Wilmer Grehr rubbed at the spot between his eyebrows tiredly. He wasn’t eager to dial the phone, but then, it wasn’t his fault that the call had to be made.

“Mr Norwich?” the red deer said, coolly eyeing the rat seated across the desk in his office.

“Yeh?”

“Mr Norwich, I trust you remember what your job is during this call.”

The silence from the big Brit drew a dry laugh from the deer. Back at the draft, several of the team General Managers had chatted about Alphonse, with the general consensus being that as promising of a talent as he was, he was hardly out of the ordinary and that the reward was not worth risks. He sat and listened to JC Kendall of the Montana Howlers joking with others that if there wasn’t anyone else left worth picking up, they might snag the rat at the tail end of the second round.

Taking Alfie at number fifteen in round one had caused quite a stir. On some level, Wilmer was proud of himself. He’d taken a chance, stood up for a rat that certainly had potential, knowing that all the guy needed was to get his head on straight and then they’d see what happens when you overlook a player just because of where he’s from or what he looks like.

Then… this.

Alfie had his big arms crossed, doing his best not to look at Wilmer. It was a peculiar turnaround for the rat, trying not to glare at a non-rat. Shoulders hunched and his head turned to the side, he looked like a pup sitting in the principal’s office.

“…Alphonse?”

The big rat huffed a breath. “Y’want I should keep m’ fuckin’ mouth shut.”

With a small shake of his head, Wilmer looked down at the phone and began to dial. “I suppose that’s close enough.”

Finishing the number, he sat the receiver down and pressed the speaker button, sitting back and waiting while it rang. On the other side of the desk, Alfie’s eyes locked onto the phone. He hoped it would just keep on ringing, go to the answering machine, and he wouldn’t have to worry about it.

“Murina Beaubonique, how can I help you?”

No such luck.

“Ah, yes, Ms Beaubonique. Wilmer Grehr here, I’m currently sitting with our mutual friend, Mr Alphonse Norwich. I’m assuming you know why I’m calling.”

It was a rhetorical question, of course, but Murina answered it nonetheless. “Mmn. Might it have something to do with a certain rat’s actions on the court tonight?”

Wilmer looked over at Alphonse, the rat’s lips tight, that muscled body like a coiled spring, ready to pounce. Still, he felt in no danger. Alphonse might have been irrational, but he wasn’t stupid. Plus, deep down, the deer enjoyed seeing the tough-talking rodent realize that he wasn’t in charge. It was reassuring, like a little piece of proof that Alfie did want to play ball.

“Yes, it might. Look, let’s not mince words. You know and I know that Hawaii was taking a chance in bringing Alphonse on board. We’d heard the stories, we’d heard the rumors, but we’d also seen the tape from his game in Boston and from our talks with you we were confident that he wasn’t the thug the media seemed so hell-bent on portraying him as.”

Murina sighed. “Yes, and I assure you we are both grateful th-“

“That said,” Wilmer interrupted sharply, “a flagrant foul that puts a player on the injured list is unacceptable. The reason I’m calling you is that I want to keep you in the loop on what’s going on over here. Understand that Mr Norwich is a good player, more so than most expected out of him, but we cannot have this be a common occurrence.”

Alfie broke in, “Aw c’mon!! I’s just tryin’ t’ get a block! Ain’t my fault ‘at fuckin’ ki-“

“ALFIE!” Murina’s voice shot out of the small speaker, silencing the big rat. Wilmer couldn’t help but grin, impressed with his agent’s ability to quiet him down even from several thousand miles away.

“Ahem,” Wilmer continued. “The thing is, and I hope you realize this, Alphonse’s… reputation is leading this to be seen as more than a simple on-court incident.”

“Now just what’s THAT supposed to mean?” Murina asked, pointedly.

The deer was quick to defend, “No judgment made from myself, Ms Beaubonique, I promise. I wouldn’t have leapfrogged so many other players if I thought that way. However, we do need to grapple with the fact that Alphonse is not the league’s favorite player, although he might be the media’s, and not in a particularly good way.”

Silence hung for a few moments. The deer with his fingers steepled, rat shifting in his seat uncomfortably, impatiently. On the other end of the line, the whirs and clicks of gears in Murina Beaubonique’s mind were almost audible.

“So what you’re saying is damage control, Mr Grehr?”

“Precisely. I want you to know that any disciplinary actions are more than just a response to this incident. We need to assure the league that this will not be a regular occurrence.”

Murina paused once again. “What were you thinking?”

“I suppose it goes without saying that Mr Norwich will be suspended. Now, we had several discussions about length of suspension and I was hoping to get your input on that.” As he spoke, Wilmer’s eyes periodically flickered upward toward Alphonse. It was amazing, watching the big, oh-so-tough rat practically writhing in his chair. There was more to this than just discussion of consequence. This was about showing who was in charge.

“As far as I’m concerned, Wilmer, he should be out as long as Rolf is. Three games, a week, whatever sounds best to you. If Alphonse feels like the best way to deal with an opponent is to send them off the court, he can join them.”

“Muri!!” Alphonse barked, suddenly leaning in on the desk and shouting at the speakerphone as though it were Murina herself. “It was… I didn’t MEAN t-“

“Mr Norwich, PLEASE,” Wilmer interrupted this time, prompting the big rat to plunk down angrily in his chair once more. “Now then. A week sounds fair. We’ve also decided that Mr Norwich will have a pair of… bodyguards, if you will.”

“Pardon my ignorance, but… what do you mean by ‘bodyguards’?” Murina asked.

Wilmer chuckled. “Well. Normally bodyguards would be protecting the client from others. These would be somewhat the opposite. A pair of security guards to make sure Mr Norwich stays in line.”

A dry chuckle sounded from the speaker. “So you mean you’re giving Alfie a pair of handlers.”

“…Basically.”

“Fantastic,” Murina said simply, leaving Alphonse’s jaw slack.

“Wonderful. Now then, Ms Beaubonique, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to talk with you about what the steps would be should this unfortunate little event repeat itself…”

Alphonse stormed out of the office, his teeth gritted, doing everything in his power to stop himself from tearing down everything around him. For a half hour he sat while his team’s manager and his agent talked about what “consequences” there would be if he hurt another player. It wasn’t HIS fault what happened, why was he getting in so much trouble? He’d taken a thousand elbows to the head playing ball back home, just shrug it off and move on. Why did everything have to be such a big deal? So there was a little blood on the court, big deal!

The commotion as he stomped past, kicking over a plastic trash bin, assured that all eyes in the locker room were well locked on him. Alphonse stopped in the middle of the room, glaring at all of them. He felt on display. An exhibition. Not a teammate, just a sideshow for them all to gawp at.

“Th’ FUCK ‘re you lot peepin’, eh?!?” he shouted, and immediately everyone pretended to be doing something else.

At his locker, Alphonse stood, looking inside it. He didn’t need anything, he’d already put on his street clothes prior to the meeting (after all, the less time he spent in the uniform the better), but he continued to stand, staring at the nothing inside his metal locker. As if he could climb inside it, close the door behind him, and emerge somewhere else.

“Heh, they give you the business?”

The sudden voice made Alphonse jump, head snapping to the side. Scoonie Barrett, one of his teammates, was standing beside him, folding a few things and putting them into his own locker with a small smile on his face.

“That tickle ya tail, mate?” Alfie responded without a hint of humor in his voice.

Scoonie chuckled, shaking his head. The big otter, on the surface, looked like he’d be a kindred spirit with Alphonse. Standing a few inches taller with a similar build, the otter’s swirling tribal tattoos struck an image of a similarly rough character. That was where the likenesses ended, however. For all of his wild image and feral appearance, Scoonie was a cool head, the captain of his team in college, whereas Alfie… was not.

So the otter took Alfie’s little snap in stride, just closing his locker and turning around so his back was against it, looking out into the room absent-mindedly. “Look, don’t let it get to ya.”

Alfie’s eyes snapped to the side. “Nuffin’s getting’ to me, now fuck off,” he said flatly, slamming his locker closed after taking nothing out of it.

Scoonie couldn’t stop himself from grinning, arms crossed. He looked his teammate over for a second, almost studying him. For the rough and tumble image, the gravelly voice, the cursing and the general hard shell, he thought, so much of the rat was still a little kid. He took a breath and turned toward Alphonse, allowing himself to get more serious.

“Look, Alfie. I know how it is. You look like a bad guy, they’re gonna be harder on you when you mess up.”

Alphonse snorted, still looking for ways to avoid actually making eye contact with the otter. “Ye don’t think I’m a bad guy, eh?”

Scoonie’s grin stayed wide. “I’ve met a lot of bad guys. I think if you were a bad guy you wouldn’t be working so hard in practice, and I’m pretty sure you would have done a lot more in that office than just sat there stewing.”

Lips tight, the big rat put his hand to his forehead, rubbing. “Mate, I… I didn’t fuckin’ MEAN t’ crack ‘im like ‘at!” he blurted out, words coming all in a rush. “Was jus’ playin’ th’ game ‘ow I always played it! Tryin’ t’ keep my ‘ead down but if every bloody time I slip they gon-“

The tattooed otter put his hand up. “Preaching to the choir, Alfie,” he said, partly to settle the rat down and partly because he didn’t really understand what the Brit was saying. “Just think of it like this, my friend. You’re in trouble, and now you can show them that you’re a professional.”

That quieted Alphonse down, the rat taking a breath. “Yeh well… don’t think it’ll be th’ last time ‘em nonnie tits is scoped on ol’ Alfie.” He paused slightly. “…No offense, mate.”

Scoonie chuckled, almost proud that he’d earned at least that semblance of politeness from the Liverpool rat. It was a lot more than anyone else had gotten so far. For that matter, in the whole first week of the season, this was the most he’d actually talked to anyone. “None taken.”

Alfie did his usual ritual of exiting the arena and calling for a cab (making sure no one could see him make the call), and silently rode his way back to his new apartment.

After walking up the path to his A-frame, one he’d selected for its ocean view and seclusion, Alfie stood at the front door for a few seconds, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his key. He looked at the small piece of metal in his hand, turning it this way and that, before inserting it into the deadbolt and giving it a turn, listening to the tumblers catch and the lock opened up. Before opening up, though, he gave a few light raps on the door.

“…S’me, open up,” he muttered to no one, and entered.

The apartment’s lights had been left on while Alfie was out, as well as the television. He heavily disliked coming home to darkness and silence, not caring about the additional electrical bill. The big rat clomped his way along the hardwood floor, each step echoing in a way they never would have back in Toxteth in his smaller, more fully occupied home. He could hear each little creak of wood, every breeze that came in through the window, the hum of the air conditioner.

Alphonse grabbed a beer bottle from his fridge and sat down on his couch, absent mindedly flicking through channels on his modest television. Murina had given him some help in securing the lease and purchasing a few things to fill it up, but despite all of her suggestions and urging, Alfie had rejected the majority of it. He didn’t have any interest in spending money on extravagant furniture or electronics. As long as he had food in his fridge and the lights worked, all was well.

Popping the cap with his teeth and spitting it off to the side, he lifted the bottle in a toast to himself.

“Well ol’ boy,” he said, taking a big sip. “Y’ made it. Big superstar player Alphonse Norwich IV.”

The mohawked rat kept scrolling through the channels. He didn’t have anything in mind to watch, but it felt nice to be able to make the decision. No one to argue with him about what station to stop on, to complain about the selection, the silly little games they’d play to settle disputes.

“Okay, tips ’n tails Pip, winna gets t’ pick.”

He bounced back and forth between shows, acting out little arguments with himself, going from FSPN to a movie station, cartoons and news, celebrity gossip and gritty crime drama. He pretended to be each of his family members, imagining how they’d voice their displeasure at this or that, before “winning” the fight and stopping on a sports show. Unsurprisingly, they were talking about the game from earlier that day.

“Look,” one talking head said to another on his screen, “I’m not doubting the guy’s skills. I’m just saying he’s a thug. The league doesn’t need thugs right now. Look at Conkale in Montana or Knight in Texas. Street kids with hard knock stories and they’re not out elbowing players. Far as I’m concerned Hawaii paid too much for this Norwich guy, and he’s gonna cost them e-“

Clicking the television off, Alfie threw the remote across the room, letting it clack against the wall and knock its batteries out. He rested his head against the couch and grunted.

“Out for a week, bein’ the damn butler for th’ team, an’ wit’ a pair o’ handlers. Bet I’ll get some beakas. Gonna ‘ave me on a leash. Least th’ print’ll get th’ story they been dyin’ t’ get. Alphonse Norwich IV, wild animal. Rabid street rat. Vermin. Can’t even play a fuckin’ jump wit’out needin’ a whole crew ‘round t’ keep ‘im unda control.”

Seconds ticked past as slowly as they could manage, and the rat had enough of it. He finished his beer and stood up. There was no way Alphonse, the big bad Biter Boy from the Toxteth slums, was going to just sit in his living room in silence. He was in Hawaii, for fuck’s sake. There were beachside bars, tourists, fans. There had to be fans of his out there, didn’t there? He was a big FBA star, he must be selling jerseys and posters. Besides, he’d heard that there was a bustling rat community in Hawaii, he wouldn’t be all alone. He’d seen a tattoo shop that looked like it was owned by some rats, even, and was thinking about adding to his ink collection.

And so, Alphonse Norwich stepped out into the night to hit the town.