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“May I get a rum and Coke?”
The bartender laughs in Kevin’s face, which… alright. Kevin’s head is rushing too much to defend himself. He glances at Andrew, praying that his expression doesn’t scream I’ve never ordered at a bar before.
“Jesus, where’d you find this guy?” Roland yells at Andrew over the bass of whatever satanic death metal is playing. “Sunday mass? Undo a couple of those buttons, angel.”
Andrew crushes his palm to the small of Kevin’s back, forcing him up against the bar. Kevin stumbles, but manages to catch himself with his right hand. His left is wrapped in KT tape and bandages. Before he can recover, Andrew crowds in, leaning close to his ear.
“Wow, Kevin.”
Andrew’s voice feels like it comes with a blade to the throat. Sometimes it does. Right now, he’s clapping his hands together in mocking applause.
“Ask Nicky what grown-ups drink, or it’s Capri Suns until you turn twenty-one.”
Kevin’s cheeks burn. He shifts sideways without touching Andrew. Andrew’s in one of those moods tonight—manic and gleeful, but strung out too. He’s riding a cocktail of pills, dust, nicotine, and alcohol. He sways, eyes dilated and glassy.
Kevin crosses his arms and glares at Andrew, trying not to sway on his feet.
“What’s wrong with rum and Coke?”
Andrew hums a few bars of something grandiose. Beethoven—it takes Kevin a second to recognize it. Andrew's eyes glaze over, and he only reacts when Kevin waves a hand in front of his face.
“I bite,” Andrew warns.
Kevin snatches his hand away.
Andrew grins, toothy and unrepentant. He doesn’t answer Kevin’s question, so Kevin turns to Roland.
“What should I get, then?”
Roland sizes him up. Kevin forces himself to hold eye contact. Neon eyeshadow clings to Roland’s inner corners. Roland sniffs, and Kevin wonders what he's on. He’s taking too long to respond.
Kevin shifts, uneasy.
“I’d make you a Long Island Iced Tea,” Roland says at last.
“What’s that?” Kevin asks, before he can stop himself. He regrets it immediately. Roland’s lips press together in a wily smirk.
Kevin hates this—feeling like he doesn’t know the rules. He recognizes hazing when he sees it, though. Roland’s not only poking fun at his ignorance; he’s planning on exploiting it. It sets Kevin’s nerves on edge.
“No dice, Roland! He’s straight,” Andrew cuts in. “The rum and Coke should’ve clued you in.”
Made aware of Roland’s intentions, Kevin jolts his hands off the bar, leaning back.
“You’re not going to catch it,” Andrew says, amused.
Kevin, horrified, whirls around to face Andrew. “Riko wouldn’t approve of f—homosexuality.” He glances at Roland, unsure which word will earn him the least spit in his drink. “Umm, queer… gays?”
“Did you actually find him at church?” Roland interrupts, sounding put-off.
“Close!” Andrew declares, recovering fast. “He’s the sole survivor of a fundamentalist cult in West Virginia—we’re defiling him. Getting him off the Kool-Aid and onto booze.”
“What the fuck?”
“Mm-hmm,” Andrew muses, spinning side to side on his barstool. “He escaped the compound after he found out about the mass-suicide pact. Nothing gets him going more than Judgement Day. He says the end times are scheduled for late April! Have you made peace with the Lord?”
“Oh, you’re kidding.”
Kevin’s offended that Roland found it plausible for longer than a second. He’s even more offended that the story isn’t that far from the truth.
“You caught me! He’s actually from the mafia.”
“Fine, don’t tell me,” Roland mutters. “ I can make a Shirley Temple for Waco over here. Extra cherries. He won’t keel over if it’s pink, right?”
“I’ve had alcohol before,” Kevin huffs, cross. “Scotch, whiskey. Wines, too.”
Riko had paid upperclassmen to smuggle it into the Nest. He’d been partial to red wine (for the color, Kevin always thought). They'd drink champagne after they won games, and expensive spirits when they traveled. They were never carded—it didn’t matter if they were in a steakhouse or a hole in the wall. Riko always had a way of charming people into giving him whatever he wanted.
“Rum and Coke,” Roland mumbles under his breath. “Okay. Andrew?”
“Vodka tonic with Grey Goose, for the gentleman,” Andrew chirps. “On my tab.”
Kevin swallows. Andrew’s bought every drink tonight—he keeps sliding shots Kevin’s way. Kevin doesn’t understand if he’s supposed to argue, buy one in return, or let Andrew do what he wants. He’s never this unsure on the court. Eden’s is a different kind of game.
Roland reaches for a frosted bottle. His eyes flick to Andrew. Andrew shakes his head. He taps black-painted nails against the bar in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Beethoven.
Kevin’s head is spinning. Roland measures out a shot over ice, and then… keeps pouring.
“Can I have that as a single?” Kevin blurts.
“We don’t do singles, babe.”
Kevin spots a flash of neon above Roland’s teeth—a piercing in his gums—as his lips slide into a smirk. Kevin freezes in place as Roland’s gaze drags down, down . He’s still pouring; he’s not even looking.
The drink is two-thirds full when Roland finally sets aside the vodka and reaches for the tonic water. The carbonation sizzles. His practiced fingers impale a lime slice onto the rim of the glass.
Instead of sliding the drink across the bar, Roland leans over and holds it out. Kevin gapes. It takes him too long to remember he’s supposed to grab it. Andrew’s stare burns into him—and for one horrible second, he’s sure he’s completely transparent.
His pulse pounds in his neck. Everything is too hot, too loud. He can’t tell if Roland is fucking with him or flirting with him. His fingers twitch toward the glass.
Andrew snatches the drink from Roland and shoves it into Kevin’s right hand.
“Say thank you for the oh-so generous pour, Kevin,” he suggests in a sing-song voice. He doesn't wait for Kevin to embarrass himself even further. Instead, he grabs him by the shoulder, steering him towards their table.
Kevin splutters and manages not to spill his drink. Andrew maneuvers him through the dance floor with a fist in his shirt. He’s plunged up against contorting bodies clad in leather. The dance floor manages to feel five degrees hotter than the rest of the club.
Andrew lets him go as they reach their table in the VIP section. Kevin collapses into a chair, head spinning. He refuses to process whatever the fuck happened at the bar. He can think about that once he's sober.
Instead, he takes a sip of the vodka tonic, avoiding Andrew’s searching gaze.
“Oh,” Kevin blinks. “It’s not awful.”
Andrew looks far too amused. He leans closer and dips two fingers into Kevin’s drink, nails catching the lime wedge. He draws it up the glass with deliberate slowness, palms it, and gives it a sharp squeeze. Juice drips down his knuckles and spills into the glass.
“That’s mine,” Kevin protests, feeling pathetic.
Andrew flicks lime juice at Kevin.
“Don’t remember you paying for it.”
He plunks the lime into the drink anyway. Vodka splashes up the sides and streaks through the condensation on the glass.
Kevin almost fumbles as he raises his glass to his lips. Using his right hand is still foreign.
A month ago, his doctors told him that he’d never be able to use his left hand again. Today, they’d changed their minds. In a year, if he underwent intensive physical therapy, he might be able to use it for minor tasks. Cutlery. Lifting under five pounds. Writing, if he were lucky enough.
That sliver of hope had been all he needed. Kevin Day was one stubborn motherfucker; if he could move his fingers, then he could learn to play again.
He'd called Coach Wymack the second the appointment ended, demanding to be signed to next year’s lineup.
A few hours ago, Kevin had entered the Foxhole Court with a racquet in his right hand for the first time. Practice went overtime; the Foxes sat in the bleachers in full gear and watched as he tried to score a point on Renee. It took twenty-two minutes for the goal to light up red.
That night, Andrew threw Kevin a pile of black clothing and told him they were taking him to Eden’s.
Now, music pounds through the floor, vodka bites at his tongue. Kevin is grateful for the distraction when Nicky and Aaron return, shoving their way out of the dance floor. Nicky's got a huge grin and a dozen hickeys, which everyone studiously ignores.
“A dominatrix just propositioned Aaron,” Nicky dishes as soon as he’s in earshot.
Andrew perks up, eyes narrowing.
“Fuck off,” Aaron says without looking up.
“She offered to step on him. I guess he looks like he needs it.” Nicky claps Aaron on the back.
“Shut up, Nicky.”
Andrew drags Aaron into the stool next to him. He slings an arm around Aaron's shoulder, dragging him close.
Nicky steals Kevin’s drink and holds it up to the light. “What’d he buy you?”
What is it with people stealing his drinks tonight? Kevin opens his mouth to protest, but he’s already stealing a sip. His face contorts in immediate disgust, and he smacks his lips.
“ Gross , Andrew. Are you trying to scare him off?”
“It’s good,” Kevin grumbles, sour.
“It’s, like, straight vodka. And tonic, which is—actually, no. I get why Andrew picked it for you.”
Andrew’s ignoring them. He reclines, tapping his fingers in the air like he’s playing an invisible piano.
Nicky returns Kevin’s drink.
“You’re fucking crazy, y’know. We’re totally bringing you here more. Drink up.”
Kevin takes another small sip, but Nicky clicks his tongue and snatches the glass again.
Scowling, Kevin tries to retrieve it, but with his left hand out of commission, there’s not much he can do. Nicky presses the glass to his lips.
“Tilt your head back,” he coos.
Kevin almost refuses, but he’s loose right now. His pulse is pounding to the bass tempo. It could be the alcohol, or that following orders is so familiar. He slants, exposing his neck.
Nicky laughs and says something to Aaron. Kevin hears Aaron gag and turns to ask what he missed—but before he can, Nicky tips the vodka tonic into his mouth.
Kevin’s waterfalled from a teammate’s bottle during warmups before. This is liquor, though, and Nicky is either too drunk or too sadistic to go slow. Kevin panics and swallows hard. His eyes burn even worse than his throat does, tearing up.
Vodka spills over the corners of his mouth and down his shirt, shocking him with cold. He tries to drink faster as it wells in his mouth—
— Hauling a bulky chair into the showers. Putting a towel on Jean’s face, watching water whirlpool into the drain. Pretty little water tornadoes while Jean asphyxiated —
Kevin chokes.
He knocks the glass away, and the rest of the drink sloshes onto the floor. Kevin doesn’t have time to care—he doubles over, hacking into his lap. The drink went down the wrong pipe. He tries to cough out the fire tearing through his chest, and saline starts to stream over his cheeks.
A fist slams against his back. It doesn’t help, and almost knocks him out of his stool. Kevin sits up to swear at Nicky.
Golden eyes freeze Kevin in place.
Andrew stares Kevin down, looking unimpressed, and Kevin deflates. He coughs into his arm and refuses to acknowledge how fast Andrew got around the table.
“What did we learn today, class?” Andrew croons.
Kevin glares at him. Andrew grins even wider.
“Oh, teacher, I know! Pick me, pick me!”
He presses his sleeve to Kevin’s face and rubs—rough, soaking up and smearing the vodka on his cheeks. Kevin can feel the shape of knives under Andrew’s armbands, through two layers of fabric.
“We learned not to listen to Nicky,” Andrew beams. He pinches Kevin’s tattoo between two black fingernails, clawing deep.
Kevin grits his teeth and shoves him off. The alcohol is starting to hit him.
The flashing lights grow brighter as the song switches. It’s the same shit—falsetto screeching, distorted guitar riffs, and overenthusiastic drumming. Kevin’s glad they’re not closer to the speakers, because he can feel the bass pounding on his chest from here.
Andrew swings into the seat between Aaron and Kevin. Kevin tries to pat himself dry from where his drink ran down his neck. His hand feels bigger, clumsier. Kevin lifts it, finding himself enraptured by how the spaces between his fingers move.
His cheekbone stings; Andrew’s nails may have left indentations in his face. His head’s a tetherball swinging in circles.
“Last chance for dust,” Nicky offers.
Kevin waves him off, digging his nails into his temples and trying to sober up.
“Fine, all for me.” Nicky faux-pouts and upends the last packet into his mouth. “For the record, you swallowed way more than I thought you would.”
“Shut up, Nicky.”
Kevin looks at his lap. His tongue is numb. He isn’t dizzy, he’s wobbly .
His barstool’s a little less stable. He can feel his blood rushing through his veins, heating every limb. He can feel his pulse throughout his whole body, a disconcerting thump.
“Oh, goodie.”
Andrew’s voice, deadpan, going in Kevin’s left ear and out the right one.
“We got the Son of Exy wasted. Mother dearest would be so proud.”
Is he talking about his mother or Kayleigh? Kevin scrunches up his eyebrows. Prickly indignation bubbles up, but he forgets why as soon as the emotion hits him—what did Andrew say again?
“What?” He asks, five seconds too late.
“Oh my god,” Nicky says, revelling. “He’s such a fucking lightweight.”
“Who would’ve thought?” Aaron mumbles over the rim of his drink, managing to look even less interested than Andrew.
Kevin watches his left hand on the table in front of him, determined. He wonders if alcohol can reactivate the parts of his brain that control his left hand. Did his pinky twitch, or was that his vision swimming? He’s not sure, but he decides to wait and see.
“He’s seeing God right now,” Nicky cackles. “Fuck. Aaron, where’s my camera?”
“Coat check.”
Aaron throws back another shot. Kevin looks up at him, then at Andrew beside him. He forces his vision to unfocus, refocus…
The blurs of their blond hair easily light up in different colors. The lasers and flashing lights from the dance floor hit and illuminate them.
“Staring,” Andrew tells him. Kevin spaces out for a second longer, trying to remember what words mean. Then he keeps staring once he remembers that far.
He doesn’t understand why Andrew doesn’t care about anything. He’s too good at Exy not to care. It’s so obvious. Kevin wants him at his side at the Olympics, and Andrew pretends not to care.
Andrew acts as lifeless as the color of his hair. The color of dead coral. It looks bleached, but it can’t be, because Aaron’s is the same. Kevin wonders if their ancestors are from someplace cold. It would make sense, then. Andrew doesn’t have the attitude of someone who grew up warm.
It’s still blond, though. An odd, dead blond. Kevin wonders if it would look better if it were a warmer gold, like Andrew’s eyes—but that’s a funny thought, isn't it? Andrew’s eyes are hazel—is it the light?
Maybe in different lighting, Andrew’s hair would be golden, too. Kevin wonders what he looked like when he lived in California.
“Your hair could be gold,” Kevin concludes, squinting at Andrew and trying to imagine it.
“What the fuck ?” Aaron lifts his hands to his hair as if he’s trying to hide it. Kevin laughs—it’s quite funny, Aaron is very drunk. It’s not like he could forget how Aaron looks, because Andrew’s right next to him.
Andrew is right next to him, and his eyebrows are doing… something. Is he offended? Oh, Kevin hopes he’s not mad. If he’s mad, he might leave Kevin alone. Then Riko would find him and stick a knife into his abdomen, or break Kevin’s other hand, or—
Nicky taps Kevin’s shoulder. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Kevin murmurs, distracted. He forgot something important. It was…
“It’s fine,” Kevin remembers, triumphant. “Your hair, I mean. It’s fine. It’s like… like white gold, not like sun gold, just—cold gold. That’s still gold.”
“Mmhmm. Okay. Shut up, Kevin,” Andrew says.
He’s annoyed, isn’t he? Kevin taps his fingers on the table, worried. He’s got to make this right; he’s got to apologize.
Something warm, something real—he has to say something real.
“No—no, I… I like gold,” he stammers.
Andrew narrows his eyes at him. Kevin glares, well-aware he isn’t making any sense. Fuck, the alcohol is going to his head. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.
Andrew cannot leave him like this.
By his side, until the Olympics. Until they earn gold, until—oh, that’s it.
“In the Olympics, they bite the medals to check if they’re real gold. Because real gold’s soft—you can leave teeth marks in it,” Kevin rambles.
It’s a little easier to force the words out when he doesn’t have to come up with them himself—this is history. Kevin can do history. He might be slurring a little, but Kevin can do history.
“You heard it here, folks… Kevin Day wants to bite my hair,” Andrew announces.
Nicky loses it, laughing so hard he doubles forward and slams his fist on the table. Aaron pulls a face like he’s just bitten into something rancid.
“That is not what I meant—” Kevin interjects. It’s hopeless, even Andrew is shaking with mirth—or tweaking, that’s possible too. Kevin flushes bright red, hiding his face in his hands.
“Oh, he wants you to bite him , got it,” Nicky mutters.
“Eww, can I fucking leave?” Aaron complains.
“No. No,” Kevin repeats, shaking his head fast enough to get nauseous.
“Whoopsie daisies! Nicky, Aaron, go dance.”
“What?” Nicky blurts. “We literally just sat down.”
Aaron grabs him by the shoulder. “Fuck no, we’re leaving.”
Their bickering fades off as they disappear to the dance floor. Kevin watches them go in the gaps between his fingertips.
“You’re welcome.”
“Shut up,” Kevin groans, not looking up. “I’m drunk.”
“Fucking duh.”
Andrew plucks a cocktail straw out of an abandoned vodka cran from two rounds ago. He gives it a single twirl, then drops it off the side of the table.
Kevin finally peeks at him, and then hides again when he sees the menacing tilt of Andrew’s lips. His expression is too sharp. He’s not as fucked up as Kevin is, or he’s a hell of a lot better at hiding it.
Andrew catches him looking—of course he does. His eyes narrow.
“Feeling enlightened at Eden’s, mm? Having fun? ”
Kevin feels nauseous.
He drops his hands, staring at the wood grain. His head spins. He knows he can’t trust his senses—or his mind. The alcohol’s got its claws in him. But he’s sweating, and Andrew’s irises are molten gold.
His inhibitions are out for the evening, and common sense isn’t answering the phone.
Everything turns oppressive all at once. The music shreds through the air, all screeching metal and breaking glass. Kevin rakes his right hand through his hair, since his left is dead weight on the table.
Nails scrape scalp.
“It’s kind of loud.”
“Kevin, Kevin… chin up, old sport.”
Andrew leans in, patting Kevin’s cheek—slow, deliberate, condescending.
Kevin’s heart slams against his ribs. Every instinct screams at him to slap Andrew away.
What if someone sees? Not Andrew—everyone knows he’s apathetic, insane—but Kevin? Kevin, with Andrew’s palm on his cheek. Kevin, frozen in the passenger seat as Andrew’s arm hooks behind his headrest to reverse. Kevin, trying to maintain eye contact when Andrew’s pissed off enough to shove him into a wall.
Riko would kill them both for this. Kevin knows him. Riko would whisper, Kevin, was it worth it? Then he’d kill Andrew first—and make Kevin watch.
Kevin closes his eyes. His thoughts are scattered. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking—and it doesn’t matter. Andrew’s high. He’s being an asshole. That’s all.
He leans away, shoulders tense.
“I want to go home.”
Kevin’s said these exact words a hundred times since he arrived in South Carolina. He doesn't think he's talking about the Nest this time.
Andrew turns in his seat, looking unsympathetic.
“Hmm… nope! Have another shot and fix your attitude.”
Kevin sets his jaw.
“Take me home.”
“Hush up, I’m listening to the music,” Andrew mutters, eyes closing. “Come back when your blood alcohol content’s up by a decimal place.”
He starts playing air piano again. Kevin’s right hand curls into a fist.
Andrew’s insufferable, Eden’s is deafening and overstimulating. Nicky and Aaron are god-knows-where. He should’ve listened to Matt and the others and stayed at Palmetto—but how could he? Where Andrew goes, Kevin follows.
The Foxes had placed bets on Kevin's life expectancy when he’d flung Andrew's racquet across the court. That’s the issue—they key each other up like this. Andrew gets a kick out of refusing Kevin anything, and Kevin hates being told no.
On Kevin’s first day as an assistant coach, Andrew gave him so much trouble that he snapped at him within an hour. Andrew walked straight off the court and didn’t return.
Wymack did his best—bribery, then threats—to entice Andrew back on the court. Andrew retaliated by threatening to break his fingers. He’d mimed the action with his left hand. Kevin had to leave the room in a rage. He'd been a hair away from bitterly correcting Andrew on his form.
(To break your own fingers, you’d hold your palm against the floor—it kept you from flinching. He’d seen Jean do it six times.)
After that, he and Andrew hadn’t spoken in three weeks, enduring close contact in furious silence.
And then today. Kevin Day, #2, striker, waltzing onto the court and scoring a goal with his right hand. The same hand that Andrew shook to finalize the deal they made in December.
Kevin thought tonight would be different, but Andrew’s giving him nothing.
No—worse than nothing. He’s monopolizing Kevin’s attention, letting him think this is going somewhere.
He’s wasting his time.
Spite might be a more powerful drug than Andrew’s pills. Kevin’s skin flushes hot. He wants to hit him.
Instead, he grabs one of the shot glasses on the tray and tips it back. He doesn’t want to remember any of this. Andrew will get him home.
He’s expecting tequila. This isn’t.
The clear spirit’s oaky, smooth, and fucking vile. Kevin chokes down half and winces.
He slams the shot glass onto the table, hard enough to topple another. Alcohol spills onto the drinks tray.
“Water,” Kevin gasps. “What the fuck?”
Andrew passes him the bottle, uncapped, and Kevin takes a swig.
“Mezcal! You’re horrible at drinking. Clean up your mess.”
That’s all it takes for Kevin’s nerves to boil over.
“Fuck you, Andrew. You couldn’t have warned me? You’re such a fucking asshole every goddamn time. I’m delighted you’re not on the court; you’d get in my way, you delinquent wretch. ”
He runs out of breath and curls in on himself, trembling in fury, and waits for Andrew to gut him.
A moment later, with no knifewound, he looks up.
Andrew’s chair is still. He’s balancing one of his knives on his finger.
“Are you done?” Andrew drawls.
Kevin sucks in a ragged breath.
“No,” he says, surprising himself. “Put that away.”
Andrew watches him, unmoving. The knife sways on his finger.
“I didn’t leave the Ravens to have someone else brandish knives at me,” Kevin bites out. “And you won’t do it better than Riko does. Cut me if you want, but don’t wave that around like you don’t know where to stick it.”
Kevin pauses, horrified and exhilarated. He has no idea where the hell this is coming from, but he likes it. It’s not control, but autonomy. Andrew might murder him, but Kevin chose to provoke him.
The terror’s alive and kicking, but he’s shrugging off deference for the first time.
It feels like winning.
Andrew tucks his blade back into his armbands.
Kevin exhales and finds himself dizzy. He doesn’t remember when he stood up, but there are dark spots in his vision. He takes his seat. He’s coveted Andrew’s undivided attention for months. Now that he’s had it for a minute, he isn’t sure what to do with it.
Andrew tilts his head at the drink tray.
“I’ll put ‘no mezcal’ next to ‘Kevin’ in my mind palace.”
“It’s shit,” Kevin mumbles.
“I should’ve cut you.”
Kevin doesn’t respond. He stares, exhausted and sober, at his hands.
If he’d pulled a stunt like that with Riko… but then, Andrew isn’t Riko. Kevin’s starting to understand that he has no idea who Andrew is. He’s manic, but he sheathed his knife. He’s an apathetic washout on the court, but he goaltends like a monster the second he’s given a reason to care.
“You wouldn’t get in my way,” Kevin admits. “Everything else was true, but not that. You’re not allowed to keep fucking off to the bleachers because I said that. I’ve taken it back. You belong on the court.”
Andrew rolls his eyes, melodramatic as ever.
“You do,” Kevin insists. “It’s the deal. You may disagree now, but you will. You’ll see.”
“Ah-ah-ah. It’s quiet time.”
Andrew looks more irritated by Exy talk than he did when Kevin called him a delinquent wretch. Kevin opens his mouth to complain. Andrew shoves a quiet coyote gesture into his face, and Kevin decides not to push his luck.
Andrew starts to spin in his chair again, so Kevin leans his elbows on the table, resting his eyes. That’s when he feels something rattle across the table and hit his left hand.
He peeks. It’s an orange prescription bottle. IR venlafaxine, 150mg , written out to an A. Minyard.
“You’re going to hold onto these for me if you want me playing stickball. I skip pills on game days. Non-negotiable.”
Kevin glances at the pills, then at Andrew.
Fuck .
The withdrawal, the apathy, the court order. Andrew had been skipping doses, all this time...
“You’re insane,” Kevin breathes. “What if I went and flushed them right now? They’re ruining you.”
“Hmm, compelling stuff! What if I punch you right now, because you’re ruining yourself?”
Kevin snatches up the pills and pockets them.
“Withdrawal is a bitch,” Andrew warns, beaming. “I’ll cut you.”
“Yeah, but you’ll play.”
Andrew stares at him for a second, then jumps off his barstool and sweeps up the drink tray, balancing it on one hand.
“I’m tired of your voice. Get up, we're going home.”