Chapter 438: The Rat and the Bunny 2

They talked about everything and nothing.

About the hotel food, which Chloé judged to be "underground-level decent, but the fries were a bit soft." About the Underground elevators, which went way too fast. About the time Nash had gotten lost on his way to hangar 47. About Snow, who snored while traveling, and Rain, who didn’t snore, didn’t talk, and yet still got listened to by everyone the moment people realized he was speaking. Chloé laughed a lot, and she said "sorry" every time she laughed too loud.

Nash let it happen. He was sitting on the floor, back against the armchair, with a girl who was saying whatever came to mind and hugging his jersey like a stuffed animal.

"And the match tonight," he said, snatching one last fry from Chloé’s plate. "How did you see it?"

"Magnificent." She smiled, then added, in a casual tone: "Even though Jaz’s right foot is a little sore. She wasn’t planting it as flat in the second quarter."

Nash stopped chewing.

"...Seriously? You noticed that?"

"Huh? Oh. Yeah." She bit her lip. "Sorry, that’s dumb. It was obvious."

It wasn’t obvious. Not even a little. Nash had been on the court, with Jaz two meters away from him, and he hadn’t noticed a thing. Jaz hadn’t said anything either.

He looked at her with new interest. This girl who said sorry after every sentence and was scared of elevators had just pulled out a detail that nobody on his team had picked up on, and now everything she’d said earlier about his playing style took on a different dimension.

She knew a little too much about them, and coming from a future opponent... That was very problematic.

Let’s see how hard you’ve been studying.

"Tell me," he said, as if it was nothing. "Blacklist. You who watched everything. What do you think, honestly? Are there things to improve?"

Chloé’s eyes went wide.

"You really want to know?"

"Really."

"Really, really?"

"Really a thousand times."

She turned scarlet, then smiled all at once, an enormous smile, full of joy and mischief.

"Oh. Well then, there’s stuff to say."

She set down her fork and opened the notebook. She froze.

"I don’t have a pen."

"Wait."

He stood up, dug through the desk drawer, and came back with a small metal pen. She took it like a sacred relic.

"Thank you."

"Talk."

She opened her notebook to a blank page and started drawing little circles connected by arrows. And something changed in her face. The smile stayed, the little voice too, but her eyes had just gone to work: fixed, precise, almost cold.

No more stuttering. No more "sorry." Nash felt like he was seeing, for the first time that night, the real Chloé, the one you didn’t see behind the groupie, the one who had spent nights dissecting old matches and didn’t need anyone to tell her what she was worth.

Hyper-focused, she wasn’t even looking at him the same way anymore.

"So. You know the rotations?"

"I do them, but I don’t think we call them the same thing you do."

"Basically, in classic basketball, there are five starters and a bench. The starters play thirty to thirty-five minutes, the bench the rest. Rotations are the system that decides who comes out and who goes in, and when. The idea is that nobody burns out, and there’s always balance on the court." She tapped the pen against her cheek. "Normally, a coach never takes both of his best players out at the same time. He always keeps one on the floor."

"Logical."

"But in old basketball, it always ends up the same way: the bench is worse than the starters, so the coach is reluctant to play them, and the starters exhaust themselves. There are teams that lost because their star had played forty-two minutes."

Nash thought back to his own fourth quarter, to the exhaustion that had earned him a one-way ticket to the sideline.

"Yeah."

"But Blacklist is different." She looked up with bright eyes. "You have thirteen girls. And all of them have a role. I love so much what you do with the Baby-Boom and how some of their starters became super subs. Plus Hina, Rumi, and Nia are way too strong to break the game, I never would’ve thought of playing dirty to lock down Seth... And even the ones who play little still serve a precise purpose. It was crazy to bring the substitutes in there, the one who carried the end of the second quarter and Rumi. What you rarely see is a team with ten interchangeable players at this level. That’s what made me vibrate tonight, I love your team way too much."

"Well... That’s the least of it. We don’t train hard just to warm the bench. Gotta give everyone playing time."

"Ah... You really get me." She wrote something in her notebook, cheeks red. "But you can go even further."

"How?"

"Okay. First, never take both of your point guards out at the same time. When Aiko comes out, Nia stays. When Nia comes out, Aiko stays. Second, pair two bench players with two starters, never five bench together. That kills the rhythm. Third..." She hesitated.

"Third?"

"You."

Nash raised an eyebrow.

"Your playing time," she said more quietly. "You play too much. You carry too much. In the last quarter, you were completely drained. If you’d been subbed out five more minutes at the start, you could’ve held the final period without having to sacrifice yourself."

He stayed silent.

"It’s not a criticism," she added quickly. "It’s just... your recovery stats are the worst on your team, while your explosiveness is the best. Your endurance is your only weak point... and it’s weird, because it’s also your strong point. You’ve got crazy endurance, but you don’t take the time to cool down, so you burn through everything you have."

He stayed silent for a moment, then laughed softly.

"You’re like the third person to tell me that. Maybe I’m a little too stubborn."

"I’m sorry."

"No. You’re right."

[+12% Confidence (Idea validated)]

He didn’t even notice.

He realized, watching her write, that she hadn’t stopped talking for ten minutes and hadn’t once looked for his approval.

It was certain now, she knew. She knew things about his girls, their roles, about him, about every rotation in tonight’s match, with a precision that was almost scary. And she was here, in a wet nightshirt, tapping a pen against her cheek.

She’s dangerous, he thought. What does the System want me to get from her?

"You could work on that," she continued, more at ease now. She was on a roll, the pen moving across the page. "A coaching plan for endurance. Three sessions a week. Intervals, for example: thirty seconds all-out, thirty seconds recovery, ten times. Stairs. Core work, so your torso holds when your legs give out. And above all, above all, sleep. Eight hours, minimum. And hydration, more than you drink."

"Sleep, huh."

"Yes. And maybe less of..." She stopped dead.

"Less of what?"

"Nothing."

"Chloé."

"N-nothing at all!"

"You said ’less of.’ Less of what?"

"Of... of..." She stared intently at her notebook. "It’s just that... there’s a theory... among the fans."

"A theory."

"About... your private life."

Nash watched her for a moment. Then he leaned back against the armchair, arms crossed behind his head, a slow smile stretching across his face.

"Okay. Okay, okay, okay. I’m listening. What does my good people say about me?"

"I-it’s nothing important! It’s a forum!"

"There’s a forum."

"There’s... a thread." She swallowed. "It’s called ’Nash Blaze: Harem, Myth or Reality?’"

"I feel like I’m going to love this."

"There are stories..." She clutched the jersey. "The only boy on a team of thirteen girls, who plays alone with them, who trains alone with them, who’s surrounded by all these... People ask questions. Everyone envies you, you know. But nobody really knows. It’s just... a theory."

"And what does the theory say?"

"That..." She closed her eyes. "That you are... very... active. With the girls. And that it explains certain things you do, like how they jump on you after every match... or how you seem very tactile with them during breaks."

"Mm... in that case, no."

"...No?"

"Out of the question."

Chloé blinked. She waited for the rest. There wasn’t any. Nash looked at her with the most honest and serene face in the world, as if he had just refused her a second dessert.

"No way that... that you do less?"

"No way. No. Like hell no."

Chloé didn’t answer. Her mouth opened, closed, reopened without producing anything. Nash watched her turn the gears one by one.

"Wait," she said finally, voice rising an octave. "You said ’no way.’ You didn’t say ’it’s false.’ You didn’t say ’it’s a theory.’ You said ’no way.’"

"Yes."

"So the thread... the s-s-sex part..."

"Chloé. I’m a growing Underground rat. I live with thirteen girls. It would be a pretty sad theory if it were false."

"No." She shook her head very fast. "No, no, no. You’re joking. It’s your humor, you’re going to tell me you got me good, right??? Come on, say it..."

"I’m not joking."

"Yes you are!"

"I swear on my cardio."

It was the most sacred oath he possessed. Chloé looked him straight in the eyes, searching for the crack, the half-smile, the joke. She found only an honest face and a man who had just sworn on his lungs.

"...Oh."

"I told you," Nash continued, sitting up. "You’re missing data. So I’m giving it to you. Top ten reasons why lowering the frequency is a very bad idea. You can take notes."

She raised the pen by reflex, to write, more by reflex than by will, her brain already boiling.

"Number ten. I sleep like a baby."

"I... okay..."

"Number nine. My cardio."

"You already..."

"I’m saying it again. It’s important. Number eight, there is no serious study that shows a drop in performance."

"Oh my God..."

"Number seven... I am a sinner, and I must keep sinning so honest pastors don’t starve."

Chloé shot out of the jersey, crimson, a trembling finger pointed at him, which on her looked like an angry kitten yelling at a vacuum cleaner.

"But that’s... that’s not... that doesn’t happen! A boy, it’s one girl! One! The girl of his life! That’s how it works! It’s the law! You’re saying that you and thirteen girls..."

"More, actually. Around twenty, but I’m still young."

"Oh my freaking... You evil!"

Nash smiled; it wasn’t about being right or wrong anymore, for some reason just seeing her reactions made him want to trigger her more.

"Miss, isn’t this sin the cradle of humanity?"

"D-d-don’t bring humanity into that! This isn’t how it works! At home, a boy goes out with one single girl! He invites her to a restaurant, he meets her family, he waits for marriage, like normal people!"

"I understand. Number six, they teach us to have the heart of a lion. So this is what I did. I woke the lion in me."

"This is the worst!"

"Number five. This is the world you’re living in. Deal with it, not everything is sunshine."

She sat back down slowly, the jersey clutched against her like a shield. When she spoke again, her voice was shaking.

"So... so maybe... just one? Not all of them. Just one. The most... serious."

"Which one?"

"I don’t know! In alphabetical order!"

"And the others?"

"They... would move out?"

"They have the mansion. I’d be the only one moving out."

She opened her mouth, searched for a counter-argument, didn’t find one, closed it again.

"Number four," Nash continued, merciless. "I’m young, healthy, and I have exceptional recovery. I even read it somewhere, number three. Statistically, it improves the three-point percentage."

"Source or bullcrap?" Chloé murmured.

"The source is: I made it the fuck up."

"That’s not a source..."

"You really were born in a fairy tale, huh?"

She stared at the ceiling. Her shoulders slumped. The pen rolled onto the carpet. When she spoke, it was in a very small voice.

"I had everything planned, you know. His name would be Alexander."

Nash blinked.

"Alexander who?"

"My ideal man."

"You planned your ideal husband, and you named him Alexander..."

"A first name is important!" She sniffled. "A man named Alexander is credible. He has a good job, he wears a suit, he pays his taxes on time... It’s stronger than a Billy."

"Billy has qualities."

"Billy is the name of a kid... or a dog."

Nash chuckled; this girl was superb.

"And also, it sounds German," she continued, quieter. "Germans have beautiful names. Müller, Schneijder, Füller."

"...I think I see where the problem is."

"A name like that sounds like a man who brings you back your umbrella when you forget it."

"So you’d want a German."

She made a strong pout, cheeks puffed out, like a sulking squirrel.

"I’m not saying a German. I’m saying a man with a name that holds up."

"Okay. Tell me about Alexander."

She hesitated, then her gaze went back to the ceiling.

"He would be a little shy. He’d blush when talking to me. We would meet at the library, he’d bring me back my notebook that I would have forgotten on a table. The wedding would be in spring, with white flowers... and the first time would be after. By candlelight. Very gently. Just him and me, no witness or concubine." She gave him a small weird look, then sniffled. "And we’d have two kids. A boy, a girl. And a dog named Biscuit."

"Not Billy?" Nash said.

"No, I haven’t decided the boy’s name yet." She half-smiled at him. "And he’d like basketball a little. Not too much, though. Just enough so we could watch matches together and understand what’s happening. He wouldn’t know everything, but he’d listen when I explain, even when I talk too much. Even when I stutter. Especially when I stutter. He’d never make fun."

"Mm."

"He’d lend me a pen without me having to ask. He’d be calm. Even when I do whatever. Especially when I do whatever. He’d say ’don’t worry,’ and it would work, really. He’d tell me when I’m wrong, but without making me feel stupid. He would be..." She buried her nose in the jersey without realizing it. "...tall. He’d smell good. He’d have a slightly confident smile, but kind, and he’d know how to catch me when I panic, and..."

She stopped, blushed, then continued anyway, in an increasingly dreamy voice.

"And he’d be like that with everyone. He’d reach out a hand to the one who falls before the referee even blows the whistle. He’d shout the substitute’s name when she comes in, not just the stars’. He’d applaud the one who misses her shot exactly as loud as the one who makes it. He’d put a hand on the shoulder of the one who just messed up, before she has time to lower her head. He’d let them have the ball when they want it, and he’d take it when it’s too heavy for them, even if he has to leave everything he has there. He’d stay after practice for the one who wants to rework her shot. He’d know how to tell each one what she does best, and tell her to her face."

"Yeah, Alexander knows his basketball."

"Yes, he’d even play a bit. He’d make sure none of them feel alone on a court. Or off it. And they’d all love him, and he’d deserve it, and..."

"I see. Alex must be the friend we made along the way," Nash said, chin in hand.

She lost her smile and made a big pout.

"Yeah, well. Too bad a guy like that doesn’t exist," she sighed.

"Sucks, doesn’t it?"

"Really," Chloé murmured, with a deep sigh.

Nash nodded, sympathetic, maybe a little tired now.

He understood her, a little. She came from a world where you waited for marriage, where you brought back forgotten notebooks, where men were named Alexander. He came from a world where you had to learn to steal before you knew how to read. A rabbit pulled out of a fairy tale, set down by mistake in a rat’s burrow.

Even though he knew the other side of the Upperworld was Apex, it was still interesting to see that not everything was black.

"I imagine it’s hard to be Alexander, I prefer to stay Nash. It’s easier to be a sinner, and also, number two. It would be disloyal."

She raised damp eyes.

"Toward who?"

"Toward the girls. They’re not there for decoration."

A small laugh hiccuped in her throat. She wiped her eyes with the collar of the jersey.

"And number one?"

"Number one." He shrugged. "I like it. They’re happy, and I’m happy. That’s the only reason I really need."

Or almost. There was a very long silence. Chloé sniffled one last time, clutched the jersey against her, and stared at an imaginary point between her knees.

"Nash?" she said, in a completely calm voice this time. "Isn’t it a bit... selfish?"

He didn’t protest. He even thought about it for a real moment.

"Yes. Pretty much."

She lifted her head, surprised.

"I’m selfish in several ways," he continued. "I want everything, and I want it with them, and I’ve never asked myself what a normal guy would do in my place. I don’t think I’m right. I don’t think I’m wrong either."

"But then..."

"Everyone lives their life the way they see fit. You want Alexander, a spring wedding and a dog named Billy. It’s a beautiful life. It has its principles, it has its rules, and nobody has the right to tell you it’s false. Me, I chose another one. There is no good or bad answer. Just people who make choices and try to stick to them."

She clutched the jersey tighter.

"And I’m not the best," he added, quieter. "Far from it. I just try to make my life a little better every day, and the lives of the people with me too. As long as they’re happy and I am too, I’m fine with it. If one day it doesn’t work anymore, I won’t stop. I don’t have the right anymore. I’ll look for a solution. It’s the life I decided to lead."

Chloé stayed silent for a moment. You could almost hear the gears turning.

"I don’t understand," she admitted. "I really can’t conceive of being happy like that. Sharing, I mean. Me, I’d be... I’d be scared, all the time."

"That’s normal. You weren’t raised in that world."

"But..." She hesitated. "Is there one who complains? Just one?"

"Not about that. They complain about the noise, the socks, about who ate the last yogurt. But not about that."

She looked at him for a long moment, with that focused expression she had when she was studying a diagram.

"Then... maybe it’s not so terrible," she said slowly. "If nobody is suffering. If they agree." She shook her head and made a small grimace. "And anyway it’s your life, yours. It’s not for me to come with my fairy-tale ideas and say what’s right or wrong. I don’t have to impose my vision."

"You can keep your vision," Nash said. "I don’t want you to throw it away. Alexander, Billy, the white flowers, it’s a good story. Keep it if that’s what you want. I’m just saying you don’t need my validation."

"And you don’t need mine."

"No. But it’s nice to be able to talk about it."

She smiled timidly, relieved. The kind of smile that said she had understood the kind of man he was, not completely, but enough to no longer be afraid.

"Alexander can stay in the file, then," she said.

"I prefer that."

She laughed, all red. Then her smile hesitated. She bit her lip, lowered her eyes to the jersey, squeezed the fabric between her fingers.

"Nash?"

"Mm?"

"I... can I... ask you a question? A real one?"

"Go ahead."

"It’s a bit... personal."

He raised an eyebrow.

"It’s... it might be... too..." She closed her eyes, like before a dive. "What is it like? To m-m-make love?"