The sounds and smells of the locker room were familiar enough to Spearhead, who'd spent years as a royal guard. Now, though, instead of strapping on gleaming ceremonial armor, the ponies around him were strapping on white foreleg-pads and pulling on thick knitted sweaters. In one corner, a pegasus stallion with his wings strapped behind his back was taking practice swings with a bat in his mouth. Behind him, a unicorn adjusted his horn's inhibitor ring.
"Shining Armor was really unhappy you're not playing for his team, Spears," said Thunderlane, tightening his own wing-strapping. "Supposedly, the Crystal Empire XI are in even worse shape than we are. He's calling in favors from every friend who's even vaguely athletic, trying to bring in some ringers. Word is he even tried Rainbow Dash."
"Hey, you know, I'm a Canterlot pony through and through. No matter how close me and Shiny - uh, Prince-Captain Shining Armor - were back at the Academy, I can't play against Canterlot. And he knows that, too. He's just salty that we have so many ex-royal guards, and Coriander Cumin training us."
"Yeah, yeah," said Thunderlane. "But it's sports. I don't like to lose at sports. Any sports. Can you imagine how much Spitfire and Soarin are going to mock us if we lose? But I feel like we've got to have a chance with the coaching, and it turns out there were some good players here all along once they tried it. Like with buckball."
"Spoken like Spitfire," said Spearhead. "C'mon, it's just a bit of fun. Raise some money for charity, get more ponies playing the game. It's not the buckball finals. Eleven foals from Coriander's village could likely beat us right now. But we're learning a bunch of stuff, right? About cricket, and... attitudes, and stuff?"
"Sure, the real win will be the friends we make along the way, whatever," grinned Thunderlane. "But what's that about attitudes?"
Spearhead puffed his cheeks and let out a long, slow breath. "I just get to wondering sometimes, you know? Coach Coriander, he's a great guy, but I wonder how comfortable he is in Canterlot sometimes. The ponies here are pretty open about... some stuff, and I kind of figured, well, maybe he doesn't want drama in the team..."
"What do you mean?" asked Thunderlane, stretching. "He has On Stage as wicket keeper."
"Not that kind of drama," said Spearhead, rolling his eyes. "I just mean, where he's from... I've had some good conversations with him, about cricket and his home village. Different language, different food... and I get the feeling that out there, some things are a bit more... conservative?"
"Well, I don't know about that stuff, really. We're all just here to play cricket at the end of the day. And, you know, the coach picked the rookie right off the street-"
"We're all rookies," said Spearhead.
"Yeah, yeah. But with the rookie rookie, out on the boundary? He'll stop anything. He's like a pegasus..."
Spearhead looked over to the opposite side of the room, where The Rookie - whose name he knew was Blank Slate - was warming up. The rookie slowly reached his neck out to pull a pristine white sweater out of his kit bag, the colour of the wool matching the colour of his coat.
The white stallion was taking deep breaths as he stretched, first one leg, then the next, closing his eyes, then lifting his head into the sweater and pulling it down with a forehoof, all with the same slow, measured movements in time with his breathing. Somehow, the graceful movement reminded Spearhead of -
"...willow."
"What?" snorted Spearhead, shaking his eyes loose and turning round to look back at Thunderlane again, hoping nopony noticed he hadn't been listening.
"The best cricket bats. They're all made of willow," said Thunderlane.
"Yeah," said Spearhead, but he wasn't really thinking about cricket.
Blank Slate's eyes flashed with elation as he threw the ball in the air, lying stretched out on his back. Spearhead watched the umpire in the distance raise his hoof - out! - as a smattering of stomped applause rippled around the practice field.
"What a catch," said Spearhead, reaching out and helping Blank to his hooves. "What an amazing catch."
"...Thanks," said Blank, getting his breath back, and it wasn't clear to Spearhead whether he meant the compliment or the help standing up.
Either way, the two of them shared a look that went on just long enough for Thunderlane to interrupt and call loudly for the ball.
Spearhead quickly let go of Blank's hoof and trotted back into position. Halfway there, he felt the need to look back, and saw Blank still on the boundary rope, watching him leave, smiling after him.
Out beyond the boundary, Celestia lowered her opera glasses and raised an eyebrow.
"I trust you're seeing this, Cadance?" she said, her voice somehow smirking without her face changing.
"Of course," said Cadance, who was rather less skilled at hiding her huge grin.
"Did you-"
"No," said Cadance, cutting her off. "This had nothing to do with me at all. They're just... Well, they have to find their own way. They'll figure it out for themselves."
"This game is new to many of the players, I suppose," said Celestia, and Cadance heard the smirk again.
Spearhead waited until everypony else had left the locker room, and stood by the closed door, listening to his teammates' hooves clacking on the floor as they headed out onto the field. Quickly, surreptitiously, he made his way over to the bench next to Blank's locker, mouthing a silent prayer to Celestia that the white stallion had left his kit bag out in the open. His heart was pounding as much as before any battle.
There it was.
Unzipped. Open.
Gingerly, he slipped a piece of paper into the bag, underneath the books.
"Hey, Spears, you coming?" Thunderlane shouted from the tunnel.
"Sure, just... getting my head in the game," said Spearhead, and pushed the bag back to where he had found it.
Spearhead lay back on his bunk, throwing a hard, polished red ball in the air, watching the stitched seam as it spun before he caught it again.
What in Celestia's name was wrong?
The ball spun up in the air.
He'd never been so distracted. No matter what he did, he couldn't stop thinking about the game.
He caught the ball.
No. Not the game. The practices. The locker room. The ponies in the locker room.
The ball spun up in the air.
Stop lying to yourself, Spearhead. Him.
He caught the ball.
Sure. Sure. Spearhead was a royal guard built like an oak tree, who used to spend every available hour in the gym and wore silk scarves, and who'd never had a marefriend to anypony's public knowledge. He knew the rumors. Everypony assumed he was gay. Nopony dared call him out on it.
The ball spun up in the air.
But the thing about those rumors was that they weren't true. The fact was, he'd never been interested in doing anything romantic with anypony, mare or stallion. He was into fitness. Then he was into his work. Then he was into his art. He liked the company of other ponies well enough, but he was just as happy on his own in his workshop, sketching and planning and cutting and welding. His private life was just that, private; but that didn't mean the rumors were right. He wasn't gay.
He caught the ball.
Was he?
The ball spun up in the air.
It would probably explain the feelings he was having, albeit he had nothing to compare them to, beyond crude locker room talk from back in his guard days. Was it time to... reconsider some things? Did he have to confront those things yet? Did he have to confront them now?
He caught the ball.
Why now?
The ball spun up in the air.
Why... him?
He caught the ball.
Once again, the locker room was empty, and Spearhead was staring at the floor when he heard the familiar clacking of hooves on the floor. He looked up, and it was Blank Slate, looking more nervous and less assured than usual.
"So, uh... I wanted to ask you something," said the white stallion.
"Sure," said Spearhead, in what he hoped was a confident voice.
There was a pause, and Blank Slate rubbed a hoof on the back of his head before speaking, not quite meeting Spearhead's gaze.
"...You left that drawing?" asked Blank. "In my bag. A drawing of me... That was you, right?"
Spearhead, twice-decorated Spearhead, the same Spearhead who had tackled timberwolves to the floor to protect his Princess and faced down hordes of changelings in the Battle of Canterlot, somehow found himself frozen in terror.
"Y-...Yes," he murmured, as he eventually managed to force the words out. "I'm, uh. I'm an artist. I, er, I do... art."
There was some silence.
"Sculpture mostly. I don't do a lot of drawings as, uh, the final product, they're more like plans, drafts, you know? But I mean, well, I had the paper and the charcoal, and I was just drawing pictures of stuff I saw, and you were below that little window and the light was kind of cool, so I thought I'd draw it, and since it's, uh, just a sketch, you know, even though it's rough... but I thought maybe... well, you might wanna... have it. Maybe. You know. Hey, might be worth something one day, right? A genuine Spearhead original... So... Yeah. Ha."
There was more silence. At first, this came as something of a relief to Spearhead, who had wondered if he would ever be able to stop talking; but as the seconds ticked by, a different kind of awkwardness crept in, and he started consider whether he should say something again to fill the emptiness. He was just about to take a breath and begin again, when -
"...I really liked it. Thank you," said Blank, and the little smile he gave made Spearhead's knees want to buckle.
Spearhead hoped to Celestia that his staring wasn't obvious, as he watched Blank hug this purple stallion with eight pounds of hair product in his mane.
Blank waved to the Purple Manecare Stallion as he trotted up to the gate, and almost bumped into Spearhead. He reacted with a start, and then gave Spearhead a curious look. Spearhead tried his best not to give a curious look back, and thought about how to appear nonchalant; he considered whistling, decided this was too obvious, and settled for flicking his scarf behind his ear.
"You, uh... You okay, Rook?" he asked, as calmly as he could. "One more week. Ready for, uh... cricket?"
A lesser pony might have noticed that Spearhead was furiously facehoofing internally at his complete and utter lack of composure, and made fun of him for it. Spearhead was certain Blank had noticed his embarrassment, but instead of laughing, Blank just gave him a little smile.
"My roommate," he explained, although Spearhead had very definitely and deliberately been trying not to ask. "He's off to meet his girlfriend, but noticed I'd left my bat by the door, so he brought it over here first."
Spearhead wondered why he felt relieved by this news, but tried not to let it show. "Good thing he saw it!" he said, trying for some jovial small talk.
"Right! Coriander Cumin would be so unimpressed!" beamed Blank as he breezed past into the locker room, and Spearhead's smile grew a little more rigid.
"Oh! By the way," said Blank, turning back to face Spearhead. "You can call me Blank. I, uh... I like it better when you do that. Better than Rook."
"Sure!" said Spearhead, a little too eagerly. "...Blank," he added, with half a mock-theatrical bow.
The white stallion grinned before heading into the locker room, and Spearhead suddenly felt ready to play ten games in a row.
"So, over the past couple of weeks... Well, I know you like wearing scarves," said Blank, and Spearhead wondered if he heard a hint of nerves in his voice. "And I've seen you wearing that one a lot. It, uh... It really suits you, you know? Anyway, since you used your special talent to make me something, well, I wanted to return the favor."
Blank reached into his bag and pulled out the most elegant scarf Spearhead had ever seen, crimson and pink with an intricate woven pattern. Spearhead took it from him with his forehooves, wordlessly turning the silky material over and over in his grasp, looking at his brown coat through the slightly translucent fabric.
"It, uh... It compliments your eyes," said Blank, while not quite making eye contact. "Fashion students know these things," he said, with a nervous attempt at a laugh.
There was some silence.
"It's beautiful," said Spearhead, looking up at Blank, whose sense of relief was tangible. "...Thank you."
The two ponies looked up at each other, neither reacting beyond small smiles.
A sound from out on the field, heard through the little skylight window of the locker room, broke Spearhead's reverie. "We should... You told them we were going to go through... uh... breathing techniques?"
Spearhead thought he saw Blank gulp before answering.
"You, uh... Sometimes, Spearhead, when we're talking, you sound like you need breathing techniques."
Spearhead laughed, and Blank continued.
"I don't know you all that well yet, other than these talks, and out on the field. So, uh, maybe I'm getting the wrong idea, and if that's what's happened, I'm sorry. But, well, am I... do you..."
Blank took another deep breath, and this time he looked right into Spearhead's eyes before continuing.
"I guess what I'm asking is, well, do you think we-"
The silence was broken suddenly as the door slammed open. Ten stallions tromped down the tunnel and trotted into the room, nine of them in muddied whites, throwing sweaters and caps and pads into corners, heading for showers or grabbing kit bags, the cacophony of several locker room conversations going on at once. The team were followed by Coriander Cumin, the coach, who waited for the group to calm down and reassemble.
"That was good today," said Coriander, nodding. "You two -" he gestured to Blank and Spearhead - "you left before the drills at the end. You are already comfortable with this game, it seems, yes?"
"They're always in here before and after practice, when everypony else has left," said Thunderlane. "Breathing techniques."
"Haha, the way you said that... Hey, you two there in the corner, you are like colts at the school dance!" said Coriander with a grin as he trotted over to Blank and Spearhead. "Do you two like each other or something, huh?" he asked, nudging Spearhead with his foreleg.
"What? Don't be ridiculous!" snorted Spearhead, a little too quickly.
He regretted it the second he said it, and tried to force a smile. Still, even without turning around to see for himself, he somehow felt the utter betrayal on Blank's face, and his feeling of cowardice left him feeling three inches tall.
"Well, here we are two days out from the big match. Now let us all keep this momentum going, and have another great practice tomorrow!" said Coriander, to murmurs of agreement.
"That was the worst practice we've had," said Thunderlane, angrily, slamming the door of his locker closed. "If we play like that tomorrow, we'll lose. By a lot. And it won't be pretty. What in Celestia's name was wrong out there? Rook, you dropped everything. Looked like you didn't want to be out there at all. Spears, you looked like you couldn't hit water if you fell out of a boat. What's happening?"
Spearhead stared at the floor.
"It's just a game," he said. "A dumb game nopony's ever heard of."
"Well, it may be just a game," snorted Thunderlane, "but word is out there now. They're expecting a crowd of thousands to show up, just to see what the fuss is about."
Nopony said a word.
"I know we can play better than that," growled Thunderlane. "Everypony, think about the good stuff we've done this week, and let's go out tomorrow and make Celestia proud, okay? Now I say we all go get a good night's sleep, and pretend today never happened."
"The rehearsal's always terrible," said On Stage, gathering his things. "Means the first night will be a good one."
"Let's hope so, yeah?" said Spearhead, morosely, but his mind wasn't on the match.
As usual, Spearhead was the last to leave. This time, Blank Slate was nowhere to be seen, and Spearhead sighed loudly, pressing his forehead into the cool hard wood of the lockers.
Something caught his eye in the corner of his vision. There was something stuck in between the dirty clothes in his kit bag.
Spearhead reached in and shook it out of the bag. It was a piece of paper, folded over many times. With a sinking feeling, Spearhead picked it up and straightened it out.
It was the drawing he'd made for Blank.
Above the sketched-in pencil lines depicting Blank's face, deep in concentration, was a more crudely sketched red mark, instantly recognisable as a broken heart.
Spearhead's own heart fell through the floor.
Spearhead lay back on his bunk, throwing that same hard, red ball in the air, looking at the scuffed, misshapen surface, watching the exposed and unravelling stitched seam as it spun before he caught it again.
The ball spun up in the air.
It didn't fall straight back down; instead, it deviated in some weird, twirling path, and landed on the floor with a surprisingly loud thunk before bouncing off into a corner.
Spearhead was about to clamber off the bed and retrieve it when he was interrupted by a pounding on the door.
Brushing aside his annoyance at being interrupted in his detailed preparations for tomorrow's big game, Spearhead wondered who was knocking on his door at this hour. The thought briefly flashed through his mind that it might be Blank Slate, and as he pushed that thought down, he tried to pretend he hadn't trotted over to the door with longer strides.
It wasn't Blank Slate. Instead, it was Thunderlane.
"What are you doing here?" muttered Spearhead. "Aren't we all supposed to be resting ahead of the game?"
"Yes, we are," said Thunderlane, pushing past Spearhead into the house. "I decided after today's clown show that we could do with one more practice before the match. Nine o'clock sharp tomorrow."
"And you came out to tell us in person?"
"Coriander Cumin will be there," continued Thunderlane, noting Spearhead's slight nod.
"And Blank Slate," added Thunderlane.
"What? Why wouldn't he be - why are you-"
"I don't know what it is you're worried about," said Thunderlane. "And I don't know exactly what's happening between you two, and if he's said or done something to make you nervous. But if you're worried about Coach, or me, or any of the players? Don't be. Nopony cares."
"I don't-"
"Yes, Coach is from a village where there aren't a lot of gay ponies."
Spearhead flinched at the word, but Thunderlane continued.
"He also did the catering for Lyra and Bon Bon's wedding. Pinkie Pie set it all up. If he gave a puckwudgie's ass about mares marrying mares, we'd know about it by now. But Rook is out. Has been for years. Coach doesn't care. Nopony on the team cares. Except you."
"But this is - I mean, I'm not - I don't -"
Thunderlane held up a hoof to indicate Spearhead should stop talking. "I think you do. I think you know what you feel, or at least you have some idea. And sure, it's none of my business, except it's dropped an anvil on my two best players and I want to win the game. So, have a look at yourself, decide whether you want to do what you want to do, and be honest. With yourself, and with Blank."
"What should I-"
"Fix it before tomorrow, please."
Spearhead slowly nodded his head. "Spitfire is rubbing off on you," he said with a rueful grin.
"Yes she is," grinned Thunderlane. "But I'm talking as your friend now, not your cricket captain. Talk to him."
"Hey, Thunderlane?" asked Spearhead, as his captain turned to leave. "Did... did anypony not know?"
"Well, you, at least," said Thunderlane, on his way out of the door.
The dawn chorus was in full song as Blank walked in through the door of the locker room, morning dew still on his forehooves. He stopped in his tracks as he looked up and saw Spearhead already waiting for him.
"You're, uh, half an hour early," said Blank, his eyes darting to take note of Spearhead's scarf. The scarf Blank made for him.
"So are you," said Spearhead, matter-of-factly, all trace of nerves gone from his voice. "I, uh... I guessed you might be."
Silence.
"I think we need to talk," said Spearhead, and gestured to the bench opposite his locker. Blank Slate trotted over without a word, dumped his bag on the floor, and sat down in the place Spearhead had indicated.
"I'm sorry," he began. "Before anything else. That was gutless."
"Yes it was," said Blank, in the firmest voice Spearhead had ever heard him use. "But I didn't speak up either. I wasn't sure... I didn't know if you were... Well. Interested. There. I've said it."
"I wasn't sure myself," said Spearhead, slowly. "I never really - I mean, I haven't been in this kind of situation before, you know? But last night, Thunderlane came to see me -"
"Me too," said Blank, with the hint of a smile. "He knew we'd both show up early hoping the other would be here, I guess."
Blank paused for a moment.
"That, uh... That is why you're here, right?"
"Yes," smiled Spearhead, and the reflection of his smile on Blank's face gave him the power to continue. "So, after Thunderlane left, I did some thinking. And I figured, well, I don't know what I want to happen. This kind of, uh..." - he took a deep breath - "romance stuff, it's new to me, even if my best friend is married to the Princess of Love herself. But I figured, well, I should be honest with you, face up to me being so weak yesterday, tell you everything, and we could... see what happened from there."
"Are you going to go a couple of weeks and decide you're not gay?" asked Blank, and Spearhead couldn't tell if he was nervous, angry or both.
"I don't know what I'm gonna do," said Spearhead, slowly. "I don't know what I am. I don't know I need to put a label on it or what that label's gonna say. But I'd kind of like to figure it out as we go. We. With you."
"And if we do, uh, try this out? Are you going to want to hide me? Pretend you're not interested again? Find a beard?"
"A what?"
"Never mind. I just need you to understand I'm not looking for something furtive, something secret and dirty and shameful. If you want to take things further, I'd be up for exploring that, but not if you're going to be..."
"What?"
"Ashamed of me."
"I could never be ashamed of you," blurted Spearhead, his voice getting louder and making Blank flinch. "I'd be ashamed of me. Behaving the way I did... I panicked. I just panicked. I'm sorry. I promise, I'll not do anything like that again. Whatever happens. I promise."
A long pause.
"I really liked the drawing," said Blank. "Put it up on my nightstand, before-"
"Yeah," said Spearhead. "I really like my scarf."
"Do you, uh... Do you mind if I sit next to you?" asked Blank, and Spearhead smiled while scooting over.
Blank sat down next to Spearhead, not close enough to be nuzzling him, but with their legs touching without movement as the two ponies sat in silence, each adjusting to the other being in their personal space.
Finally, Spearhead broke the silence.
"I think-" he said, but didn't get any further, as the silence was once again shattered by the rest of the team trooping in. None of the players failed to notice Spearhead and Blank sitting next to one another, and to Spearhead it felt like their eyes were boring into them. He didn't move a muscle, but he was aware Blank had shifted in his seat and was no longer touching him. Had he flinched? Was this intentional?
Coriander and Thunderlane brought up the rear, and they too looked right at Blank and Spearhead.
There was a small silence as Coriander wordlessly walked up to the blackboard at the end of the room and began chalking a pitch diagram. Spearhead couldn't read Thunderlane's expression, and didn't make eye contact with the other players.
Spearhead made a decision.
He turned to look at Blank, who was staring straight ahead, rigid in his seat, having moved slightly away from Spearhead and apparently scared to move.
Spearhead reached out his foreleg and took Blank's hoof in his own, giving him a little smile he hoped was encouraging.
Blank looked up, and their eyes locked for half a second before he moved back closer to lean against Spearhead. They continued to hold hooves, ignoring the rest of the team.
"So," said Spearhead, addressing the team but without breaking eye contact. "What's the plan, coach? Captain? How are we gonna win this game?"
