Sanders is pretty ugly when he wakes up.

He knows this. He has drool everywhere, his hair is a mess, and, well, it's not a pretty sight, let's leave it at that.

So when Becks shouts in his ear, early in the goddamn morning (before his fucking alarm), he knows she's holding her laughter in from the sound of her god-awful shriek of, "Good morning! Get up!"

Without opening his eyes, Sanders grabs a pillow and covers his face. "Go away," he croaks. Yep. He doesn't have that sexy morning voice guys have, either. It's just...a raspy croak from a dried mouth and an itchy throat.

"You have a game today, you twat." Becks throws her body over his, shaking him, trying to steal his pillow. "Get up, you need to go to your run and eat breakfast and—ah, Jesus, you look like an animal."

Don't get him wrong. He does. But doesn't mean that Becks doesn't look like it in the mornings, too. (Which he has had to endure for the past three years.)

"Speak for yourself," he mutters, rubbing his eyes now that Becks managed to snatch the pillow away from him. "It's too early, why're you awake?"

Becks never wakes him up. It's not this way around, it's the other way around, and it's a little disorienting to wake up with her voice in his ear, interrupting his pretty good dream, but Sanders can't complain. It's just not...the way things work.

Becks must be thinking the same thing, because she hesitates. Finally, she shrugs and answers, "Just excited for your game, so I went ahead and cooked breakfast. You need to eat a lot." She slams a hand down his butt and stands. "Go do your thing. Pray, shower, run, get my almond milk."

Sanders grunts. He cracks open one eye. Becks is standing over him, hands on her hips, in her ridiculously large shirt and shorts, and her hair isn't straightened. He almost smiles. "You cooked breakfast?"

"Please. I can handle some eggs."

"And onions?"

"How could I forget you eat your eggs with onions, of course with onions." She huffs and crosses her arms. "You have so little faith in me it's actually really insulting."

Sanders smiles this time. With a groan, he sits up. "Okay. Fine. Guess I have to eat it, then. I would want your hard work all to myself."

She blinks. Her eyes brighten. "Really?"

"To throw away."

Becks rolls her eyes. "Ass."

"Bitchflake."

"Grinch."

"Slug." He grins, stands, and pushes her head back with his palm. "D'you cook for Max, too?"

"No." Becks scrunches her nose. "He doesn't have a game today. Plus, he needs to leave early, so he made himself a sandwich."

That's...weird, but Sanders doesn't have the energy or effort to unpack that so early in the morning. He yawns and brushes past her. "Give a man some privacy, will you?"

"Please," she scoffs. "Like there's anything I haven't seen before."

It's out of his mouth before he thinks it over. Give him some slack. He just woke up. "Or sucked?"

Sanders flinches as soon as it's out, but Becks doesn't even seem fazed. She pushes his chest when she passes by. "Stop talking like you lasted long. Go wash up, idiot."

Sanders can't help the loud laugh that bubbles from his chest. He's still laughing on the way to the bathroom.

(The eggs, surprisingly, don't suck. Becks is watching him carefully for his reaction, and it's a relief that he doesn't have to lie and gag every time he chews and swallows. It was a very...hearty breakfast.)

*

When Sanders goes to his games, it's always equal part exciting, and equal part terrifying.

It's not something he (and Becks, and Maxon, and Suho, and Kaitlyn—every athlete in the world) studies for. There aren't any correct answers to memorize, there aren't problems to analyze and solve—athletes train and train and train, but training doesn't guarantee winning. Or high grades.

It's a gamble with yourself. With hundreds of people watching.

Sanders is trained.

He scored two service aces. He blocked one spike. Almost crashed into a teammate when the ball flew past them, past the boundary lines and both of them ran for it. As long as the ball's still in the air, it can be saved.

Sanders is trained. Even with all these people watching, crowding the bleachers, recruiters among them, scouting out seniors, squeezing beside each other and standing, yelling when their school scores a point, his focus is in the game.

Even when Becks and Adan come in before the second set, pushing past legs and knees to sit beside Maxon, and Sanders barely gives her a glance, catches her wearing one of his old jerseys and wearing his number on her cheek, before he's crouching into position, arms spread, ready to receive the ball.

Sanders is prepared, he knows he's good, he can see balls flying in his direction and he's moving before his brain even registers it.

And that's precisely the problem—his brain catches up after his legs and arms do, and when Sanders jumps to block an attack, he doesn't notice the way his ankle twists when his feet hit the floor. Doesn't notice the pain—too exhilarated and high on adrenaline, panting heavy breaths and sweating to his toes.

Sanders only notices when he moves—puts his foot down, and his mouth opens, a scream making its way out of his throat, and he's on the ground, hissing at the sudden, sharp pain travelling form his foot to his calf.

The referee stops the game. He hears him call for medical assistance.

Rosen is beside him in a second. "Rush, holy shit—"

"I'm fine," Sanders bites out, hissing the words, breathing heavily. His knee is bent, hands clutching either side of his foot, and his face reads fucking hell that hurt. "I'm fine, it's just a—"

"Rush," Rosen says firmly, "you're injured."

Sanders scoffs and swats away his hand, pushing up on his other foot to stand. "I'm not, I'm fine, I can play, I just made a wrong step—"

Rosen places a hand on his shoulder and pushes him down firmly, and before Sanders can attempt to stand up again, first aid is by his side. He kneels beside him, furrowing his eyebrows, examining his ankle.

It's sprained, Sanders thinks. He can see it. He can feel it. It's sprained and it's going to take weeks to heal. Sanders can't play anymore.

Within minutes, he's out of the game, taken to the first aid tent, and Becks is pressing the ice pack to his foot.

"Unbelievable," she mutters, kneeling in front of him. Without taking her hands off the ice pack, she looks up at Sanders, an angry scrunch to her face, and she snaps, "D'you know how stupid that was?"

"Injuring myself?" Sanders scoffs, rubbing the nape of his neck. "Yeah. Like I planned to do it. Let's just cut this game short and injure myself and be bedridden for weeks—yeah, that wouldn't make my moms or my brother worry about me at all, that wouldn't make me skip school for—"

"Saying you could still play when you clearly couldn't anymore," Becks cuts him off, correcting him, clenching her jaw. His number, 2, is smudged on her cheek, and Sanders will tease her for that later. He will. But even angry, her hands are gentle on his ankle. "Trying to stand up. What the fuck was that?"

Embarrassed, Sanders can't help but look away, clearing his throat. "Not like you did the same thing," he mutters under his breath, "when your eye was sewn shut and you were still begging to fight."

Becks doesn't answer him. She looks away, too. Focuses on the ice pack she's holding. "Huh," she finally says. Whispers. "So that's what it feels like."

Sanders can't help but ask, "What do you mean?"

Becks turns her head and tells the first aider, "Hey, the twenty minutes are over."

Sanders groans. Hangs his head back. Doesn't watch when the first aider comes back and applies pressure on his ankle with a compression bandage.

When he's given the go signal to go home (in fucking crutches), no knee injury or fractures or ligament tearing, with instructions for proper healing (bedridden. He fucking knew it), Becks turns around to grab their belongings in the gym and to talk to Adan. And then they'll book a cab and go home.

Maxon stays with him. Rubs his back. "S'okay, dude. You can go back to playing in a few weeks."

"Great." Sanders rolls his eyes and sighs. "Thanks for coming, though. Sorry you wasted your ticket."

His roommate grins at him. "Not a waste, man. Just glad it's not as serious as it could've been. Cal was losing her mind." Maxon chuckles once, shoving his hands in his pockets. "She heard you scream and she lost it."

Sanders...Sanders would, too. If the roles were reversed. He clears his throat, gripping his crutches in one hand, and asks quietly, "Maxon. Can you be honest with me for a sec?"

The soccer player nods quickly. "Yeah. What is it?"

Maxon is kind. He's kind. Sanders takes a deep breath and says, without thinking too much about it, because all he does is think and think and think, and his brain does this thing where it does a lot of word vomiting when processing ten things at once, like all his files are on fire and there's music in his head, Macarena or the Dougie, or fucking Jailhouse Rock, and the little Sanders up there don't help either, "The reason why...Becks couldn't get over you. For four years. I asked her why she couldn't move on. You haven't seen each other since high school. Haven't talked a lot. I said you weren't even a thing—it was just one-sided. Unrequited. Unknown."

Maxon blinks. Carefully, he says, "And what'd she say?"

"She said you made her feel like it wasn't one-sided."

His roommate inhales heavily. He looks down at his feet. "I have Kaitlyn, Rush," he says quietly, meeting his gaze.

"I know," Sanders says. "And she knows. Trust me, she knows. She doesn't fault you for anything. I just...I don't know, I just wanted to know if...if you were single, would—"

"Would I have?" Maxon asks, raising an eyebrow. "Loved her?"

Sanders nods.

"I'm not sure," he says honestly, scratching the back of his ear. It reminds Sanders of a puppy.

"Why?" Sanders asks, blinking. "What's wrong with her? She doesn't dress up often because of training, but she's pretty, and she's a great athlete, and she may be shit in the kitchen, but she's warm-hearted and she loves those she loves fiercely—like her brothers, Matthew and Henry? She, um, took up boxing because and for them, and she—or, or is she not girly enough for you? I know you used to joke about her being one of us, one of the guys, but she's been practicing her makeup even though she doesn't need to, and—"

"Rush," his roommate cuts him off suddenly, a smile forming on his lips, "there's nothing wrong with Cal. It's not that she's not pretty. She is. It's not that she's not girly, I could care less if she wears skirts or not, puts on makeup or not. And I used to joke a lot about that, and I apologized, and I shouldn't have because it hurt her coming from me. Anyway. It's not all of those. There's nothing wrong with Cal just because I can't return her feelings. And even if I didn't have Kait, I'm not sure if I could even return them, then. But it still wouldn't be because there's something wrong with Cal. I just...I can't control who my heart chooses, you know?"

Sanders knows. He knows more than anyone else.

"And from the sound of it," Maxon continues, grinning, clapping him on the shoulder, "I'm sorry I've been clueless. It couldn't have been easy having me in your house."

Sanders manages one loud laugh. "Yeah," he says, rolling his eyes. "That's an understatement."

Maxon laughs, too.

Becks reappears at the entrance of the gym, holding their bags over her shoulder, walking briskly that her hair covers half her face. She has her mouth pressed into this thin line, and she looks like she just ate something disgusting but she can't tell what, and Sanders grins, feels his ears ringing with bells, feels his heart speed up.

"Cal does too, you know?" Maxon says to him.

"Does what?" Sanders asks distractedly, keeping his eyes on the girl trudging in his direction.

Maxon chuckles. "I think letting me know about her feelings for me was the best thing that could've happened between us. She doesn't care so much about what I think anymore, you know?"

"No," Sanders says. "What do you mean?"

"Cal said I made it hard for her not to fall in love with me."

"Shut up. I don't need the reminder."

"Made, Rush," the soccer player says, grinning down at him, but Sanders only sees this in his peripheral vision, he's still amazed at how Becks can carry two full bags on her own, and the number 2 on her cheek is making his stomach erupt in butterflies—"Not make. Past tense. You made it hard not to."

Sanders doesn't know what the fucking hell he's talking about.

Becks tosses one bag in Maxon's direction, which the soccer player catches with a grunt from the weight of it, and looks at Sanders. "Can you stand? I already booked a cab. They're finishing up the fourth set."

Sanders nods and takes a deep breath. "Yep. Gimme a sec."

It takes effort. Becks leans forward and wraps her arms around his waist, helping him keep his weight up, and she hands over the crutches carefully while Sanders makes sure his injured foot is off the ground.

Becks glances at him, wide-eyed, and she's close and Sanders's heart rate increases. "You good? Can you walk?"

"Yeah," he croaks, gripping onto these fucking metal bars, and he starts moving. "Okay, let's go."

Maxon winks at him when he passes by. Sanders has half a mind to kick him in the crotch with his crutch.

*

Becks tries to cook the meals. Maxon is in charge after she makes him burnt pasta.

She's hands off the meals, but she places the ice on Sanders's ankle. Puts on the pressure bandages. She stands in the doorway of the bathroom when Sanders brushes his teeth or takes a shit because she's afraid he'll slip and hit his head.

"I won't fall," Sanders grumbles, both irritated and endeared at the same time, at how Becks hovers over him. She always does, but it was never this extreme. "I can take a shower just fine."

"I don't want to mop blood off the floors," Becks answers, crossing her arms over her chest and raising an eyebrow. "That's a fucking hassle, you know."

So Sanders lets it be.

He lets it be.

Rosen and Adan and Suho visit sometimes. His parents call. Becks talks to them, mostly, because she's the one taking care of him and she's the one who knows what he needs to do to get his strength and balance back.

He can let those be. But he hates rehabilitation exercises. He hates having to do range-of-motion exercises, stretching, strength training, and balance exercises.

He's itching to get out of bed and do something.

Sanders throws one of his crutches on the floor when he stumbles. He's been putting much more weight on his injured foot, checking to see if there's pain or swelling, and when he hisses, just when he thought it'd be fine to walk again, he's not.

"Jesus, fuck." Sanders exhales heavily and shuts his eyes, taking weight off his foot.

Becks sighs and helps him sit down on the bed. "Stop throwing a tantrum," she mutters, picking up the crutch and shooting him a warning glance. "You're not a child."

Sanders clenches his jaw. "Becks, I—"

"I know you hate this," she says, kneeling in front of him, stretching his foot out. "I know you'd rather cook me a hundred hot meals than sit around and do nothing, and I know you're getting impatient to get back in the court. But Sanders." Becks raises her head and looks at him, and Sanders can't read her, but her eyebrows are furrowed, like she's thinking while she's speaking, and she whispers, "you can't get better if you try to force it. That's not how shit works for us as athletes. And I know I went back to the gym a day before I was allowed to, before you bring it up." She purses her lips and sighs. "But this is different. You can barely walk yet. Okay? So be patient. Please."

Sanders stares at her. "Why are you doing this?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Taking care of you? Scolding you like the little shit you are?"

The corner of his lips curl upward. His shoulders slump when he answers, "Both. I guess."

"I care about you," she answers immediately, and the 'immediately' part of it makes Sanders blink. No hesitation. Just the pure, honest truth. "And I don't like seeing you hurt. And you took care of me when I was injured, remember?"

"That's different," Sanders is quick to counter. Because Sanders loves her. That's different.

"It's not," Becks says, meeting his gaze. "When I..." she takes a deep breath. "Sanders, I heard you scream."

He swallows the lump in his throat. "I know."

"And I watched you fall," she murmurs, and Sanders's balls his hands into fists, furrowing his eyebrows together. What is she saying? What does she mean? "And when I heard you scream, Sanders, that..."

Sanders's breath feels cold against his lips when he asks, "That?"

"I don't know, I panicked," Becks says quietly, blinking, focusing her attention on the ground. "I was worried. I don't..." she stops again, closing her eyes and shaking her head, and the little scrunch in between her eyebrows lets Sanders know that she's sincere and vulnerable and in pain, remembering what it was like when he hurt himself. "I don't pray," she finally says, heaving a heavy breath, looking into his eyes, and Sanders is...he's helpless. Always is. "I don't pray, Sanders, but you do, and I ask your God, before your games, every time before your games, to keep you safe and uninjured, even when I went to Maxon's, I was worried about you. And when I heard you scream, I prayed again and...kind of yelled at Him. I said that this better be something small. This better not be a serious injury, and this better not lead to a trip to the hospital."

Becks says all this in a rush. She inhales shakily and says, "So don't complain. Don't throw a tantrum, I fought for that sprained ankle."

Sanders doesn't know what to say. He's frozen. Buffering sign on his forehead.

"You were fighting with God?" he whispers.

"Yeah," Becks says, standing up, crossing her arms over her chest. "It was to keep my sanity in check."

"You're the only person who has the guts to fight with God."

"Probably. But you don't know how it felt hearing you scream like that, Sanders." She swallows visibly and opens her eyes. His breath catches in his throat. Sanders doesn't know what to say. "It was...terrifying."

He doesn't know what to say. "I know how it feels. That's what I felt when you were getting beat up. Cornered. Doesn't feel so great now, does it?"

"I can fight my way out of a corner. You, however, are stupid. How could you land wrong on your foot? I thought you were a decent volleyball player, Jesus."

Ah. An insult somewhere to hide her worry. When she does that, Sanders finds himself fighting a foolish grin. "I'm sorry."

"Save your apologies." She turns around. "I'll go check on dinner. Go lie down or something."

"Becks."

Becks looks back at him. Her cheeks are red. "What?"

Sanders smiles. "The 2 on your cheek was cute."

She stalks out of the room and slams the door on her way out.

Sanders laughs.

(Becks doesn't look at him during dinner. Sanders kicks her foot under the table. Becks kicks his back. Not the injured one. She's not that cruel.)

*

Becks wakes up way before Sanders does. During his time being bedridden.

It's disorienting. Even without his alarm, Sanders will wake up at exactly seven in the morning. He'll squint at the light, stretch out his muscles, rub the sleep out of his eyes and he'll sit up. Pray. Thank Him for a mild injury. That he'll still be able to play after this whole physical therapy bullshit. (No. Not bullshit. It's necessary for his healing, Becks says. So. After this whole physical therapy...thing.)

He'll sit there for a few minutes after talking with God, sighing, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, feeling the dryness of his mouth and the itchiness in his throat. Then, careful not to put any weight on his injured ankle, he'll grab his crutches leaning on the bedside table, stand, and fucking skip towards the bathroom to wash his face.

And then, because he can't go out on his runs, he'll sit in the kitchen and stare at the wall. Scroll through his phone while he's at it, until he finds the energy to make his coffee and find something to eat for breakfast.

But ever since he's been injured—Becks is already in the kitchen before Sanders steps out. There are plates and bowls with delicious food (prepared by Maxon, of course, unless it's something easy to do, like those cottage cheese with tomatoes and pumpkin seeds and apple cinnamon oats Becks can make from her research) ready on the table, and she's making his coffee. She's usually in her hideous neon green joggers and baggy sweatshirts, but when she turns to smile at him and say, "Morning!", Sanders's heartbeat betrays him.

This happens every morning. They eat breakfast together.

Oh. And Becks grabs her own almond milk from the store.

Disorienting. But it's nice to have things turn around for a change.