Chapter Text
It wasn’t that Adam Parrish didn’t get into Harvard; on the contrary, being wait-listed for an ivy league school alone was a feat in and of itself. It meant he was good enough that he was noticed, that they were interested, just not good enough to be immediately accepted. Which was fine, Adam could live with that. He could go to another school for his first year and then reapply to Harvard and MIT next year, and maybe by then he’d have the advantage of a collegiate academic record that would make him more noticeable and likely to actually get fucking accepted. It was fine, he’d worked it all out. He might not even have to wait that long, because they could take him off the waitlist and then he’d be going to Harvard.
A small part of him laughed cruelly at that thought. ‘A Parrish going to Harvard- did you really think that was going to happen? Where does a story like that ever happen except fairytales? You were setting yourself up for failure.’ Adam quickly hit that part of himself with a mental baseball bat and shoved it to the back annals of his brain; it sounded a bit too much like his father, and he wasn’t keen on listening to anything that man had to say, in real life or in his head.
That left the question of where Adam would go to college for his first year. On one hand, he needed to get as far from Henrietta as he could (while maintaining a reasonable driving distance for Ronan to visit, ideally). On the other, he needed a full ride if he wanted to save up for the potential of reapplication and eventual transfer. He kept this all in mind as acceptances came into St. Agnes, Virginia Tech and George Mason and Chapel Hill and Duke. He spent hours comparing their proposed financial aid plans, and if he was being honest with himself none of them were giving him what he needed.
Adam was thinking idly about cost effectiveness vs. distance vs. work-study supplements when he felt a hand on his left shoulder. He turned to see his coach, Mr. Pinter.
Some people (Ronan, Gansey, Blue) would question why Adam, with his two jobs and schoolwork and various magical entities that he juggled, would throw in a sport on top of all of that. But Adam was a creature of movement; at Boyd’s he was able to analyze and exercise in moderation, solving puzzles and straining muscles enough to put everything into place, sure, but he needed more. He needed to run, and dodge, and slam into people and hit shit. He needed to feel his muscles scream and lose his head to the quick pace and strategy of the court. That’s why he’d been so drawn to exy; not only was it a bastard sport, something that he felt a connection with, but it was also fast and violent, and despite everything Adam still knew he was a Parrish. He had to make sure to get every potential inside of him out in a way that was controlled, measured, and wouldn’t hurt anyone he actually gave a shit about.
Some people would also question why the school guidance counselor would coach such a violent sport, to which Mr. Pinter would simply smile and shrug, saying some bullshit about how exercise and intense sport can be therapeutic and cathartic for anyone or something. Mr. Pinter was around the same height as Adam, with sunkissed skin and dark brown hair that he’d run his hands through during practice and Adam only sometimes stared at.
“Parrish! Sorry, wrong side to talk on, I know-”
“No, don’t worry about it.”
“Right, of course. Listen, Adam, are you free to chat after school today?”
Adam checked the clock. It was almost the end of the day as it was, and a Friday. Adam had no other plans but Gansey giving him a ride to Nino’s, and Gansey could wait a couple minutes.
“Yeah, I’ve got time. Is everything alright?” Mr. Pinter smiled his guidance counselor smile.
“Of course, Adam. There’s just someone I’d like you to meet. Come to my office after class, okay?”
“Sure.”
“Great. Now go on, don’t be late on my account!”
When Adam entered the guidance counselor’s office, the tattoos on the other man in the room’s forearms immediately caught his attention. They were black flame licking up the man’s toned arms. The man’s face was set into a frown, grave in a way that seemed natural and instinctual to him. Adam could appreciate that in a person, choosing to not hide your exhaustion and anger at the world and leaving it up for everyone to see. It reminded him of Blue. Mr. Pinter greeted him.
“Parrish! I’d like to introduce you to Coach David Wymack, coach of the Palmetto State University Foxes. Coach Wymack, this is Adam Parrish.”
“Just call me Wymack.”
Adam shook his hand and took the seat Mr. Pinter gestured to. Mr. Pinter sat across from him and clasped his hands together, pausing for a moment to choose his words.
“Parrish, I have to be honest with you: you’re easily one of my best players. You have an intensity on the field that the other boys are hard-pressed to match, and I see how you pull your checks. You have a lot of power. I’m thankful you switched to backliner for the latter half of the season, it improved our game immensely. I think you have a lot of potential to be an even greater player, if you wanted to pursue the sport professionally. So, I sent a cut of you playing to Coach Wymack to nominate you for his team.” Something in Mr. Pinter’s eyes told Adam there was something else, another reason surrounding his nomination, but he couldn’t quite place it. Maybe he didn’t want to.
“He’s right about your power,” Wymack cut in, “and about your potential. You’re fast and have a lot of force behind your swings. With the right kind of training you could be a decent striker. College exy is different from high school, though; there’s no pulling punches. You check someone, you fucking go for it, because the other person’s going in just as hard, if not harder. It gets bloody on my court. If you think you can handle that, then I’ve got a contract right here for a 5-year ride on my team.”
Adam stared at the papers Wymack placed on the desk. A million questions raced through his head: Was it a full ride? What was the housing for the athletes? Did they get stipends? Why did he pick Adam? Surely there were better players from better schools, with better backgrounds.
“What’s the tuition?”
“Full ride, if you’d like. Housing is on campus, fully furnished athletes dorms, meal plan included, equipment included, the whole deal. I need a new striker, Adam.”
“I’m still waiting to hear back from Harvard.” It was a lie, but Adam needed to let this man know that he had options. Wymack was going for a hard sell and it made Adam suspicious. The coach simply raised an eyebrow.
“Well damn, princess, didn’t realize the competition I had here. Tell you what, I’m in town for the weekend, staying at the Super8 across from the gas station. Take my number, take the weekend to think about your options, and give me a call.”
He handed Adam a card and stood up. Adam looked in his eyes and immediately wished he hadn’t. Wymack knew he was lying; he was playing with him, playing along. He saw Adam’s hunger and pride fighting each other, immobilizing him. He had cornered Adam with an offer, then immediately restructured the situation so Adam had all the control again. Adam would’ve been impressed if he weren’t so on edge. He simply took the card and nodded.
“Okay.”
“Great. I look forward to hearing from you. Pinter, Parrish.” He nodded to Mr. Pinter and Adam and took his leave. Mr. Pinter waved him out. Adam stared at Pinter’s desk; Wymack had left the contract behind. It sat there, the dotted line staring at him, almost mocking him. It sang, ‘Here I am, Adam. Here’s your escape. All you have to do is sign me, and you’re free. You’ve sold yourself to bigger entities before, you’re used to being bound, this is nothing. Easy peasy. Just pick up the pen, Adam. Sign your life away, just like you always do.’
It was a full ride. It was about a five hour drive away. It was too good. Adam snatched up the contract and marched out of the office and into the parking lot.
There he saw Gansey sitting against the Pig with Henry, both entirely engrossed in the other. Across from them was another car, clearly a rental, where Wymack and two other men stood. Both were much shorter than him, one blond and in all black with an aura reminiscent of Ronan, which really shouldn’t have put Adam at ease, and the other ginger and slightly taller than the other, with some intense scarring on his face. The blond clocked him immediately but said nothing to his companions as Adam marched up and smacked the contract down on the roof of the car. The ginger raised his eyebrows, and Wymack graced him with a single brow raise. He looked at Adam expectantly.
“Why me.” He grit out.
“Because you’re good. What the fuck do you want me to say?”
“There’ve got to be better players,” Adam couldn’t stop himself, hating every moment he spoke but unable to prevent the words from leaving his mouth, “ones with better training, better backgrounds. Why me?”
“I don’t want those players. Better training, better backgrounds, that’s not what the foxes are about.”
“Then what are they about?”
“Second chances.” The ginger said. He was leaning against the car, and when he turned to face Adam, his pale blue eyes were striking. Adam felt like they could see into his very soul. “They’re about being able to make something of yourself on your terms. You don’t have to be the person you were before, if you don’t want to be. As long as you’re a fox, you can try again, and make someone new, even when everyone else has already given up on you.”
Adam inhaled sharply. He was Adam Parrish: trailer trash. Adam Parrish: working three jobs and living in a sorry excuse for an apartment above the local catholic church. Adam Parrish: Henrietta’s forgotten son. Adam Parrish: ambitious bastard.
What would a new Adam Parrish look like, if he had the chance to remake him in his own design?
Adam looked into the ice-blue eyes of the short man in front of him, and saw a hard determination behind them. It was in the loose set of his shoulders but the even set of his mouth; the scars on his face that looked like they hadn’t seen a year yet, but were worn with such casualness it made Adam’s skin ache in certain spots under his shirt. Whatever this man had been through, he’d gotten his second chance through the foxes. He was extending that chance to Adam now.
‘What do you want, Adam?’
“Do you have a pen?”