Chapter Text
Andrew took a harsh drag of his cigarette as he listened to the sounds of the city below him. The fifth floor of his apartment was just high enough to dull the sounds of speech, but the incessant noise of traffic, taxis, ambulances, alarms, and occasionally shouting were loud enough to be heard wherever you were in this city. He supposed maybe there were penthouses somewhere, with silent, reinforced glass that completely blocked out the madness of New York, but at that point the resident would be so used to it they’d have to install white noise machines anyway. It was inescapable. Far better to try and adapt to it; this was his life for the foreseeable future.
“Hypervigilance”, Bee had always called it, being unable to sleep through even the slightest disturbance. Unwilling to wear earplugs knowing full well a second of warning was worth a thousand false alarms. Even with two locks on the door, a deadbolt he’d drilled in himself, and a chair that he could prop under his bedroom door on the bad nights, he hadn’t slept for months when he’d first come here. Every noise was a threat, and the city was noise, chaos, a trap waiting to pull him under. Bee hadn’t been stupid enough to suggest medication. So he suffered, slept in fits and starts between practice and what he could scrape at night, and when that didn’t work, relied on his reputation to keep people from asking too many questions.
Bee had never lived it. But she knew Andrew had, and never once made him feel sorry about it. He supposed seeing some of it in person would have helped, but even before he’d been attacked on campus by his foster brother, she had never questioned the way Andrew operated. Made suggestions maybe, tried to feed him coping skills and manage the amount of blowback his intrapersonal relationships caused the team, but never told him he was stupid, his fears (oh, how he hated that word) unfounded. The month before graduation, she’d come to him and said she wanted to make a deal . She would shuck out the money for a telemental health license if he would commit to paying for her services for two years following graduation. He wasn’t blind, or stupid. He knew this was for his own benefit. He took the deal anyway.
It would have been unimaginable to him a year ago, signing pro. It still was sometimes, but he had to admit that it wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be. Sure, (purely against his will) he was in the best shape of his life, and the schedule could be grueling, but so far this contract hadn’t put him in any positions he couldn’t handle. His senior year had been a combination of pressure from Wymack and Kevin, trying to get him to consider signing with one team or another, but it had been his choice in the end. He hadn’t even been scouted. Just picked up the phone and called the Baron’s manager and told them to fax a contract. It had come through the next day without preamble, with the additional perk of causing a shitstorm from coach, and before graduation he’d had half his new salary headed to the bursar’s office at SUNY and a new GranTurismo packed with boxes.
A week before, Aaron had used one of their joint therapy sessions to tell Andrew that he and Kaitlyn were headed to the pediatric program, providing their scholarships came through. He told Andrew that he wanted (because Andrew would never use that word) him to stay in their lives, and that he was welcome to apply for another program for his masters. Andrew had been furious, white hot with anger, certain that Aaron was leaving. Breaking his promise. But they’d done a lot of work over their junior and senior years, and Andrew was able to see the invitation for what it was- a request to be together. It wasn’t binding. Andrew preferred binding. But his brother’s apartment was a twenty minute walk from his own, and he could see him when he want-when they were both free.
The car alone might have been worth it-he hadn’t had a car of his own since sophomore year. Not since the shitshow with the Ravens came to a head and his Mas had met the end of its life as a punching bag for upset fans. Nicky’s Corolla was not a car , no matter what he said about it. As part of his new pro contract, he’d opened a couple of social media accounts, but instead of shots of his teammates and hype surrounding games, it was filled with photos of his car. Somehow, his post engagement was still in the acceptable range, and his “creative marketing strategy” meetings weren’t too grim, when he bothered to attend them.
He took another drag of the cigarette. Without anything else to do at 3am, he dug his phone out of his pocket to scroll through Instagram, very nearly hurling it off the balcony when greeted by a raunchy photo of Eric and Nicky with their tongues down each other’s throats, bundled up against the Munich chill. He didn’t bother to read the caption. There were a few updates from the foxes, mostly Kevin, who seemed to update his account nearly every day, and one or two from Renee that he bothered to actually read. During the time he took to scroll, Kevin’s name popped up in a call, which he declined with a flick of his thumb. A second later, his name came across in a text that said “call me”.
And then, in the suggested follows section, he saw it.
He stared at the photo for a few seconds without processing, and then clicked on the profile. The username was “Jos10”, he noted, and put the phone back in his pocket to free his hands to light another cigarette. He let himself have three deep drags before he dug the phone back out.
The post didn’t have a caption. It was taken during golden hour, morning or evening he couldn’t quite tell, but the lighting was perfect. It hit the paint job of the Nissan GTR perfectly, turning it to a deep copper tinted gold, obviously a custom aftermarket paint job to exactly match the hair color of the young man leaned against the driver’s door.
The boy was lounged against the car with his ankles crossed, long slender legs highlighted in a pair of stonewashed jeans and his hair slicked back away from his face. When Andrew had first met him, he’d hidden behind a fringe of hair and nearly always had his eyes down at the boots of whomever he spoke to. When he spoke at all. The only flash of his eyes you’d ever get was when he was too angry to remember to keep them down, blue and cold as ice. In this photo, he gazed confidently into the camera, a small smile on his face. The horrific burn on his left cheek that Andrew remembered as open and weeping clear fluid was healed now, a reddish sunburst scar that should have distracted from his looks but somehow didn’t. He’d spent his freshman year with the pinched knob-kneed look of a boy mid growth spurt with too little food, underweight and gangly- scrawny if you put it nicely, an emaciated mess if you didn’t. He was always dressed in baggy hoodies that never managed to quite hide the bruises. Andrew paid as much attention to him as he had to to keep his promise to Kevin, but only a fool took their eyes off of an enemy long enough to look at his goons. Now his cheekbones stuck out from winning the genetic lottery instead of malnutrition. His body filled out his outfit in a way that might have made Andrew’s throat go dry were it anyone else. He looked fit. Healthy. In a way Andrew was sure must have happened after the stress of his freshman year had faded.
After Riko had died.
He’d seen the redhead occasionally, during banquets and on television his final college years, but Edgar Allan had gone through a reckoning after their all-star player’s very public breakdown. Even Kevin didn’t have the whole story of what had happened, what kind of “cleaning house” had gone on beyond the closed door of Castle Evermore. All they knew for certain was that over the summer following the championship game where the Foxes had beaten the Ravens, Edgar Allan had transferred back to the northeast division, lost their star backliner Jean Moreau to the Trojans, lost their star striker to a tree meeting the front end of a Lexus at over 100 miles per hour (Andrew would shed no tears for Riko Moriyama), and subsequently shut themselves down for the first half of the next season, taking forfeit after forfeit. When they emerged, whatever had happened, the players refused to talk about it. To a man, they brushed off comments of missing months and excused matches, instead focusing interviews on their plans to re-engage their former rivals. Andrew had been too busy keeping Kevin from killing himself with vodka to pay too much attention, only glad that they had turned their attention from him and his.
A lot of press called the Foxes’ victory over the Ravens the highlight of his athletic career, and it certainly got brought up quite often in the unfortunate instances he had press duty. The “Sons of Exy” would always be one of their favorite storylines, no matter how gnawed that particular bone. They did cover stories with Kevin and Riko’s old promo photos, sometimes quartering the spread and featuring One, Two, Three, and Four together. He knew Kevin had every issue, reading them obsessively for updates.
Andrew hadn’t looked. But he was looking now. The photo didn’t even need the car to have racked up as many likes and comments as it did, and judging from the comments Andrew wasn't alone in wondering how he’d missed this glow up. He was halfway interested in going back and watching the Raven captain's former interviews, trying to see when and where he’d turned the corner from sniveling rabbit to whatever the hell he was looking at in the photo, leaned up against the car with his devil-may-care grin.
Then, Andrew’s gaze fell to his chest, and he froze. There, on the soft blue jersey with faint pinstripe, custom tailored to hug his lean frame, was a familiar logo and a “10” embossed in the background.
A Baron’s Jersey.
Wymack’s name scrolled across the top of his phone, and with a resigned sigh, he hit the accept button.
“It’s 3am.” He informed his ex coach, already aware that the true reason for his call was the frantic muttering idiot in the background.
“I know you’re awake, you insomniac. Kevin woke me up five minutes ago to tell me Josten signed with the Barons.”
“Old news.” Andrew informed him. “I saw the photo.”
“You and half the world.” Wymack grumbled. “My phone is blowing up asking for reactions. I’m pretty sure you’re trending on Twitter.”
“Wonderful. I can barely contain my excitement. Can’t you tell I’m excited?” Andrew deadpanned, causing the older man to curse.
“Listen. Just listen. If you want out of your contract we can-”
“No.” Andrew and Kevin said at the same time.
“Kevin, I thought I’d sent you to voicemail.”
”Damnit, Andrew, you can’t just end your contract, don’t tell me you’re actually-”
“No, I’m not.” Andrew wasn’t about to let some psycho’s lapdog run him out of his life here, no matter how dramatic their coach was being.
Wymack sounded positively wounded. “I can’t do this again. I can’t have another year like that. It’s over. It has to be over.” There was the sound of a liquor bottle meeting a glass. Andrew didn’t need him to elaborate. They’d all lived it.
“Listen, I know him. Or, I used to. We were Ravens together, once. We can come up with a plan to make sure he doesn't cause too much trouble.”
“Yeah, because that worked so well the last time.” Andrew took a final drag of his cigarette and tossed it over the edge of the balcony. The bushes below must be half tobacco by now.
They were quiet for a few moments, each fantasizing about the ways this could possibly go wrong.
“If he tries anything with you, you call me.” Wymack said gruffly. “And Bee. And maybe Renee. Fuck, Andrew…” He trailed off and Andrew could imagine him sliding his hand down his face in exhaustion, a gesture he was more than familiar with after five years in the tattooed man’s fucked-up family of foxes.
“I can handle him.” Andrew was the one to break the silence, a rarity. “I’ll handle him.”
“He’s tough, Andrew. I’ve seen him play a full game with all of two unbroken fingers, starving to death.”
“Jesus Christ, Kevin.”
“He’s-you’re going to have to hit him hard.”
“Kevin!”
“I know.” Andrew didn’t need lessons from Kevin in dealing with monsters. He had his own. Had seen his own buried, when Riko had sent them for him. He’d survived that, had lived long enough to see both Drake and Riko dead and in the ground, and no matter what Josten managed to fuck up here, he wouldn’t let him win. He had so much less to protect now, and yet somehow so much more to lose. He’d have to call Aaron in the morning and warn him that Ravens weren’t done with them yet. If Neil wanted to follow his master into an early grave, Andrew would oblige him.
Neil Josten had signed to the Barons, and Andrew was going to make him answer for it.
“What are you going to do?” Wymack asked, but Andrew just hummed in response.
“Isn’t it better if you don’t know? He’s not-he’s not sane , Andrew. You need to be ready for anything.”
“Pot to kettle?”
“Listen. We left. We wanted to leave.” Andrew scoffed, and Kevin reconsidered. “Ok. I ran when I had the chance and then did the best I could. Jean ran. Neil stayed . He’s not like us. He’s dangerous, Andrew.”
“Why did he stay, do you think?” Wymack asked.
“They made him captain.” Andrew heard the clink of glass against glass again, and thought at least it’s not a straight from the bottle situation. Yet. “They made him captain, and he was on the starting lineup.”
“You mean there was a power vacuum, and he came out on top.” Wymack must be pouring the drinks right next to the phone, Andrew could hear the ice pop. “Sounds about right. I guess dealing with The Nest without Riko was something he was willing to do.”
“His stats have been solid-”
“Kevin. No. I don’t care about his stickball numbers. If you have useful information-”
“He’s vicious.” was the prompt reply. “He’s like Seth on his worst day, all the time. The only thing that gets through to him is violence. And he’ll use sex against you Andrew, I’ve seen him do it.”
That was useful, if unsettling. “So if I hit him hard enough, right at the buzzer, you think I can get him to leave me alone?”
“Maybe.”
“You have people who want to help you, Andrew. People in your corner, who know what a trainwreck this could be and what kind of assholes the Ravens shits out. We’ll get through this.”
Both of them knew him well enough to know “thank you” was a disconnected line. Andrew tapped the red button to end the call and allowed himself a fourth cigarette. It was a special occasion, after all. Not every day you're handed something like this. It was gone far too quickly, and his hands were far too empty for all the thoughts buzzing around in his head. He should call Bee. But he won’t. Not until tomorrow, he didn’t want a “safety plan”, he wanted to plan an attack. An opening move in what was going to be a long, drawn out, complicated shitshow of a year, just like last time.
For the first time since moving to New York, Andrew slept in his armbands.