#may i introduce you to my patrick mckinney headcanons

[robthegoodfellow]

Directly follows this snippet. Takes place in Spin Me Right Round universe, where Billy’s path deviates before he assaults Lucas in canon timeline (hence the vibe between them here is less fraught than you’d expect). Despite that, Billy still has to confront the lingering effects of being raised by a bigot (by which I mean, his own racism), and this snippet reflects on that process. Trigger warning for mention of racist stereotypes and past encounters with derogatory terms related to Latino community.

He and McKinney fell into a pseudo routine, heading to the community courts when practice let out and staying until either it got too cold or too late, and then Billy would drive him home. They figured out that if McKinney was wearing orange sweatbands on his wrists, Billy could more accurately aim for his hands without turning his way, and McKinney had taken to calling a stream of “B—B—B!” whenever he was coming up behind for an open shot.

Sinclair joined them one afternoon when Billy wanted to try a drill that only worked with three players—turned out the kid was more athletic than he looked, and way more into basketball than Billy realized. Apparently he and Sinclair, Sr. followed the Indiana teams religiously, college and pro, but Junior had been so desperate to talk ball with someone nearer his own age that he didn’t shut up for like half an hour, going on and on about their draft prospects, singing the praises of Stipo and Special K, bemoaning the Pacers’ shitty season—1 and 8 since New Year’s, which… yikes.

McKinney had tolerated the high-pitched chatter with good grace, not that Sinclair needed more than the odd grunt for fuel, and gave him some pointers to improve his stance, his shot. When Billy had asked later, en route to Maple after offloading McKinney, why he’d never mentioned even the slightest interest in basketball before, Sinclair had replied, with more hilarious vitriol than should be possible from the mouth of a literal child: “You’re a Lakers fan.”

“We’re not even in the same conference!” Billy had countered, indignant despite the amusement. “Hate on the Celtics, for Christ’s sake.”

“I can hate on both,” he declared.

“Whatever, dude,” Billy said, dismissive, deliberately provoking. “You just wish you had some of that magic—I get it.”

Sinclair had boiled for the rest of the ride, to Billy’s glee.

And look—he’d started all this with the goal of improvement, but it was a narrow, maybe selfish, maybe dickish kind of improvement: upping his game to antagonize some douchebag. But the more they practiced, just them two and with the team, the more he just… liked it. He really, really liked playing point guard. It felt… good?... to set the guys up for success, to tip into motion the dominos that put points on the board. Even though he wasn’t scoring as much, himself—it was a different kind of satisfying, knowing he’d made the right call when someone else made a bucket.

Which was great—maybe his heart had grown a couple sizes or whatever—but… there was another unintended side-effect. One that he was simultaneously so reluctant to confront directly and yet so desperately glad for that… he could hardly have explained it if asked.

He recognized it now because it had happened to him before, back home. It was—it was like this: So, Neil was… fucking racist, right? Billy’s whole life, the bastard had spewed all kinds of vicious, vile shit, and more subtle, insidious shit. Like, it took Billy ages to figure out, when he was little, what his dad meant whenever he mockingly referred to Frito Banditos, even long after the chip company discontinued the mascot. Another one: in third grade, Billy learned the meaning of greenback a couple weeks before he heard Neil rant about a seemingly similar term, and it took a mortifying mix-up at school for him to realize his dad hadn’t meant skyrocketing rates of soggy dollar bills.

Even as a kid, a part of him knew Neil was off-base—knew he was wrong—but as the years wore on, and all that garbage piled up in his ears, it… it poisoned the well water. Billy didn’t mean to, but for a while, an invisible finger pressed Play on the tape recorder in his brain whenever he crossed paths with any Latino—and he’d tense, get all awkward, precisely because he’d be trying to act normal despite the foul phantom torrent reminding him on a loop that they were all gang bangers, drug dealers, lazy freeloaders, illegal aliens, on and on and on.

And Billy’d had this paranoia, that somehow… they knew? That one look in his eyes and his thoughts would be manifest, even though he didn’t believe those things, even though he would press Stop if he could, bash the tapes to smithereens if he knew how. He’d been polluted—felt it intensely—how Neil’s ugliness had become his ugliness.

It wasn’t until middle school, when he started surfing sometimes with this kid Joaquin, who’d then introduced him to Manny and Luis, that he realized he could filter out the mental contaminants through… well, meaningful interaction with people—with the targets of Neil’s bullish bigotry. He’d started recording new stuff, true stuff, over the old.

Like… how Joaquin’s family had been in California long before it was even a state, and still visited relatives just over the arbitrary line in Baja; how Luis was living proof that everything Neil had sneered about the Sanctuary movement was bullshit, because there was a genocide going on in Guatemala and the US was backing the slaughter—had a hand in all the bloodshed plaguing the region, in fact; how Manny’s uncle had been one of the artists who’d transformed the concrete pylons of Coronado Bridge into a towering medley of murals, remaking Chicano Park into something beautiful rather a bleak reminder of the wholesale destruction of a neighborhood in favor of a motorway.

How Joaquin could make him laugh harder than anyone else with his lightning-fast, brutal quips, but Luis showed him the value of just sitting on his board, legs dangling, and feel the rise and fall of the surge like a pair of lungs beneath him; how Mexican food was hands-down the best thing Billy had ever tasted—not that there’d been much competition, considering his Ma’s favorite dish involved pickled fish and Susan’s most adventurous seasoning was salt; how as soon as Billy mentioned wanting a tattoo, Manny had brought him badass sketches of skulls… and when Billy’s mom had passed, had dropped off this little painting of some lilies, which he’d only been able to look at once and then put it away in the shoebox—safekeeping, not safe for opening.

It wasn’t like they were constantly hanging out or baring their souls—and Billy bared almost nothing—but you spend enough time with people over the years and you can piece stuff together. He missed them—wished he’d let them in, let them see more of him than the laid-back, wise-cracking beach bum. Hadn’t seen them since last March, when he’d gone off the rails. Hadn’t even said goodbye before leaving town.

Anyway. Went without saying, but Neil’s myriad prejudices hadn’t been limited to Latinos, and so—yeah, sometimes with Sinclair, with Jeff, and McKinney and other guys on the team… same playback problem, different tape. It wasn’t nearly as bad as it had been when he was a kid, probably because of the groundwork he’d already done thanks to his surfer buddies, and because he wasn’t an idiot child anymore who only had his parents to go off of—he read shit, and he had eyes.

Yet he couldn’t ignore—and was secretly relieved—that another round of re-recording was afoot, because just knowing abstractly, academically, that Neil was full of shit and racism was, you know, bad… it couldn’t compare to actually getting to know a person. First, there’d been Sinclair, and Jeff, to a limited degree—and now…

He was pretty sure he and Patrick McKinney were… friends? Guys didn’t exchange bracelets, or whatever, so unless they were Labradors in human form like Eddie, it was sometimes hard to tell when you’d crossed from the neutral status of “teammates” to something chummier. On Billy’s end, nicknames meant you were in—and he didn’t seem to mind Billy trimming his first and last—but maybe for Pat, the “B” was just… expedient?

It was more than that, though, because… like, he knew that Patrick had two older brothers—one about to graduate from Purdue and one living in Chicago who worked in advertising and had been involved in the Coke Adds Life campaign his first year in the business. That his father had died of cancer five ago, so his uncle, his mom’s brother, had moved in to help keep the household afloat. That he didn’t like his uncle much, for reasons Billy could guess.

Pat was shy—he tended to clam up in group settings, preferred to quietly observe, only piping in when he felt strongly about something—but once you got him alone, he had a mega puckish streak. Laughed easily, ragged on Billy nonstop, always in good fun, and could take it as well as dish it. Which was fortunate, because: ABBA. And just in general, the dude’s musical tastes were weird as fuck. He showed up at the community courts with a boombox one afternoon and started blasting a disco mix, for crying out loud. Claimed he played better when he had some groovy tune stuck in his head.

So, yeah. Friends, or… getting there.

The results of all their extracurricular practice were—pretty immediate, and pretty obvious. Both of them got more minutes with every game, the team started winning more than losing. Billy pretended not to notice how Carver was increasingly ornery about it—real waspish, pun definitely intended. When Coach announced the starting line-up ahead of a Friday match toward the end of January with Hargrove and McKinney at one and two, Carver flushed to the roots of his lame accountant haircut, but waited until the team had been dismissed to the showers to unleash on a poor innocent locker—the clanging kick carried over the hiss of water and booming chatter, and even when most of the team had finished getting dressed, Carver’s every movement was imbued with a violent flourish.

It was honestly delicious to witness, though Billy made a point not to glance at him directly, monitoring instead with his—by now, very well-honed—peripheral vision. On the way out, trailed stoically by Baker and Copeland, the little pissant muttered, just loudly enough for everyone to hear, how the sport was clearly turning toward cheap tricks and theatrics, and wasn’t it a shame.

The door had barely swung closed when Billy keeled over, hands on knees, cackling like a fiend. Harrington, who’d been apprised of the plan since day one, playfully kneed him in the side and Billy flopped to the gross tile floor, still laughing, arms raised in a reclining Rocky victory pose. There was a smattering of chuckles around the room.

“Watch your back, B,” murmured Pat, leaning over him from his perch on the bench, his voice laden with amusement. “First it’s cheap tricks, then magic tricks, then…” He raised his brows.

“Turning tricks,” Billy finished, as though doomed to his fate, and Patrick snorted. “Don’t worry, man.” He accepted the offered hand and pulled himself upright. “No one’s gonna see me with the devil.”

They won that Friday at home against Jefferson High—a real nail-biter to the final minute, when Billy somehow managed a devious no-look bounce pass to Patrick in the paint for a jump shot so picture perfect that the bench rioted.

“That was some Showtime shit!” Pat hollered over the chaos of mobbing teammates at the final buzzer. He launched himself atop Billy in a semi-hug from behind, then bounded over to his mom in the stands, who was still in her scrubs under her winter coat. ��

There was talk of a celebratory bonfire at the quarry, and as he and Harrington were leaving the locker room, intending to at least swing by, have a couple beers, Billy paused.

“Hey, Mickey!” he called. “You need a lift?”

Patrick scrunched his nose, caught up with them as they headed for the parking lot. “Ma’s gonna want me home.”

“We’re not planning to stay long,” Billy tried. “Could ya talk her into an hour?”

“You made the winning shot,” Harrington pointed out. “That’s gotta earn you something.”

Pat shook his head wryly. “No one talks her into anything, but I’ll ask. Wait up?”

They hung back while he jogged to his mother in the lobby, winced when his beseeching look was met with an unimpressed flat stare. When her gaze flicked their way, they both startled, then simultaneously raised an awkward hand. She bit her lips, repressing a smile—the same way Pat often did—turned back to her son, and let him plead his case a bit more. Uttered a few stern words that had Patrick alternately shaking and nodding his head, then shooed him away.

“Home by eleven thirty,” he said, and waved his arm in an after you toward the winter night.