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discokicks · 2 years ago

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BAD IDEAS (ON THE SAME PAGE) — JAMIE TARTT

a fic inspired by bad idea right by olivia rodrigo!

masterlist! song inspo! AO3!

pairing: jamie tartt x fem!reader (no use of y/n!)

summary: football star jamie tartt is an asshole. he’s the one ex of yours that your friends always hated, one that you now all joke about, and one you haven’t spoken to in four years. however, after a chance encounter, the two of you reconnect, and he leaves you with his new number and a hundred questions about his reformed personality. but seeing him tonight would be a bad idea, right?

word count & rating: 11k (wowza), M! (18+! minors get away or i’ll narc on you to your guardians)

warnings: SMUUUUUUT, porn with plot, lots of suggestive language, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, sprinkling of a handjob, unprotected p in v (wrap it up kids), angst, mentions of alcohol, probable secondhand embarrassment, exes reuniting (it needs a warning sometimes), jamie tartt was an asshole and is now just a prick (in the best way possible), reader is a physio, major fluff, and swearing. also reader is american (bc the author is too. sorry </3)

authors note: well. i wrote it. olivia wrote this song for teenage girls in their twenties (me) only and i immediately thought of this fic the second i heard it. i'm calling this an exercise in smut writing before i embark on my aces (my roy kent series for my new friends) eventual-smut-adventure, so this evolved into something i wasn’t expecting but i had so much fucking fun writing it. god, i love jamie tartt. also! this is my first smut fic at this type of level, so go easy on me. hope you all enjoy. love you all tons! -mags

There are two universal truths in life.

The first is that the coffee shop you frequent on your way to work will and will always have the best cold brew you’ve ever tasted. The second is that Jamie Tartt will and will always be a massive fucking prick, and you’ll never see him again for as long as you live.

These are two things you live by, and while they may seem rather mundane or petty in the grand scheme of things, they are the only truths you can count on these days. Especially when everything else is so up in the air.

However, the universe doesn’t seem to believe in these things as blindly as you do, and this becomes evident the moment that you step into the shop on a gloomy Wednesday morning. Because these two truths (well, they’re fucking bald-faced lies now aren’t they, huh?) are broken within approximately two minutes of each other with seven words.

It began when you greeted Natalia, the barista who was here every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday before your shift at the clinic with a wide smile. As soon as she saw your face, her expression turned apologetic, albeit a bit dazed.

“You’re gonna hate me,” she says, putting her hands on either side of the register. Your brows shot up at her words. “We just ran out of cold brew.”

Your face falls. “You’re kidding.”

“We were low on it this morning,” she starts to explain, “our stupid night-shifters didn’t prep enough last night. And it’s been selling like crazy today.”

“Seriously?” you nearly whine. “I might cry.”

“I’m sorry, Doc,” she apologizes, but she doesn’t sound too apologetic. Natalia’s eyes keep shifting to your left, the dazed look in her eye never faltering. Then, she says the fated seven words. “But he took the last of it.”

You turn your head in the direction she’s been looking, and your blood runs completely cold. You think you could drop dead and go to hell at this very moment, and it’d be a better existence than what awaits you in the next five minutes. And while this all may sound dramatic, you don’t care.

You don’t care because Jamie fucking Tartt is standing across from you, newly long hair peeking out from beneath his hood. He’s engrossed in whatever’s on his phone, fingers flying back and forth like he’s texting.

You think you could run. You’re pretty sure you could successfully make a break for it and leave Natalia high and dry without him seeing you. It’d be an easy exit, and you’d never have to see him again.

But then, as if he can feel your eyes on him, he looks up. And the second he meets your gaze, his face falls in what you can imagine was a similar fashion to yours.

Fuck.

Luckily, Natalia is none the wiser. She barely notices your expression, and with Jamie by the pick-up area, she can’t see the way he’s looking at you. So, instead of questioning you, she straight-up giggles.

“I know,” she practically squeals. “I was totally going to save you the last of it, but he asked for it. And I mean, c’mon. It’s Jamie Tartt. I couldn’t possibly say no to him.”

You tragically know that feeling all too well. Knowing you probably would have had a snappier, more cutting response to that if you weren’t in the most debilitating phase of shock, you settle for a quiet, “It’s okay.” You nod at her, brushing it off in an attempt to be casual. “I can settle for an espresso today.”

Natalia nods, tapping it into her register. “Same size as usual?”

“Yeah,” you say, not completely sure what you’re agreeing to. You glance over again at Jamie and find that he’s still standing there, staring at you, and you immediately blink away. “That’s fine.”

The rest of the transaction feels as though it takes a millennium and three seconds all at once. You’re still caught off guard by the time Natalia gives you your receipt with a dazed look in your eye that now matches hers.

However, yours isn’t because you just saw your favorite Richmond player or your favorite reality show villain. It’s because you’ve just seen your ex-boyfriend and you’re about to walk over and stand next to him for a prolonged period of time.

Nothing about this scenario feels real. You hadn’t seen him in four years. Not since things ended as ugly as they had, with him leaving you sobbing outside of a club at three in the morning, letting you know that things were over between you two. And he hadn’t even given you a reason. It was just that he wasn’t ‘feeling’ it anymore.

You saw in a tabloid about three months later that he was now seeing Keeley Jones (yeah, having to compete with that did not sit well with you at all) and had drawn your assumptions from there. Whether or not he’d been seeing her behind your back or had broken up with you to be with her, you didn’t know. You didn’t care. You were in your anger stage of the break-up and only knew one thing.

Jamie Tartt was a massive fucking prick, and you’d sooner walk on a bed of nails before you saw him again.

But now here he was. And there were no nails to be found.

You avoid eye contact as you pass him to wait for your coffee. There’s a piece of you that wants to say hi and play it cool, just to put on a show for him about how unaffected you were by everything that had happened. The other piece of you hopes that not a word is said for your entire time here.

Unfortunately, neither of those happen.

Jamie slides over to be near you, awkwardly rocking back and forth on his heels. His hands are stuffed in his sweatshirt pocket, and you wait for him to say something. Anything. But he doesn’t.

Instead, you can feel the ‘play it cool’ part of you rise up to the surface. You could do this. You could feign indifference. Fuck him, you could be cool.

You glance over at him and see that he’s pressing his lips together, eyes shifting around the coffee shop. It’s crazy how familiar you still are with his tells to know he’s desperately looking for a way to say something.

You say it for him. “Hi,” you say simply. Cool and unaffected.

It’s as if the one word alone makes him flinch. He clearly wasn’t expecting you to say anything. “Hi—” He clears his throat after his greeting comes out cracked, and he stuffs his hands further in his pockets. “Hey.”

The awkwardness of this moment is killing you, and it’s taking everything in you to pretend like it's not. As you search for something else to say, you land on, “You took my cold brew.”

You can see his brows shoot up out of the corner of your eye. “Oh, fuck, did I?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah,” you tell him. “I come in here every morning. Friends with the barista. Said she was going to save me the last of it, but…” You trail off and finally look at him. “She couldn’t say no to Jamie Tartt, apparently.”

You want to jump up and down about how well you’re doing right now. Maybe you are over him. Maybe you’ve finally moved past this shit, and seeing him once more is all you needed to solidify that. Maybe—

The second he chuckles softly with an apologetic smile, your confidence in those things shoots down. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“Since when do you drink cold brew, anyway?” you ask, frustrated with the fact that he’s fucking laughing in front of you. “You were always a like, caramel macchiato or frappuccino asshole.”

The names make him laugh harder, shaking his head. “Don’t like those anymore,” he responds. “Sugar hurts me teeth. Tryin’ somethin’ new.”

“Yeah,” you mutter. “My fucking coffee.”

That chuckle continues with a shrug. “I’m sorry.” he says again. Then he pauses. “But it’s not like your name was on it, or anythin’.”

Your face draws blank, and immediately, Jamie can tell he’s made a misstep. And it’s not that you’re angry about the joke, it’s just the… everything. Him. The situation. Everything you can remember that you wonder if he bothers to remember too.

Before you can walk away, you feel his hand on your arm. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats for a third time, turning you so that you’ll look at him. Your pissed-off expression meets his easy smile and it only fuels your anger more. “I was jokin’. I’m sorry I took your coffee. We can get ‘em to put your name on it if you want.”

“Whatever,” you mutter. It’s not the most mature thing you could have said, but frankly, you don’t care. You just want to get your consolation espresso and get the hell out of here. “What are you even doing over here anyway?”

You’re not sure why you ask it. You don’t know why you keep the conversation going. Jamie looks just as surprised as you are. “I moved over here a couple weeks ago,” he answers. “Got sick of the old place.”

“Can’t imagine why,” you reply. By the way that Jamie snorts, you know he recalls just how much you hated his apartment when you knew him. It screamed twenty-two-year-old AFC-money shithead and you would tease him about it constantly. “Was the empty beer bottle sculpture finally giving you mold poisoning?”

He chuckles again. “That came down shortly after we stopped talking.”

“Oh, so I was just lucky enough to see it in its final days?”

“Oi,” he says, pointing at you. “That thing was fuckin’ impressive and you know it.”

“Impressive in a dorm,” you shoot back. “Not a seven million pound flat.”

He bows his head in a guilty manner. “You remember that, huh?”

“Hard not to,” you answer. “You never stopped talking about it.”

He at least has the decency to wince at that one. “I know,” he says earnestly. It makes you look at him. He shrugs once more. “I wanted to impress ya.”

He did impress you. But not with things like that. He’d impress you when you watched him play, he’d impress you when he made you laugh, and he’d impress you on the rare occasion that he’d just be himself in front of you. Not some asshole footballer. Just him.

But you don’t say that. You say, “That wasn’t the way.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles mirthlessly. “Got that now.” He rocks back on his heels again, like he’s not sure if he should say whatever he wants to. “I was a proper fucking dick to you, wasn’t I?”

That almost makes you fall over. Did he just say that? Did he actually just admit that? Out loud, here, for everyone to hear? Accountability? Unprompted? From Jamie Tartt?

You want to glance around to see if Rod Sterling’s going to emerge from the bathroom to narrate the next couple of minutes of your life, but are too shocked to do so.

Your surprise must show in your eyes, because Jamie laughs to himself. “Yeah. Wild, innit?” He shakes his head. “On a bit of an apology tour this year. Trying to build back some bridges, or whatever.”

The nod you give him is slow, still reeling from all of this. “Right,” you say lamely. “Building bridges.”

“I’m serious,” he tells you and for a brief moment, you think he may just mean it. The sincerity in his eyes is clear. “I was terrible to you. And I’m sorry.”

Whatever you were expecting when you stepped into this coffee shop on this rainy Wednesday, it certainly wasn’t this. And you certainly weren’t expecting your first time reuniting with him to go this way— with him apologizing to you. The actual words ‘I’m sorry’ just left his mouth.

You genuinely don’t know who this is. Because it’s certainly not the Jamie you knew.

You saw flashes of this guy. Quiet moments during your short-lived relationship, typically when it was just the two of you. It’s the type of guy you always knew he could be if he tried. The type of guy you pushed him to be.

(Your friends always taunted you about having the ever-horrendous I-can-fix-him gene, and they never quite let go of it. But it’s not like it wasn’t true.)

Those flashes are why you held out for as long as you did. If it were anyone else, any other asshole who treated you the way he did, you would have dropped them in a second. But he wasn’t like that. Not always, at least.

It was terrible to think like that. You’d been in a low spot when you’d met him and had taken even lower when he left you. You’d recovered tenfold from that and now knew your worth.

But as he stands in front of you, apologizing, genuinely apologizing, and looking at you like that, you start to question it.

No! the logical part of your brain practically screams. Don’t you fucking dare.

You’re keen to listen to that for the time being. It hardens you. And all you can do is nod at him again. “Well, uh—” Your voice comes out hoarse. You cough awkwardly. “Yeah. You were. Terrible to me. And, uh… thank you. For saying that.”

So much for playing it cool. You want to slam your head up against the wall but hold yourself back from doing so.

He nods at you, opening his mouth to say something else before he’s interrupted by one of the baristas calling your name. His cold brew’s sitting on the counter too, something the two of you clearly missed in the middle of your conversation.

When you reach for your drink, he grabs his too. He’s still staring at you, biting the inside of his cheek like he wants to say something. When you go to move around him, he stops you.

“Look, I just—” You look up at him expectantly, and his shoulders deflate. “I know you probably want nothin' to do with me. But, I just… I want to talk to you.”

Your espresso is hot in your hands. “Well, that sounds like a you problem.”

That’s when he says your name. Your actual name. Not the nickname that everyone calls you, not a pet name that he used to use, he says your name. And it makes you stop in your tracks.

It’s so stupid. It’s so fucking dumb that your fucking name can send you back to the day you first met him and were completely taken with him. You hate it. And you hate the way it makes your walls come crumbling down.

“Please,” he begs. “Can we… Can I at least give you my number? It’s a new one, but I-I think I’ve still got yours. You don’t have to use it if you don’t want to. But just so you can… I don’t know? Think about it?”

You wouldn’t know if he still had your number. You blocked him ages ago. But you doubt it.

However, the more you think about it, the more you consider it. It’s the product of your resolve falling and well, everything else about him now. You think about it.

If you allowed him to give you his number, the ball would be in your court. You could do what you wanted with it. You could text him, you could tell him to fuck off, you could ignore him. It was up to you.

And you don’t know if that’s worse or better.

You decide on better. The second you sigh, Jamie knows he’s got you. A wide grin breaks out on his face as you hand him your phone. “I’ll think about it,” you mutter.

That’s good enough for him. He gives your phone back to you, new number inserted and new contact created. You’re glad he didn’t search for his old one. That one just says ASSHOLE in big capital letters with about a million gun emojis.

(That was done by your previous roommates in an effort to get you to move on from him. You thought it was a bit overdramatic. You were never one for emojis.)

He’s smiling when he holds his coffee out for you. You stare at him blankly, thinking he’s attempting to cheers you. Instead, he shakes his head and says, “Take it.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“Trade with me,” he clarifies and your expression turns to one of shock. “C’mon. You said it’s yours anyway, right?” When you don’t move he rolls his eyes. “Offer’s only good for another second. Me arm’s getting tired.”

At that, you sigh rather dramatically and grumble to yourself, trying not to act pleased by the gesture. You hand him your coffee and he gives you his. “Thanks,” you say. It was kind of him.

His grin returns and he nods at you. “Alright,” he says. After a slightly awkward beat, he steps back from you. “It was good to see you, Doc. Really.” You’re taken back by how genuine his voice sounds and say nothing in return. “I’ll talk to you later?”

He says it as a question, hopeful and well-meaning. “Yeah,” you tell him noncommittally. “Maybe.”

That too, is good enough for him. Because he sends you one more smile, then walks out of the coffee shop with your espresso in hand.

You’re still reeling from the interaction when you glance down at his your cold brew and see Natalia’s handwriting. She’s made it just as you like it, down to the milk and everything.

But below it is a small drawing. It’s a tiny shark fin with a #9 written inside, with little lettering circling around it.

Doo-doo-do-doo-do-do-doo.

You’re fucked.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” is the question that your best friend and former roommate Leah screams at you over drinks at a busy rooftop bar. So busy, in fact, that barely anyone looks over at the two of you.

You’d made the mistake of telling Leah that not only had you run into Jamie on Wednesday, but you’d let him give you his number.

And you’d texted him after hours of deliberation.

It was something innocent, something you’d thought way too much about, but innocent still. You weren’t sure if you were ready to actually talk to him, but there was something about texting him that wasn’t so scary. Your guard was clearly still up, evident by how dry you were in your messages, and you were keeping your distance. You never texted back too quickly, didn’t ask many questions, and often left him on read.

(Yeah, you’d turned your read receipts on for him. What about it?)

Your first text was a simple enough question, something that you’d been genuinely wondering about since you saw him. It was open enough for a conversation but not too forward. how’d you know my coffee order?

His response came in minutes later. Is that yours? Good taste. It was shortly followed up with, That espresso you drink was fucking disgusting though.

And that was that. That was how you started texting your ex again. That’s how you reconnected yourself with Jamie Tartt. That’s how you knew it was over for you.

And that’s how you’re pretty sure you’re about to kill your best friend.

Leah’s eyes were wild, somehow angry yet still disbelieving yet intrigued. But the intrigue was very minimal. Very minimal. It was hidden well by how pissed off she was at you.

She had every right to be pissed at you. She was the one who always warned you about him. She’d straight-up nursed you back to health when you broke up. She was the one who had to hear about him 24 hours a day until you were finally over him.

Leah had had a year of peace. And now you were killing her for good.

“You’re kidding, right?” she follows up with. Her grip on your arm is tight. “Please tell me your kidding.”

“Leah…” Your voice is weak.

It tells her everything she needs to know. “Oh, my God! Oh, my. God.” She puts her face in her hands. “You’re insane. You’re fucking losing it and we need to have you checked out right now.”

“I’m completely sentient and in control of my own body.”

“Are you sure?”

You sip at your cocktail. “I reset a knee today. I’m pretty sure.”

“I think you might need to reconsider,” she says. “Because you just told me that not only are you talking to Jamie Tartt again, but you were the one who instigated it!”

You deserve this verbal beatdown and you know it. But all you can do is shrug. “Technically, he gave me his number. He’s the one who instigated it.”

“I’m gonna throw my fucking drink in your face,” Leah threatens, gripping her glass in warning.

You roll your eyes at her. “Nothing’s gonna happen,” you say, even though you know you’re probably lying. Leah knows this too. “We’ve just been texting a little. It’s nothing serious.”

“Yeah, sure,” she deadpans. “Right. And even if I did believe you, what happens if it does? What happens if you get back in your weird, scary Jamie phase and he kills you again? I can’t deal with that.”

“That’s not going to happen,” you assure her, and this time it’s more confident. Because you know you won’t. Not this time. Not if anything happens.

You’d met Jamie when you were twenty-two. You were in your first year of your Masters program, slightly lost as in your move to London to finish your journey to become a physical therapist. Or a physio, as they called it here. Whatever. You couldn’t keep up with the names.

You were shadowing a physio at the clinic you now worked at, assisting him as a part of your internship at one of the football tournaments the clinic worked at. It was a ton of big-wig footballers, some names you recognized, others you didn’t. But it didn’t matter. They were precious fucking cargo and you were so paranoid about screwing up that you barely registered who they were when you worked on them.

That was, until a twenty-two-year-old Jamie Tartt sprained his ankle and plopped himself down on your doctor’s bench. He looked at you, you assisted him, and you were wrapped up in what you were doing that you didn’t even notice he was flirting with you.

You didn’t realize until he asked you out. And the rest was history, for better or for worse.

You were surprised he went for you. You knew who Jamie was, what type of girls he liked to be seen with. They were singers and models and actresses. They weren’t you.

(Perhaps that’s one of the reasons you liked him so much. Because he chose you. You didn’t like to think about that phase of your life.)

But after six months of seeing him, he ended things out of nowhere. Right when you’d settled on the idea that despite it all, you might be in love with him. And that was that.

You hadn’t seen him since. Not until this week.

“Not gonna happen my ass,” Leah scoffs, bringing you back into the conversation at hand.

A sigh of frustration leaves your lips. “Listen, I know it’s a bad idea;” you tell her. “I know it is. But, I don’t know. There was something different about him, Leah. He was just… like not someone I recognized.”

“Maybe because his hair is fucking long and stupid now.” She brings her glass to her lips. “His highlights look horrendous.”

“I actually like his hair like this,” you admit, earning yet another eye roll. “Listen. I’m not saying he’s changed. He probably hasn’t. But I…” You trail off with a shrug. “I don’t know. What if he has?”

Leah’s looking at you like you’re the dumbest person she’s ever met in her life. “Are you hearing yourself right now?” she asks incredulously. “Babe, he was a prick to you. Like, category-five, prestige-level twat. Like, worst boyfriend you’ve ever had.”

“I know,” you repeat. “And I said nothing’s going to happen. But if it does, and it goes south, I give you full permission to say I-told-you-so for the rest of my life, alright?”

Leah bites the inside of her cheek, shaking her head. “Whatever,” she says. After a moment, she glances over at you. “I’m just looking out for you, y’know. I don’t want to see you hurt again. And I definitely don’t want him to be the reason for that hurt again.”

You grab her hand. “I know,” you say once more. “And I love you for it. But if I’m gonna be stupid, I’m fully aware of when I’m gonna do it. And it’s gonna be my own fault.”

There’s a moment of silence between the two of you before Leah nods. “Okay,” she finally says. “Okay. Fine. Your fucking funeral.”

“I’ll let you give the eulogy and allow you to call me a dumb bitch for ten minutes straight.”

“Sold,” Leah says, pointing at you. That slight intrigue you previously saw in her eye returns. “Okay, now that I’ve yelled at you, you need to tell me everything.”

And so you do. You tell her how he took your coffee, how you nearly threw up the second you saw him, how you played it cool until you didn’t. How he apologized to you. Joked around with you. Apologized some more. And then he gave you his coffee.

You despise how excited you sound about it. Again, you’re trying to play it cool, but the people that know you the best can always see right through you. You’re excited about it. Excited about him.

It’s a bad idea to be excited about him.

It’s a bad idea to look down at your phone after you and Leah order another drink. Your heart stops when you see he’s texted you.

It’s a bad idea to open the message when Leah excuses herself to go to the bathroom. What are you up to tonight?

It’s past midnight on a Saturday and he’s texting you. It’s still preseason for him, so he might be drunk, he may not be. You’re three drinks deep and aren’t sure if you are.

It’s a bad idea to respond to him. getting drinks with a friend. You keep it dry.

It’s a bad idea to not look down at your phone until you finish the drinks you ordered. Because now, you’re definitely drunk and looking at it all with new eyes.

Would you want to hang out tonight? No pressure.

It’s a bad idea to consider it.

But it’s a worse idea to agree.

text me your new address. i can be there by 1:30.

Before you know what you’re doing, you’re knocking on Jamie’s door, intertwining your fingers together when you realize you’re shaking.

The second you do it, you regret it. You’re no longer feeling the effects of your drinks. It wore off on the Uber ride over here. And everything seems like a terrible idea now.

God, what were you doing? He treated you like that and the second you see him again, you go running back? He was an asshole. He’d made you question everything about yourself, he’d made you cry, he’d made you experience every fucking emotion in the book and all it took is one text for you to be back on his doorstep?

Your roommate was right. This was a horrendous idea and you were an idiot.

However, none of that matters. It doesn’t matter because Jamie Tartt’s opening his door and he’s got a stupid fucking smile on his face. And the second you see it, you know there’s no turning back.

“Hey,” he says as he opens the door. “You alright, love?”

You clench your jaw at the name, at his smile, about how casual he’s being, about everything. “Hey,” you say, avoiding his eyes to look around his flat.

It’s a complete 180 from what he had when he first joined Richmond and what he had when you knew him. It’s a bit less mojo-dojo-casa-house-looking and something more mature. While you can still tell that a twenty-something guy definitely lives here, it’s decorated well, it’s put together, and it’s clean. No beer bottle sculptures in sight. He’s even got a fucking candle burning on his counter. Who the fuck is this and what did he do with the guy you knew?

Jamie follows you as you enter, wiping his hands on his sweatpants. “You find the place okay?”

His question snaps you out of your flat-induced haze. “Yeah,” you reply. You clear your throat. “This is nice.”

That same, stupid smile returns, but it looks a bit nervous. “Yeah. I told you it was a bit different, huh?” he chuckles. He walks toward his island, rounding it as he speaks. “Needed a fresh start or whatever. The old one was gettin’... old.” He watches you as you nod, continuing to look around. “You still in the same place with the same people?”

“Uh, no. Different place. No people,” you answer. You’ve stayed on your side of the counter, actively keeping your distance. “Willa moved to New York last year and Leah moved with her boyfriend. We live in the same building, though, which is nice.”

The small talk is fucking killing you. You’re not even sure if he cared to remember your previous roommates' names, so this all could be pointless. You can’t believe you’re here. You can’t believe you’re actually standing here, talking to him about the past.

But as you finish speaking, he nods like he’s listening. Maybe he is listening. Maybe he does remember.

“I’ll have to see that sometime,” he ends up saying, and the implication of it makes your head spin. He wants to see you again. Or he just learned small talk common courtesy. Whatever it is, it’s driving you insane. You have so many questions for him, so many things to say, and as he wipes his hands on his pants again and nods over to his kitchen, he asks, “Can I get you something to drink? I’ve got—”

“Why did you invite me here, Jamie?” The question comes spilling out of you, rushed as if it were waiting on the tip of your tongue and simply couldn’t stand to stay in any longer. Jamie stops in his tracks to blink at you. The look on his face encourages you to go on. “I mean, I know I texted you first. But why… why did you text me tonight? Why’d you—” You grimace, trying to find the right words. “Why’d you give me your number?”

He’s silent for a moment. Thinking. Evaluating. But his eyes haven’t left you. “Because I wanted you here,” he finally says. You cross your arms over your chest as he takes a step toward you. “Because I haven’t stopped thinking about you since I saw you.”

You want to say that you’ve been driven crazy all week because you feel same, but decide against it. Instead, you look away from him and scoff. “Right.”

“I’m serious,” he tells you, and your heart stops with every step he takes. “I felt like I was goin’ insane. I didn’t…” For a flash of a second, he looks shy. “I didn’t think I’d see you again. And I didn’t think you’d actually text me. I mean, I hoped you would, but…”

He’s right in front of you, but you still refuse to look at him. Your gaze has shifted to the floor. “I shouldn’t have,” you mutter.

The asshole has the nerve to chuckle, but it’s nervous. Your stomach churns. You’re not sure if you’ve ever heard him nervous. “No, you probably shouldn’t have,” he agrees. “I don’t deserve it.” He pauses and your throat starts to tighten. “I didn’t deserve you.”

That makes you look at him. Either he’s actually apologetic about everything, or he’s gotten really good at knowing everything you want to hear. “No. You didn’t.”

His fingers tentatively brush your arm and you allow him to take your hand. “I know,” he says. “I was a fucking prick. I get that now. I should never have… done that shit to ya.” You’re close enough to him now that if you moved an inch, his forehead would be up against yours. He brings your hand up to his mouth, pressing a feather-light kiss to the back of it. The action makes your throat tighten. “And I can’t fix it. But I…” He trails off again and looks you dead in the eye once he has the words. “I want to make it up to you.”

Your resolve is getting weaker and you hate yourself for it. You lean back against the counter, like that will put space between you two. “Jamie…”

“Please,” he whispers. His forehead finally meets yours. You can feel his breath on your lips. You don’t pull away. “Let me make it up to you.”

The last front you have standing weakly presents itself. “If you think,” you begin, breath shuddering as his hand meets your neck, “that one 2 AM hookup is going to make up for what you did, I—”

“I know it won’t,” he says, and it sounds like he does know. “But I want it to be a start.” The fingers on your neck are now tracing your jaw. And they tighten when he says, “Let me show you just how sorry I am, yeah? Let me make it fucking good for you.”

Jesus fucking Christ. That last front dissolves the second he says that, and your logic flips on itself. You came over here for a reason. You knew what this was. At least you got an overdue apology. Whether or not he meant it, is still up in the air, but if he’s promising things like that, then you might as well get something out of it.

You struggle to get a word out, so you nod against his hand. “O-Okay,” you finally stammer out. The way he’s looking at you gives you enough confidence to say, “Fine. Make it up to me.”

Jamie’s lips curl into a smirk and say, “As you wish,” before they’re on yours.

He’s softer than you remember. His lips aren’t chapped, he isn’t as aggressive with it, and he isn’t as rushed. Everything about him feels more mature and you struggle to understand how fast he could have changed in four years. But you’re not complaining. Not when he’s kissing you like this, with more practice and passion than you can ever recall.

His hand unlocks from yours to slide it up your sweatshirt, and it’s surprisingly warm against your back. Still, you shiver from the contact and you can feel him smirk once more against your lips.

The action alone prompts you to fork a hand in his hair and tug at it slightly, reveling in the soft sound that escapes him. Everything about him comes back to you at once, and you’ve never been happier to know that the same things still get him. If he wants to play it like that, you can keep up.

His hands drop to grab your thighs and lift you onto the counter, breaking the kiss momentarily. Your chest is heaving up and down, lips swollen and wet. Jamie appears to be in the same boat. “Fuck,” he whispers, sounding even more out of breath than you. He dips his head to press a kiss to your neck, nose rubbing against it as he makes his way down. “You look fucking gorgeous, by the way. Meant to tell you that at the shop.”

You’re too caught up in it all to play it cool, especially as he works at that one spot on your neck. “You look— fuck, you look good too. The long hair suits you.”

You feel him grin against your neck. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you agree breathily. “Looked like a prick with the old cut.”

You feel his teeth dig into your skin at that one, and you hiss. “You liked that prick,” he reminds you.

You were in love with that prick, but you ignore that thought. “I liked a lot of things about him,” you respond. While it’s honest, the accidental double meaning of it isn’t lost on you.

It’s certainly not lost on Jamie. “Yeah?” he asks again. He lifts his head to look at you, hand creeping up your leg. “What’d you like?” You grip his arm as it rises beneath your sweatshirt once more. “C’mon love. Tell me what you want.”

You hate the way your breath hitches the second his fingers meet your back. You know what you want. You want to see what he’s learned since you last had him. What he’s like four years later. What’s changed, what’s stayed the same. But you’re too embarrassed and much too proud to ask.

Instead, you decide to say, much too shyly for your liking, “You know what I want.”

He hums in agreement, other hand creeping dangerously close to the inside of your thigh. “I do, don’t I?” he murmurs. “Bet I know everything ya want. But I wanna hear you say it.”

“Oh my, God,” you say under your breath, frustration creeping into your voice. The asshole fucking laughs at you. “I want you to make good on your promise. This seems far from it.”

“Right, right, I’m sorry,” he tells you. He doesn’t sound sorry at all. “Just making sure we’re still, y’know. On the same page.” He glances at you. “Right?”

You blink at him. You’re not sure you could have been clearer about what page you’re on. But that’s not what surprises you. What surprises you is the seriousness in his eyes. How he’s searching for assurance in yours. And you know that if, for whatever godly reason, you wanted to stop, he’d pull away immediately, despite how worked up he clearly is.

It's the bare fucking minimum, but it's more than you’re used to getting.

So, you nod. “Yeah,” you say. “Definitely on the same page.”

The grin he breaks out to is nothing short of breathtaking. “Good.”

“But—” you suddenly say, stopping him from leaning in once more. He freezes beneath your touch, brows furrowing. “This is… This is a one-time thing. You’re…” You trail off to find the word. “You’re apologizing to me. That’s all this is.”

His smile falters, dropping momentarily before returning with a bit less radiance. It’s his turn to nod. “Okay,” he says, fingers now toying with the edge of your sweatshirt. “Gotta make it count, then.”

And with that, Jamie presses his lips back to yours, grabbing you securely and pulling you off the counter. Your legs wrap around his waist, grabbing the sides of his face, like that’ll stable you against him.

This time, it’s more desperate. It’s more tongues and teeth, more force and intention behind each movement. He’s setting the pace, but you’re keeping up tenfold. While it’d been four years, you’re not sure if he’d ever kissed you like this. He’s passionate instead of aggressive. While he knows what he wants, he’s definitely not just going to take it. He may be leading but he’s listening to you. And that stirs something inside you that you haven’t felt in a long time.

That much is clear, because you unconsciously let out a quiet sound against his lips. You can feel him smiling once more as he walks you slowly to wherever the hell his bedroom is. You’re caught up in him. And by the way he’s gripping you, you can tell he’s just as caught up in you.

So much so, that he completely loses track of where he’s going and accidentally slams you into his doorframe. You yelp, more because of shock than pain, and pull away to glare at him.

Jamie’s already apologizing. “Sorry, sorry,” he says. “Still gettin’ used to this place.”

“Well, figure out how to navigate better,” you respond, verging on a pout as you rub the back of your head.

“I’m sorry!” he repeats. He’s still got you against the doorframe. “It’s hard to see with your big head in me face. And I can’t kiss ya with, like, my eyes open. It’d be freaky.”

“I’ll give you a pass for that one,” you reply dryly. “Be weird instead of giving me a concussion.”

He’s walking you toward the bed when he mutters, “I’ll give you something, alright.”

Your back meets the mattress and you try to ignore the way he held his hand behind your head when he laid you down. You have under a second to adjust before he’s on top of you. The desperation returns and it almost takes your breath away.

He’s essentially straddling you, tugging at the waist of your leggings before he leaves one last kiss on your lips. He finally gets to pull your sweatshirt off, something he’d clearly been dying to rid you of since he first kissed you. You lift your arms up to help him, finding that you quickly start to do the same to him. You hear him chuckle as you attempt to get it up his back.

“I got it, love, hold on,” he says softly, tossing your hoodie to the side to take off his own. Your eyes immediately go to his chest and stomach and you refrain from reaching out to touch him. When you look up at him, you expect him to be smirking. However, he’s doing the exact opposite.

Jamie’s looking down at you like he can’t fucking believe you’re real. It’s jarring, seeing him like this, but you figure he’s in the same headspace as you and is still struggling to process that this is happening. It doesn’t matter, because before you can question it, he’s moving to press a kiss to your collarbone.

Your hand falls into his hair as he works his way down, mouthing the area of your chest. He pauses before he gets to the bra you’re wearing. His eyes flick up to yours. “Can I—”

You’re nodding before he can even get the words out, shifting to make it easier for him. He discards it to the floor with the rest. When he looks back at you, he releases a shaky breath and just stares.

He stares so intently that you begin to get self-conscious. “What?” you ask.

The question takes Jamie out of his trance. He shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says. “I just— I… Fuck. I forgot how beautiful you were.”

That spreads a warmth through you, one that pulls at your core. As you feel your face heat, you realize you have nothing to say to that. Luckily, he’s already moving on.

Jamie’s different. Really different. And you don’t realize how different he is until you start looking at him like you are right now. You were trying to convince yourself when you told Leah that he’d changed, you’ll admit that. But right now, you think you may have been telling the truth.

He grabs the waist of your leggings once more, lifting your legs to pull them off. You can’t help the laugh that leaves your lips as he struggles to do so. He shakes his head with a soft smile. “Missed that.”

“What?” you ask again.

“Your laugh,” he replies. “Missed that more than you know.”

The sweet words hit you like a bullet. The vulnerability in his voice is what gets you. Goddammit, when did he get so fucking nice? It drives you insane. But it also makes you quietly admit, “I think I’ve got an idea.”

With your leggings now gone, Jamie’s smile turns fonder. Gentler. He presses a kiss to your leg but says nothing in response. He simply places your legs down, eyes flicking down. He lifts his hand to trace down your stomach, stopping at the edge of your panties. The feeling makes you flinch.

He hooks a finger in the band, and your hips buck up to encourage him. His other hand spreads across your hip in a poor effort to keep you still. “Easy,” he murmurs.

You huff out a breath. “You can—” Your breath hitches as two of his fingers push into your underwear. “Fuck, you can take them off.”

His lips quirk up. “Well, thank you for the permission,” he says. “But not yet. I wanna take it slow with ya.”

Your mouth parts. “Why?”

“Because it’s been years since I’ve seen you,” he answers, moving up to kiss you softly. He speaks against your lips as he says, “And I’ve apparently only got one shot to do this right. So I’m gonna make this last.”

You roll your eyes at his terribly disguised jab. “You’re a dick,” you mutter against him.

“And you’re—” He cuts himself off and a gasp escapes your lips as he cups your core and rubs his palm against it. “Fuck, love. You’re really fucking wet.” He’s positioned on you so that you can feel him getting harder against you thigh. “This all for me, yeah?”

His voice is cocky, while still sounding awestruck. The remaining dignity you have left makes you roll your eyes, albeit a bit embarrassed. “It’s for whoever doesn’t take their fucking time to give me what I want,” you bite.

Jamie draws back from you with a full smirk on his face. “That so?” he asks. The hand against you starts creeping up to the band of your panties. “And what is it that you want? You still haven’t told me.”

You scoff. “I told you.”

He pulls your underwear down your legs and the air around you suddenly makes you realize just how exposed you are. You told yourself you’d never give him the satisfaction of seeing you like this again. But here you were.

His fingers brush against the inside of your thigh, and you shiver once more. “No,” he tells you gently. “You didn’t. You just said you wanted me to keep my promise. You didn’t tell me what you wanted.”

He’s moving closer and closer to the place you want him and you don’t know if you can take it anymore. You shift uncomfortably, as if that will cease the ache. But you know only one thing will.

So, you give him the answer he’s been waiting for this entire time. “You.” His gaze meets yours. “I want you, Jamie. Please.”

That breathtaking grin returns. “Just because you asked so nicely.”

And then he puts his mouth on you without warning.

You spasm at the contact, crying out as he uses both arms to hold you still. The second you calm down, one hand leaves your thigh and you feel him work two fingers into you. Fuck. He didn’t know that before.

And it’s not like he was ever bad in bed when you two were together. You’re not sure you would have stayed with him if that were the case. It’s just… he’s better now. He’s hitting everything nearly perfectly, not stumbling like he used to. He’s more confident. More assured. He knows what he’s doing.

And it’s fucking hot.

The sounds that fill his room are downright obscene. He’s gripping one side of you to keep you in place, splitting you open on his knuckles with the other. His mouth zeroes in on your clit, alternating between licking and sucking in a way that honestly has you close already.

“F-fuck,” you breathe. “Fuck, Jamie. Don’t st— shit. Don’t stop. Please.”

Of course, the fucking shit he is, stops. He grins up at you, but continues to slowly pump his fingers in and out. “You sound so fucking pretty begging like that,” he tells you. He’s just as out of breath as you are. He feels you clench around his fingers at the praise and it only eggs him on further. “Look so pretty too. Fucking gorgeous.”

“Jamie,” you whine again. He’s going too slow. Teasing. It’s not fucking fair. He’s supposed to be the one apologizing to you. “I need— Ngh. I need—”

“What do you need?” he asks. “Tell me.”

You think you’d kill him if you weren’t completely incapacitated. “More,” you manage to get out, wincing as he continues at his slow pace. You’re close. Embarrassingly close. “Just fucking more. Please. I’m—” You interrupt yourself with a moan as he shoves his fingers deeper into you.

“I know,” he nearly coos. “I’ve got you.”

And got you he does. Because not only does he pick up the pace, he stretches you with a third finger. The sting of it is momentary, and it subsides as soon as he bends down and swipes your clit with his tongue.

Your back arches. “Jesus fucking— Jamie. Oh, my God.”

He’s good. Of course, he’s fucking good. He’s Jamie Tartt. You’re not sure he’s ever been bad at anything physical in his life. Emotionally was another story. But that story didn’t matter right now. Not when he’s got you like this, and you’re teetering over the edge.

He pulls away from you, breath tickling your core as he speaks. “C’mon,” he chides. “I can feel it. You’re right there, aren’t you, love?” He takes your breathy silence as confirmation and nods to himself. “Yeah. You just need—”

He removes one finger and crooks the rest a certain way, deeper than before. Your heart may stop beating. He’s done something he did to you time and time again, something that he was actually really fucking good at, something he knew you liked years ago. When he looks up at you, he searches your eyes. And by the way they roll back, he knows he’s struck gold.

The smirk returns and he continues to work his fingers into you, smirk growing each time he hears you say his name. “Yeah,” he whispers. “That’s it. That’s still it.”

You could finish at any moment. The telltale heat is rising in your stomach, and you’re just waiting for the cord to snap. And then, as if your muscle memory takes over, you reach out for his arm.

But instead of letting you do it like before, he does something completely different. He intertwines his free hand with the back of yours and guides it to your stomach. And then he presses on your hand.

The pressure builds. You’re barely able to make any noise. And then—

“C’mon,” Jamie repeats. “Come for me, angel. I wanna see it.”

The cord snaps, and you do as you’re told. You come. Hard.

Jamie talks you through it, fingers still moving to coax your climax out of you. You’re sure you look pathetic, crying out and thrashing around in his bed, but you don’t care. You can barely fucking see right now.

It’s been a while for you. Or at least been a while since you’ve had anything that good. And it completely strips away any sort of attitude or frustration you had before.

When you finally come back down, you laugh softly, shaking your head and throwing your arm over your face. “Fuck,” you say through a chuckle.

You feel him shift, moving up the bed to hover over you once more. When he removes your arm from your eyes, you see that he’s smiling. “Nobody’s ever laughed after I’ve done that,” he tells you, a faux pout pulling at his lips. He bends down to press them to yours and you can taste yourself. “It better be a good fuckin’ sign.”

You laugh again, reaching up to cup his cheek and pull him into another kiss. “Very good sign,” you assure him. It’s muffled against him, but you think he gets the point.

It’s then that you catch him by surprise and flip the two of you over, straddling him in a way that makes him release a breathy sound that you’d missed dearly. But, something feels off.

Your glance down at him, expecting to feel or see fabric once you reach his leg. But there’s not much. Only what feels like boxer shorts. It catches you off guard. When did he take off his—

It doesn’t matter. It’s easier for you now. Especially as your fingers move across his abdomen, biting back a grin at the way he shudders. He looks up at you from his pillow.

“What are you doing?” he asks leadingly.

You shrug innocently, fingers toying with the band hanging low on his hips. “Returning the favor,” you reply.

Jamie makes a noise of disapproval, placing a hand on your thigh like that’ll stop you. “I’m supposed to be the one making it up to you,” he states, but his voice gets less firm as you cup him through the fabric. “Fuck. Y-You don’t owe me anythin’. No favors.”

You shake your head, pulling at his boxers so that he springs free from inside. Your eyes travel back to his as you reach out and gently grab his cock, staring down at him with a smirk dancing on your lips. “You sure?”

He looks pained. You don’t know why. You’re offering a way to take him out of his misery. But still, he shakes his head and moves his arm from your leg to your back.

He takes his turn to flip you over next. He swears under his breath as he does so, shaking his head when you land on your back.

“I told you,” he says, taking his boxers all the way off now. “It’s about you. Not me.” He shakes his head again, but this time it’s a bit more frustrated. When he speaks, it’s mostly to himself. “Can’t believe I just fuckin’ said no to that.”

A snort escapes you. “You’re a changed man, Jamie Tartt,” you joke.

He shrugs before placing his arms on either side of you. His voice teeters on teasing and earnest. “I’ve been trying to tell ya that.”

You’re not sure if it’s him, or the situation, or the sex, but you think you believe him. It makes your chest heavy. But you can’t admit that. You won’t let yourself. So, you keep that feeling tucked away, way in the back of your mind for safekeeping. You know it’s better like that. For your emotional sake, at least.

You allow yourself to prop yourself up on your elbow and kiss him instead of responding to that, bringing him in closer. You can feel the length of him press against your stomach, and his groan vibrates against your lips.

He pulls away, grinding into you. The heat of your body is making him go wild. “Can I—”

You know what he wants. And you want it too. “Please,” you say.

He nods, moving to angle himself against you. You glance down to watch him, heat flooding your face as he strokes himself before glancing up at you. You nod in return, giving him the confirmation he needs. Jamie grins.

He slides in you slowly. The stretch is mild but grows as he hovers over you once more. It’s easy to adjust, having been warmed up moments before. But for Jamie, it’s not as easy.

He bottoms out almost immediately, tensing over you. His head bows, chin falling to his chest. “Fuck,” he curses. It’s quiet but straight-up sinful. “God, fucking— you’re so—” You grip onto his bicep as he steadies himself. “I’m sorry. It’s just— i-it’s been a minute. And you’re f-fucking tight. Jesus.”

You don’t mind. He feels good like this, despite the fact he’s not moving. Your hand travels from his arm to his hair, tucking a piece of it behind his ear before settling on his jaw. “It’s alright,” you tell him. “We’ve got time.”

Jamie’s eyes snap open at that, but he’s not looking at you like you thought he would. You were expecting a cheeky sort of smile, a smirk, something in that realm. But he’s not. He’s looking at you like…

It’s something you can’t define. Something you’ve never seen before. It churns your stomach yet makes your heart race. Neither of you says a word.

He just dips down to kiss you again and slowly begins to move inside you. Your lips part in a gasp, and he slides his tongue in your mouth. Your back arches into him.

Before you know it, he's breaking from you and is breathing heavy against your neck. “Shit,” he groans. “You’re just— fuck. You…” He trails off, mouth hovering over your collarbone. “You drive me f-fucking mad. God, everything about you. Y-you don’t even know, do you?”

The pace picks up. He’s thrusting into you harder now and your nails dig into his back. You hear him hiss at the contact, but neither of you seem to care. “Fuck.” It’s all you can say. “Fuck, Jamie.”

He’s clearly not done talking. “How’d I-I fuck this up? Huh?” You can’t tell if he’s talking to you or himself. His mouth is on your chest now and the feeling runs through you like fire. “Fucking idiot. Didn’t know what I had. Can’t believe I let you go.”

You clench around him and it throws him off kilter. You watch his jaw clench, hand beside you gripping the pillow you’re on. “You w-were an idiot.” Your agreement is much less effective when it’s closed out by a high-pitched moan.

“I know. Fuck, I know,” he says. “I’m sorry. Deserved better.” He continues to slam into you. “I wanna gi—” A strangled sound erupts from his lips. “Give you better. You’re so—” When he shakes his head, he looks wrecked. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

Something about that sends a shock to your system. It makes you cry out and you can feel it. Your legs tremble around him. You’re close again. You’re really fucking close.

He kisses you once more, deeper than before. It’s more frantic. Everything about him is more erratic. You can tell he’s getting there too. “Couldn’t stop,” he manages to get out, hot against your lips. “Couldn’t s-stop thinking about you. I missed you.”

You clench around him again, the admission inching you closer. “Shit,” you say. “Fuck, Jamie, keep going.”

And keep going he does. His hand moves down your stomach, fingers finding your clit. He rubs circles into it and that sends you into a fucking tailspin. He swallows the sound you make.

“Missed you,” he says again, but it’s more helpless. Jamie fucking whimpers. “God, I f-fucking missed you, angel. Missed you so fucking much, I—”

You don’t hear the rest of what he says because you come the second he makes that sound. It’s white-hot. Blinding. Your legs twitch around him and you claw at him as he continues to rub your clit. You’re loud, but you don’t give a shit. It seems to spur him on.

He’s not far behind you. He spills into you with a groan, stomach flexing as he heaves over you, twitching inside of you. You’re still recovering from your own high as you open your eyes to watch him. You catch his expression for a moment before he’s collapsing into you.

You release a soft ‘oof’ at the sudden weight of him. He doesn’t say anything for a moment and neither do you. You just breathe together. But after a moment you allow yourself to put a hand in his hair.

“You’re fucking heavy,” you tell him, but there’s not much bite in it.

You feel him chuckle. “Give me second,” he says. “Not as fuckin’ agile as I used to be. Took a lot out of me, alright?”

You roll your eyes but continue to run your fingers through his hair. “You’re twenty-six and like, the face of the AFC,” you tell him. “Richmond might have to shorten your contract if you’re dying after that.”

He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Take that up with me Chairwoman then.”

You can’t help but laugh as you push him off of you, wincing as you feel him slip out. He lands with the same noise you did. “If she heard you complaining like that, she’d be on my side.”

Jamie grins at you, joining in on your laughter. He shifts toward you, grabbing your hand to play with your fingers. “You’re probably right. Shouldn’t be complainin’,” he says. He lifts your hand to his lips. “Not when you’re here.”

They’re sweet words. The casualty of them makes your heart swell. But that anxiety about him returns. One time thing, you tell yourself. Apology. One time. That’s all.

You pull your hand back softly and he glances over at you. There’s a hint of worry in his eyes, like that one movement set off alarm bells in his head. You give him an uneasy smile.

Before you can move to get up or say anything or do something, he’s talking. And you have to refrain from wincing.

“I know…” He looks away from you. Shy. “I know you said one time,” he says, as if he can read your fucking mind. “And that’s… That’s okay. I get that, yeah? But I—” Jamie wipes a hand down his face, staring at the ceiling. “I meant what I said. I missed ya. Really.”

You missed him too. But your walls have been rising back up since he started talking again. “I don’t know what you want me to do with that,” you tell him, only partially lying.

You feel like an asshole when he winces. Maybe you were being an asshole. Maybe it was finally your turn to do so.

“Just…” He finally looks at you. “If you ever… don’t want this to be just a one-time thing.” He waves it off in an attempt to look casual. You know he’s anything but. “You’ve got my number. Or whatever.”

The timidness in his voice makes your resolve soften. Even if you don’t see him again, you suppose you can let him down easy. He’s been kind enough tonight to deserve that. You nod at him as you sit up. “Okay,” you say. “I’ll let you know.”

It’s only slightly awkward as you get out of his bed and search for your clothes. He asks if he can call you an Uber home and you reject it, letting him know that you’ve got one on the way.

You can feel his eyes on you as you dress, ignoring the way they burn into you. You can tell he’s searching for something to say, or something to talk to you about but doesn’t know what.

You’re half-dressed before he can shoot himself in the foot and say something stupid. “Hey,” he finally says. You glance over your shoulder at him after you slip your sweatshirt on. “I’m really glad you texted me.”

The nice streak you’re riding on continues and you offer a small but genuine smile in return. “Me too,” you admit, ignoring the way that his own soft smile pulls at your heartstrings.

Before you leave his room, you offer one more admission. You stop in the doorframe he hit you against, lips curling further upward. “It was really good to see you, Jamie.”

He props himself up on his elbow, smile growing. “Good,” he says, nodding. Then, like a prick, he winks at you. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

You physically cannot stop yourself from rolling your eyes and you hear him laugh to himself as you walkdown his hall. “Goodbye, asshole.”

He shouts a tired-sounding ‘bye!’ when you slip your shoes on, shaking your head as you look around his apartment once more. The candle on his counter is still burning, smelling of amber moss and palo santo.

You blow it out before you leave, knowing he’ll forget.

And as you do so, you feel yourself regress. Or grow. You’re not quite sure which one.

But it makes you curse under your breath and leave his flat immediately.

There is one more universal truth you forgot to mention.

And that’s that the second you think you’re over Jamie Tartt, he comes back into your life and flips everything on its head. And it’s the only truth that’s been confirmed to you all week.

Because the second you arrive home and see that you have a text waiting for you, your heart picks up. You hate the way you get excited to see it.

I had a really good time tonight.

And the second he comes back into your life, you’re reminded that you’re not over him. Not even in the slightest. And it’s fucking debilitating.

me too.

And you know your friends are going to kill you the second you follow up with:

i’m free friday if you want to grab a drink.

#jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt #jamie tartt x you #ted lasso #ted lasso fanfic #jamie tartt fanfiction #bad ideas #the one who's not a loser but THEE loser #discowrites

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futfemfantasies · 1 year ago

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The one \\ alanna kennedy x reader

Nothing but pure Alanna fluff with the mention of an injury (no details)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Picking up an ankle injury in your last game was a blessing and a curse. A blessing as the physios, doctors and Jonas allowed you to stay in Manchester for your recovery period with the occasional drop in to the training facility. It also meant you get to spend 5 weeks with your fellow Australian teammate and love of your life, Alanna. As soon as you said the Arsenal team allowed you to stay in Manchester, the blonde was out the door and driving 3 hours to pick you up.

Hobbling around your room to put clothes in a duffle bag took longer than expected. You feel strong arms circle around your waist and soft kisses on peppering your neck. After recovering from you mini heart attack, you turn and hug Alanna tightly. 6 weeks apart is too long. You look up at Alanna's lips and waste no time smashing your lips on her as her hands grip your waist.

"As much as I love doing that my love, let's get you packed so we can go home"

Home.

With your contract is expiring at the end of the season, you've had several teams from various leagues reach out. One club stood out over all the Barcelona's and Gotham FC's. Manchester City. It's a no brainer and since mentioning it to Alanna, she;s been calling Manchester home and London a holiday. A decision has to be made by the end of the month and as you look into Alanna's eyes, you know your decision.

"Go sit your cute butt on the bed while I pack the rest of your bag"

You hobble over to the bed and rest against the headboard as Alanna put pillow under your moon boot. Seeing Alanna dance around your room sparks something in you.

"Lani?"

"Hmm?" Alanna turns to see you pat the small space on the bed next to you. She sits down and you hold her hands.

"I've made up my mind. I'm moving to Manchester baby"

"You're kidding? Baby that's amazing news" Alanna hugs you tightly and kisses all over your face, making you giggle with happiness.

"Let's get you packed so we can go to our home together"

After a few more outfits get packed, Alanna helps you down the stairs and into her car. Zooming down the street, Alanna's hand holds yours and you sigh in content of how perfect this is going to be. Alanna pulls up to the apartment complex carpark and she quickly gets your bags out, before helping you out of the car. She holds your hand through the short elevator ride and then you both arrive at the familiar apartment door.

"Home sweet home baby girl"

3 weeks in to your recovery and you have just finished your stretches and mobility exercises so you decide to watch a romance movie to pass the time until Alanna comes home. Halfway through, Alanna comes home and flops on top of you (mindful of the ankle). She leans up and pucks her lips, silently asking for a kiss. You bend slightly and give her multiple before Alanna cups your cheeks with her big hands and stares at you ever so softly and lovingly.

"You're the one. You're the one I want everything with, good, bad and everything in between"

Your eyes are brimming with tears as you take in what Alanna had just said.

"You're it for me Lani. You're stuck with me for good"

"There's no one else I'd rather be stuck with my girl"

#woso imagines #woso soccer #alanna kennedy x reader #womens soccer #woso x reader #matildas #auswnt #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso

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lorata · 6 months ago

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Lol is any of the victors flexible? ( Like splits and that stuff) or is that not something they're not good at? Random question

so this is a fun question because it's a thing that is trained into the kids young (not like ...... intensely, i feel like that's more a D1 thing, or even D4 which I headcanon as having a capoeira kind of fight style) but it's still important, they have to have a lot of dynamic range for the stuff they do

claudius isn't the only one who uses gymnastics as part of his holistic workout routine, he's just the most famous for it because it came up during his games. callista probably is, hm, infamously flexible i would say, for similar reasons, but all of them are pretty decent, even the big boys where you start getting a tradeoff due to bulk

HOWEVER

a lot of them have some really nasty games injuries in key areas (shoulder, knee, hip) and that winds up messing with that post-arena. so what you wind up with is a village full of really flexible teens who blow out something critical at 18/19, retire from the "sport" (aka murder games) and then spend a lot of time in physical therapy

claudius gets a sword slice to the shoulder which really messes with that arm, but he gets reconstructive surgery and is a good boy who takes his physio seriously. so he eventually gets his strength/mobility back and just has to deal with occasional flare-ups

brutus actually tore his rotator pre-arena but pushed through it because he didn't want to drop out. he went in with steroid injections which got him through the games but wrecked his shoulder for a long time after. and as we might imagine mr. do as i say not as i do is not actually that great at doing his reminder-of-fragile-mortality exercises so he has permanent loss of upper mobility in that arm

lyme wrecked her knee (i actually can't remember if she took a hit or if she wrenched it and popped her acl ala injured creed) and that one follows her around, it's mostly fine but occasionally will ache and she tends to favour it unconsciously during fights.

petra obviously had the most obvious change because she was incredibly flexible before but her biggest focus at first was strength, flexibility comes later. but she gets there! strength and stability first, then increased range. once she can climb that helps a lot.

there are definitely others with similar issues as well but those are the ones i know off the top of my head. i don't write as much about the chronic pain / physical recovery aspect compared to the feelings stuff, mostly because i'm in pain all the time irl and don't want to (lol).

#lorata answers #anonymous #we must be killers: tales from district 2

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melanieph321 · 1 year ago

Text

Ruben Dias x Reader - Fix You Part 2/10

Part 3 and 4 are out on my Patreon for Free!

Summary - Reader is hired as Ruben's assistant nurse after receiving head trauma during a football game. He has fallen into a deep depression on his road to recovery and does not accept much help from Reader as she only reminds him of how incapable he is.

Enjoy!

Ruben's family were not joking when they said that if successful, you'd be hired immediately. You still had your flat in London with all of your belongings, however, that would be taken care of for you since Ruben's family were more than willing to set up a room for you in Ruben's apartment. There you received your own private quarters, with a joint bathroom and everything, not to mention your own walk-in closet.

"I kid you not, it's bigger than my old flat." You squealed into your phone.

"Well, what is he like, your employer?" Your friend Donna asked. She was currently in your apartment in London, collecting the immediate essentials that had to be shipped to you right away.

"Well, you know. He's kind of quiet." You said, having only known Ruben for two days. During these two days his physio, Max, had taken care of everything, only asking you to measure the proper proportion for Ruben's daily dose of Heparin, which was injected to prevent blood clots from forming.

"But he's hot, no?"

"Who, Max?"

"No, the guy you're working for, Ruben?"

"I don't know?" You muttered. Although he was tall and fairly built, there was something about not knowing the color of a man's eyes that didn't sit right with you. "It's the mirror to one's soul, you know."

"I'd rather wanna know the size of his...."

"Donna." You hissed. "Really?"

Her laughter buzzed in your ear. "What, it's the canal of life, you know."

"Ha, ha, very fun..."

"Y/N?"

A knock on the door interrupted you.

"Just a second!" You pressed the phone to your ear as you jumped down from your bed.

"It's Max."

"Yeah, just a second!"

You said goodbye to Donna and hurried up to close the suitcase that lay open on your floor. You shoved it under the bed along with other scattered items, before making your way over to the bedroom door. Max stood waiting for you in the doorway.

"Hey, I just wanted to say that I'm leaving now."

"Oh, okay, when will you be back?"

"On Monday?"

"What? But that's in three days."

"Exactly." He nodded. "I work four days and get three days off to see my girls."

"You have a family?" You said, quite disappointed by the fact. Max was really handsome for a forty-two year old.

"Anyway, If you need anything I think Ivan is stopping by tomorrow with some groceries, other than that I wrote down everything that needs to be done during the day, along with some light exercises that you can help Ruben do."

"Me, help Ruben?" You frowned. It took you two days to get comfortable living the easy life. You would've never pursued acting if you had known about being a rich man's nurse.

"Like I said," Max smiled. "If you need anything, call Ivan. He lives twenty minutes away from here."

"Alright, okay. " You nodded, accepting the situation. "Have a good weekend."

"You too."

And just like that a man's life was left in your hands. It was an odd feeling. Not scary, just odd. Nevertheless, you plotted yourself in the living room, just in case Ruben needed you he could call for help and you'd hear him. However, hours passed without a word from him. You weren't concerned at first, considering the fact that Ruben knew how to walk on his own. But after some thought, you decided to knock on his door and see if he needed anything.

"Ruben, It's me."

No answer.

"I thought that maybe I could make you a snack? Would you like that?"

Still no answer.

It hit you, what if he was bleeding out? With the trauma to his brain, perhaps he had developed some internal bleeding and now he was laying in bed, dying on your watch.

"Ruben, I'm sorry but I'm going to have to...." You burst into his room. The first thing that hit you was the breeze from the balcony with its door ajar.

"Oh, no."

Only seeing the traces of Ruben on his bed, you could only assume the worst.

"Please don't be dead, please don't be dead."

You rushed out onto the balcony, leaning over the railing, expecting to see a body laying flat on the ground. However, there was nothing, not a trace of human remains.

"You're worse than the others, you know that right?"

You gasped, hearing his low chuckle. Turning your head, you spotted Ruben, shirtless, laying on his back, arms tucked behind his neck as he bathed in the sun.

"You're....you're...."

"Not dead?" He said, raising a brow behind his bandaged eyes.

"I'm sorry, I thought...."

"That a guy with injuries like mine should consider killing himself?"

"Yes and no."

"Yes and no?" He frowned, "Care to elaborate?"

"Not should consider." You said. "But I believe some people would consider...doing it."

"Well, unfortunately I'm still alive."

"I can see that." You muttered.

Ruben sat up, and to your surprise removed the blindfold from his eyes by tugging it down to rest around his neck. He then reached for the bottle of sunscreen on a stool nearby, applying a drop of it on his nose.

"If you're planning on laying in the sun all day, you should probably apply sunscreen to your entire body."

He stopped the motion of putting on sunscreen, shifting his head your way. "I'm Portuguese, I'm pretty sure I can handle a dose of English sun."

"But can you handle a dose of skin cancer?"

He chuckled, eyelids flickering as he did. He seemed tempted to open them, his eyes. And for a moment that thought struck fear within you.

"Was there something you wanted?"

"Pardon?" You had been distracted. Your eyes falling onto the sight of his abs. They were visible even though he was sitting down. Something worth remembering for your next call with Donna.

"Was there something you wanted?" Ruben repeated, snatching you out of your daze. "I mean Max already gave me my shot and I don't need your help swallowing my pills."

"Right." You said. "I guess I just wanted to check on you."

"To see if I was still alive?" He grinned.

"Right." What an asshole, you thought. "Now that that's confirmed, I'll get started on dinner."

"Don't bother." He said, pulling the bandage to cover his eyes again.

"Why not?"

"Well, my mom left us food that should last us all year."

"Oh, okay."

"She's afraid that you can't cook, you know."

"Well I can."

"Yeah, but not as good as her."

"Right."

You left Ruben's room, embarrassed to have entered in the first place. Who does the guy think he is, speaking to you like some kind of servant? You wondered how long you'd be able to put up with it. Not for long you reckoned.

Part 3 and 4 are out on my Patreon for Free!

#fanfiction #football imagine #footballer x reader #ruben dias #footballer imagine #man city #football angst #manchester city #ruben dias x reader #ruben dias imagine

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stargazer-sims · 5 months ago

Text

The Art of Redemption

(part 22)

previous // next // story index

__________

"Well, you look refreshed." Beth-Anne comments as she allows herself to be pulled into the arms of a noticeably cheerful Nikolai. "Either you got laid or somebody's been feeding you well."

He sputters in his obvious attempt not to laugh. "I missed you."

"I missed you too," she says. She reciprocates his hug with equal energy to his own and doesn't care that the whole damn crowd in the busy arrivals area of the airport might be watching them.

She really had missed him, if she's being completely honest. A little over a week ago, when she'd departed for South Korea, they both remarked on how strange it felt not to be travelling to a competition together. It hadn't struck her just how unexpectedly foreign it would be not to have him in the hotel room next to hers.

She'd passed the first few days fighting a vague sense of emptiness. Travelling to a competition without him wasn't the problem in itself, as she'd certainly flown all over the world with other students during the past decade. It was more the sense that she'd left him behind that bothered her, the fact that he'd accompanied her to the airport only for her to walk through the doors to the security area while he stood watching her go. It hadn't been enough to distract her from the important tasks at hand, but it had been sufficient to trouble her in her off hours.

“I didn’t get any, not that it’d be your business if I did,” he says as they let go and step back from each other. “Ginger was making sure I didn’t eat only peanut butter toast the whole time though, and she helped me with my physio. I stayed with her while you were gone.”

“Oh? Did she invite you, or did you invite yourself?”

“She invited me.”

“Good.” She'd been worrying about him, wondering if he was feeling all right and if he was doing his exercises and getting enough to eat. Clearly, she needn't have stressed so much. “So, you had a good week?”

“Yeah,” he affirms.

“Glad to hear it,” she says.

“I’m guessing you had a pretty great week too,” he says. “We saw the free skate.”

“Let’s just say it’s a week a lot of people aren’t going to forget.”

“No doubt,” says Nikolai. “Actually, Ginger and I watched everything in the singles categories, and if that's the talent that's coming up, senior division is going to be wild in the next few years. That kid from Japan who won bronze? Holy crap... If he keeps up like that till he's fifteen, he's going to be a force to be reckoned with, as Uncle Stan would say."

"Ren Kitagawa," says Beth-Anne. "He's brilliant, but his coach is an asshole." She points a finger at him and adds, "Don't say it."

This time, Nikolai doesn't make any attempt to hold in his amusement. "I wasn't going to, coach. Anyway, congratulations. Brett totally nailed it. Me and Ginger were yelling so loud, her neighbours probably thought we were watching hockey instead of skating."

"Typical," she says, but she can feel her smile spreading across her entire face. She's filled with a sense of pride, not just for Brett's accomplishment, but for the knowledge that he had such support from an erstwhile rival.

"You have to tell me everything. All about Seoul and the competition. All of it." He picks up her skate bag and her backpack from the floor where she'd dropped them. "Come on. Let's get your suitcase, and..." He glances around quickly at the crowd. "Wait."

"What?"

"Brett and Jordy aren't with you." His tone implies that he can't quite decide if this should be a question or a statement of his observation.

"They're not, as a matter of fact." she says. "They're staying in Seoul for a few extra days."

"Why?"

"We had a kind of... unexpected turn of events on the last day of competition."

"That's usually not a good thing," Nikolai says. "What happened? Obviously Brett was fine during the free skate. Better than fine. Did something happen after?"

"Before." She turns in the direction of the baggage carousels, and Nikolai stays easily in step with her. His knee must be feeling considerably better because he doesn't seem to be favouring it at all. "Brett's parents showed up."

"Really?" Nikolai sounds incredulous. "I thought they weren't interested in his skating career."

"I think we all thought that," she says.

As they stand by the carousel assigned to her flight and wait for the suitcases to start coming out, she tells him all about the eventful final day of competition.

Brett had done exceptionally well in his short program and was in second place going into the free skate. The kid to beat was Kim Seung-Ri, a year younger than Brett and the hometown favourite. Little Ren Kitagawa, in his first year at junior level, had shocked everyone by finishing the short program portion of the competition in third place, and Beth-Anne was absolutely not counting the talented thirteen year old out.

On the morning of the free skate, Brett woke up with a sudden case of nerves. Beth-Anne had rarely seen him so unsure of himself, and apparently Jordy was having similar thoughts because he kept asking the teenager if he was sick. Beth-Anne didn’t think Brett was ill, judging by the amount of food he devoured at breakfast. It had to have been something else.

On the way to the venue for a morning practice session, she found out what it was.

"You ever get the feeling like something weird is going to happen?" Brett asked. "Like, something that's gonna throw you off for the whole day?"

"Like what?" she inquired.

"I don't know. Like maybe an accident or a flash flood, or we get some kind of news from somebody back home. Not necessarily something happening to me or you or Jordy, and not even necessarily something bad. Just... something nobody saw coming."

She understood. She'd had that same sort of feeling in January at Four Continents.

"We all get those feelings sometimes," she told him. "It doesn't always mean something. Try not to worry about it, okay?"

But of course it had meant something.

Morning practice sessions were open to the public, which meant anyone from journalists to other competitors to members of the general population could come in and watch. Beth-Anne expected to see reporters. She expected some of her fellow coaches and a handful of die-hard skating fans. Who she didn't expect to see were Dan and Melissa Eriksson.

Brett noticed his parents at almost the same time she did. He let out a soft exclamation of "Mom!" but then just as abruptly stopped in his tracks and looked over at Beth-Anne. "What are they doing here?"

"I don't know," she admitted. She was just as startled to see them as he was. "I had no idea they'd be here, but it's probably fair to say they're here to see you skate."

Brett grabbed her arm and pressed himself against her as if he wanted protection. He practically whispered, "I... I'm not sure how I feel about that."

Beth-Anne certainly had no difficulty identifying how she felt about it. She was annoyed.

Brett has been skating since he was four years old and Beth-Anne has been his teacher and coach for the majority of it. She can count on her fingers the number of times Dan and Melissa have come to the rink to watch him practice, and as far as she’s aware, they’ve never seen him in competition. Jordy is the one who shows up for everything and provides the stability and support Brett needs, not his parents. Up to that point, all indications were that Dan and Melissa couldn’t care less what Brett was doing as long as he was safe, sufficiently occupied and out of their way, so why the fuck would they suddenly choose to show up at the biggest competition of his career so far and ruin the equilibrium Jordy and Beth-Anne had established?

Because they have no fucking clue how important this really is, she concluded. All they see is the prestige of having a kid who’s a professional athlete with a shot at winning a world championship gold medal.

“Come on.” She steered Brett in the direction of the corridor that led to the locker rooms, hoping that his parents hadn’t spotted them yet, or at least that he’d already be behind the locker room door by the time Dan and Melissa made their way down from their spot in the stands. “If you don’t want to talk to them right now, you don’t have to.”

The relief in Brett’s expression was profound. “Really?”

“There’ll be plenty of time after you skate this evening. You can catch up then.”

“You mean, you can keep them away from me all day?”

“If that’s what you want,” she said.

“Would I be like, the worst son ever if I said that’s exactly what I want?” he asked. He was tentative, as if he was torn between doing what he thought was expected of him and choosing something that’d be to his own benefit. “Like, I’m already freaking out a little bit. It’s not that I don’t want to see them. Just not now, you know?”

“I know,” Beth-Anne replied. “You need to focus on what you’re doing.”

“Yeah,” said Brett. “I can do this, but not if I have to worry about them. I mean, they’ll expect perfection, but it’s like I always mess up whenever they’re watching and like, it kinda proves their point that I’m never good enough. So... yeah.”

They were in front of the door to the men’s locker room then, and Beth-Anne placed a hand on Brett’s shoulder to delay him from going in. “Brett, look at me,” she said, and when she was certain she had his full attention, continued with, “You’re more than good enough. You’re brilliant.”

“Not according to my parents,” he mumbled.

“Your parents aren’t judging this competition.”

“Yeah, but—”

“One thing you’ll learn in life is that you can’t please everyone, and another thing is that some people are impossible to please no matter what you do,” she said. “If you keep trying to satisfy people who’re never satisfied with anything, all it’s going to do is stress you out and wreck your self-confidence.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“What I mean is, you need to know why you’re doing this and who you’re doing it for,” she explained. “Are you doing it for yourself or somebody else?”

“Mostly for myself,” he said. “Skating’s my thing. I was the one who wanted to do it in the first place, and I’m doing it because I like it and I like to compete. But... I still want my parents to be proud of me.”

“Is that your goal, to make your parents proud of you?”

“No. My goal is to win, or at least try my hardest.”

Then, let’s think about that,” she said. “Who’s responsible for you putting on a winning performance?”

“A little bit you, but mostly me.”

“All you,” she corrected. “I can do everything possible to get you ready, but once that music starts, it’s your show and I’ve got nothing to do with it.”

“Okay. All me.”

“Right, and are you going to be proud of yourself if you try your hardest?”

“Yeah.”

“Even if you don’t win gold?”

He seemed to consider that for a moment, but finally answered, “Actually, yeah. I mean, getting this far is a big deal, isn’t it? I definitely wanna be the best, but I guess somebody’s gotta be second or third, right? Ren and Seung-Ri are awesome, and I don’t think I’d even be mad if one of them beat me. I’ll be disappointed if anybody beats me, but I’m moving into senior division next year regardless, so there’ll still be other chances for gold medals.”

Beth-Anne nodded. “Good answer. That’s the sort of attitude I like, and it’s a major improvement from this time last year.”

“You think I’m learning?”

“Yes, and you’re growing up.”

“No one’s ever said that to me before.”

“You’ve never shown this much maturity before,” she said. “And you’re right that getting this far is a big deal. I think you can win, but even if you don’t, I want you to know that you’ve got every right to be proud of yourself. I’m proud of you too, no matter what. Don’t forget that.”

“Thanks,” he said, and then impulsively bounded forward and threw his arms around her. “I’m gonna make this happen, you’ll see. And if I do win gold, I’m gonna give the medal to you.”

Every time she’s thought of it since, the idea of Brett wanting to give his medal to her has made her smile. She hasn’t told anyone about that exchange until now, nor has she mentioned the boost of self-confidence it gave her to know that another one of her students wanted to acknowledge her in that way.

The baggage has finally started to emerge from the chute and onto the carousel, and Beth-Anne steps up to the edge so she’ll be ready to catch her suitcase. She pauses her narrative while she concentrates on spotting it.

Nikolai moves to stand next to her. “Your bag’s teal, right?”

“Yes.”

“Cool. So, did he give it to you?”

For a second, she’s confused. “What?”

“Did Brett give you his gold medal?”

“Oh. No, his parents wouldn’t let him, which is totally fair,” she says. “But it’s fine. It’s the sentiment that counts anyway.”

“Is it?” Nikolai says. “I mean, for you I’m sure it is, but... you know. Not that it actually has anything to do with me, but I’m kinda glad he didn’t give it to you.”

Beth-Anne laughs. “Am I sensing a little jealousy here? You wanted to be the only one who thought of that?”

“Does he know I gave you one of mine?”

“I don’t think so,” she says. “It was probably in some sports news back in the day, so it's not as if it's a secret, but it's also not the sort of thing I’d ever mention to another student. It’s not something I talk about in general, honestly. I always felt like it was just between us, and it’s special.”

“So, uh... yeah,” Nikolai looks away from her and scuffs the toe of one boot against the tiled floor. “If he thought of that by himself, maybe I do feel a little... not jealous exactly, but... something.”

“Sibling rivalry?” she suggests.

“Yeah, like that. Sorry. It’s pretty stupid.”

“I don’t think so. I’d say it’s pretty normal. You’re used to being the favourite and getting all the attention, and then this metaphorical little brother shows up and steals the spotlight. I get it, and I think I’d be jealous too. In fact, I know I would be.”

“I don’t want to feel that way,” he says. “Brett deserves the spotlight. I’ve had my turn.”

“You’re smart and mature enough to realize that, but I think you also know the brain and the heart don’t always agree,” she says. “If it makes you feel any better though, you’ll always be my favourite.”

This earns her a small smile from him, and he lifts his gaze from the floor. “It does make me feel a little better. It’s... Oh, hang on. Here comes your suitcase, I think.”

Sure enough, her battered suitcase is trundling along behind a hockey bag and what appears to be a designer briefcase. There are more hockey bags behind it, and incongruously, the distinctly triangular shape of a skate carrier. There’s something scrawled in permanent marker on the side of the red and white skate bag in a language she can’t decipher.

Beside her, Nikolai lets out a burst of laughter. “The last leg of your flight was from Toronto, wasn’t it? Were you on a plane with a whole hockey team?”

“Apparently?” She grabs her suitcase before it has a chance to roll past, and Nikolai helps her lift it off the conveyor belt. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

“No, but that skate bag is.”

“I don’t think throwing your skates into the cargo hold is particularly funny,” She tugs at the handle of her suitcase, which stubbornly refuses to extend. “Can you imagine the damage?”

“Personally, I’d never let my skates out of my sight, but I don’t think hockey players care as much about that sort of thing as we do. Here, let me fix that.” He reaches for her suitcase. She willingly hands it over, and it takes him all of two seconds to pop the handle up. “It’s funny because of what the guy wrote on it.”

“You could read it?”

“Yeah. It’s Russian. It says ‘Glass Slippers. If found, do not search the land. Call Vitya’.” He hands her suitcase back. “There’s probably a phone number on it somewhere, and I would totally call Vitya if I’d seen it, especially since I think I know who he is.”

“You know a hockey player from Toronto?”

“Not personally,” he clarifies. “But there’s only one Russian playing for Toronto this season, and his name’s Viktor Tabachnikov. But, you know, Vitya for short.”

“Like how your family and Stan and Milena call you Kolya,” she ventures.

“Exactly,” he says.

“Look at me learning stuff. But, I thought you said you were swearing off relationships.”

“Who said anything about a relationship? Big, muscly Russian-speaking hockey player? Yes, please. Besides, I doubt somebody who’d write a pick-up line on his skate bag really wants a relationship.”

“Fair point,” Beth-Anne concedes. “But, still...”

“What?” Nikolai says. “Don’t tell me I shouldn’t have random encounters, ‘cause you had voicemail on the house phone while you were gone. Peace wanted to thank you for a lovely time, and I’m sure she wasn’t referring to having watered-down coffee with you after her shift when I was in the hospital.”

“I thought you stayed at Ginger’s while I was gone.”

“I did, but I went home every day to feed Elvis and clean his litter box.”

“And check the voicemail.”

“In case my doctor or physical therapist called," he says.

“Right."

"You sound skeptical."

"You forget how well I know you," Beth-Anne remarks. "So, since we’re on the subject of encounters, did you manage to talk to Anya while I was gone?”

“Uh, not... exactly,” he says.

“That sounds like a story.”

“It is, unfortunately.”

“Well, you’ve got to tell me all about it.” She gets a good grip on the handle of her suitcase with one hand and waves vaguely at her skate carrier and backpack on the floor. “Come on. Grab those and let’s get out of here. I need food, a shower and a long nap, in that order. You can share all the drama on the way back to town.”

“You have to finish telling me about Seoul first.”

“Fine, but you’re buying me a coffee, and you’re driving us home.”

He pats his coat pocket, where she presumes the keys to her truck are. “Whatever you say, coach.”

#writing #theartofredemption #the art of redemption #beth-anne jones #nikolai pavlenko #stargazersims

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overtrred28 · 2 years ago

Text

Stargirl | matildas x original character fic [part nine]

Words; 2.9k

Pairings; matildas team x astrid taylor (OC)

Warnings; swearing, mentions of injury (no blood)

A/N; i kinda forgot to upload this earlier sorry

masterlist

Astrid was diligent with the slow and gentle rehab she had been doing, wanting to be better for the next Matildas camp only a month away now. It had been just over two weeks and she had been advised four to six for total recovery, but she was itching to be part of that squad against Canada, even if she only got a few minutes of playing time.

She worked with the physios everyday to bring her strength back up in her ankle, eventually being able to walk around without the boot after three weeks and Astrid felt good. Without there being any tears or extreme damage to the tendons or ligaments, the time frame had just been an extra precaution because of her high intensity exercise and sport, wanting it to heal undisturbed as much as it could before she jumped back into football.

By the time this next international call up was here Astrid had just begun jogging again on the pitch, passing the ball between her feet and it was like she was a different person than she had been for the past 6 weeks. She had formed a new appreciation for being able to play at the level she was and getting to do it with her best friends at a club that motivated her.

The time had come and Astrid had never been more excited to go on a camp, the senior players who hadn’t been there for the last camp returning, the squad back together again to play against Canada. They had all made sure to check in on Astrid after hearing about or seeing her injury, encouraging her to keep going and get back onto that pitch, knowing how useful her skills are when up against tough opponents.

The games were in Australia this time, meaning Astrid was finally going home for the first time since moving to Sweden, and her parents promised they would be there to cheer her on at the Sydney game.

After a long day of travel the sweden squad, plus Mini and Harper, were so happy to be back on aussie soil and head straight to the hotel. The car ride from the hotel was full of chatter, all of the players trying not to fall asleep, aiming to hold on until bedtime. The car pulled up and they started getting out of the car, going and collecting their bags from the boot to take inside.

They received their room numbers and went to drop their bags off, the rooming changing again and Astrid finding herself rooming with Kyra for the first time.

“This one's mine.” Astrid placed her backpack on the bed closest to the window.

“Oh so if someone comes to murder us they can get me first?” Kyra stood in front of the other bed, looking at the distance between the door and where she would be sleeping.

“Not what I was thinking, but sure.” Astrid shrugged with a smile. “Come on, let's go to dinner before they eat all the food.” She walked to the door with her phone and keycard, putting her arm out for Kyra to link her own. They left the room, skipping arm in arm down the hallway to the lifts, laughing as they almost tripped about seven times.

They found their way to the room that had been turned into the team dining room, being easily directed by the noise coming from the girls in there. When they walked in it seemed they were the last to arrive, not surprising of course, the pair known for being late to things all the time.

“Look who decided to show up.” The room quieted down as Sam spoke loudly, walking up next to Astrid.

“Oh Sammy, you know I like to make an entrance.” Astrid smiled at her, parts of the room laughing before they pulled each other in for a hug.

“How’s the ankle?” Sam asked as they stood together.

“Yeah a lot better definitely.” Astrid nodded, looking down at her taped ankle.

“Good.” Sam smiled. “Go and get something to eat, kid, catch up more later.” Sam nodded her head in the direction of the buffet, Astrid turning around, instantly spotting Kyra walking away with a full plate, both laughing as they made eye contact.

Astrid grabbed some food and went to sit at the table where the “original trio” and Steph sat, slotting between the two Arsenal players.

“Asteroid!” Mackenzie all but yelled across the table, reaching across for a fist bump which was returned with a smile from Astrid.

“Hey chicken.” Steph spoke from beside her, Astrid instantly rested her head on Steph’s shoulder.

“Hey Stephy. How are you?” Astrid moved her head to look up at Steph.

“I’m good, how you feeling?” Steph squeezed her shoulder.

“Real good.” She smiled and then began eating, catching up with the other girls on the table, hearing all about their time off and where they spent it.

The team had a mini bonding night, deciding to put a movie on the projector in the dining room before they all headed off to bed. Those with movie suggestions wrote them down and they were placed into a hat for a random draw.

“And the winner is…” Sam shuffled her hand around in the hat. “Hannah Montana The Movie?” Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“YES!” A shout was heard and everyone turned their heads. Astrid had shot up from her seat, very happy her favourite movie had been chosen.

“Were you not like a baby when this came out?” Caitlin asked the youngest member.

“I was five.” Astrid calmly spoke. A few gasps came from the room, a lot of the players again shocked at how young she really was compared to them. “Enough with the questions, it’s movie time.” She had taken control of the remote, searching for the movie and pressing play.

Throughout the movie everyone could hear Astrid singing along, dancing in her seat and even mouthing most of the script, a few of them filming her from behind. Then came the scene in the barn and ‘Hoedown Throwdown’ began to play, Astrid let out a small squeal before standing up at the front of the screen.

She began to do the choreography while facing away from the screen, she had learnt it off by heart from the amount of times she had watched it. Everyone sat in shock as she did the dance with precision, not knowing she had it in her.

When it was done she took a bow, the group cheered and clapped loudly as she sat back down next to Charli and Kyra. The room went silent again, all paying attention to the rest of the movie.

“Nice dance moves.” Kyra leant over and whispered to Astrid after a while. Astrid just shook her head and giggled.

The movie finished and to most people's surprise they enjoyed it, something lighthearted and fun to watch before bed. Most of the girls were very tired after travel, Astrid thought she might be too but I guess the excitement of the movie brought her energy back.

Everyone began to stand, stretching out their limbs while the credits rolled, all watching Astrid who was still dancing around to the music in front of the screen, singing loudly along to the words.

The music stopped abruptly and so did Astrid’s dancing. Having enough with the upbeat song and Astrid’s energy, Mackenzie had found the remote and turned off the screen.

“I wasn’t done.” Astrid whined to the taller girl.

“Yeah you are, bedtime little one.” She patted Astrid’s head and laughed at her pout and eyeroll. Mackenzie headed for the door, Kyra coming over to push Astrid along and drag her off to their room for bed.

As per usual, when she was done getting ready for bed, Astrid’s head hit the pillow and she was out like a light, the aftermath of long travel taking control and she fell straight to sleep.

The next morning after getting ready, Kyra and Astrid headed down to breakfast with a little more energy after having slept a decent amount of hours, ready to begin training with the team.

The first match was still two days away so they had some time to work with each other after months apart now that everyone had arrived. But playing with people on the same club team definitely helps in creating rhythms and relationships on and off the pitch.

A quick gym session was first up upon arriving at the stadium, everyone working individually on what they needed to before proper training. Astrid was quick to take control of the music to play over the speakers, waiting to show off the playlist she had accumulated. It did feature a lot of Taylor, Hannah Montana and One Direction but she also added plenty of 2000s, 90s and even 80s songs into the mix for everyone to enjoy. Safe to say everyone was happy with Astrid being the DJ after seeing everyone sing or at least bop along to many of the songs. Maybe she would become the team's newly appointed DJ.

They finished in the gym and moved to the pitch, Astrid chatting with Caitlin while they walked out, catching up more than they did last night and Astrid asking about Arsenal and what it was really like. She parted ways with Caitlin after spotting Charli who was chatting with Kyra, Mini and Alex. She ran over and practically jumped on her, gripping the blonde's shoulders who let out a small scream at the impact.

“Heyyyyy, Cha Cha.” Astrid peaked her head over Charli's shoulder who shrugged the girl off and began walking away from her with a smirk. “Ruuuude.” Astrid yelled at her as she followed behind to where everyone congregated.

“Alrighty ladies, you know the drill.” Assistant coach Jens yelled out, indicating it was time to begin their session with a jog to warm up.

“Ughhhhh, I hate this.” Astrid panted out halfway during the jog. “Can I be done yet?” She yelled as they passed the coaches.

“Does your ankle hurt?” Jens raised a brow.

“No.” And she kept going, picking up her pace to make it finish faster. She all but crumbled to the ground once she reached the end of the jog, having not run that much since her injury.

“You good there?” A body covered the sun that was shining over her eyes.

“I am now.” She smiled at Kyra who was extending an arm to help her up.

Jens called them over to where they had now set up the circuit for the drills. Astrid liked this part a lot better than the initial jog, ready to hone in her skills and get back into her rhythm of passes and shooting goals.

They had gone through their regular training drills before moving to work on separate skills in groups of their field positions. So tragically Astrid and Charli had to part ways, Caitlin dragging a pouting Astrid towards the group of forwards and Charli waving dramatically as she walked backwards to the defenders.

After weeks of just doing small passes to build back up, Astrid was finally able to begin shooting goals again; the main thing she loved about playing football. One of the coaches would pass a ball to the running player and then they would shoot it in, aiming for a different part of the net each time. The goalkeepers had joined them to practise blocking the goals, Astrid was holding the lead against Sam for how many they could get past Lydia.

“OHHHHH. Another one! And with the left foot!” Astrid ran with outstretched arms after she slotted another ball past Lydia, bringing her total to 6 and Sam just behind with 5. “She’s back and better than ever, baby.” Astrid circled Sam, the other forwards watching and laughing at her antics.

“Piss off.” Sam shoved the younger striker away, taking her place to accept the next pass. With bad luck to Sam, Lydia had just tapped it away and then the whistle blew to signal the end of drills.

“Sucked in, oldie.” Astrid whispered as she skipped away to the sideline.

“Get back here you little shit!” Sam huffed and began chasing the girl with a smile on her face, Astrid panicked and began running.

“STEPHY! SAVE ME!” Astrid screamed as she approached ,the defender turning her head to see Sam chasing after Astrid. Astrid made it to the vice captain and stood behind her panting, hiding from the other captain.

“Enough you two.” Steph put on a stern voice and looked between the two players.

“She called me old.” Sam pleaded, going to speak again but Tony had interrupted her from further down the sideline.

“Alrighty, scrimmage time.” The team began walking closer to him, taking a drink and breath break. “Sam and Steph, come and select your teams.” He tossed the red bibs to Sam for her team and the yellow to Steph.

They had chosen their players, taking the defenders, then midfielders and finally their forwards. It was down to the two youngest forwards, Mary and Astrid. Steph got first pick so it was up to her, and knowing the passes Kyra and Astrid can make, it wasn’t hard.

“Astrid, you're with me.” Steph beckoned the girl over to her team, glad that it consisted of herself, Steph, Kyra, Charli, Lydia, Cortnee, Clare W, Mini, Alanna, Princess and Tameka. Sam’s team had Caitlin, Mary, Larissa, Emily Van Egmond, Emily Gielnik, Courtney, Aivi, Macca, Alex and Clare P.

The game began and Sam’s team took good possession straight away but the defence between Charli, Alanna and Steph was strong. 10 minutes in and Kyra had stolen the ball from Larissa, running with it until she could see Astrid making her way into free space further up the pitch. Kyra booted it into the air, ending at Princess who hit it with her chest towards Astrid, right foot ready to catch it.

The tip of her boot brought it to the ground so she could steady her footing, quickly sending it towards the goal through Mackenzie’s still legs, thinking she was going to send it higher like usual. The net rippled and the young player cheered, running back to her position with a high five to her teammates as she went by.

Tony blew the whistle to indicate the end of the match. It had ended in a 2-2 draw, everyone going around and high fiving each other.

“Good game, Astrid.” Sam smiled at the young striker. She wouldn’t admit it outloud but she did think maybe one day she could give her a run for her money, seeing a lot of herself at that age in Astrid.

“You too, Sam.” Astrid gave her hand a shake and a clap on the back as they began to walk to the side for a drink.

“Alright everyone in.” Tony’s voice carried through the team who began walking over to form a loose huddle, too hot to make it tight. “Well done today, very impressed with everyone’s efforts. Even after not playing altogether for a while you showed that no matter what you are a strong team. Off to recovery and then the day is all yours, I’ll see you tomorrow for match day minus 1.” Tony nodded with a smile. Everyone clapped before they made their way inside and headed straight for the cold pools.

Astrid was the first one in the pool, loving the cold water from growing up at a beach during the winter, going for swims no matter the weather. Everyone else of course thought she was crazy to enjoy the cold water and her eagerness to get in it.

The next day at training looked very similar to the day before but the physios had been keeping an eye on Astrid, being so soon off an injury. She felt great, really. It didn’t hurt and her ankle felt strong, continuing to work and train to be a sub for tomorrow's game.

An early dinner of their usual pre-match pasta night was followed by an early bed for all the players, especially for those who had travelled from overseas all but a few days ago. Everyone bid each other goodnight before retiring to their rooms.

Kyra had called the shower first, knowing from the previous night how long Astrid really did take on her skincare. Once they were both finished and had set an alarm, they lay in their separate beds, room silent, spare the aircon blowing softly.

“I think you’ll start tomorrow.” Astrid spoke, turning in her bed to face Kyra’s.

“Really?” Kyra also shifted, finding Astrid’s eyes in the dark room.

“Yeah, I mean you’ve been working really hard and I think they can tell.” Astrid smiled softly at the girl.

“Thank you.” Kyra also smiled even if Astrid couldn’t really see it. “I think Tony will put you on, make use of your ‘super-sub’ reputation again.” Kyra let out a soft laugh.

“Maybe.” Astrid shrugged under her covers.

“Definitely. I’m calling it right now.” Kyra turned to lie on her back and look up at the ceiling.

“Fine. But if you’re wrong, you’re buying me a coffee.” Astrid copied Kyra’s shift in movement.

“Deal. But if I’m right, you buy me a coffee.” Kyra spoke again.

“Okay.” Astrid’s voice was barely above a whisper as she felt herself drifting to sleep. “Goodnight, Ky Ky.” She spoke one last time before letting herself fall into the pillow.

“Goodnight, Stargirl.” Kyra took one last look at Astrid before shutting her eyes and falling asleep herself, a soft smile etched on her face.

to be continued...

#auswnt #kyra cooney cross #matildas #alanna kennedy #auswnt x reader #caitlin foord #charli grant #mackenzie arnold #steph catley #sam kerr #matildas x reader

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