Archive of Our Own ^beta

Neil steps onto the set. The studio hums with low conversation - the shuffle of sneakers on polished concrete, camera lenses shifting focus, the faint crackle of a mic test. Someone adjusts a light, and its glare catches Neil’s eyes for a second. He squints, but the familiar sharpness of the moment - the waiting, the buzz, the attention - makes him feel almost comfortable. This isn’t a court, not exactly, but there’s that same electric pause before the whistle blows.

He sits at the table, a small black mic clipped to his collar, a bottle of water sweating quietly in front of him. A crew member counts down from three, fingers folding one by one. Neil watches, then focuses on the camera lens like it’s an opponent he’s about to size up.

“Ten things I can’t live without,” he says under his breath, voice flat but edged with dry amusement. “That’s… a lot. I could live without all of these, but for argument’s sake.”

He reaches for the first item without hesitation: his racquet. The grip is wrapped in green Rangers tape, frayed just enough to show hints of orange underneath. The frame is scarred from travel and too many hard games, the strings slightly uneven from re-lacing on the go.

“I’ve gone through a few of these,” he says. “People get sentimental about their racquet, and I get it. Mostly. But I’m not that precious - as long as I’ve got one within arm’s reach, I’m good.” The ghost of a grin flickers at the corner of his mouth, gone before the camera can catch it.

Next, his running shoes - the trim dulled to a rusty orange, laces uneven, soles thinned by miles. He flips one over, tracing the shallow grooves with his thumb.

“I hate to say it, but Kevin was absolutely right.” He smirks faintly. “These were a gift. I’ve got no clue what brand they are. Alison said I couldn’t be a professional athlete with my toes creeping out the front.” He tosses one shoe up, catches it one-handed. “Running keeps me sane. Or close enough. It’s about distance. About moving forward.”

He doesn’t say that “forward” often ends wherever Andrew happens to be.

On that note, the next item gleams faintly under the lights - a silver Zippo, initials carved into the side, the etching more instinctive than artistic. Three scratched triangles, one up and two down.

“I don’t smoke,” he says. “But I keep this close. Keeps my hands busy. Makes a satisfying noise.” The click of the hinge fills the quiet for a moment - rhythmic, controlled, steady. Like an inhale.

The fourth thing he slides forward is a worn paperback - The Art of War. The spine is cracked, corners curling, a thin layer of dust in the crease.

“Kevin gave me this,” he says. “‘It’ll make you more strategic.’” He mimics Kevin’s tone perfectly, the air quotes sharp enough to draw blood. “It’s an essential, I guess, since I’ve carried it halfway across the country and still haven’t read it. Honestly, it’d be more useful as a doorstop.”

He holds the next item like it might bite. A black square box, that lights up when he lifts it.

“I don’t like this thing,” he admits. “Too easy to find you.” His tone doesn’t waver, but his eyes do - just for a second. “Still, I’m learning. Team updates, schedules, messages. Sometimes… pictures.” He shrugs and sets it down with careful indifference.

Next comes an old Foxes warm-up sweatshirt, huge and soft, the orange faded to pale rust. Neil slings it over his head, sleeves hanging well past his hands.

“Comfort is key,” he says, tugging it down over his shoulders. “Especially when you travel so much.” The number four near the edge of his shoulder is cracked, almost unreadable. He shrugs. “I’m pretty sure I have a collection of these. I run cold. Could probably sell them as team collectibles - I’ve got two, four, eight, and ten, I think.”

Seventh: a small, battered notebook, its brown leather soft and worn. He opens it just enough for the camera to see the edges of neat columns, numbers, cities, names, scribbles in shorthand. Newspaper articles stashed between tickets and pages. “Kevin thinks he’s the only one who keeps track of data,” Neil says. “He’s wrong.” He closes it before the camera can look any closer.

He sets down a small pink oval box next, rainbow stickers scattered across the top. “These were a gift,” he says, looking down at it. “From Renee. I didn’t even know they were a thing.” He lifts the popped lid and pulls out one of the tiny earplugs slipping it into his ear. “I talk. A lot,” he adds, glancing at the crew, “as I’m sure has been reported on many times. But weirdly, I need like twenty minutes of silence before a game. Gets me in the zone.”

He taps the box lightly. “I think these are called… Hoops?”

A crew member corrects him. “Loops.”

“Ah. Well. That’s my brand deal gone.” He replies sarcastically, the crew laughs, the studio softening for a beat.

Finally, he reaches under his shirt and draws out a thin chain. Two small keys and a narrow silver ring catch the light. “Does this count as three?” he asks. He rolls one key between his fingers, then slides his fourth finger through the narrow band. For a moment, it looks like he might say something, something small and honest, but he doesn’t. Instead, he meets the camera’s lens again, raises his shoulder almost imperceptibly, and tucks the chain back against his chest. No explanation.

“I’ve been Neil Josten, and these were ten things I just happened to have had in my carry-on.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, dry and casual, but the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth gives them weight.

Laughter ripples through the crew - some soft, some louder - and somewhere behind him, a boom mic picks up a cheerful, “That’s a wrap!” bouncing off the studio walls.

Neil leans back in his chair, feeling the stiffness in his shoulders loosen. He watches the crew start packing up: lights clicking off, cameras wheeling back into cases, cables coiling like snakes on the floor.

He stands, stretches slowly, shaking out the lingering tightness in his arms and legs. The racquet, the shoes, the sweatshirt, the tiny pink box of earplugs - they all feel heavier somehow, as if carrying them into the light makes them real in a way they aren’t when stashed in a bag.

Neil gives a small, polite nod to the director, who’s chatting with a camera assistant, and steps past the tables, past the folding chairs and scattered gear. Outside, the corridor hums with footsteps and muffled conversation.

Neil’s hand brushes against the thin chain under his shirt - the keys, the band - and he tucks it closer to his chest. Ten things in a carry-on, ten pieces of calm in a world that’s always moving.