Andrew Minyard

Andrew sat on the windowsill in their room, his legs crossed and trying to look as if he didn't care how long it would take. In reality, he cared not a whit about the minutes or seconds. Outside the university campus, the darkness was thick, almost palpable, and only the occasional streetlights flickered in the cold wind. The clock on the wall read ten to two. Neil was due back from his late-night practice with Kevin.

Kevin was the kind of person who accepted no compromise. For him, there was no such thing as "good enough"—only "perfect." He would push Neil around the court, forcing him to repeat the same moves a hundred times until the movements became automatic, until his body understood the game better than his mind. Andrew knew this firsthand: Kevin had once pushed him in the same way. But Andrew was stubborn and tough, and Kevin quickly realized that pushing him was futile. With Neil, it was different. Neil wanted to be better. He absorbed Kevin's every word like dry earth absorbs rain, and so the training sessions exhausted him to the point of exhaustion.

Andrew's gaze slid across the table, where his half-finished book lay. He tried to read, but the lines blurred into meaningless lines. Images swirled in his head, one more disturbing than the next: Neil tripping on the wet court; Neil failing to dodge a hard tackle; Neil too tired to notice the danger. Andrew didn't like worrying. He didn't like anything that made him feel vulnerable. But with Neil, it was inevitable.

When heavy, shuffling footsteps finally sounded in the hallway, Andrew froze, as if listening not to the sound but to the fact of his return. The door opened, and Neil stumbled inside, drenched in sweat and rain, his hair disheveled and dark circles under his eyes. He looked as if he'd been through a fight and miraculously survived.