Andrew Minyard watched the court like it might flinch first.

Off his meds, the world had gone quiet in the wrong way. Not soft—hollow. The noise still existed, whistles and sneakers and Kevin’s voice cutting through drills, but it all hit Andrew from a distance, like it had to cross a border before it could touch him. People noticed. They always did. The smile was gone, the one they called maniacal because it made them feel better to label it. What was left was a flat stare and a stillness that made everyone give him space.

Everyone except Neil Josten.

Neil was new. New problems always were. A striker with too much speed and not enough sense, all sharp edges and reckless momentum. Andrew was the goalie, brilliant when he bothered, apathetic when he didn’t. Exy bored him. People bored him more. He showed up, he blocked shots, he left. That was the extent of his investment.

Neil refused to be background noise.

Andrew noticed patterns when other people noticed personalities. He remembered everything—faces, habits, lies people told themselves. Off his medication, the thoughts stacked up with nowhere to go. He didn’t talk about them. He didn’t soften them. He just watched.

Neil talked like he had nothing to lose. He moved like he was always running from something. People asked Neil the same questions they asked everyone new: where are you from, who do you want, what do you want after this. Neil refused all of it. He didn’t swing. He didn’t date. He didn’t plan. He focused on Exy and nothing else, like if he stopped moving the world would catch him.

Andrew understood that instinct.

The Foxes were loud about their loyalty, their affection, their insistence on each other. Andrew wasn’t built that way. He didn’t want love or permanence or anything that asked him to stay. He didn’t do friends. He did deals. Clear terms. Clear consequences. No surprises.

Neil was similar in the ways that mattered, which made him interesting.

Their conversations started as irritation. Teasing that cut too close. Questions disguised as jokes. Then open dislike. Neil pushed. Andrew pushed back harder. They circled each other, neither willing to blink. It wasn’t friendship. It was assessment.

Andrew let Neil into their group anyway.

Nicky noticed. Kevin pretended not to. Aaron didn’t care as long as Andrew kept his promises. And Andrew did keep them. He made a deal: protection, silence, a place among the Foxes. Neil accepted without asking what it would cost, which told Andrew everything he needed to know about Neil’s past and nothing about how bad it really was.

Neil had secrets. Andrew collected them the way other people collected excuses.

One of them came easy. Illegal testosterone. Binders pulled too tight. Changing alone in bathroom stalls instead of the locker room. Andrew saw it, filed it away, and moved on. Neil knew Andrew knew. The tension sat between them like a held breath.

Andrew didn’t care about that secret. Not the way other people would. It wasn’t leverage. It wasn’t scandal. It was just another fact.

What Andrew cared about was the rest of it.

Why Neil never relaxed. Why his eyes tracked exits. Why his presence made something under Andrew’s skin itch—an awareness he couldn’t scratch away or ignore. Neil was like a mosquito: small, persistent, impossible to kill without making a mess. The more Andrew focused on him, the louder he became.

Andrew hated distractions.

He also hated not knowing.

So he watched Neil on the court, watched him take hits he shouldn’t survive, watched him grin like pain was a language he spoke fluently. Andrew blocked shots with mechanical precision and let everything else slide. People thought he didn’t care. They were wrong. He cared selectively.

Neil was a problem. Andrew decided to keep him.

Not because he wanted him. Not because he trusted him. But because secrets demanded answers, and Andrew Minyard always finished what he started.