Chapter Text
The door clicked shut behind him as Andrew dropped his duffel on the floor. The Timberwolves’ locker room was enormous - definitely big enough that he could keep things like a change of clothes and a water bottle in his cubby - but old habits die hard.
He dropped his keys on the side table and forced his sore shoulders to shrug off his thick coat, damning the Montana cold. It was only October. South Carolina would never have done this to him.
The apartment was warm though. He was making ridiculous amounts of money playing stickball. He could drive up the heating bill if he damn well pleased.
Andrew kicked off his boots and left them in an untidy pile by the door. It was just a muddy pile of shoes but the feeling of sprawling out his ownership over the apartment - his apartment - never failed to make something twinge in his chest.
Neil’s voice echoed in his mind, telling him to pick up his boots unless he wanted to be woken up at 6 AM when Neil tripped over them leaving for a run.
Neil wasn’t here though.
The boots remained where they were.
Andrew beelined for the fridge, intent on the rocky road ice cream he’d been fantasizing about throughout the team dinner he’d just endured. What the team nutritionist didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
He turned back to the kitchen island, half expecting to see Neil making a face at him.
Rocky road? Really? I thought you had taste.
He scowled at his invisible partner and rebelliously scooped an extra spoonful into his bowl.
It left his chest hollow.
Andrew glanced at the glowing clock on the microwave. It was 9:50 PM and he was an hour ahead of Seattle.
It often surprised people that Andrew, even as a professional exy player, rarely watched exy games. He’d left more than one reporter gaping after calling them a waste of time.
He’d usually skim highlights after Stallion games, not that he’d admit it. It’s not like he actually read anything unless it had Neil’s name or number in it.
It was Neil’s first season as a professional player but they’d been long distance for nearly two years now. The year that Andrew had graduated and moved to Montana had been hard. If he had a dollar for every time he woke up in the middle of the night to a ringing phone and Neil’s hoarse voice saying he had a nightmare, he’d have bought a second Maserati.
These days, though, their calls consisted of more afternoon chats about practice rather than middle of the night comfort.
Some days though, Neil’s presence was like a ghost, haunting in its absence.
They hadn’t had a phone call in nearly two weeks. Neil had been especially busy with practice so their communication had been largely limited to texting. Andrew had voiced this to Bee the other night and her knowing look had made him flush with irritation.
Andrew sat cross legged on the couch, nursing his ice cream in his lap while he flicked on the first sports channel that came to mind.
“-ten minutes left on the clock with the Stallions and Patriots neck in neck,” an announcer’s smooth voice burst through his speakers, “It’s been a close game even with the Stallions down by two red carded strikers. Those just tuning in will be surprised to hear Josten’s name is not on the list. Lucky for the Stallions though since he has contributed a stunning five shots to their score and-”
Andrew rolled his eyes. Neil had reigned back his mouth for his first season, wary of the idea of attracting a visit from the Moriyamas, but the sportscasters hadn’t seemed to notice.
Then again, it was easier not to get into fights with opposing teams when he hadn’t had time to grow as attached to the Stallions as he had been with the Foxes. Insults didn’t cut as deeply when you weren’t willing to live and die for your teammates.
“Josten’s had a long game tonight. He’s played a full forty-five minute half but there’s not a chance he’s getting pulled after scoring a staggering five out of seven shots. He is on fire tonight!”
The screen cut to a shot of Neil slamming his shoulder into a dealer twice his size and sending him into the plexiglass wall.
Something in Andrew’s chest fluttered. He told himself it was annoyance at Neil’s lack of self preservation.
He watched a few minutes, eating and tuning out when the focus left Neil until the game cut to commercial.
Andrew stood, sore thighs and abs protesting, and took his empty bowl to the kitchen.
The ice cream hadn’t filled the uncomfortably hollow feeling that plagued him. The apartment was quiet and dark, even with the ads casting a technicolor glow across the white walls.
Andrew found his thoughts drifting to their team schedules. The season had just started so there was less time when he or Neil could spare the time for a flight and a few days together. Andrew wouldn’t have two consecutive days free for the next four or so weeks and Neil-
He was startled out of his thoughts by the return of the TV announcer's urgent voice.
“Just two minutes left and the Stallions and Patriots are still neck in neck at seven points each! The Patriot’s Jamesson has control of the ball but it looks like Joston is giving him a run for his money. He fakes him out and stickchecks and he’s got the ball with one minute left!”
Andrew finished rinsing his bowl and set it to dry, turning back to the TV just in time to see Neil score an impossible shot. The goal lit up red just as the final buzzer went off.
“He’s done it! Joston scores the winning shot just as the buzzer-”
The camera panned back to Neil but the buzzer had barely finished sounding before Neil crumpled and hit the ground.
Andrew froze, hot fear climbing up his neck.
“-appears to have fainted despite an incredible game. Medics are entering the field-”
He wasn’t getting up.
Neil’s teammates were shaking his shoulder and pulling off his helmet. Exposed to the camera, Neil’s skin was waxy and pale. With his eyes shut and his body limp, he looked painfully young.
The medics forced the players away and were taking his pulse.
He wasn’t getting up.
Andrew’s blood turned to ice as memories of Neil, pale, unconscious, and bandaged in a hospital bed, came flooding into his mind.
His phone buzzed, violently vibrating the glass top of the coffee table. He grabbed it and answered without taking his eyes off the medics probing at Neil.
Kevin’s frantic voice came through the speaker, “Andrew, turn on the Stallion game right now. Neil-”
“I know.” Andrew cut him off sharply.
The announcer was saying something but the TV may as well have been underwater.
More medics were flooding the field, two carrying a stretcher between them. They rolled Neil onto his back and - why wasn’t he getting up - lifted him onto the stretcher. Neil’s limp arm slid off the side and hung freely for a moment before a medic placed it back across his stomach.
“Did he just move? I swear to god I just saw him make a face.” Kevin was close to hysterical. “Did you see-”
“Shut up.” Andrew snapped, forcing himself to move away from the TV and towards his abandoned duffel. “Call me if anything happens.”
He hung up before Kevin could respond, dropping his phone into his duffel, and started shoving his feet back into his boots. His hands trembled so hard that he couldn’t grab the laces.
Andrew stopped for a moment and forced himself to be still. Neil was tough. He’d lived and survived things most people only faced in their nightmares. Andrew could be in Seattle in a little over an hour but he was useless if he couldn’t calm down.
Bee’s voice filled his mind, telling him to breathe in for five, hold for five, exhale for seven.
Andrew did, counting as his lungs expanded down to his stomach. He held for five, letting the need for oxygen replace his frantic thoughts of Neil, Neil, Neil. He exhaled, growing a touch lightheaded as some of the adrenaline flooded out of him.
Visions of bright blue eyes, a sly grin, and unruly auburn curls flickered past him, coupled with a hot dread in the pit of his stomach.
Andrew opened his eyes, not realizing he’d closed them, and laced his boots.
He was halfway to the airport before he realized he’d forgotten to turn off the TV.