your writing is so beautiful!! if you have the time, would you maybe write something about pro!neil getting injured and physical therapist!andrew?
(sends a prayer and a kiss to the writer of this ask like 8 months ago, love you, here you go)
He hears raised voices jerking their way from the front desk down the hall to his office, a pin-sharp, balloon-popping fight. He sets his coffee down and waits for the overlapping voices to make sense, or for the dull receptionist to strip the action and hand Andrew boring, defused parts.
“I’ve run on worse, Kevin, you know I can still play, I can play better than those delicate, one-hit-and-they’re-down, red card-chasing ungracious bastards—“
“I don’t care. I don’t care if you can run on it, I care if you can destroy on it. If you think your superiority complex and masochistic streak mean anything to me you’re wrong. I need you in peak condition or I don’t need you.”
“This is temporary,” the first voice grits. “I don’t need a glorified massage therapist to show me how to stretch. The only thing that’ll make me feel better is Moriyama’s throat under my heel.”
Something hisses like water beading in a hot pan, and then, “we’ll talk later. You have an appointment.” There’s a burble of complaint and a thud, and then Kevin Day waltzes into his office, diplomatic smile singed dark with rage. His arm is outstretched behind him, and a second later he yanks another person in beside him by the collar.
Neil Josten, if Andrew’s schedule and his limited attention to the sports network are aligned. He looks sick and contrary, flushed high in the apples of his cheeks from arguing, hair wild, leg in a brace from mid-thigh to ankle.
“Here for your massage therapy?” Andrew drawls. Neil bares his teeth, Kevin drops the now-warped collar of his shirt.
“I’m sorry you have to deal with him,” Kevin says, simperingly apologetic. When he doesn’t get a swoon or a protest or anything at all from Andrew, the set of his jaw changes. “He doesn’t like doctors.”
“He’s not a doctor,” Neil says disdainfully, at the same time that Andrew says,
“He can’t run.”
“Oh, I can,” Neil says. “And I can punch too.”
Kevin sighs. Andrew sips his coffee, a long pull, and reaches for a blank chart.
“Do you typically threaten the people providing you with a service?”
“What, are you trying to be a psychologist too? Cover as many pseudo-sciences as possible?”
“I thought I was responding to a challenge,” Andrew replies. “But I’m not surprised that you start a fight and then change the subject. That’s what exy players do, right?”