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greenorangevioletgrass · 11 months ago

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fever pitch (b.b.) - part one

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soundtrack: bewitched - laufeypairing: footballer!bradley x popstar!readersynopsis: you and Bradley find a secret garden and get acquainted... or maybe you already have?warnings: language, tension, fluff, angst but hypothetical?? idk, bradley is a dreamboat but what else is newnotes: the saga continues! i had a whole outline planned out, but then as i wrote it, it turned into a beast of its own and honestly, im just an employee here 🤷‍♀️ happy reading, and please let me know what you think in the comments, reblogs, and asks! i would love love loveeee to hear it from you <3

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“Are we even allowed in here?”

You and Bradley turn a corner from the club area into a narrow hallway. There’s a door that leads outside, thanks to the little glass pane, you can see a little terrace situation outside. Bradley tries the doorknob… and it opens.

“I mean, there’s no sign that says we can’t…” Bradley shrugs, offering his hand to guide you in.

Like Alice in Wonderland, you step into a formal English garden in the heart of this complex of townhouses-turned-clubhouse. In the middle of the bricks and noises of the city, there are beds of roses and manicured hedges and ravines over a stone arch. It’s small, but very intentional even with the mosses growing on the edges of the fountain in the middle. A Dionysus statue sits atop the fountain, as if pouring wine instead of water. A nice touch to celebrate festivities.

“Wow. This is straight out of the old movies we talked about.” You marvel at your surroundings. “Like… The Sound of Music or something.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, exactly.”

Bradley starts humming My Favorite Things as you stroll your separate ways around the garden, marveling at the evergreen shrubs and colorful perennials. You eventually meet each other again right in front of the Dionysus statue. It feels like a sign from the universe for him, so he asks,

“May I have this dance?"

He can't be real, can he? "Like a 'dance' dance?"

"Absolutely." He says it with such conviction that it's easy to forget that the deafening, thumping electronic music from the club is completely shut out from your little pocket of a park. And the only semblance of music you can hear is the rustling of leaves, the trickling of water, and the fluttering memories of Bradley's velvety tone.

So you take his hand. He pulls you in and leads you into a slow dance. You were expecting to just sway, this is surreal enough as it is, but as you dance around the fountain, you slowly notice… the slow and simple rhythm, the unmistakable one-two-three, one-two-three count… This is a waltz step.

“You are full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“I try my best.” In a swift movement, he twirls you away and reels you back in with a spin. He just prays to God or whoever is listening that you can’t actually feel his racing heart as he holds your back flush against his chest.

(You can’t. You’re too busy calming your own.)

“So… you and your friends celebrating the success at Wembley?”

His voice tickles the back of your neck, and this sudden closeness is too much for you to bear. You strategically turn around so you’re facing him again. “Oh, no. This is just my night off. I still have… three shows left here.”

“So how long will you be in town for?”

“Another week.”

“And after that…?”

“Paris.”

“Right…” he nods. “And home is in… Los Angeles?”

The question catches you off-guard for some reason. You know he’s probably just asking where you live, but something about the way he asks it makes it sound like he’s asking about… ‘home’ home. “Technically, yes.”

He makes a face. That’s a strange answer… “What do you mean, technically? I’m sure you must have at least one home base somewhere, right?”

“I do, yeah.” You smile sheepishly. “LA is my home base. But… it’s not like I have any emotional attachment to the city or anything.”

“Where’s that, then, if not LA?”

You give it a good thought… but you got nothing. “I don’t know. Ask me tomorrow.” Maybe it’s the romance of the setting—although his warm hazel eyes play a crucial role too— it makes you feel more inclined to be more honest than you usually do.

Bradley smiles. He’s so fascinated by you, but at the same time, he has an inkling that he might need to solve a few puzzles himself before you let him in. And he would gladly take his time to get there.

At the same time, slow-dancing to a hummed classic with this man away from a modern-day nightclub… It makes you wonder what kind of person he is. “And you? You’re an American in London. Where’s home for you?”

“Well, I think Virginia will always be home, but this place has really grown on me. I’ve been here for most of my adult life, and this city, the team, the people… I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”

“Virginia, huh?” you smirk—imagining him growing up near the water, a sunkissed teenage boy shooting the shit with his friends.

“Yes, ma’am. Born and raised.”

It’s only at this moment that Bradley is so much like this garden. Seemingly out of place, frozen in time while the world moves all too fast around it. But at the same time, perfectly placed, a calm in the eye of the storm. Just for this little pocket of a park.

Just for you.

“Are you normally this… Southern gentlemanly? With the suit and the sweet disposition and the waltz…”

“Honestly? Not really.” He admits bashfully. “But, I don’t know. I feel like I’m in another era with you right now.”

“Oh?”

Bradley doesn’t elaborate right away. Instead, he asks you, "Do you believe in past lives?"

Your face lights up, and he knows he just asked the right question. "I don’t know. Do you?”

"A little…" he nods, thoughtful. "Maybe not in a religious sense where you die, you get judged, and then come back as a... worm or whatever. But.. I kinda like the idea that... no one is ever really a stranger, you know? That our paths have crossed at some point."

"And you're saying we've met before?"

"Oh, yeah." Again with the conviction, this motherfucker.

“Really?” You step away from him, entering a more cerebral dance than the one that you just swayed into. Your fingers barely touch the surface of the water on the fountain, and ripples it over as you walk by. "Where do you suppose we have met before?"

He looks up at the sky, moving clouds and all, pondering his answer. "I was thinking the 40’s and 50's—you know, the Golden Age. But I think it's a little earlier than that, don't you think?"

"Like... the Roaring Twenties?"

“Yes!”

His enthusiasm amuses and fascinates you endlessly, and you never needed much to fuel your active imagination anyway. "I like that. I can see you as... a former pilot who fought in World War I. And then went on to become a poet. Or a pianist."

"I think I'm better off as a pianist.” He’s not very good with words—he’s much better plunking the ivories to get the party going.

"Fair, fair. A jazz… pianist, maybe?"

"Ooh, interesting." Bradley smiles, picturing it in his head. "And what would you be?”

"I don't know. You tell me." You lean back against the stone arch, looking at him expectantly. His answer will determine how he sees you and thus, how you feel about him. And you want him desperately to have a good answer.

"I wanna say... the starlet, or the mysterious singer—"

"Oh, come on. Even in my past life, I'm still a singer? Can't I be something else?” You groan in protest.

He chuckles, settling right across from you. "Okay, okay..." he looks at you deeply, pensively for a moment. "You're one of those socialites, who drank martinis and danced the Charleston until morning."

"Makes sense. I do love martini... and the Charleston."

"Right? You'd be one of those girls who rebelled against daddy dearest and partied all night, maybe broke a few hearts along the way."

"Including yours?"

“I don't know. You tell me."

Now it's your turn to pause and take a good look at him. You try to picture it; how boisterous and bright he must be, getting the party going by playing ragtime or samba. And you try to picture toying with his feelings; those irresistible hazel eyes watching you longingly across the room as you give some random man time of day for no other reason but to spark his jealousy...

"Nah. I think yours is the only one I didn't break. Not on purpose, at least,” you conclude definitively. The thought of leaning over the piano, sipping on cocktails while he croons out some love ditty—or sitting on his lap while he teaches you a Christmas tune at a holiday party seems way more appealing.

"What do you mean?”

"Well, you said so yourself about daddy dearest. He wanted me to marry one of his business associates, an heir to a shipping company or something.” You cheekily stroll past him, down the little path towards the fountain again.

Bradley smiles knowingly, just a step behind you. "Ah. And I'm just a lowly little pianist. What chance did we have, huh?"

You halt your steps and turn around to face him, a mischievous smirk on your face. "Would you have fought for me?"

To your surprise, he meets your gaze with a soft, unwavering look. "Without a doubt. I would have stood up to your father and told him that we were meant to be together, come hell or high water."

The phrase echoes in your head. Come hell or high water. It’s so loud, it sends you reeling and you had to sit down on the edge of the fountain. Suddenly the image of a screaming match flashes so clearly in your mind. Bradley's hand gripping years for dear life. The shallow sobs under the suffocating constrict of your dress. The tears blurring the sight of him leaving…

“But it didn't work, did it…”

He doesn't hear a question in your words —it sounds like a statement. And Bradley, ever the hopeless romantic, wants to say no. Of course it worked out, it had to. Maybe you ran away with him and lived a life of simple means. But it wouldn't have mattered, because it would've been full of music and dancing and love.

But the heartbreak in your eyes is so palpable, so...real. For a moment, it felt like the two of you actually lived it. You were just retracing the forgotten steps now.

"No.” He shakes his head softly, sitting next to you. "We tried. We fought, but... we lost.”

You know that, but it hurts to hear it anyway. Still, you can't help but continue the story. "I think I ended up marrying the businessman, do the right thing for my family. And let you go... play your music in Paris or something. Chase your dreams."

The life he imagined. Of simple means and abundant music... just no you. "I would have written so many songs about you..." he chuckles wistfully. As painful as it would've been to keep picking at old wounds, at least he would still have you in his life.

"I think I would've found your record eventually,” You pipe up, partly in self-consolation. Sure, it might be a stretch, but you're way beyond caring. You needed a piece of him, too. "And I would put it on every time I missed you. Which was every night."

The night is so still, even the leaves seem to give you a moment of privacy. Your little fingers barely touch on the edge of the bench as you sit and grieve for a tragic love story that never happened.

Eventually, though, you take a deep breath and break the silence. "Fuck. I could write a whole album based on that."

Bradley laughs at your sudden interruption, glad that you snapped him out of his reverie and brought him back to reality. "Yeah? I would be happy to help you brainstorm."

You throw him a look. It feels weird to return to this point of acquaintance after feeling like you’ve gone through lifetimes with him. But you’re glad to start anew in this life. "Is that your roundabout way of saying you wanna keep seeing me?"

"Maybe. Is it working?"

"I don't know. I don’t do maybe’s. You should ask me for real.”

Holy fuck. He closes his eyes for a moment as his heart skips. You always seem to keep him on his toes, do you? "Alright. Can I see you again? Maybe take you out to dinner?"

"I would like that. Does tomorrow night work for you?"

"Perfect." he beams at you. Fuck playing it cool, he just won himself a date with you.

"We should swap numbers so we can figure out the details.” You reach into your purse to grab your phone. And then, something dawns on you, making you smirk devilishly at him, "You wanna put your number in, or would you rather give me that friendship bracelet I heard you made for me?"

Bradley stops dead in his tracks. Of course that public declaration was gonna bite him in the ass. He was doing so well, dancing and talking and making an actual connection with you...gosh, he must've looked stupid right now. "You knew about that?" He grimaces.

"Of course. I have eyes and ears everywhere, " you sling coyly, letting him punch his numbers into your phone with great embarrassment. "That, and Natasha might have sent me a post on Instagram.”

He sighs in defeat as he hands your phone back. "Goddamn it, Natasha…"

#oooo wonder how their real first date is gonna be like!#bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x reader #footballer!bradley #footballer!bradley x popstar!reader #top gun imagine #top gun au #ava writes #fever pitch

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