The Foxhole Court

He set his standards impossibly high and tried for them with everything he had, and he didn't understand why others wouldn't do the same

"Morning, sunshine," Matt said with exaggerated cheer.
"Fuck you," Kevin said.
Dan yawned into her hand. "Glad to see you're still a morning person."
"Fuck you too."

He was something solid to lean against, something violent and fierce and unmoving. Neil couldn't remember what it felt like to have someone hold him up. It was terrifying and liberating all at once.

Neil Josten let his cigarette burn to the filter without taking a drag. He didn't want the nicotine; he wanted the acrid smoke that reminded him of his mother. If he inhaled slowly enough, he could almost taste the ghost of gasoline and fire. It was at once revolting and comforting, and it sent a sick shudder down his spine. The jolt went all the way to his fingertips, dislodging a clump of ash. It fell to the bleachers between his shoes and was whisked away by the wind.

"I don't swing either way,"

Jeez, Coach, what kind of people do you think we are?" Nicky asked.

"Do you really want me to answer that?"

Come on, cute face like yours has to have a girlfriend. Unless you swing my way, of course, in which case please tell me now and save me the trouble of having to figure it out."

Andrew Minyard didn't look like much in person, blonde and five feet even, but Neil knew better. Andrew was the Foxes' freshman goalkeeper and their deadliest investment. Most of the Foxes were self-destructive, whereas Andrew seemed keen on collateral damage. He'd spent three years at a juvie facility and barely avoided a second term.

an evolved sort of lacrosse on a soccer-sized court with the violence of ice hockey,

"Hey, Nicky," Andrew said in stage-whisper German. "Don't touch him, you understand?"
"You know I'd never hurt him. If he says yes—"
"I said no."