Andrew Minyard learned quickly that fear had a sound. It was the way conversations died when he entered a room, the scrape of chairs on tile, the held breath. Off his meds, he no longer wore the maniac smile people expected—the one they could point to and call proof. Instead, there was only a blank stare, flat and uninviting, and somehow that was worse. Blank meant unreadable. Blank meant choice.

Everyone kept their distance. Everyone except Neil.

Neil Josten was a striker and a headache, fast and sharp and too reckless to be smart about it. He moved like he was running from something even when there was nothing on the court chasing him. Andrew noticed everything; eidetic memory made sure of it. The way Neil counted exits without looking, the way his shoulders tightened at sudden noises, the way his eyes never quite settled. Andrew didn’t care about Exy—he never had—but patterns interested him, and Neil was all patterns and omissions.

Andrew was the goalie because he was brilliant at it, not because he loved it. He gave the bare minimum and still outperformed most of the league. Exy was a job. Palmetto was a location. The Foxes were a circumstance. Love, loyalty, permanence—those were words people used to pretend things didn’t end. Andrew didn’t want them. He didn’t want anyone. He wanted control, and he wanted clarity.

Neil was similar in the ways that mattered. People asked Neil what he wanted, if he wanted more, if he wanted anyone. Neil always said no. He said he didn’t swing. He said Exy was enough. Andrew believed the refusal, not the reasons. Neil hid things badly if you knew where to look, and Andrew always knew where to look.

That was why Andrew let him stay.

The others thought it was generosity or madness. Nicky tried to make it family. Aaron pretended indifference. Kevin watched Neil like a resource he couldn’t afford to lose. Andrew made it simple. He didn’t do friends. He did deals.

The deal was this: Andrew would protect Neil. He would bring him into the circle—Nicky, Aaron, Kevin—and no one would touch him without Andrew’s permission. In return, Neil would be honest when asked, and he would not interfere. Consent mattered. Boundaries mattered. The rest was irrelevant.

Their conversations never softened. They moved from teasing to questioning to outright hostility, sharp and precise, each word chosen to cut or defend. Neil pushed. Andrew pushed back harder. They didn’t like each other. Liking implied attachment, and Andrew didn’t attach.

But Neil approached him anyway, fearless or stupid or both, standing in Andrew’s space like he belonged there. Off his meds, Andrew felt everything too clearly—every thought lined up and loud—and Neil was a problem he didn’t want to solve yet. A secret that walked and breathed and ran himself bloody for a sport Andrew didn’t care about.

Andrew watched the goal. He watched Neil. He kept his promises.

That was all anyone ever got from him.