Chapter Text
Andrew's left eye ached.
Yet the fifth cigarette he's smoked since sitting perched up on the desk beside the open window, has not helped one bit. The nicotine failed to mask the pain throbbing across his face. His eye burst a few blood vessels, red bleeding into the white of his sclera. A dark blue paired with a deep purple surround the flesh of his left eye, reaching down towards his cheekbone.
Andrew's nose felt numb, contrary to the intense, sharp pain of the bone snapping back into place after it bend and broke the wrong way. A bandage kept his sore nose in place, stuck over Andrew's swelled nose bridge. He would not be surprised if it grew back crooked.
Pulling the cigarette from between his lips, Andrew lets the smoke escape through his nose and mouth before tossing the coffin nail out the window. Kevin nagging about his smoking addiction was a lecture Andrew could not listen to at this moment or any other time, so he shifted off the desk just before the shrilling sound of Kevin's alarm rung throughout the dorm.
Andrew drowned out the groans of complaint from their shared dorm bedroom, and rather shifted his focus to dumping a few too many spoonfulls of sugar into his cold coffee that sat on the counter since he woke. He was busy pulling out the creamer from the fridge, filled with junk food they survive off of much to Kevin's protesting, as said man stumbled out of the bedroom muttering words under his breath Andrew couldn't care less about deciphering.
Unlike Andrew, Kevin barely had a scratch on him, just a small bruise on his arm that Andrew had failed to stop when fans started a brawl after a game the Foxes had lost, seven points to nine, Brekenridge's favor.
Not long after, Riko send a little surprise for them when Seth Gordon overdosed in a club bathroom, although it's not uncommon for the striker to go over and beyond by almost drawing his last breath on a dirty bathroom floor, Andrew knew something was wrong; Allison checked Gordon's pockets before they left to go hop from one bar to another. Andrew had seen it, she only pulled out a packet of gum.
Now Gordon lays in a bed somewhere in the hospital, Allison had panicked when she found him laying face-down after he disappeared. The last time Andrew saw her face, streaks of dark makeup smudged the skin under her eyes, and they were puffy and red.
The possibility of the man obtaining the drugs at a club was not impossible, but it seemed unlikely, the idea of Riko's minions forcefully giving the man a drug seemed more likely or Gordon remained an idiot and took it willingly—after being sober with heavy drugs for a long while. Wymack wrote it off as an accidental overdose, even after Andrew reluctantly shared his suspicions, yet Andrew knew that the words he said lingered and clawed at the back of the coach's mind.
Gripping the mug, Andrew took a sip of the cold coffee. It was disgusting to say the least, heaps of sugar sat at the bottom of the mug, no heat to dissolve it. Even so, the goalkeeper continued to drink the coffee—today would be a tiring and long day since Coach Wymack called a meeting.
The silence would have made Andrew cackle if the drugs that previously coursed though his veins had remained, but rather it was ripped from inside him—not in one moment, like pulling off a band-aid—it was a slow, grueling process.
A process Andrew hated.
It had taken a long while in Easthaven, seconds of torture had grown into weeks of constant nausea that led to vomiting. His throat was scraped raw, swallowing led to pain, at first, then began the itching.
Andrew broke through skin on his neck to reach and ease that continuous ache.
He'd sweat and shake profoundly after hours without any drugs flowing through his system. Drugs that stretched his mouth too wide, a smile he couldn't control.
Now, Andrew's face was just a blank, empty slate. No smile tore through his lips, no restless energy he needed to shake off.
Andrew preferred it that way; he hated those court prescribed drugs with every swallow he took.
Yet, despite his drug induced laughter not ringing throughout the room, the Foxes' silence clung to the air around them. Allison was dragged from her position beside Gordon, in the hospital, to attend the meeting everyone seemed keen on not starting.
She was curled up on the side of the couch, hosting Renee that sat next to the dealer—laying a comforting hand on her arm—as Allison leaned against the arm of the couch.
The captain, Dan, squeezed in next to Renee, keeping close to comfort the woman as well, while Boyd practically hugged the other arm of the couch; the giant barley fit on the available space.
The silence snapped as the Foxes' coach, Wymack, appeared in the room, his footsteps could be heard from his office. The man threw down a clipboard, with a stack of papers attached to it—some papers left their position and scattered across the small table the Upperclassmen set down a while back.
The coach let out a sigh before crossing his arms, tribal flame tattoos slithered up his forearms. "Practice is set on halt while we figure this shit out," the man said as his eyes scanned his players,
"And make sure you all check out any missed wounds by Abby."
There was a string of "yes coach" 's, but Andrew's mouth stayed shut, his cheek would ache further if he moved his jaw now.
Coach Wymack only grunted in response, "Regarding the fact that a practical brawl broke out, the thought of tighter security is not impossible."
Those words grabbed attention, Andrew's as well.
"As in, more campus security?" asked his twin, Aaron, "We all saw how that worked out." The silence returned as tension strained the air once again, as if it never left—which it hadn't.
"What then?" questioned Boyd, "Bodyguards?"
The thought of having people trail behind him felt irritating, as if Andrew couldn't protect himself and his own, but surprisingly one of them—one of his own—opened their mouth.
"I may know someone." suggested Day.
The man was gripping his phone, staring down at it. "Although I'm not sure if he'd agree to help us."
Dan perked up, "Could you reach out and ask?" Her hand retreated from Allison's shoulder, as she questioned the striker. Her gaze did not waver—steady and intense—as they remained on Kevin Day.
The man's response took a while; he glanced up at his captain before lowering his head towards his mobile yet again. Kevin's right hand tightened on the phone in his palm—the grip was wrong, weaker—but seeing as his left hand was practically shattered—jagged lines stretched all around his wrist—the strength he had obtained in his non-dominant hand wasn't half bad; but not nearly good.
The man practiced day and night, during Exy practice he either yelled at anything and everything or runs through raven drills until he perfects them all. Even when Andrew should be sleeping, Kevin never fails to drag him to a court.
It took three attempts before any words left the striker's mouth.
"I can try, but I can't guarantee anything."
A small smile did not appear on Dan's face, but her eyes did show gratitude, "That's all I'm asking for." The man said nothing in return as he worked through his phone, with a expression Andrew could surprisingly not place.
Who could leave an expression like that on Kevin's face? It seemed like a cocktail of hesitation, exhaustion and a small amount of fear. Riko held the position of pure terror; the expression seemed so similar yet at the same time it did not. Regardless, Andrew could still not figure it out, which he did not like.
"Thank you, Kevin." spoke Renee—the other goalie—and occasionally Andrew's sparing partner. The striker, again, did not reply, but Renee took it with no ill intention, only a small smile formed on her lips before she returned her full attention to Allison.
The sound of a phone ringing, not loud but not quiet, rung throughout the room. Andrew's head turned to the source: Kevin's phone.
Nobody was calling the striker, quite the opposite, as a caller ID illuminated off the white screen. He was calling somebody, the someone that Kevin said might provide their unwanted protection. Day must have called the number while most had their attention else where—likely before he changed his mind, before the feeling of his spine broke again.
The call rung three times, on the way to the fourth, before not a mere second could have past as a voice boomed from the phone; it was on speaker.
"I.M.P! What can I help you with today?"
A female voice sounded from the device clutched in the striker's hand. I.M.P? Was it a place, like a business? Day did not mention that, only that it was a person. How vague. Kevin's jaw visibly shook once as he tried to give a reply, before ultimately clamping his mouth shut. Andrew glanced towards the couch as he pinched the bridge of his nose; Wymack grabbed the phone from Kevin's shaking hand.
"Hello?" the voice of the woman rang from the phone again.
Coach Wymack opened his mouth and spoke, "Hello," but his eyes glanced to Kevin's wild gestures as he mouthed a name in a hushed voice: Abram.
"Hi, how can I help you?" the voice on the other end asked a second time, and coach's eyes snapped down to the device. "I'm looking for someone called Abram."
The silence that followed was deafening. It was sudden, although it did not last nearly that long, "May I ask how you know the boss?" The boss? Oh, this was interesting. When the woman had heard of Wymack's request her tone changed. It previously was a chirpy and bubbly voice, now it sounded strained. Like a string on the point of snapping.
Wymack paused a few seconds, staring down at the phone, "It was mentioned by someone I know."
A silence gained value, yet again, on the other side before the woman replied, "Do you know this "someone" personally?" Wymack answered, "I do."
The only response was a quiet sigh on the other line of the phone. "Alright, I'll transfer you over to the boss." The striker stared at the phone in the coach's hand with the same intensity as Wymack. "Great, thank you."
There was a click and a silence that stretched a few seconds before a voice rung from the phone again, this time a different one, "Who is this?" a male voice asked.
This must be Abram.
Kevin physically tensed as he continued to stare at the mobile. "David Wymack," said the coach, and when a response wasn't given after a few moments, "you must be Abram I'm guessing?" Wymack added.
The man remained silent before speaking, "Put Kevin on the phone."
Wymack's eyebrows visibly rose, while the striker visibly shook. The coach glanced at his striker before they landed on the device in his hand again.
"Don't worry, I won't bite him, but Jean might." Kevin stilled, his breathing picked up pace, despite that, he surprisingly stuck his hand out for the phone. The coach stared at him for a moment, but he handed over the phone none the less.
It took effort for Kevin to pry his jaw open and make a sound, "Abram?"—it came out strained.
"Ah, there he is." Abram spoke, "Did you miss me?"
Kevin's hand strained around the device. "I need your help."
It was quiet, and then the breath of a sigh as the creak of a chair spoke from the other line. "How rude." The striker shut his eyes. It was not peaceful, it was dreadful. "What do you want, Kevin?"
"Protection." he breathed as he opened his green eyes. "And you call me? Kevin this is the exact opposite we do."
Oh? Isn't that interesting. The opposite? Andrew knew the opposite of protection.
"I know, but we don't have anyone else," Kevin replied, "Please." Andrew clenched his fist, "I don't like that word, don't use it." The striker glanced at him, he knew that Andrew did not like that word.
"I agree, don't beg." Abram said.
Andrew's eyes snapped to the phone, "I hear enough of it." His jaw clenched.