting his neck. “What happened?”

Neil brushed him off, tugging his shirt up a little. “It’s nothing.”

“Tell me who hurt you, Neil. I’ll kick their ass.”

Neil’s eyes shot to Andrew involuntarily as he pushed the door open and made for the breakfast counter. He didn’t quite manage to look away before Nicky followed his gaze.

“Andrew?” Nicky said, outraged. “Andrew, you asshole, what the hell did you do to him?”

Andrew’s gave him a supremely unimpressed look and took a chocolate croissant from the counter, leaning on one arm. “They're not bruises, Nicky.”

A jolt went through Neil’s entire body at the blunt admission. Nicky’s mouth gaped open. “You’re not saying…”

“Yes.”

Neil slipped out from under him and joined Andrew at the counter, pouring a bowl of cereal and waiting for the inevitable reactions. Nicky stared at them, dumbfounded.

Allison was the first to recover, letting out a loud huff of laughter. “Pay up, losers.”

Matt groaned. “You can’t be serious, that bet is ancient.”

“No way,” Nicky said. “No way, I don’t believe it.”

Neil perched on a stool and turned so he could watch the others. Renee caught his eye with a secret, pleased smile, and he let the corner of his mouth turn up a little in response.

The others devolved into bickering about who owed who money, and Neil rolled his eyes, digging into his cereal. “Idiots,” Andrew murmured, just loud enough for Neil to hear.

Neil smiled. They were idiots, yes, but they were his idiots, and he wouldn’t trade them for the world.