Chapter Text
The lights are bright. They spin wildly around the perimeter of Millport’s Exy court, loop after loop after loop.
Maintenance is taking them down, Neil remembers. He closes his eyes as the stadium lights spin faster, flashing like a carnival ride or search lights, threatening to blind him. Next to go is the temporary court floor under Neil’s feet. It’ll roll away, replaced by a soccer field. One season over, another to begin.
There’s a final flash, bright like lightning, and the court goes dark. Neil can taste the static on his tongue. He opens his eyes and looks down at the turf, at the black and white ball that rolls up to bump his cleated toes. He doesn’t know how to play soccer. He doesn’t know what to do next.
“Interesting,” comes a voice from across the field. Neil snaps his head up. The turf is gone, replaced by cleanly-cut grass. There’s a figure at the other end of his father’s backyard in Baltimore. The night is lit only by the dim porch lamps behind Neil, but he thinks he’d know this place even in total darkness.
Neil walks toward the figure, curiosity and dread swirling together in his chest.
“I guess you’re going to sign after all,” the familiar voice says. The clouds above them must shift — moonlight reveals a face.
Neil stops a few feet away from Andrew Minyard. He stands in front of the child-sized pop-up Exy goal Neil’s mother bought when he was young. Neil forgot about those rare days when the two of them would be left home alone. Nathan never trusted Mary, but he used to be less suspicious. Neil’s mother would set up the flimsy goal, with its plastic tube sides and taught-net center, and Neil would run the drills he learned in practice as best he could.
Neil blinks, shakes his head. “Sign what?”
Andrew uses the oversized goalie racquet in his hand to poke at Neil’s chest. Neil looks down, and his breath catches. He runs his palm over the orange jersey.
“Palmetto State,” Neil says. Thunder rumbles in the distance — Neil thinks he feels a small drop of rain on his cheek. “I can’t.”
Andrew looks up at the sky with a grimace. There’s no laughter tonight. No frantic smile on his face, no violent posturing. Not like before. Neil remembers the events of the night in a haze: Coach Wymack’s contract, Andrew’s attempt to break his ribs, and then, in the locker room—
“Is he here?” Neil gasps. The thunder is closer now. Rain begins to fall, slow but earnest, thick drops soaking in spots on Andrew’s matching orange jersey.
“Who?” Andrew asks.
“You know.”
“Kevin,” Andrew confirms. He plants the butt of his racquet in the soft earth so that he can lean on it. “You tell me. It’s your dream.”
“I’m dreaming?” Neil asks.
Andrew points up. The stars are moving, swirling slowly, like a glittering tide. They’re brighter than they should be in the city. Despite the cloudless sky, Neil has to shield his eyes against the rain.
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” Andrew says. He pushes damp hair off his forehead. Neil is struck again by the calm he exudes. His expression is blank, his eyes clear and focused. The rain slows to a pitter-patter, then to nothing at all. Neil’s eyes are drawn over Andrew’s shoulder, where the pale purple of dawn creeps up from the horizon of worn fencing and elm trees.
“Did I stop the rain?” Neil asks.
“I assume.”
The sun is rising fast. Neil turns to look at the house; his father was always an early riser. There are no lights on in the house, no clanging in the kitchen or engines starting in the driveway. All Neil can hear is the occasional morning trill of songbirds.
Andrew is backlit now, his pale hair glowing pink and orange around his head.
“Why are you here?” Neil asks him.
A hint of an expression crosses Andrew’s face — bemusement, maybe. “I was wondering the same thing.”
Neil fiddles with the Exy racquet in his hands. It’s lightweight, the striker’s racquet he uses in Millport, not the backliner’s heavy he used in little leagues.
“I can’t play for the Foxes,” Neil says.
“Because of Kevin?” Andrew asks. There’s nothing prying in his voice, no urgency to the question.
Neil is dreaming, so he says, “because of my mom.”
“The one who hits you.”
“Not like that,” Neil says. He briefly averts his eyes to the sunrise. “And not anymore. She’s gone.”
“So you’re letting a dead woman make your life choices.”
Neil looks back to Andrew with irritation. It’s not like the rain, though. Andrew stays the same, his face impassive, his challenge hanging in the air.
“I make my choices,” Neil says. “Going to Palmetto would be stupid.”
Andrew shrugs. “Then don’t go.”
“I don’t want to die,” Neil admits.
Another flash of emotion on Andrew’s face — one Neil can’t parse.
“It doesn’t matter what we want,” Andrew says. “We all die.”
It’s an oddly grounding sentiment.
“I want to play,” Neil says, another confession. He twirls the racquet between his palms. “Maybe that’s why I brought you here.”
Andrew sighs. “Lucky me.”
“It’s my dream,” Neil says. “I choose how it goes. Right?”
The morning sun is warm on his skin. He feels warm inside, too. He tosses an Exy ball up and down in his left hand, and for the first time in years, he finds himself biting down on a smile.
Andrew lifts his racquet, feet sliding apart to anchor him.
“I won’t go easy on you,” he warns.
Neil lets the smile free. It’s only a dream, after all. “I hoped you’d say that.”
Neil tosses Andrew the ball, the jogs backward across the yard. He feels weightless. Andrew serves, and Neil sprints to catch it. Neil doesn’t slow once he has the ball cradled in the net of his racquet. He swings it back, relishing the stretch in his arms and shoulders, ready to shoot. Then—
Neil lifts his head from his pillow — more accurately, his duffel bag. It’s not yet morning; the desert cool still creeps through the empty house Neil has been sleeping in.
He sits up, wrapping his blanket around his shoulders as he rifles through his bag. He pulls out his binder, absent-mindedly leafing through the pages. It's habit more than anything else. When he puts it back, his fingers brush against the thick folder Coach Wymack had handed him last night. He pauses, closes his eyes, and tries to hold onto the hazy warmth of whatever he’d dreamed.
It would be so, so stupid for Neil to sign those papers. He’d throw away everything his mother fought for. Everything she died for. The knowledge weighs heavy in his chest.
Neil digs deeper into the duffel. This time, he pulls out a pen.