#I do feel like after all this disaster flirting wymack should be allow to be like

[currently-evil]

Alternative universe where Wymack gives up his “above my salary” rule and just straight up disses Andrew when he is pining over Neil

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Andrew: breaks into Wymack’s apartment to rant about how much Neil is a problem and a threat Wymack: You want to fuck him so much it makes you look stupid

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Andrew and Neil getting in their usual first book word scuffles Wymack to Andrew after Neil leaves them alone: So what have you decided on? Spring or Summer wedding?

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Andrew: allows some fox to score on him because he was too busy staring at Neil’s ass Wymack not saying anything out loud but catching Andrew’s eyes with so much bored intensivity the words just materialize on their own in Andrew’s mind: Wow that was pathetic.

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Andrew feeding Neil some “i’ll still solve you” or other talk like that Wymack not even raising his eyes from some documents he was filling out: I’ve seen fucking garden snails flirt better than you.

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Andrew buys Neil a matching phone Wymack: And here I thought Nicky was the only useless gay in the family, good to see I can still be wrong.

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Wymack calling Andrew after Neil hitchhiked his way back to his apartment the first time Monsters took him to Eden: CAN’T YOU TAKE HIM OUT ON A DATE LIKE NORMAL PERSON???? YOU HAVE TO FUCKING DRUG HIM???

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Andrew: buys Neil like a half of wardrobe in a exact style Andrew prefer Wymack: just aggressively sideeyeing  him in silence Andrew: SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP 

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Wymack: shamelessly using Neil to stop Andrew from acting out against other Foxes Andrew: Fucking stop it. Wymack: No <3

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Wymack: sends Neil to Andrew to ask him to stop throwing balls at Foxes’ ankles Wymack silently through very intense eye contact: JUST FUCKING BANG IT OUT AND STOP LETTING IT AFFECT MY GAMEPLAY

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Wymack: Do threats of violence usually work for you? Or do you know about some Neil's fetish none of us are privy to?

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Wymack to Andrew: Its good to know there is something that both you and Aaron share. I just didn't expect it to be inability to act like normal human beings around your crushes.

#Neil Josten #Neil Abram Josten #Andrew Minyard #Andrew Joseph Minyard #andreil #All for the game #Foxhole court #the foxhole court #aftg #aftg andreil #aftg headcanon #coach wymack #david wymack #aftg wymack #I do feel like after all this disaster flirting wymack should be allow to be like #are you fucking stupid??

[tfcrp]

THIS IS YOUR GAME

Name: Lucky California Age: Twenty One Class Year: Senior Position: Backliner, #2 Hometown: New York, New York

THIS IS YOUR MOMENT

TW: abuse, physical assault

Lucky, they call him, a hilarious irony on a team like the Foxes. It’s not his birth name, and he’s not under the impression that anyone on the team—(or otherwise)—is stupid enough to believe that the ridiculous moniker is actually real, but he has yet to offer them anything else. After all, it isn’t as if he has anything else to offer them. His name is self-selected, pulled out of the bitterly empty depths of his mind as his body attempted to knit itself back together in a hospital room.

Once upon a time, though, he was called James.

As a child, he wanted for nothing. His parents delighted in being part of the idle rich, descended from old money with nothing better to do than throw extravagant parties and dabble in the power struggle between top companies. Whenever James was allowed to make an appearance alongside the children of his parents’ friends, he made a splash—it wasn’t hard to see that he would grow up to be as stunning as his parents, and something about him set him apart as the darling of it all. It was his blue eyes, wide and beautiful; his dimples, charmingly adorable; his delightful mannerisms, even at a young age; his parents’ friends would raise an eyebrow, tilt their heads in his direction, and say that boy is going to be someone someday.

No one commented on the brutally tight grip James’s father kept on his shoulder, his smile more of a warning than anything actually friendly. If anyone noticed how his mother’s fingernails lined up perfectly with the fading half-moons on the back of James’s neck, they said nothing, assuming her gaze toward him was loving and not threatening. They were overprotective, just like any parents.

Throughout his childhood and adolescence, James was adored by nearly everyone he met, from classmates and teachers to his parents’ friends and business associates. Somewhere along the way, he took up Exy. At first, it was merely to pass the time, but it wasn’t long before his natural skills caught attention. Of course, he had the advantage of his parents’ wealth bolstering his swift progress: the best gear, the most exquisitely crafted racquets, and private coaching were all at his disposal. Even so, there was something distinctly special about the way he played, something money could never truly buy: pure, unadulterated talent. He shouldered his way through strikers like he had a personal vendetta against each and every one of them; with the level of ferocity and skill that he displayed as a backliner, goalies on his team were nearly rendered unnecessary. On the court and off, things came easily to him: James would decimate an opponent in a game, then stroll into his parents’ events in an impeccably tailored tux, charming everyone he met.

The bruises littering James’s torso were simply a product of his Exy games, of course. If anyone saw him struggle to hide a limp in the offseason, they must have been imagining things. James was a perfect athlete, and more importantly, he was a perfect son.

The beginning went something like this: I need you to talk to someone for me, his father had told him one night. James responded eagerly, still in the phase in his life where he wanted to please his parents despite their misdeeds. His father had gently steered him toward a man in his late fifties, his smile razor sharp and his fingers curled around a glass of bourbon. I want to buy this man’s company, but he doesn’t know it yet. Can you keep him occupied so he doesn’t see me speaking to the chairman of the board? James nodded slowly, eyes wide, and was sent off in the man’s direction with little fanfare. Armed with a false interest in a summer internship, questions about his future career path, and fabricated bashfulness about his own achievements, James ensured that the man never caught wind of his father’s dealings. His company was bought out from underneath him, with the full support of the board, only two weeks later.

They controlled him. They controlled his life. When he asked to play goalie, they responded with backliner, pushing him around and throwing expensive vases across the room at him until he was cowed into submission. When he gently requested permission to pursue playing Exy in college, they dismissed his dreams with derisive scoffs, scattering business school brochures across his desk and leaving marks behind as a physical reminder that this was the only acceptable option. Every step he took was wrong, wrong, wrong, and they made sure he never forgot it.

Ducking his head and covering the evidence of their displeasure, James pushed thoughts of his future to the side as he dove back into the other game he’d started playing on their behalf. With age, he’d only grown better: he would playfully flirt with wives to pull their husbands’ attention from business deals; he would craft heartbreaking stories to tug on the heartstrings of weak-willed heirs; he would play the old boys’ club off of one another until they didn’t trust each other with so much as their dinner order for the fear that they’d be poisoned. There was something almost breathtaking about the ease with which he slipped easily in and out of the crowd, blending in perfectly and adjusting himself to every situation. He knew people, and he never forgot a face or a name. This, however, was a skill he painstakingly kept hidden. After all, what kind of strength would it be if everyone knew how easy it was for him to keep track? That way, they were all the more flattered when he greeted them like an old friend. That way, they were all the more destroyed when he tilted his head quizzically, smiled condescendingly, and said I’m sorry, have we met? There was nothing quite so artfully brutal.

No one is perfect, though, and James was hardly the exception. Even he could make mistakes, and even he could be deceived. The blinding possibility of being free from his parents was more than enough to distract him from the holes in the lies he was fed.

It was an age-old story, sparing the details: the player became the played, the bitter taste of betrayal filling his senses as his own skills were turned against him. His father lost millions on a deal he’d relied on James to complete. Millions, of course, was pocket change to his parents. But the damage had been done, and James was unceremoniously disowned and thrown out into the street for the part he’d willingly played in the disaster. His undoing, not long after, was nothing more than a random mugging. One look at James practically screamed money, and he hardly lasted a few hours on the street before someone went after him. A blow to the head like that, and he should’ve been dead—or, at the very least, in a coma for the rest of his life. Instead, as he put it, he was left with fuck-all memories and a hell of a headache. Retrograde amnesia, the doctor had corrected him every time he said so, sounding more tired each time she repeated herself.

Suddenly, James Bonheur no longer existed. His mind, utterly wiped clean, patiently awaited its new resident. Though he was left with no faces or names to supplement the nothingness clouding his head, even the amnesia couldn’t take everything. He coveted the broken remnants, gathering them close to his chest: the sting of a nameless betrayal, the jagged edges of a faceless heartbreak, and the utter certainty that he belonged on an Exy court. 

Though he’d been in the hospital for more than long enough, no one had come to collect him. No one was looking—and it wasn’t as if he remembered if anyone should be looking for him. You’re lucky to be alive, son, a detective had told him, clearly disinterested in handling the mugging case of an amnesiac who would certainly be no help at all as a witness. Won’t you help us find who hurt you? What’s your name? His words were full of false sympathy, and he could already feel the man closing his case shut just as he’d opened it moments before. Lucky? Sure, call me Lucky, then, he shot back with a brittle laugh, raising his gaze to a nearby billboard just outside of his hospital window. Cheerfully, it proclaimed Visit California! And so, with a snort, he finished his new name: Lucky California.

He couldn’t stay in the hospital forever, and though he had nowhere else to go, as best they could tell he was eighteen and able to be discharged without another thought. With nothing more to his name than the clothes he’d arrived in, an iPhone mangled beyond all hope, and an expensive wallet suspiciously devoid of any identifying information, the newly-dubbed Lucky made his way to South Carolina. What better way to find out who he was than plastering his face all over national television? Without knowing his own name, Lucky had no proof that he’d ever played on an Exy team before, much less that he was any good, but after persuading Wymack to watch him on the court, any doubts he might’ve had disappeared. Between Lucky’s swift and firm denial of his strikers’ best tactics and the stark reality that he had no money, no identity, and nowhere else to go, his hopeless case and suspicious-looking scars were more than convincing enough to earn him a place on the Foxes that fall.

SEIZE IT WITH EVERYTHING YOU’VE GOT   

Wish me luck, someone on the team might say; I wouldn’t wish him on anybody, Wymack has taken to responding, not bothering to look up from the Exy plays of the week on his computer. Lucky has more than earned his reputation as a brawler, in odd contrast to his haughty manner off the court. He dives in to defend his teammates whether they’re right or wrong—he doesn’t care either way. Some small part of him even thinks that maybe if he gets knocked around enough, his memories will come flooding back. Despite his brawling tendencies, there is an old-money polish to him that does not often appear in someone labeled a Fox; even so, he possesses a hard glint to his prettiness, something that’s more akin to a diamond-edged blade than a decorative jewel. With his blue doe-eyes and pink bow-shaped lips, he seems more doll than Exy player, but the distinction becomes clear when his smile turns sharper than a knife as he steps on the court. Despite his often blasé attitude, he clings to his talent like a lifeline; after all, he’s a Class I player, Fox or not. He’s got his eyes set on the pros, on Court, on a lifetime of fame and glory: Lucky California is all he has. It’s all he knows, and if he can’t keep playing Exy after he graduates, he has nothing to fall back on. He’ll be awash in the sea of his fragmented mind, memories just as frustratingly out of reach as they always have been.

When he’s not practicing, he goes to see Betsy weekly, half hoping that he can prod memories into reappearing and half hoping that she’ll tell him they’ll never come back. Do you want to know who your family is? she asks him sometimes, always infuriatingly calm. My face has been plastered all over ESPN for years, he shoots back. If they wanted to see me, they would’ve said something by now. He pretends that it’s some kind of cosmic joke that he’s privy to, but the fact of the matter is that he doesn’t remember anything, and it bothers him. That hit to the head left him with precious few things to his name: his uppity mannerisms, the ability to talk circles around everyone he meets, the steady weight of a racquet in his hands, and a face that he doesn’t know whether to thank his mother or his father for. He has no idea, to this day, and that terrifies him more than he’d like to admit—so instead of facing the silence in his head, he triumphantly raises his racquet to spur on the fans in the stands, drowning it out with the roar of the crowd.

LUCKY CALIFORNIA is portrayed by DACRE MONTGOMERY and is CLOSED

#lucky california #luckybio #c