Chapter Text
The Friday air is thick with the kind of humidity that makes Andrew want to fight a weather pattern. He is currently radiating a level of irritability that should, by all rights, be visible to the naked eye. Kevin Day is a persistent, single-minded plague, and after forty-eight hours of incessant vibrating on Andrew’s nightstand, the "exy addict" had finally won a singular morning of Andrew's time at the gym.
Andrew adjusts the strap of his gym bag, the weight of it shifting against his shoulder. The two books from yesterday—the conclusion to the Star-Blind series—are still tucked inside, forgotten in the bottom of the bag alongside his hand wraps and a spare hoodie. He hadn’t bothered to take them out. Moving them required a level of domestic effort he wasn’t willing to invest after a two-hour session of lifting heavy metal plates just to keep Kevin from calling him again.
He starts walking. The destination is clear: the coffee shop two doors down from the bookstore. He needs enough sugar to stop his hands from shaking and enough caffeine to make the walk back to his apartment feel like less of a chore, and then be able to fall into a sugar induced coma.
The coffee shop is packed with the usual Friday morning crowd—people in suits looking frantic and students trying to look intellectual over overpriced beans. Andrew ignores them all. He waits in line with a flat, dead-eyed stare that encourages the person in front of him to move slightly faster.
When he finally reaches the counter, he orders a drink that is essentially a pint of melted caramel and whipped cream with a polite suggestion of espresso. It’s expensive, it’s medically ill-advised, and it’s the only thing keeping him from drifting into a permanent nap.
He steps back out onto the sidewalk, the plastic cup cold against his palm. The sugar hits his tongue, and for a second, the world is tolerable. He intends to walk straight to the subway. He really does. He even takes three steps in that direction, his boots clicking a decisive rhythm on the pavement.
Then, his eyes drift to the left.
The dark wood of The Archive stands there, sandwiched between the modern, bright storefronts like a stubborn relic. The lights are on.
The shop is open today, Andrew notes, his internal voice dripping with a sarcasm that he usually reserves for Kevin’s "inspirational" locker room speeches. Alert the media. The bat has decided to participate in the economy two days in a row.
He should keep walking. He’s sweaty, he’s tired from the gym, and he’s currently holding a drink that contains enough calories to power a small village for a week. There is absolutely no reason to enter that shop.
Naturally, his feet ignore him.
It’s like a magnetic pull he hasn’t accounted for in his physics. He finds himself veering off the path to the subway, his boots navigating the cracked sidewalk until he’s standing in front of the brass handle. He doesn't even pause to argue with himself this time. The hypocrisy of his own actions is too loud to ignore, so he simply leans into it.
He pushes the door open.
The bell gives its familiar, tiny ping, and the wall of cedar-scented silence swallows the noise of the Friday traffic. Andrew steps inside, his gym bag shifting against his hip, and takes a long, slow draw from his straw.
He stays by the door for a moment, his eyes scanning the stacks. The sugar from the caramel-and-cream monstrosity in his hand is already starting to buzz through his system, fighting the heavy, dull ache in his shoulders. He looks at his own reflection in the glass of the door—sweaty, wearing gym clothes, and holding a drink that probably contains more calories than a steak. He looks like a person who has somewhere to be.
He isn't that person.
From the back of the shop, the familiar sound of light footsteps and the jingle of a harness starts up. Neil is moving through the "Poetry" section, his hand skimming the spines with that annoying, effortless precision. Andrew knows the drill now; if he stays quiet, Neil will treat him like a nameless walk-in, offering him Braille labels and a generic greeting. Andrew isn't in the mood for the retail script today.
"I’m back. Don't start the speech," Andrew says. His voice is a dry scrape against the silence, cutting through the stillness before Neil can even open his mouth.
Neil stops. He’s about ten feet away, his head tilting toward the sound. A slow, lopsided grin pulls at his scarred face—the kind of look that suggests he’s been waiting for an excuse to stop whatever boring task he was doing.
"Andrew," Neil says, his voice humored. He keeps walking until he’s behind the counter, Filly settling at his feet like she’s clocking in for a shift. "You’re early. I find it hard to believe you managed to read 2 books in less than 24 hours.”
"I’m here for the caffeine," Andrew says, lifting his plastic cup. The straw makes a pathetic, gurgling sound as he takes a sip. "The shop just happens to be on the other side of the sidewalk."
"Right. Purely accidental," Neil says, leaning his hip against the mahogany counter. He doesn't look toward Andrew, but his ear is angled perfectly to catch the rustle of Andrew’s gym bag. "You smell like a locker room and expensive sugar. Did the gym spit you out, or did you finally break something?"
Andrew shifts the weight of his bag. "I was forced to participate in physical labor by a persistent idiot who doesn't understand the meaning of “off-season”. I’m currently reconsidering all my life choices."
"The idiot has a name, I assume?" Neil asks, his tone conversational.
"Several," Andrew says. "Most of them are insults."
As far as Neil knows, Andrew is just some irritable guy who likes sugar and gets bullied into working out by an unnamed acquaintance. Andrew prefers it that way. Information is leverage, and he isn't in the habit of handing out leverage for free, especially to a guy who runs a bookstore.
Neil just nods, seemingly content with the vague answer. "Well, if you're reconsidering your life choices, I have a section on philosophy. Most of it suggests that life is a joke anyway, so you might feel right at home."
Andrew doesn't move from his spot. He takes another sip of his drink and stares at the way the light hits the scars on Neil’s neck. He feels a sudden, sharp spike of annoyance at himself. He has two books in his bag that he hasn't even opened yet. He has a cat at home who is probably currently shredding his sofa. He has a million places to be that don't involve standing in a quiet shop with a blind man and a dog.
Why is he here?
He isn't buying anything. He isn't looking for a recommendation. He’s just standing here, sweating in his gym clothes, holding a half-empty cup of melted ice. It’s illogical. It’s a waste of energy. He should turn around, walk out the door, and go back to his apartment where things make sense.
But his feet feel like they’ve been glued to the floorboards. He watches Neil’s hand. His scarred, nimble fingers tapping a rhythm on the wood of the counter. Neil isn't doing anything. He’s just existing in the space, waiting for Andrew to do something or say something. He doesn't seem bothered by the silence, and he doesn't seem rushed.
The silence stretches out. It’s nothing like at the deli with Aaron and Katelyn, which felt like a thin wire about to snap. This silence is heavy and still.
Andrew looks down at the gym bag on his shoulder. He thinks about the persistent idiot who is probably still at the gym, recorded-video-analyzing his own form in the mirror. He thinks about the blank bookmark lost in his couch.
He realizes he has absolutely nothing to do and nowhere to go where someone isn't expecting him to be something he isn't. Except here. Here, he’s just the guy who likes mocha.
He hates it. He hates that he likes the quiet. He hates that he’s standing here like a stray dog waiting for a scrap of conversation.
"You’re still standing there," Neil says. It’s a statement, not a question. He doesn't sound impatient, just curious. "If you're waiting for me to entertain you, you're going to be disappointed. I have a lot of alphabetizing to do."
"I’m not waiting for anything," Andrew says. The lie is dry and tastes like caramel.
He takes a few steps forward, his boots loud in the stillness. He stops a few feet from the counter. He looks at Neil’s face, the jagged lines, the uneven texture of the skin, the way the light doesn't reflect in those blue eyes. It’s been bothering him since Tuesday. It’s a gap in his information, a question he hasn't asked because he usually doesn't give a damn about other people’s stories.
But today, the silence is too thick, and he’s too tired to be polite.
"The scars," Andrew says, his voice flat and direct, cutting through the quiet. "Who did that to you?"
The shift in the room is instantaneous. The way the air around Neil seems to crystallize is incredible. He looks caught off guard, his head jerking back a fraction of an inch like he’s just been flicked in the forehead. The polite, helpful bookstore keeper mask he’s been wearing doesn't exactly slip, it disintegrates.
He doesn't look offended. He looks... sharpened.
"Wow," Neil says, and his voice isn't the smooth, professional tone from five minutes ago. It’s got a bite to it now, something raw and jagged that matches the scars Andrew is staring at. "Straight to the point. You don't really do the 'how's the weather' thing, do you?"
"The weather is humid and disgusting. I have eyes; I don't need to talk about it," Andrew says, taking a slow sip of his caramel sludge. "I’m asking a question. You can answer it or you can lie, though I’ll probably know if you do."
Neil lets out a short, huffing sound that might be a laugh, but it’s too dry to be sure. He leans further against the counter, his sightless eyes fixed somewhere in Andrew's general direction. He looks a lot more like himself now, or whatever "himself" actually is.
"How is that a normal question to ask someone you barely know?" Neil asks, his head tilting. "Most people just stare and feel bad for me, or they look away because it makes them lose their appetite. You’re just... asking."
"I'm not most people. I don't feel bad for you," Andrew says. "And staring is a waste of time if I can just get the information from the source."
"Information isn't free, Andrew," Neil says, his voice dropping into something lower, a bit more dangerous. "What are you going to give me if I answer? Because that’s a hell of a story to just hand over to a guy who smells like a locker room."
“A game," Andrew says. "A truth for a truth. I ask a question, you answer. You ask a question, I answer. No lies. No half-truths. Just the facts."
Neil is quiet for a beat. He’s clearly weighing the options, his fingers tapping a fast, rhythmic beat against the mahogany. Filly's ears twitch at his feet, but she stays still.
"A truth for a truth," Neil repeats. "Fine. But I’m not answering the scar question yet. Not for the first round. That’s a heavy one, and I don’t even know your last name."
"Silly of me to think you'd be easy," Andrew says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Ask something else," Neil says, ignoring the jab. "Something easier. Test the waters."
Andrew shifts his weight, his gym bag feeling like a lead weight on his shoulder. He looks around the shop. It’s a nice shop. It’s quiet, it’s expensive, and it’s filled with rare editions that probably cost more than his car. He looks back at Neil: the scars, the defensive posture, the way he holds himself like he’s ready to bolt.
Neil doesn't belong here. He doesn't look like a guy who grew up wanting to sell poetry to old ladies. He looks like he belongs in a back alley with a knife in his hand, even with the nice sweater he’s currently wearing.
"The bookstore," Andrew says. "Why are you here? You don't seem like the type to enjoy alphabetizing 'Literary Classics' for a living. You look like you’d rather be anywhere else."
For a split second, so fast Andrew almost thinks he imagined it, Neil’s face twists into a look of genuine annoyance. It’s a flash of something hot and bitter before it’s smoothed over by a dry, cynical laugh.
"That question isn't as 'easy' as it looks," Neil mutters. He reaches out and adjusts a stack of books on the counter that was already perfectly straight. "But fine. A truth is a truth."
He takes a breath, his shoulders dropping just a fraction.
"My uncle," Neil says, his voice flat. "He’s... protective. Or controlling. It depends on the day. After some stuff happened, I was living with him, and he got sick of seeing me mope around the house. I wasn't exactly 'interacting with the world' to his standards. So, he decided I needed a project. He bought this place, stuck my name on the lease, and told me that if I didn't want to rot in a spare bedroom, I’d better learn how to talk to clients."
He gestures vaguely to the room around him.
"He thinks it’s therapy," Neil adds, his mouth curling into a sharp, mocking grin. "I think it’s a high-priced prison with better lighting. I didn't have a choice in the matter. It was either this or staying under his thumb until I forgot how to speak English. So, here I am. The world’s least enthusiastic small business owner."
Andrew watches him. It’s a vague answer, "some stuff happened" is a pretty big hole in the story, but he can hear the truth in the bitterness of Neil’s voice. It’s a familiar kind of resentment. Being forced into a box because someone else thinks they know what’s best for you.
"Your turn," Neil says, leaning forward over the counter, his sightless blue eyes wide and expectant. "And don't give me any of that 'accidental' crap again. Who are you actually hiding from ?"
Andrew stares at him. The caramel drink in his hand is mostly backwash and melted ice at this point. He considers the question. It’s a fair trade for the story about the uncle and the bookstore prison.
"I'm not hiding," Andrew says, his voice flat. "I’m avoiding. There’s a difference."
"Avoiding who?" Neil asks.
"Everyone," Andrew says. "But specifically, a group of people who think that because we spent a few years together in South Carolina, they have a lifetime subscription to my personal business. One in particular doesn't understand that the 'off-season' is meant for doing absolutely nothing. He thinks if I’m not on a court, I’m wasting away. He’s an addict who thinks everyone else should share his needle."
Neil’s eyebrows twitch. He’s listening with an intensity that’s almost physical. "A court? What, are you a tennis pro? Or is it basketball?"
Andrew lets out a short, mocking breath. "Worse. Exy. I spend my life standing in a cage while people throw balls at my head. It’s as stupid as it sounds.". He doesn't comment on the fact that Neil for sure knows Andrew’s height but still chose to ask if he played Basketball.
"Exy," Neil repeats. His voice shifts. It’s not just curious anymore, it’s almost… excited ? "You’re a backliner?"
"Goalie," Andrew corrects him. "I’m the one who has to fix everyone else’s mistakes. Signed with the Philadelphia Sirens. Thought they wouldn’t have me working much but turns out I was wrong."
The silence that follows isn't heavy, it’s electric.
Neil goes dead still. His fingers, which had been tapping a restless rhythm on the mahogany, stop mid-motion. He stays like that for three long seconds, his head tilted as if he’s processing a piece of data that doesn't quite fit.
"Andrew Minyard," Neil says. He says it slowly, the way someone might name a dangerous animal they just found in their living room. "The goalie for the Philadelphia Sirens. The one with the highest save percentage in the professional league. The one the commentators always talk about because you play like you’re trying to murder the strikers through the padding."
Andrew shifts his weight, his gym bag feeling heavier. "I don't listen to the commentators. They talk too much."
"You're Andrew Minyard," Neil says again. A weird, jagged energy seems to spark under his skin. He looks like he’s vibrating. "I don't see the matches, obviously. But I listen to them. Every single one. I know your stats. I know your defensive rotations. You almost haven't let a goal in on a corner shot in three years."
Andrew blinks. He didn't expect that. He expected Neil to maybe recognize the name from a headline or a news report, but he didn't expect the bat to be an Exy junkie who memorizes stats. It’s a ridiculous hobby for a blind man.
"You listen to Exy," Andrew says, his voice dripping with dry disbelief. "That’s what you do in your dark box? You listen to people hit each other with sticks?"
"It’s a game of geometry and speed," Neil shoots back, his voice more animated than Andrew has ever heard it. The polite owner mask is 100% gone now. He’s leaning so far over the counter he’s almost in Andrew's space. "I can hear the positioning. I can hear the way the crowd shifts when a play develops. And I know your playstyle. You’re aggressive. But you also just wait for the ball."
"It’s a job," Andrew says. "Don't make it sound like a calling. I do it because I’m good at it and because they pay me enough to buy this overpriced sugar water."
Neil lets out a short, sharp laugh. It’s a real one this time, full of teeth. "You’re Andrew Minyard. And you’re standing in my shop complaining about the off-season. That’s... that’s actually hilarious."
"I'm glad my life is a comedy for you," Andrew says. He takes the last sip of his drink, the straw making a loud, obnoxious sound. "Now you know. Are you going to ask for an autograph, or can we get back to the game?"
Neil shakes his head, his smirk turning into something more private and knowing. "I don't need an autograph. I can't see it anyway. But knowing you're a professional goalie explains a lot about why you're so prickly."
Andrew feels like he should ask what Neil meant by that but he doesn’t want to seem interested he doesn't.
At the lack of response, Neil settles back onto his stool, but the energy hasn't left him. He looks like he’s seeing Andrew in a completely different light, which is an ironic thought given the circumstances. "Your turn, Andrew. Truth for a truth. You already got my 'why are you here' answer. What's next?"
Andrew stares at him. The urge to bring up the scars again is right there, sitting on the tip of his tongue like a bitter pill. He wants the details. He wants to know exactly who carved up Neil’s face and left him to rot in a dark bookstore on 4th Street. But he looks at the stubborn set of Neil's jaw and the way his shoulders have gone completely rigid again. Neil is going to say no. He’s going to tell Andrew to pick something easier, and Andrew is already too tired from Kevin’s morning workout to deal with the back-and-forth negotiation of it all. The momentum is gone, and he isn't in the mood to fight a wall.
He drops the empty plastic cup onto the mahogany counter with a dull, hollow clunk.
"Exy," Andrew says, leaning his weight back on his heels. "You don't have eyes that work, but you listen to a sport that is entirely based on people running around a court at ninety miles an hour. Why ? Give me the truth."
Neil blinks, and for a second, the defensive stiffness in his posture melts away, replaced by that weird, frantic energy he had a minute ago. The polite bookstore owner mask is entirely gone now, probably seventy-five percent of it is lying dead on the floor between them. He looks like a kid who just got asked about his favorite video game.
"I don't know," Neil says, and he lets out a short, honest laugh. "I just like it."
Andrew arches an eyebrow. "That’s not an answer. That’s a cop-out. The rules said no half-truths."
"It's the actual truth," Neil insists, his voice rising a bit, getting louder and more animated. He brings his hands up, gesturing vaguely in front of his chest as if he’s trying to shape the words out of thin air. "I don't know how to explain it to someone who can just look at the court. I hear the squeak of the shoes on the floor. I hear the ball hitting the plexiglass walls. A rebound off the wall sounds different than a rebound off the floor, and I can tell exactly how much force the striker used just by the pitch of the impact."
"You're insane," Andrew says, his voice flat. "It's just a game where people get concussions for money."
"It's not just that," Neil says, his mouth curling into that sharp, stubborn smirk that Andrew is starting to recognize. "I can hear the positioning. When the commentators say the backliners are shifting into a standard formation, I can hear the way the acoustics in the stadium change because there are bodies blocking the sound waves from the speakers. And your games are the easiest to follow."
Andrew handles his gym bag strap, shifting it an inch. "Why? Because I don't move?"
"Because you only move when it matters," Neil says. He leans his elbows on the counter again, his head turning perfectly toward Andrew's face. "The other goalies in the league are noisy. They yell at their defense, they scrape their sticks against the floor, they slide around constantly trying to cut off angles. You don't do any of that. You just stand there. The arena gets totally quiet around the goal, and then- bam. I hear the ball hit your stick, and the crowd goes completely mental. It’s like watching a car crash happen in reverse."
"A car crash," Andrew repeats. "Fascinating description."
"It's the truth," Neil says, shrugging his shoulders. "I don't need to see the color of the jerseys or the numbers on the screen. I just like the speed of it. It’s the only thing that moves fast enough to keep my brain from getting stuck. My uncle thinks I should be listening to classical music or audiobooks about history to 'relax' my mind."
Andrew watches him. Neil is practically glowing with the sheer stupidity of his obsession. It’s ridiculous, and it’s completely illogical for a blind guy to be this attached to a game he can only experience through stadium microphones and screaming announcers, but Andrew can't find a single trace of a lie in his voice. Neil genuinely just likes the violence and the speed of it.
"You're an idiot," Andrew decides aloud, his tone perfectly dry.
"I know," Neil agrees without a hint of shame. He straightens up, his hands finding the edge of the cash register again. He doesn't ask his follow-up question right away, and Andrew doesn't prompt him. The game hangs in the air between them like a weird little bridge built out of absolute bluntness.
Andrew adjusts the heavy strap of his gym bag again. His shoulder is going to be bruised tomorrow from the weight of the plates Kevin made him haul, but right now, the ache is just background noise. He shifts his gaze from Neil to the glass jar of cheap plastic pens sitting next to the register.
"You're slacking," Andrew says, nodding toward the back of the room. "The poetry shipment isn't going to alphabetize itself while you're standing here talking about sports you can't see."
"The poetry can wait," Neil says, though he doesn't sound particularly attached to the task anyway. He reaches down, his fingers brushing the top of Filly’s head. The German Shepherd lets out a soft sigh and rearranges her paws on the rug. "Besides, you're the one who walked in here looking like you needed a place to hide from the off-season."
"I told you, I'm not hiding." Andrew takes a step back toward the center aisle, his boots clicking against the wood. "I’m leaving."
"Sure you are," Neil says. The smirk is back, faint but definitely there. "That's why you're still standing inside."
Andrew stays silent for a bit, letting the quiet of the shop settle between. He looks at Neil’s smug face, then down at the empty plastic cup on the counter, and decides he’s had enough of the bookstore for one Friday.
"I'm leaving because the smell of old paper is starting to interfere with my ability to tolerate your personality," Andrew says, his voice a dry, flat rasp. "Try not to lock yourself out of your own store before Monday."
He turns on his heel, his boots clicking a sharp, dismissive rhythm against the floorboards, and grabs the brass handle. He pushes the heavy door open, the bell above the frame letting out one final, tiny ping before the humid, noisy chaos of the city street swallows him whole.