Chapter Text
The court is 200 feet from goal to goal.
Nathaniel knew every inch of its entire length and breadth down to his bones.
His patellas knew it is 34 jarring footfalls at a sprint from end to end. His ankle joints and the balls of his feet knew the points, at the half-court and quarter-court lines, when he would halt and pivot, dash back to his starting point and then pelt downcourt again.
His footwork was choreographed to minimize the wrench of his muscles, the twist of the skin on the soles of his feet within his court shoes, the grind of his joints as he halted his body in space and flung it back the way it came. He forced the movements into muscle memory with repetition. The next day, with the lights on, his eyes and mind would stay on the ball—and the bigger men willing to crush him to get it—instead of his foot placement. So he could get onto this court, or another, and run for his life every day until he was 30 or 40, or whenever his body gave out.
By then, maybe he would have some other value to offer. Now, at 15, he survived by fulfilling his masters’ expectations. First and foremost: be one of the best Exy players in the world — but not, of course, the best.
They call these “suicide sprints,” but they are the anything but. By prolonging his usefulness, every step prolonged his life.
As Nathaniel pivoted at half-court, there was a flash in the window that overlooked his practice court. Shit. The Master—capitalization never optional, lest you find out how hard a middle-aged man can swing that cane—was almost never here this late. Coach Tetsuji Moriyama had other eyes at the Edgar Allen Exy Development Training Center, known as the Ravens’ Incubator. With most of the Incubator’s current residents gathered around the television in the lounge or studying in their rooms, Tetsuji’s elevated vantage point afforded him clear views of two dark courts, an empty gym—and Nathaniel, racquet in hand, running alone by the dim emergency light.
Nathaniel stopped, and the trembling in his wrists and biceps reminded him of the dinner he did not eat. He hoped Jean had replenished his stash of protein bars. He grimaced, hearing an assistant coach’s disgusting joke in his head: you know what else has protein that’s easy to swallow?
Squaring his body to the lit window, he dropped his shoulders into a bow before lifting his eyes to see the silhouetted figure gesture with a flick of its fingers, come here.
He went.
~~~
Jean, mercifully, had left two granola bars on his pillow.
The Frenchman was curled in his bed like a puppy in a basket, long limbs impossibly heaped and twined together into a small space. At 15, Jean was more Greyhound than Rottweiler, and every pound he managed to gain went immediately to extend his arms and legs yet further. The dietitians heaped food on him at meals and stuffed his pockets with bars and gels and supplements for his water bottle, a constant uphill push to clothe his improbably elegant scarecrow frame in the bulk he would need to fulfill his promise as a backliner.
Nathaniel had to shower and scrub his teeth before he could accept the caloric bounty. His mouth tasted horrid and sharp, and the back of his palette felt battered. He stripped off his clothes and wrapped a towel around his waist for the walk to the communal bathroom down the hall, unconcerned that he would wake his comatose roommate. Jean had grown up in a small semi-detached house with a Dickensian complement of small children; he could sleep through an air-raid siren.
Nathaniel pumped shampoo from the wall dispenser, and winced as he found the tender spots where his curls had been yanked. He could never convince the Incubator’s barber to shear them close to his scalp; Eileen always clicked her tongue consideringly, but did not respond, and then left his hair long on top but short on the sides, as she had for two years.
No one allowed Nathaniel Wesninski a pair of scissors, or even a knife sharp enough for self-grooming.
With the efficiency of routine, he raised a bottle of mouthwash and spit it into the still-running water, twice, and then a third time.
Tonight had been a video night. With an iPhone propped on his desk, Tetsuji had captured Nathaniel’s efforts to coax the old man’s flaccid cock to hardness. It had also captured Tetsuji expressing his gratitude by grabbing Nathaniel’s sweaty hair and thrusting into the boy’s mouth and throat, over and over again. Even without three years of Japanese language classes, Nathaniel would know the words the Master had muttered as he thrust. They were the first Japanese he learned. Whore. Slut. Little fucking faggot.
Video nights had lines for him, too. Thank you Master. A stripe of rancid yellow-white cum to wipe off his face with his jersey on his way out. I am unworthy.
Tetsuji was molding Nathaniel Wesninski into a professional athlete, one who might someday earn millions for his talents. But the legendary coach also ensured that Nathaniel’s mother’s family received regular, and graphic, reminders that the boy on whose back the Hatfords had hoped to grow their criminal empire was out of their reach—and less than worthless to them.