#foxholestarter

[caseyhendrix-blog1]

It’s a cliche at this point--a losing effort, a bottle of something strong, the roof of Fox Tower. But it’s the best he can do tonight with residual anger buzzing in his head, and a distinct desire to not be found by any of his teammates or anyone at all for that matter. He guarantees that if he opens his mouth right now what’s going to come out of it is going to be sharp, so he’s heading this whole thing off and just keeping it shut--removing himself until tomorrow when this might not hurt so much. He wants the sounds of passing cars below him and the lights in the distance to do something--to drown out everything else and just leave him with a comfortable numbness--but instead he’s still holding himself tightly, like the next person that walks through the door to the roof is going to start a fight. 

When did it get to be like this? Lately every time he takes the court it feels like throwing his body at a brick wall over and over, hoping for something to break and instead just coming away bruised and angry. It’s all the worse because there isn’t a solution in sight at the moment; he’s not anyone’s coach, he’s not a one man defensive machine, how is he supposed to right the ship when no matter how hard he fights it just keeps hitting the rocks? He takes a long pull from the bottle he has with him and exhales, runs a hand through his hair--and of course the old metal door slams. He doesn’t make an effort to move and see who it is, just leans his head against he brick wall and pulls his knees up to his chest, offers up the bottle.

“Save the pep talk, if that’s why you’re here.” He says lowly, his voice rough from disuse. 

[lilith-price-blog]

First impressions are everything. Or so everyone always says, all the damn time. Besides, it’s not like these are first impressions really – she met some of them briefly back when she first came to see Wymack, and she’s pretty sure that any of them that any of them who care enough for these first impressions to matter would have already read up on her anyways, leaving her fucked from the start. Oh well. No need to paint up a false pretense if they’ll just figure everything out eventually anyway.

“Hello. Howdy. Guten tag. It’s me. Is this my room?” Even if it’s not, she’s already halfway through the door and dropping her things down onto the floor – smile wide to the point of being unnerving.

[dominic-murphy]

Dom rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, groaning quietly at the way it ached. He must’ve slept funny the night before, which was his own goddamn fault for refusing to get off the couch when he’d fallen asleep there the first time. He shuffled quietly through the papers in his hands, his eyes scanning over the different line-ups of the teams in their district. He muttered something under his breath, scratching out a name or two. He kept track of who’d had issues academically in the past, wanting to know who was most likely to not even be a factor on the court. He had stats memorized at this point, though he’d never actually state it out loud. Wymack would give him that smarmy fucking eyebrow if he even mentioned it, so he acted like he didn’t give a shit about Exy and talked shit about it whenever given the chance.

But dammit, it was still his job, and the one reason he was still at Palmetto. A shadow crossed in front of him where he’d been reading, and Dom shifted slightly before lifting bored eyes. “I’m reading. Move.” Dom kicked at the other with one foot, trying to readjust himself on the bench where he’d made himself comfortable.

[teddyryker-blog]

The roof of Fox Tower was a place of comfort for Teddy which was odd for someone with a small fear of heights. He’d been spending a lot of time there since the game; it was quiet, it was secluded, it was a good place to clear his head and usually people that if you were on the roof, you didn’t want to be bothered.

Teddy had been, for lack of a better phrase, kind of a jerk since the game. He was pissed off that they’d lost and he’d been snippy the past few days, walking around with a face like thunder and snapping at anyone that looked at him for too long, even the other Foxes or the Vixens. It wasn’t usually this bad, lost games happened but it didn’t help what had happened after.

He wasn’t mad that his mom had turned up and he wasn’t mad that she brought along Jake, his step-dad. He was mad that they hadn’t warned him they were coming and that it’d thrown him off during the game, he’d been so worried about having to talk to them after that it completely blew his concentration. Jake wasn’t even a bad guy, quite the opposite actually; he was friendly and talkative, he wanted to know about Teddy and made every effort to let Teddy know he was a good person. It wasn’t enough for someone who grew up with a dad like Teddy’s.

It was dark now and Teddy had been on the roof for ours, Bacon lying on one side of him and on the other was his flask of coffee, a few books, a crumpled cigarette packet and his phone, which he’d switched off to avoid having to talk to anyone. It was getting colder these days too so he had a blanket around his shoulders that swamped his smaller frame. He was engrossed in the school work he’d fallen behind on and the sound of the door made him jump.

“Jesus Christ, don’t do that!” He exclaimed, looking up and huffing out breath to recover from the surprise. “You scared the shit out of me, what do you want?”

[sebnavarro-blog1]

It’s long past time since he should have gone to sleep, but he’s still awake and sitting at a table in the lobby of the hotel with his laptop open, playing game footage on what feels like and endless loop at this point. He has a headache blooming behind his eyes, he’s had one ever since he came off the court--his offense had provided a lead going into halftime and one of his strikers had won the game ultimately, but it had been by the skin of their teeth ultimately. He can't fix the defense, he wouldn’t know where to start, but if he can just--find some way to create enough offense to take the pressure off--he sighs and lets his head rest in his hands, drags his fingers through his hair. For the fifteenth time the player on the screen plants his feet and pulls to his opposite side, and he still doesn’t know what to do with that information. 

He stretches his arms over his head and groans, leaning back in his chair until the back legs are the only ones on the ground. He hears footsteps coming towards him and blinks his eyes a couple of times to make them focus, closes the lid of his laptop. “Unless you have enough coffee to make me forget my name and or a secret Exy playbook with all of the answers, I’m gonna have to ask why you’re still up.” He says with a small smile, even though he feels frayed at the edges. “Coach and all of that.” 

[braydenplaceholder]

At some point, Brayden lost Arlo during the room shift to accommodate the DJ booth. The whole point of being “dates,” the word still makes Brayden shudder, is to be each other’s buffer for the brothers they didn’t want to see. Wymack’s threat still resinates deeply with Brayden, so he quickly scans the room to see if he can find Arlo, hoping he doesn’t see a blonde in the process. A hand grips his shoulder, causing him to jump in surprise, whipping around to see it’s just Wymack. “Jesus fuck,” He curses, resting a hand over his pounding heart. 

“Wrong, but close enough,” Wymack comments. “I came over remind you what I said in our meeting. You’re staying here tonight. I don’t care what happens.” 

By the tone of his voice, Brayden can tell he’s not fucking around. He’ll take him out of the game in the blink of an eye if he fucks this up. Wymack’s tolerance for his bullshit is at an all time low after he stormed out of the interview. “Alright,” He agrees flatly, pursing his lips. He’s not going to argue, even if he wants nothing more than to leave. 

“I’m serious. You so much as go outside for a cigarette break and you’re done. You’re lucky I didn’t pull you out of the game for the shit you pulled last week. Couldn’t even keep it together for the sake of your teammate.” There’s a huge difference when Wymack is disappointed in him than when anyone else is. He actually feels guilty--hating himself for making Wymack doubt his place on the team. Even though he respects the fuck out of him, it just isn’t enough to fix his need to self-destruct. Which is why his gaze shifts from Wymack to search the floor again, needing to check if Landon is near--if he can overhear them. 

Wymack has known Brayden long enough to know what he’s doing and his expression softens slightly, “Stop standing here by yourself and actually hang out with your team.” 

“I have a date,” Brayden mutters, even though he has no fucking clue where he is.

Wymack clearly doesn’t believe him as he lets out an annoyed huff, “Shut up. And stay inside,” He suddenly looks at someone over Brayden’s shoulder and points to them, “That goes for you too.”

 Wymack moves on to the next person as Brayden turns around to see who’s behind him, wondering how much they heard. “He loves me,” Brayden smirks, just trying to not show how fucking uncomfortable he is. He can’t even erase it with alcohol this time. 

[joelcarlyle-blog]

Joel couldn't sleep. He had a lot of trouble sleeping as of late and he wasn't all that sure why. He slipped out of bed and the warmth radiating off of his boyfriend as he pulled on a pair of jogger pants and a Palmetto hoodie before pulling on a pair of socks and his sneakers. He grabbed his phone and wallet and started off toward the court. He usually ran but tonight he walked. The fresh air helped to clear his head and that's what he needed.

He thought about going to the court itself to throw a ball at the wall but instead he went to his office and sat on the couch going over the tapes Wymack had given him of potential players for the team. He was so immersed in them that he never heard someone come in.

[kentcheongs-archive-blog]

What. The. Fuck.

Those words were quickly becoming the motif of Kent’s evening. It started at the first remark from the Tornadoes, a hissed “what the fuck did you just say?” on the court line when one of their strikers thought they could get a rise out of the Fox, and they were right. That voice was the only other thing Kent could hear, aside from his racing heart and the slight ringing in his ear from the buzzer and his own cheers moments ago, as tensions settled and silence washed over the court in anticipation of the next play.

That first what the fuck apparently didn’t fly with the Tornadoes, and Kent could only find himself muttering “oh, what the fuck do you think you’re doing,” as sticks clattered to the floor and gloves fell after them, though the words weren’t meant to be heard. They didn’t need to be communicated when his body language did it for him, anyways, chest puffing out as his own stick and gloves hit the floor, sending a clear message: you don’t mess with Kent Cheong.

Fortunately, they wouldn’t. Unfortunately, the referees did. A whistle blew, and with it came a smug smirk from Kent, who immediately assumed justice would be served. Instead, the yellow card was shown his direction, the neon color reflecting in his eyes as they narrowed. “Wait, what the fuck?” he shouted, the first expletive that would immediately put the referees against him as he tried to argue his point. When the second was shown his way, he could only shout those three words again as he stepped off the court, fuming.

Now, wandering the halls, Kent was unable to let this anger wash away. He should have been able to let it settle; they won, after all. However, Kent was never the type of person who let things go. It all simmered within him, waiting for the right amount of heat to push him to his boiling point (which wasn’t very hard to achieve in the first place). So, instead, his anger burned red hot, causing the words to bubble up once more as he hissed at the person who approached. “What the fuck do you want?”

[colinjessup-blog]

Maybe this is what it feels like, when you start expecting something more than failure. A win is a win, he shouldn’t be looking a gift horse in the mouth, but it still feels like he’d set his expectations higher—like they all had—only to come up just a little short. 

Maybe it’s karma: after the last game he’d been uncharacteristically surly, hiding from his teammates, licking his own wounds. Being in another hotel again, it’s hard not to remember it: they all look the same. He’s not sure if that’s a good reminder or a bad one—it’s funny how distant just two weeks ago can feel. 

So he’s looking on the bright side, or at least he’s trying to—at least he got to play his entire half. At least he wasn’t taken off the court bleeding this time. At least Arlo scored and bailed their asses out. At least they won. Their path to the Championships continues, still unimpeded, and that’s all that really matters. If they’re playing in a Championship game come January, then they won’t even remember what it felt like to win but just barely tonight. 

Someone has to make sure the Foxes don’t fracture, someone has to make sure they treat a win like a win. It’s a task Colin usually relishes, being the life of the party, pleading and cajoling to get everyone to join him. But he can admit that lately it’s just felt so hard. He’s just felt so tired. But he also hasn’t felt like himself—so maybe he should just suck it up. Fill the role he’s meant to fill. 

And, well, he’d wrapped a bottle of vodka in his sweatpants, just for this occasion. No point letting it go to waste. “Hey!” he calls down the hall, head poking out of his room. “You better not think you’re getting out of celebrating. But if you want mixers, that’s on you.”

[brandonshaw]

Don’t read your own press was true for most people somewhat in the public light, but it was probably about twice as true for Foxes. But it’s hard to avoid when it seems like it’s Brandon’s job, and he can’t help the feeling, in the lull between their game against the Tornadoes and their upcoming game against the Jackrabbits, like the sharks are circling. There’s blood in the water: the Foxes beat the Tornadoes, but they stumbled, they showed weakness.

An overtime win is easy to dismiss, easy to argue that the Foxes were outplayed, that they just got a lucky bounce. Who knows, maybe it’s true. If it were, at least luck would have gone in the Foxes’ favor for once.

As a Coach, it’s his job to get the balance right: to keep the Foxes from getting complacent, but not let them get discouraged by their past mistakes. They’re still in the mix for Championships, as the regular season enters its second half, they have to stay focused, they can’t falter now. He doesn’t know if he’s achieving it, doesn’t know if it’s something he can do. All he does know is that he’s spending more time in the court than ever before—and that, from the sound of it, he’s not the only one.

“Practice ended awhile ago,” he calls, having followed some sound into the should-have-been empty court. "If you work yourself too hard, you won’t have anything left for the Jackrabbits.”

[paxtonridley-blog]

                    The moment the team got to the hotel, Pax made a run for it to get out. They were still angry at what happened at the game, only managing to play the rest of the game by pushing the anger down. It had been tough and if the Foxes had lost, then Pax knew they would have been even more angry. Luckily, they won. Yet they were still angry. Some might have said that it was uncharacteristic for Pax, but no one really knew just how tired they were of pretending to be okay with everything. Sometimes people just needed to leave Pax alone. Running felt good and Pax knew the rest of their team was probably celebrating the win, so hopefully that meant they could just run alone. 

                    They let their feet pound on the ground and it was almost comforting. Almost. But even running seemed stupid in their state. Pax felt their phone ringing in their pocket. Their money was on Emma calling to say congratulations about the win, but Pax ignored the call. Pax paused for a break getting a six pack from the back of a gas station before going back to the hotel where hopefully their teammates would leave them alone. Pax stayed outside, hoping the cool air would help cool them off, even though they didn’t believe that for a second. Paxton heard someone approaching. “Just leave me alone, okay!” he yelled... at a randomly passing couple that was obviously drunk and heading home. 

[lukasbaxter]

The mood was, once again, off for a victory, but for once Lukas decided he didn’t care. If the Foxes wanted to pout about a victory again, then so be it. Sure, he knew it hadn’t been the game they wanted to play, but to him, they’d gotten the outcome they wanted, and that was enough for him. He, personally, was in a fantastic mood. He’d been texting Piper every now and then since her surprise visit, just attempting to guide her through whatever was happening with her parents, and he’d finally managed to make the coolest girl in the world his girlfriend. Now the Foxes had won, they were in a hotel with no supervision, and nobody wanted to do anything? He found that very hard to believe, and was sure he could find someone willing to get into some trouble with him. Or even just hang out; he was so over the gloom and doom he’d settle for zero trouble for once.

It didn’t take him long to bump into someone but he wasn’t the best at reading people’s moods. He flashed them a grin. “Hey! Quick question, are you moping right now? Because if you’re not I’m bored and hungry. If you are, well...” he trailed off for a moment, smirking. “You’re on your own with that one.”

[akiraxsato]

It didn’t matter that they’d won by a staggering amount of points, Akira was still in a foul mood. Between the shit talk on the court and the prying questions of the press Akira was in no mood to celebrate. All he wanted to do was go to his room and drown himself in a hot shower and shitty pay-per-view movies on the hotel television. It wouldn’t be the first celebration party he’d skipped out on and it probably wouldn’t be the last either. The rest of the Foxes could celebrate, Akira just wanted to stew. And stew as far away from copious amounts of alcohol as possible. It was always at his lowest moments that he thought about it. He’d feel guilty about it later, sure, but in the moment Akira knew he was at his weakest. And when he was around the Foxes...there were few good examples to turn to when things went from bad to worse.

He hadn’t spoken much on the bus ride back to the hotel and he'd waited until everyone had gone up so he could catch an empty elevator. He didn’t want to get caught up in pretending to celebrate with the others, the few that were actually grinning from ear to ear. So he was less than pleased when a person’s hands darted between the closing doors, jerking them back open. He was even less pleased to find it was someone he actually knew. Barely holding back a scowl Akira looked away from them. “Lucky catch.” 

[isadoraelbert-blog]

                    “Yeah, okay dad,” Isadora responded, phone placed up against her ear. “I miss you too. Tell pop I said hello. I gotta go, bye.” Isadora barely gave her dad a second to say goodbye before she hung up the phone and rolled her eyes. As much as she loved her dads, sometimes they were a bit overbearing. They had no reason to be worried about her like they had been in high school. Isadora thought she was doing well for herself this year. Her grades were good so far and she was cheerleading again. Maybe that’s what they were worried about because they knew she was spreading herself thin. Except, she was almost positive that this was going to be different. This time she was sure that no one was going to find out about her past. None of what happened was her fault. 

                    Isadora stood there for a moment before she realized that she was standing in someone’s way. “Sorry!” she exclaimed. “Lost in my own thoughts. I’ll move now.” She jumped out of the way. 

[claudiajewellxarchive-blog]

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Claudia: anyone have advice for a raging migraine because I'm stuck in bed

[teddyryker-blog]

Sometimes Teddy had bad weeks; sometimes they were salvageable and sometimes he got he got the end of an Exy stick shoved between his ribs. Earlier that week he’d dealt with a painful reminder of a fight with his dad when Dom almost strangled him in their dorm room, the injury he sustained during the game reminded him of the cracked rib he got during that same fight. It was a lot; it was too much to think about when he hadn’t so much as spoken to his dad in months and memories of him weren’t something Teddy felt ready to return to. 

So, with the ice pack still taped to his ribs, Teddy went out to the bar across the street and did a bunch of shots with group of truckers. When he was good and tipsy, he left for the McDonald’s next door and wandered back to the hotel with enough portions of fries that someone could look at him and assume he wasn’t himself.

He approached the first familiar face he saw back at the hotel and nudged them with his elbow to get their attention and held the bag of fries out to them, silently offering them because he was too tired and couldn’t really be bothered to form words yet.