Drinks were being served generously at the Leaky Pipe, passed around to anyone who wanted one. It was rare for Alan, the owner, to let Alphonse "buy" so many rounds, but tonight was a special occasion. After so many weeks of big talk and lofty claims, the Furry Basketball Association was announcing its Top 24 list before game five of the finals. Most of the rats of the Alley, seated on their rusty stools and splintering tables in the ramshackle pub, only vaguely cared about the American sport. If asked, few could name more than one or two of the teams, and likely only then thanks to Alphonse or his friends insisting on turning on FSPN America on the tavern's cable-equipped television. Despite that, all were celebrating the possibility of one of their own making it in professional sports, American no less, and just as enthused as the star of the night himself. The free beers didn't hurt matters, of course.

"Oi, Alfie! Don't think y' can just up 'n fog us once y' get famous, eh?" shouted an older rat, grinning broadly.

"You yankin' my tail, y' old coot? Once I'm outta 'is cunthole you lot'll never see me again!"

He laughed, and so did they, raising their glasses. Thanks to the time difference, it was after midnight before the broadcast was starting, and the cocky rat had taken the opportunity to get as many of his friends and friends of friends as the Leaky Pipe could fit, and insisted on getting drinks for all of them. Red sunlight through the windows faded to darkness as the night stretched on and conversations drifted from what Alfie would do with all that money, to what his fame would mean for the alley, to what he would do with all those nonnies on whatever team he ended up on. By the time the familiar FBA Courtside Live music started up, most of the rats were well drunk and the excitement had built to a fever pitch.

Beside him, Alfie's friend Vinny looped an arm around his broad shoulders. "Now li..." he started, interrupted by an alcohol-fueled belch. "...er, listen 'ere, Alf. Don't go gettin' too big f' ya mohawk, eh? Memba who showed y' how t' play when we's li'l pups!"

Alphonse snickered and slung a much larger arm around Vinny's neck, pulling him into a headlock. "What, y' want a cut o' me money, eh? Fair 'nuff, tell y' what! I'll give y' a nice plump quid f' every game I play! My way o' sayin' thanks t' you f' gettin' me there, y' handsome shit!" He laughed again and feigned trying to plant a kiss on his friend, causing another roar from all around them as Vinny frantically fought the powerful rat off.

It was a night of revelry for all. Rat Alley wasn't a place known for its good news and cause for celebration, and everyone was more than happy for any excuse to raise a glass. Alphonse waved and shouted at the assembled throng to quiet down, the show was beginning. Familiar host, coyote T Matt Latrans, was going through his usual banter with Jimmy, the otter intern filling in as co-host for the night, and the time had come to make the top twenty-four announcement, the two dozen elite to be entered in a special pre-season match, officially endorsed by the league. In stark contrast to the usual din, the shouting and carrying on that normally filled the Pipe at such a late hour, all was silent. Every beady eye was locked on the television screen, waiting to hear that their hometown star athlete was one of the chosen.

Twenty four names were listed, and Alphonse Norwich IV was not one of them.

Somehow the pub grew even more silent. A few looked at the big rat, others were afraid to, unsure of what his reaction might be. The crowd had been tightly packed around Alfie, sharing in his moment of triumph, but after the final name was announced they spread, leaving a vacant circle with him in its center. There he stood, staring at the television with his jaw slack, like he was expecting one of the two to say that there had been a mistake, that there was one more name on the list. The haggard rat's chest rose and fell with heavy breathing, his face trembling with rage.

"Turn it off! TURN IT THE FUCK OFF!!" Alfie bellowed, not waiting for Alan to do so before throwing his glass at the screen with all his might, shattering them both. The crash of glass to glass made everyone in the room jolt, relieved only that it was a television at the receiving end rather than one of them. He turned and stormed out of bar, shoving rats out of his way left and right, ignoring their attempts to talk him down, to tell him that it was all right.

"Alfie! 'old up, mate!" a voice called out, its owner grabbing Alphonse by the vest, trying to stop him. Instantly, Vinny was met with a fist at his muzzle, the blow crossing his eyes and nearly knocking him down, the smaller rat saved by another nearby catching him.

"No, let 'im go, lads..." Vinnie snorted, picking himself back up onto unsteady feet, stopping a few around him from chasing down the irate Alphonse. The injured rat spat on the floor, wiping blood from his nose, as the whole crowd watched the door fling open as the seething rat made his exit into the night. "'E didn't mean it."

Out on the sidewalk, under the dim lights, Alphonse stood, not wanting to go home and not wanting to go back into the bar. It wasn't right. It wasn't FAIR. He flew all the way out to America, met with the whole nonnie lot, played a game and smiled for the camera, and even shook that coach's filthy hand. Just like Murina told him to, he refused interviews and stayed out of the press (something he was well acquainted with regardless). He'd been training harder than ever, lifting in his ramshackle basement "gym" and spending hours on the park court practicing. All those months, from that first interview up through his phone call with Muri where she told him that the announcement was coming, setting him up as though it were a sure thing, that he was going to be in the top twenty four, if not the very top slot. He'd told his friends, his family, that they were going to hear his name and see his picture, and that it wouldn't be to call him vermin, but to celebrate him. All of that, blown up in his face.

Alphonse could barely breathe. He rested one broad hand against the brick building, eyes tightly held shut. His claws scraped across the rough surface, leaving small white lines behind. In that moment, the wall itself became the target of his fury, the burly rat punching and kicking it, shouting everything he wanted to yell at that fucking coyote on TV, at the FBA executives, at everyone who'd gotten his hopes up. At Murina. The alcohol dulled his senses, his knuckles scraped and torn, leaving red stains on the old bricks, until his arms tired and his nerves alerted him to the pain in his hands. He pressed his forehead against the wall, teeth gritted, eyes clenched. It had been nearly ten years since he last cried, but if ever a time had come for that to change, now would have been it.

Picking his head up once more, Alfie turned his attention skyward. He could still hear the muffled sounds of activity inside, knowing full well they were talking about him. There was no way to avoid them forever, at some point he'd have to show his face. Tonight, though, all the beer had gone to his head, and he just wanted to sleep. And so, Alphonse stumbled his way back home, hoping that at least when he pounded on the door to be let in, whoever did so would have the decency not to say anything to him.

---

The names began to roll in after a smattering of suspense inducing banter between Courtside Live personalities T.Matt Latrans and Jimmy Tern. After having beat the bushes for a few months there had been a lot of buzz surrounding a few of Murina’s clients, enough to ensure at least one would be representing at the Draft Candidate Combine. It would be a minor feather in her own cap, but as the names were announced and she gazed down on the spread of folders and files from this year’s new clients, she could not be as thrilled as she thought she would be.

Evan Marshall, the helmeted woodpecker forward from Bismarck, North Dakota, received a coveted invitation to the combine. Glass of wine in one hand, she flipped the folder for the perky bird open with the other. When it came to draft candidates or just clients in general, you couldn’t get much better than Evan Marshall. Beyond the talent, training and drive paramount to the success of a prospective professional athlete, he was a dream to work with on and off the court. His upbeat, positive attitude made him easy to work with and hard to disappoint. He lacked the ego a lot of up and coming hot shots had and relished teamwork. His personal record was spotless, and while he did not come off as a goody-two-shoes, he carried no troubling habits. He wouldn’t even use expletives, opting for comically over the top but inoffensive idioms when expressing something that could have easily called for a swear word to emphasize a point.

In other words, he was everything Alphonse Norwich IV was not.

Finishing off her third glass of wine which had successfully staved off the dull ache in her head, she turned her attention to the other folders and papers that covered her bed. The fact that is was Sunday may have meant she would not be in her office at this hour, but day and time mattered little to Murina when it came to work. Though she was cloistered in her loft apartment and in something more comfortable than her usual vest and tie, Murina was very much on the clock thanks to the long awaited Top 24 announcement. The game that followed the Draft Candidate Combine notice commenced without her notice, reading through the various folders she had, rearranging items and making notes for the calls she would need to make in the morning and how she planned on adjusting her marketing strategies for her clients. She was almost attempting to ignore Alphonse’s file, thought there was little hope of that.

Her stack for Alphones was impressive compared to the others, if only in size and little else. His folder was not stuffed with accolades and interviews, but with published articles both domestic and abroad, addressing the issues that buzzed around the alley rat like flies. Police reports and firsthand accounts of the poor company he kept back in Toxteth. Scathing speculations and wild accusations of Alphonse himself by all manner of gossip rags and sports analysts. And material she had been trying to scrape together to neutralize it all, but with little success. She would be lucky to have a client so frequently and passionately written about, if any of it were positive.

Her phone hummed on the night stand, reaching over and answering it without even looking at the screen.

“Yeah, I’m watching it.”

“You don’t sound too happy about it,” Harris said, unsurprised, “You should be over the moon you were able to snag another top 24 client.”

“I am,” she bobbed her head, looking disdainfully at her empty glass, “I just…”

“You just what?” Harris’s voice, almost predictably annoyed, pricked Muri as she wandered back into the kitchen.

“I was just hoping Alphonse would be the one getting the invitation.”

Though it sounded ludicrous as she said it, Muri thought best to be honest about her opinions about the combine results. The dead silence that followed, however, signaled she was in for an earful.

“You’re not serious,” Harris finally managed to say, sounding a little like he might have had to excuse himself from the phone moments ago to laugh or spit out what he was drinking in a comical fashion. Muri answered with her own bout of defying silence.

“Muri…” Harris began sternly.

“You just think this Alphonse thing is one big joke for me, don’t you?” she bit back. Her sudden defensiveness came as a shock to Harris, who held his tongue to let her continue uninterrupted for a change.

“I really…” she sighed, leaning heavy on her arms, hunched over the kitchen counter, seeming to have lost the strength to even lift her mostly empty wine bottle. “I was really counting on this. It was going to be his chance to show the public what he could do.”

“You know better than that, Muri,” Harris said, considerably less might in his voice than before.

“I know, I know…” Another silent spell drifted over the phone.

“I just thought, that if he could get in… somehow… It would have been the boost I could have really used. It would have gone a long way in combatting all this… other stuff. It’s not even about being in the top 24. He just… he really could have used some good publicity right now, you know?” She finally poured her glass, the fourth for the night, but did not take a drink. “I knew it was a long shot,” she admitted.

“Alphonse Norwich is a longshot,” Harris reminded her, wanting to drag her from her gloom back into reality. “You need to stop kidding yourself, Muri. I am sure Alphonse could have been an amazing athlete, with as good a chance as any candidate out there. IF things had been different. I feel bad for the guy, I really do. Somehow,” Harris chuckled, “Somehow, Muri, you made me feel sorry for this guy. So much, even I think some of this media smear is going too far.

“But at this point,” Harris continued, “I don’t think his talent or your best intentions are going to do him any good. And right now, you need to keep focused on you other candidates. The ones who have a snowball’s chance.”

“Harris,” Muri sighed, making her way back to her paper covered bed, “No one’s going to get less attention because of Alfie, I promise you that. I learned my lesson with Bali Mahi, and I’ve made the changes necessary to work through this.”

Harris sighed harder, “Muri…”

“Can you at least TRUST me when I say that I am not going to let working with Alphonse effect my work with the others? If I can at least give him an equal chance, and he still doesn’t get drafted, then at least I can say I’ve tried my best. I’m not giving up on this, Harris. I told you when I started this that I was going to see it through. I HAVE to see this through.”

“Your’re just making more work for yourself Muri, and you are already spread thin. Instead of talking with team managers, you’ve been spending all your time doing damage control with the media. You’ve repaired so much PR snags and the guy isn’t even drafted yet. And that’s on top of all the work you put into your other clients. You forget you are one rat with a small firm with only so many hours in the day. That equal chance is going to come at a high price, and both you and your clients are going to pay. You need to start thinking about the quality of your work, not the quantity…”

Harris’s chatter droned on in her ear as she let her body unfold on the bed, toppling Alfie’s stack which spread over the other folders like a tide, blocking out the praise and plans of the others with Xeroxed copies of police reports and trash talk transcripts. She pressed her eyes tightly closed as she tried to concentrate on Harris over the television until she realized she couldn’t understand either sound as a voice. When she opened her eyes, the moments when she could not focus on the piles of papers in front of her made her touch her face to make sure she still had her glasses on.

The phone was no longer to her ear, having dropped it onto the bed to rub her forehead and to put the wine glass she still clutched onto the night stand. She touched her face again, not believing her glasses were still perched on her muzzle and removed them as they seemed to be doing her no good. Her effort to breathe and the almost intimidating force of her heart beating was the only thing she was able to focus on and yet not control. It was only when she started to breathe deeply, feeling that no amount of breath was good enough to fill her lungs, that the pressure in her chest prevented her from event trying. What only took an instant felt like a slow hour as the tightening in her throat quelled her respiration further. She had convinced herself suddenly and unequivocally that she was having a heart attack. Her knuckles bumped the phone at her side. She needed to call for help.

“Muri? Are you still listening?” She had not even attempted to dial anything, but put the phone to her ear once more, able to hear Harris’s voice calling to her. The span of time she had dropped her phone was deceptively short, Harris having prattled off his verdict on Alfie’s fate in her absence.

“Harris,” she breathed, shallow and quiet after a labored pause. Her hand touched her throat, able to feel the tightness that held her body hostage melt away.

“Muri? Are you ok?” She wanted to tell him she was having a heart attack and to call the paramedics to her loft, since she could not see straight enough to dial the phone. But as the cheers from the game on her flat screen TV rattled back into her head and her vision returned to her poor but typical farsightedness, she thought to tell him she wasn’t feeling well and to leave it at that. She looked to the night stand that she had supposedly set her wine glass down on, noticing she had nearly missed the table entirely and sent a pool of wine across her hardwood floors.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, thumping the back of her head against the wall, “Just too much wine tonight. I can’t talk about this right now.”

“Fine,” he seemed less then convinced, thought that was always the case when Harris knew Muri was holding back something. “We will be talking about this, though. I can’t make you do anything, but I can at least try and convince you to not throw your career away on a bad boy you have a soft spot for.”

“HARRIS,” Murina blurted out, feeling the familiar pressure in her forehead she was sure was from the wine this time.

“See you tomorrow.” He hung up the phone.

Muri took the deep breath she was fighting so hard moments before for, washing away the strain of another dressing down from Harris. She hated how right he was all the time, and sometimes secretly wished he was against her so she would have no reason to listen to him. This had been her choice from day one, and she wanted to own every victory and every struggle that came with it. It was as much her own journey as it was Alfonse’s. She did not expect her crucible to be such a titan problem, but as she had often told Harris, told the others and told herself, it was a trail worth taking and one she had convinced herself repeatedly, with the blind faith of a deluded cult follower, that would turn out alright. With enough push, with enough hard work, things were going to get better. She had put too much into it for it not to.

She told herself as much, slowly stacking up Alfie’s mound of bad press, wondering just what she was going to say to the difficult rat the next time she talked to him.

---

Sleep hadn't come easy for Murina Beaubonique. After the dizzy spell, she had gone to bed early in the hopes that a little extra rest might help clear her head. Unfortunately, the stress of the top twenty four announcement made it difficult to doze off, images of an angry Alphonse Norwich IV dancing through her subconscious. From the get-go, the British rat had been a longshot, but she had crafted him into a draftable prospect, one worthy of being on any team's radar. Even so, she had known going into it that being selected for the draft combine was unlikely, given his lack of pedigree and the negative media buzz surrounding both him and his hometown. Evan Marshall, with his attractive resume and clear rap sheet, made a far more sensible choice for the league. No matter how talented the rat might be, he wasn't one that would immediately light up the league's eyes.

And yet, her time spent with him both in Boston and in Toxteth had left Murina hoping that maybe, just maybe, the FBA would see the spark in him that she did. Maybe they would have read the Rozich article, seen the Harvaardwak tapes and been willing to take a chance on the rat, recognizing that talent despite his background and rough exterior. They hadn't, of course, and much as she understood, it left Murina tense and uneasy. A top twenty four slot meant that Alphonse's drafting was all but guaranteed, now there was the strong possibility that come October his name would be left unspoken for the second time. She'd put so much work into him, made phone calls and sent emails, fighting to repair his image. The idea of all that time being for nothing left a hard pit in the black rat's belly, to say nothing of having to deal with the Brit himself. By the time she finally managed to drift to sleep, the sun was nearly up again.

Then, her phone rang.

Blearily, Murina reached over to her nightstand and grabbed at her oPhone, one eye more open than the other as she peered at the screen. It wasn't even seven in the morning, and although a Monday she couldn't see why anyone would be calling so early. Then she saw the name on the display and immediately snapped awake. Swallowing hard, she answered.

"Good morning, Alfie," she said, voice measured and careful. Maybe he wasn't that mad. He had to understand. She'd told him from the beginning that as much as she saw in him it would take work to get the league's attention. He might be disappointed, but Alphonse had to know it was going to happen.

"WHAT THE FUCK, MURI?!?" came the hollering response, nearly making her drop the phone. Wincing, she raised it back to her ear, still trying to un-fog her brain.

"Alfie, I'm not any happier with this than you are, but I told you..."

He cut her off. "You tol' me they'd 'ave t' pick me! 'At there's no way they c'd ignore me! Y' fuckin' said I's sure as salad gettin' in!"

Murina let him rant for a few moments more, resting her head on her pillow with the phone a few inches from the side of her face. The stream of vulgarities and accusations blurred into white noise out coming out of the tiny speaker, and she waited until there was a gap, likely when her client stopped to take a breath, before responding.

"Alfie. ALFIE. Listen to me. You've made a lot of progress, but you're not a college player, you're years out of high school, and your hometown doesn't have the best reputation. It's perfectly understandable why they'd pick someone like Evan over you."

"Evan? Who th' fuck is Evan??"

Murina immediately regretted saying his name. "He's... another one of my clients," she said vaguely.

"Yeh? Well what is 'e?"

"What do you mean?"

"You cunting well know what I mean!"

Sighing, Muri answered. "He's a woodpecker, Alphonse. A helmeted woodpecker."

Instantly another cavalcade of cursing and specist slurs came flying out of her phone speaker, providing an opportunity for Murina to sit the phone a few inches away from her ear and gather her thoughts. A few moments passed, and she decided to check in on Alfie's tirade.

"An' I fuckin' told you 'is would happen! Those nonnie shits was against me from th' first hop!"

"Alfie..."

"They got all th' beakas an' lappies makin' smiley faces, neva give a rat a shake!"

"Alfie."

"Prolly got my papas an' saw what I am an' tossed it in the fuckin' BIN! Wouldn't be too su-"

"ALFIE!" Murina shouted, making sure he heard. "A rat got into the combine!"

The silence on the other end made Murina look at her screen to make sure she hadn't accidentally hung up. She pressed the phone back to her ear.

Quietly, unsure, Alphonse simply asked, "...what?"

Muri let out a sigh and pressed her other hand to her forehead. "Alfie. Jerry Michaels got picked for the top twenty four. He's a rat." She avoided mentioning Jerry's domestic lineage. "There are five or six rats in the pool this year, and one did get selected. You didn't get passed over because of your species."

After a pause, Alphonse asked. "What y' sayin', Muri? I ain't good enough??"

Murina winced. It was far too early in the morning to deal with this. "I didn't say that. I'm saying that, from the league's perspective, a rat with your... history is less likely to be selected for the top twenty four than one like Jerry who has high school and college experience. And who didn't make his first impression in America by screaming obscenities at restaurant owners and passersby on the street."

The sound of tense breathing was clearly audible, and for a moment Murina was actually impressed that instead of launching into yet another rant, Alfie was thinking his words over. "S... so what now, eh? I's from a bad lot an' so I got nothin'?"

It was a sad conundrum that hadn't gone unnoticed by Alfie's agent. The combine was the chance for players to show their skill, which would have been perfect for a player like Alfie who had the ability but not the on-paper credentials. Unfortunately, without that resume, he couldn't get the chance to show what he was capable of. He started from behind and the league was giving greater promotion to the ones who were already ahead. Not that she didn't understand why, but when it came to Alphonse it left her frustrated.

"No, you don't got n... have nothing. It just means that between now and draft night we need to do everything we can to show that you can play, and that you won't be a liability." Muri paused. "That... you won't cause any trouble."

"I ain't gonna cause trouble!"

"I know that," Murina lied. "But we need to convince THEM of that. You have the skill, it's just a matter of the teams being willing to give you the chance."

"So... th' fuck am I s'posed t' do?"

"Hang tight. I'm making phone calls and arranging meetings. Maybe we'll get some more court time for you, or maybe you can record one of your weekly games there at the park. You're a product right now, Alphonse, we need to advertise. Now, I need to get going, we'll talk about this later, okay? Goodbye, Alfie."

Murina pressed the end call button on her oPhone and laid her head back on her pillow, eyes closed.

"...I never should have given him a phone."