Chapter Text
Neil Josten let his cigarette burn to the filter without taking a drag. It wasn’t the nicotine he craved—he didn’t need it. He wanted the acrid smoke, the sting in his nose that reminded him of his mother.
Her harsh reminders and her merciless hands smacking him into submission. If he inhaled slowly enough, he could almost taste the ghost of gasoline and fire. He wondered if the revolting, sick shiver that ran down his spine every time he breathed in the toxic smell was what he should have felt when he watched the car and Mary burn to their skeletal bones.
He hadn’t felt much of anything the day his mother died. Not when the flames curled through the car windows. Not when he pulled what was left of her from the wreckage, bones cooled and brittle. The pain came later—filtered, fuzzy, and late—like a phone call you let ring out. It didn’t hit until after the high wore off, after the sand swallowed her remains, and after he’d walked miles with nothing but silence in his ears. He swallowed another antipsychotic fast, hoping it would smother the nameless thing clawing up in his chest.
The locker room door creaked open. Neil snuffed the cigarette against the bench and flicked the butt into the shadows as Coach Hernandez stepped out and sat beside him in silence.
He expected a lecture about his parents’ absence, the usual tired questions. But one set of footsteps became five. When he glanced up, there were four people standing in the doorway—three strangers, one teammate. All watching him.
Hernandez interrupted his evaluation of the trio quickly. “I didn't see your parents at the game.”
Neil didn’t have the energy to repeat his same lie. He'd told all of his teachers and coach up until now how his parents were in town. So, he skipped right to the point.
“I don’t know you,” Neil said, his gaze locked on the strangers’, not bothering to glance at Hernandez.
Hernandez seemed slightly surprised by the teen so bluntly ignoring him, but recovered quickly.
“They’re from a university.” Hernandez said. “They came to see us play tonight.”
“Bullshit,” Neil said monotonously. “No one recruits from Millport. No one knows where it is.”
That earned a giggle from the shortest of the bunch. He’d been staring at Neil with the same dead evaluating gaze, but his was fixed with a smile that looked like it hurt.
“There’s this thing called a map,” the oldest said dryly. “You might have heard of it.
The man wore a wife beater that showed off sleeves of tribal flame tattoos. One hand was stuffed into his jeans pocket. The other held a thick file. His stance was casual, but the look in his brown eyes was intent.
Neil saw from the corner of his eye the way Hernandez sent him a warning look before getting to his feet. “He’s here because I sent him Morris’ file.”-
Ralph Morris was the captain of the Millport Exy team, though Neil never figured out why. He talks like he’s a star player, walks like the hallway is his personal runway, and acts like every practice is being televised—but the truth is, Ralph kind of sucks. His passes are sloppy, his footwork is worse, and he wouldn’t know strategy if it checked him in the face.
Still, he’s got that loud, arrogant charm that somehow keeps him on top—barely. He’s the kind of guy who calls freshmen “kid” unironically, wears his jersey to class like it’s a personality, and treats every minor victory like it’s a championship win.
To put it simply, Neil couldn’t stand the guy.
-“He put a note out saying he was short on his striker line, and I figured it was worth a shot. But I hadn’t expected him to need a striker sub as well.” Hernandez finished.
Neil blinked slowly. He looked at Hernandez, then back at the trio—no, the quartet—who stood in the doorway like a wall he was about to crash into.
“Then you're wasting your time,” Neil said flatly. “I’m not interested in filling someone else’s gap.”
“Good thing we’re not offering,” The man next to the older one stepped forward—something about his face itched at Neil’s memory. A two inked across his cheekbone. Recognition tickled, but Neil couldn’t place it. “We don’t want you. Never did.”
Neil didn’t move. Didn’t look down. His eyes remained locked on the man’s face.
“So, just the right place at the right time,” Neil said, flatly.
The older man tilted his head, as if considering Neil more closely now. “Something like that.”
The smile on the shorter one’s face sharpened, though it never reached his eyes. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching Neil like he was already figuring out what made him tick. Like he’d already pulled him apart and was just waiting to see if the pieces matched up.
“You ran fast tonight,” the short one said. “Really fast.”
Neil didn’t reply. He glanced at Ralph instead. Usually, he’d be running his mouth by now. Instead, he stood frozen, grinning like an idiot.
“What do I get out of it?” Neil asked, voice flat.
“Pardon?” Hernandez questioned before the strangers.
“I'm assuming I won't be playing,” he reiterated. “Nearly as much as the rest of the team or not at all- and don’t try to tell me any different because I can tell from your lot,” Neil gestured to Ralph and the rest of them. “That you love to pick up lost causes. So, what do I get out of filling your line so you can throw balls to each other.”
A load cackle came from the shortest one. Not that different from the giggle before and just as ear-aching as the first.
"Oh~ I like this one. Can we keep him, Coach?" the short one perked up, his grin too wide, too sharp.
“Shut up, Minyard.” ‘Coach’ said.
The prissy one with the face tattoo stepped from the others and more into Neil's personal space.
"Don’t act like you're good enough to play for our team. You sat out half the game and only scored eleven goals all season.” The prissy one snapped.
True. He’d taken his meds early yesterday. Withdrawal hit like a truck during warm-up. He barely made it off the court before puking his guts out. It took a while for the meds to kick back in. But when they did, he ran. Not because he cared about winning or losing. Just because his body craved it.
Though his medication made him sleepy he always had an urgency to move. He found that running helped the most. Neil found it ironically fitting, all things considered. Running soothed the version of him that wasn’t medicated into silence.
Neil didn’t think he’d last long without Mary. He’d ditch “Neil Josten” and vanish somewhere down south in a month when he graduated. But even that felt like a stalling tactic. The meds numbed everything—care, instinct, survival. He’d get sloppy. He’d get caught. Sooner than Mary would’ve wanted.
Mary wanted him to run.
“Find someone else.” Neil spoke, his eyes flat and lifeless—like he wasn’t fully there, just some part of him left behind to go through the motions.
The man with the two inked on his cheek had drifted back toward the grinning lunatic, but Neil’s indifference didn’t waver. Whether the guy was inches from his face or across the room, he wouldn’t be acknowledged by Neil any longer then he already had..
“I misheard you.” ‘Coach’ said.
“You didn't.”
“Josten.” Hernandez’s voice dropped an octave. Another warning. A plea. Maybe both.
But Neil didn’t flinch. He didn’t have it in him to be afraid of consequences. Or maybe he just didn’t have anything left to protect.
He stared straight ahead, gaze locked on the floor between the coach’s feet like it might open up and swallow him whole if he looked at it long enough.
The coach moved again. He didn’t step forward, just shifted his weight, but the rustle of paper was loud in the space between them.
“We didn’t come here to beg,” he said. “We don’t make offers, kid. We sign.”
“Then sign someone else,” Neil said.
There was a brief silence, stretched like a pulled tendon. Then, finally:
“Minyard,” the coach called, not looking at the shorter boy, “what was his final mile?”
Minyard didn’t hesitate. “Four forty-eight. On gravel. No track lines. No pace.”
Hernandez blinked, but didn’t say anything. Neil clenched his jaw.
“He runs like he’s trying to outrun Death,” Minyard added with a lopsided smile. “But hey. Let’s go find someone else with lungs like that in this shithole.”
The one with the face tattoo made a disgusted sound, already turning away. “Waste of time.”
“We’ll be back tomorrow. If he’s on campus then we'll talk again." The coach said.
“And if I’m not?” Neil asked.
“Then we don’t,” the man said. “Simple as that.”
The group started to leave, shadows peeling off the doorframe like ghosts. The last one out—the short one, Minyard—paused before stepping into the hallway. He didn’t look at Neil this time. Just said, voice almost too casual:
“Try not to die before breakfast. Would be a shame to waste that mileage.”
The door clicked shut behind them, leaving silence in their wake.
Neil didn’t move. He waited until even the echo of their steps was gone, until he was sure the air wasn’t still shaped around where they'd stood.
Then, he exhaled. Not a sigh—just a long, slow breath that rattled through clenched teeth. He rubbed his thumb over the calloused edge of his palm, almost to try and scrub the interaction free of him.
Hernandez was still there, still watching. The coach’s arms were crossed now, brows knit.
“You’re wasting something,” Hernandez finally said.
Neil didn’t respond.
“You could’ve said yes.”
Neil’s mouth twitched at that. “And what? Join the traveling circus?”
“They’re the only team that would ever scout at Millport.”
“They’re vultures.”
“They’re a college team,” Hernandez said. “And they noticed you. Doesn’t matter why.”
Neil stood, slow and heavy-limbed from the meds. “I’ve got other things to do.”
“That wasn’t a joke, Neil,” Hernandez said. “If they come back, think hard before you turn them away again. You don’t get second chances like that often.”
Neil shouldered his duffle bag, head ducked. “That’s assuming I want one.”
Then he left.
—
Outside, the night air was too clean, too cold. He lit another cigarette just to ruin it. Gravel crunched beneath his sneakers as he walked the empty lot, each step heavy with decision.
He didn’t make it far.
A figure waited at the edge of the school’s chain-link fence, half in shadow. Neil didn’t need to see his face to recognize him.
Minyard.
He was crouched low, a rock in his hand, carving lazy lines into the dirt with the tip. He didn’t look up when Neil stopped a few paces away.
“You followed me,” Neil said.
“You walked. I was already here.” His tone was thin and factual.
“I said no.”
“You did.” Minyard tilted his head. “But you’re still thinking about it.”
Neil looked away. The moonlight sliced the lot into harsh whites and dark voids. “You don’t know me.”
Minyard stood slowly, brushing his hands on his pants. “Sure I do. You're the guy who thinks saying no keeps him safe.”
There was a beat.
“Does it?”
Neil didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
He watched the smoke curl from the end of his cigarette and imagined it forming hands—Mary’s hands, the ghost of them, wrapping around his throat the way they used to when he got mouthy. The kind of chokehold that didn’t come from love or discipline, but desperation.
Minyard stepped closer. Not enough to be a threat—he wasn’t stupid—but enough that Neil could feel the shift in the air, a disturbance in the quiet rhythm of night.
"You run like someone who knows what it means to be hunted," Minyard said. “But you’re not good at hiding.”
Neil tensed.
He assumed that Andrew was just saying it to be poetic in his own weird way but Neil didn't expect him to say something so familiar. It seems that Minyard hadn’t even thought it would land, if his growing grin was anything to go off of.
“Millport,” Minyard continued, ignoring the way Neil’s fingers twitched at his sides. “You think it’s invisible, but it’s a hole. Holes eventually get found. Holes get filled.”
Neil dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his shoe. "Why do you care?"
Minyard’s eyes narrowed just slightly, like the question was too simple, or maybe too sharp. “I don’t. But if you’re going to self-destruct, at least do it somewhere interesting.”
Neil believed that if he was sober then he'd let out a spiteful laugh. “Is that what your team does? Collect strays and set them on fire for sport?”
Minyard’s smile shifted into one like a shark’s. “Pretty much. Some of us light the match. Some of us are the match. The Foxes are a ruff bunch.”
Neil stared. Minyard didn't blink.
"I’m not interested," Neil said again, quieter this time. More like a warning to himself.
“Liar,” Minyard replied, like he was reciting a fact from a textbook. “You’re not scared to die, Josten. You’re scared to be seen.”
Then he vanished into the dark, swallowed by the same silence he’d come from.
—
Neil sat awake that night.
The locker room was still, lit only by the glow of the moon light filtering through the slats of the small rectangular windows. Neil stared at the ceiling, unblinking.
The meds made his thoughts foggy, but Minyard’s voice cut through anyway.
You stayed too long.
He was right.
Neil wasn’t sure that the other understood how heavy his words were to his situation. Whether he didn't care or was just spitting things out to get Neil to react was already sign enough to never sign for whatever team they were recruiting for. They didn't even want him. He was just good enough to not suck and was right in front of them.
He didn’t notice how his mind wandered until the beaming rays of sun showed through those same rectangular windows.