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It takes a while for Kevin to learn the type of music Wymack likes.
In the months after leaving the nest, Kevin spent his time in three places: Abby’s house, when recovering from surgeries, the Foxhole, when being alone was worse than being scared of being seen, and, most of the time, Coach’s house. He had spent those months there either high on pain meds or loose from alcohol. Sometimes Wymack left the tv on, volume low, saying “it helps, kid,” in that gruff but soft tone he had before his morning coffee — afterwards, all that was left was the gruff, which annoyed and relieved Kevin, a confusing mix of feelings he only felt when sober. Other times, it was only Kevin and the radio: Wymack and Abby shared radio station preferences, the one that played too many 70’s hits and sometimes that program about local politics with the annoyingly raspy-voiced host.
Truthfully, Kevin only knows those songs are from the 70’s because of the radio station’s announcements. His knowledge of music is sparse and second-hand: electro that Riko and most of the Raven’s first line liked, and the hard rock that he would play in their extra training sessions, and then, magnanimously allow Jean to pick a song or two. He never offered Kevin the same: he had been listening only to Riko’s music for so long that, while he wouldn't say he liked it, there was nothing else he found better anyway. And Riko knew that.
So, then, he learns what 70’s top songs are like, and in his most lucid moments, fiddles with the radio in the afternoon in search of anything he can say he likes, and can’t find it. But always, when Abby wakes up, she switches to that station and starts her daily morning routine: make coffee, drink coffee while reading a newspaper, make more coffee when she starts falling asleep while reading the newspaper. All while bopping her head to the songs on that same station. “You gonna be alright for today, Kevin?” she asks before leaving, every time.
After his fourth and hopefully last surgery in three months, Kevin spends almost a month on Abby’s couch. He is in turns delirious and filled with anxiety about his future. The thing he remembers most about that month: the soft voice singing thunder only happens when it’s raining, players only love when they’re playing…
÷
Two years later, in Wymack’s car, they’re driving up north to recruit two rookies for a hopefully not so bad padding to next-year’s defensive line. They go off in the very morning, and the sun is still half hidden. Coach’s got a travel mug of coffee he wordlessly shoves at Kevin, half an offer and half a demand for a human holding cup. Truthfully, Kevin was planning to sleep the whole seven hours drive, but now he wonders if Coach is expecting for him to be awake for it. Some of it? Maybe all?
God, what if he expects Kevin to drive for some of that time? Kevin hasn't driven since he passed his license test 5 years ago, and it was in automatic car that didn't shake when turned on. And Andrew never let, or even expect Kevin to drive his car anywhere, but then again, Andrew is the most possessive guy Kevin’s ever met.
And he has known a lot of possessive people.
Nervous, Kevin tries to pull his seatbelt with only one hand and is, thankfully, successful at it. Coach is checking something on a beaten up, folded map. Kevin wonders if map-reading for roadtrips is something one can just pick up and do, or if it has to be taught. Some things — a lot of things, actually — that Kevin had to learn outside of the nest had not been successful when Kevin went to it with the mindset of “I’ll just wing it.” Turns out, living in a cult-like environment since a child — and by the way, he can admit Evermore shared a lot of similarities with cults, but the Nest isn’t and was not, in any way, a cult — makes one have very little intuition for basic things you need to do to survive as an adult. Who would’ve thought.
Kevin stares at Coach from the corner of his eyes, trying not to make it too obvious. The whole situation is weird, and leaves Kevin fidgeting, out of place, not sure what is expected of him here. Afterwards, yes, he’s done so many recruiting trips they’re boring now. But he never sat in the passenger seat of his coach’s car. Actually, he can’t picture the Master driving a car at all, much less one with Kevin as a lonely passenger. Tetsuji Moriyama would never be so low as to chauffeur Kevin around. What a weird thought: he’s never seen the Master drive, and now he never will. Had Riko seen it? Maybe when he was younger… The picture comes to him: young Riko, as when Kevin met him, taller than Kevin and with some fat in his cheeks that would soon go away, a kid that played at being Kevin’s older brother and made it come true with the force of his will. That kid, with his surly uncle driving them from New York to Virginia, not old enough for it but still in the front passenger seat. Would he have played with the radio? Tried to turn it on and look for a station he liked, and the Master— still his uncle Tetsuji— would have batted his small hands away and told him to be quiet.
But both of the people in that dream were dead. And neither of them would have liked to be reminded of times when they were less than legends: good or bad, they were extraordinary. Until the end.
Kevin is dragged away from that daydream by Wymack turning on the radio and finding that damn radio station of Abby’s. Kevin can’t stop himself from groaning, to which Wymack raises his eyebrows — the man can’t raise only one of them — and questions, “Got something to say?”
Kevin wonders if Wymack would be angry at him for badmouthing Abby’s music tastes, but then remembers: Kevin’s done so much worse, and also, he’s survived much more of coach’s anger than he thought he would. “Did you know Abby plays this shit everyday? Worse, it’s the same mix everytime, I don’t know how she doesn't notice. It drives me crazy,” he explains.
“Oh, you have something against the golden old days of music?”
…you had a busy day today…hold me closer, tiny dancer…
Kevin scrunches his face. “I wouldn’t, if she hadn't burned all those songs into my brain by force.”
Wymack gives him a snort for it. It wasn't a joke, but Kevin will take what he can get.
“Well, I wasn’t no big fan, either, but I heard enough of it from her office that I gave up on not liking it.”
“I was like that with me too,” Kevin admits, “I heard so much of Riko’s shitty heavy metal I sometimes can’t get the lyrics out of my head when I hear it somewhere.”
The car descends into a silence that shouldn't be so suffocating. Kevin’s been in a car with Andrew’s family more than once; this somehow is a firm contender for most awkward, terrible silences in a car, ever.
“Not that, like…” Kevin begins. He doesn't know what that sentence was going to be, but his voice wouldn't hold up to the end, anyway.
“I get it,” Wymack grunts, “It’s fine.”
Is it?
Sometimes the spectre of Riko haunts every conversation he has. Like he’s a ghost; like he’s always been a ghost. But Riko’s always been just a guy, even though he tried so hard not to be. He was, once, a boy. Now he’s just a corpse, but he was a person who liked music, and swapped vegetables with Kevin, and at twelve, taught Kevin how to cut your skin. That’s why it hurts, and this everyone doesn't seem to get, that he became so awful Kevin is now glad he is dead.
If I look hard enough into the setting sun… my love will laugh with me before the morning comes…
÷
Kevin and his father don’t look much alike. Their height, sure, but mom was tall, too. And Kevin’s got her everything: her nose, her cheekbones, her mouth. He’s heard it all before: you look so much like your mother! eventually became as meaningful to him as nice to meet you.
The things they have in common, then: the eyebrows. And the dark skin.
Mom wasn't the stereotypical pale, rosy-cheeked Irish, neither, but from what Kevin remembers— actually, what Kevin knows from photos— is that she had hair that was somewhat curly and skin that, in pictures, most would describe as “tanned”.
Kevin, on the other hand, looked more than tan even after years in fluorescent lights and little to no sun. He remembers make-up artists, mostly in Japan, but sometimes not, a little apologetic and mostly annoyed they couldn't match his skin tone. Kevin never knew how to react.
And now that he’s out in South Carolina, where the Foxhole Court, where he spends most of his time on, is out in the open sun, his skin is darker than it’s ever been. Except in the few photos he has as a child that he’s seen. It’s weird, that he lost so many color in his skin only to gain less of it back. He wonders if it was a byproduct of the nest, or maybe if every child gets a little paler as they grow up. Riko was already pale when Kevin met him, but Jean had freckles that faded away as his skin turned paler, bluer. Mostly, Kevin thinks it would be an embarrassing thing to ask.
Maybe if he sees more of people’s baby pictures he could find out. But he isn't friends with a lot of people, and most of them wouldn't have childhood pictures anyway. His best bet is probably Nicky, but even Kevin is a little conscientious that asking Nicky for baby pictures with his fucked up family is a little too much. Especially right now, with Aaron’s trial, and all.
Coach clears his throat and reaches to turn down the radio. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Kevin answers.
“Alright,” he gets back, “then what’s with the staredown?”
Well. He can’t say: I was thinking about how much we don’t look alike. Would that be rubbing salt in the wound? Dan already busted his ass for this, and fuck her opinion on it, actually, but… Also, Kevin would rather throw himself on the interstate than risk acknowledging the elephant in the room in the beginning of a seven hour drive they both can’t get away from.
“It’s nothing,” he murmurs, looking away at the window. The view: trees, trees, a tiny mountain, more trees, like it’s been since they left.
“Nothing?”
“No.”
Coach keeps the radio down. Kevin thought he would appreciate having the opportunity to get out and look at a bit more of the USA, but it’s been two hours of only trees and concrete roads. He could probably stare at a picture for an hour straight and get the same experience.
The speakers: I think it’s gonna be a long, long time… ‘Till touchdown brings me ‘round again to find…
“Is the drive like this until the end?”
“Like?”
“Uh,” Kevin starts, “Green? Also, boring.”
Coach snorts. “You never go on a roadtrip around here, ever?”
Kevin looks sideways at him. Sorry, when exactly between trapped in Evermore and the schedule of an Exy season would Kevin have taken a road trip? “Not that I remember.”
Coach hums. A hum? What does a hum mean? Is he judging? What is he thinking? “And bus rides?”
Well, that’s a little embarrassing, “I slept for those,” he admits, “And we took flights for longer trips.”
They go silent for a bit. The low whisper of the radio makes it less awkward, but Kevin is starting to think awkwardness is just how trips like this are supposed to be like. He knows Andrew and Neil have a roadtrip they’re planning to go on, god knows when, but with those two, awkward is a feeling only the people around them could ever feel. It’s a bit funny: Kevin thought they were glued together last year, but now they’re in such a bubble together that they seem to be growing roots in each other, letting everything around them pass by, like mutual parasitic plants.
Kevin hasn’t been upset by Andrew and Neil’s thing for a while now, and he is determined to continue to do so. Saying anything about it to anyone feels like it would be Kevin’s last thing to do on this earth. Maybe Andrew would be the one to make it Kevin’s last act, but even as he fears it, Kevin isn’t sure. I mean, the choking thing was only the one time, and Andrew did have a reason for it. Sometimes Kevin does things that merit reactions like that, he knows, even if he can never stop himself from making those decisions even as he thinks: this isn’t going to end well.
It did, for Neil, though, so Kevin tries to think more about having Neil back safe than any other stuff from those days.
The sudden static from the radio makes Kevin flinch, and Coach say, “Augh, guess that’s it for Abby’s music. Find something else for me, will ya?”
Kevin only knows how to work Andrew’s car radio, which is much more high tech than this, mostly because Andrew’s car isn’t a 15 year old beaten up truck. The controls are plenty intuitive, though, but the stations: electronic pop, which Kevin associates too much with nights at Eden’s; then some new country music station with songs about girls, boots and horses, like they’re not in the South West and there’s no ranches anywhere; another with rap songs, and Kevin’s only knowledge about rap is that time he was forced to listen to a whole Eminem album; and then he strikes gold— a station playing a song he both knows and likes.
…I would go out tonight… but I haven’t got a stitch to wear! This man says it’s gruesome that someone so handsome should care…
“Your mom used to like that same soft rock alternative shit,” Coach says, “she was kind of insufferable about it, actually.”
The outside kind of blurs. All green, green, green. Kevin is in the green looking at his hand squeeze his knee, his head turn and look at his father, and he and the guy in the passenger seat both don’t have the words to reply. He should have known that. If Kevin weren’t such a shitty son, he would have known.
“Uh, The Smiths?” he chokes out, eventually.
Wymack tsks, “Is that what that band is called? I can’t remember. She had a cassette tape mix she called Intro to Good Music and it had a bunch of different bands in it.”
Kayleigh Day made cassette tape mixes. Kayleigh Day was the kind of person, who, like Andrew, thought they knew what good music was like and that everyone else needed to get on their level, stat. His mother and Andrew in the same thought, an impossibility. Cassette tape mixes?
“Andrew has a CD like that,” Kevin lets out, “but it’s named just ‘Good Music’.”
“Ha! He would, wouldn't he? That kid, I swear,” Wymack huffs.
“Yeah,” weakly.
“I betcha it’s all just emo rock, right?”
He’s right.
…take me out, tonight, because i want to see people… and i want to see lights…
÷
Eventually the whole thing gets boring enough that Kevin thinks any awkward conversation would be better than the nothingness. He has so many things he wishes he could ask his father, but most of them would be weird to ask his coach. Like, where were you born? or do I have any uncles or aunts? or maybe what do your tattoos mean? Coach never talks about any private thing with anyone on the team, even when they actually are living in his house, funnily enough.
Other things too, like, what did you major in college; were you ever in Ireland; did you always want to be a coach; why did you retire young? It’s so much Kevin could write a whole journal on it, and he’s always kind of scared he will forget the questions. Then he remembers Neil’s weird ass binder and thinks better of doing it.
He settles for: “Uh, what about you?” it comes out patchy, so he clears his throat, “what kind of music do you like, besides Abby’s?”
Wymack tilts his head, like he’s considering hard what to say. “Everyone says I don’t look it, but I’ve always been a classic jazz guy.”
“Oh,” Kevin says.
“Yeah,” Wymack gives a weak snort, “or that.”
“Well, it’s not… I guess I haven’t known a lot about people’s music tastes, anyway.” He stops himself. Any thing Kevin says, these days, seems like it comes back to Evermore, and everyone is kind of tired of it. Kevin is, too.
“No?” Wymack encourages it.
Carefully, “People usually played what the first line wanted to be played. Back when it was Andy’s captainship he was a rap guy, and everyone followed him, and both Jones and Riko liked more metal and rock.”
“I see,” Wymack wonders, “well, my tastes kind of come from my mother, and my aunt. It was Nina Simone albums all day with’em.”
“Nina Simone?”
“Don’t know her?” to a weak shrug, “No way, you probably just don’t remember it’s her. All classics with that woman, I swear. Give me a hand and check out the tapes on the glove box, there’s no way I don’t have something of her’s.”
The panel drawer opens and a bunch of stuff falls out into Kevin’s lap, and the floor, and something rolls beneath the seat. “It’s— a little messy, I guess,” Wymack says, embarrassed. “Don’t mind it, don’t mind it, it’s fine.”
Kevin shakes his head and starts organizing it. He finds the tapes first and separates them. He puts the one labeled N. Simone in the player and presses play.
The tape scratches and then: I wish I knew how it would feel to be free… I wish I could break all the chains holding me…
Kevin goes back to his task with the music in the background: he organizes the papers by look of importance, the receipts—”just throw them away, it’s fine”—and then a pack of cigarettes.
“You ain’t got a hill to stand on with that, kid,” Wymack replies to Kevin’s judging look, “I mostly quit, anyway.”
“You know, 90% of lung cancer death is explained by smoking.”
“Maybe you should look up the rates of liver failure from alcoholism before saying that.”
It shouldn't hurt like it did, and Kevin shouldn't have to look away and blink until his eyes weren’t wet anymore. It was a little pathetic of him: it’s not like Wymack knew anything, because Kevin wasn't a drunk, it was just that alcohol helped, most times, and it was the only thing that did, so his father’s sarcastic insinuation shouldn't bother Kevin at all.
Besides, it’s not like Kevin planned on drinking his entire life. He could stop whenever he wanted to, and once he graduated, and went pro, and made Court, he wouldn't need the help.
Kevin turns up the volume on the Nina Simone tape anyway.
…and holding back ain’t gonna do no good! I’m gonna break down and let it all out!...
If he focuses on the music and lets go of his thoughts, he can admit he does quite enjoy it. The songs are in parts dramatic and realistic, and the jazz instruments are good too. He does actually know one of the songs, though he can’t remember where he heard it, but I put a spell on you because you’re mine, you’re mine is familiar enough that he can remember more than the chorus.
“I’m sorry,” Wymack says, a little like it’s dragged from his chest, “that wasn't fair of me.”
“It’s fine.”
Wymack snorts, “Alright, Josten.”
It’s enough to make Kevin smile a little. The team’s internal i’m fine little joke is pretty funny now that Neil doesn't have life threatening injuries while saying it. Does saying “it’s fine” qualify enough for a dollar in the “i’m fine” jar? Kevin will have to check with Matt, the official keeper of that famous jar.
“Have you heard about the ‘I’m fine’ jar?”
“Sure have,” Wymack smiles one-sided, “I hope it helps all’y’all with your thick heads about injuries.”
‘All’y’all’? Kevin snorts. Sometimes his father lets out some southernisms that Kevin has a hard time believing are an actual thing. He did search it on Google, once, but then it felt a little embarrassing, so he stopped.
“What?”
“All’y'all,” Kevin says, holding back a laugh.
“Damn,” Wymack tsks, “I do try, you know, sometimes folks come and don’t take me that seriously when i drop a “y’all” on ‘em. Especially kids from the Northwest, I swear, once a new guy had the balls to straight up laugh at me for it.”
That’s kind of shitty. Also, it’s weird to think that he and his father have that in common, and that they share that with Jean, also. Maybe two kids from another country getting beat for their accents are different from his father dropping his southern mannerisms to get taken seriously, but maybe the sentiment behind that shared experience is there.
“I think it’s a little funny when you sound like a Midwestern housewife, that’s all,” Kevin admits.
“A midwestern housewife?” with an unbelieving look.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t mind it, kid.”
Kevin hopes he means it. He’s seen that Wymack is trying, and he’s trying too. This road trip, for example:
One day, after they were finished discussing recruits for the day, Kevin’s father asked for him to stay back in his office for a moment.
“The folks from Ohio,” he starts, leaning on his desk, a little cautious, which is weird for Coach, “‘was thinking we could make a two-for-one, go to Columbus and then Cincinnati. And, well, make a road trip of it?”
Surprised was the least of Kevin’s weird emotions about that question. “Isn’t it across the country?”
“A flight and then renting a car would be a hassle, honest, and it’s only a seven hour drive.” Wymack is fidgeting with a pen while he pitches it. Never in all the years, even with the mafia coming down on them, Kevin has seen Wymack fidget like that.
“Uh, sure, I can spend a couple days off the court for that, I guess,” Kevin says, and confirms, “Just us?”
“Yeah,” a little rushed, “Yeah, I was thinking we could… maybe make a couple stops on the way back. There’s a lot of museums up there, ya’know? You like that kinda shit, right?”
He’s not really an American great war history guy, particularly. He finds those people kind of annoying, actually, but he stops himself from saying that, and takes the offer for what it is: an olive branch in this weird father-son situation they have.
Anyway, even with all the setbacks — and, honestly, they do kind of have a lot, even when Kevin’s ideas of what a father should be are a little warped — they’re both trying, and that counts. It’s more than Kevin ever thought he would have: sitting in an old car, bored, with classic jazz playing, next to his dad.
÷
Did you get enough love, my little dove?
÷