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lizard-on-a-window-pane · 1 year ago

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5 times you and Miguel walked away from each other and 1 time you didn't

pairing: Miguel O'Hara x reader notes: brother'sbestfriend!Miguel, soccerplayer!Miguel, college au, slow burn, somewhat mutual pining but written from reader's perspective more exclusively, SFW - only slightly suggestive (worst thing is probably a boner), fem reader (pretty neutral though), saying soccer instead of football felt so dirty but oh well, thank you for reading!! word count: 5.9k

You’re having your first lazy day in forever. It’s the first day in recent memory that you didn’t have something to do or somewhere to be. You’re just going to hang out in your apartment and watch your favorite shows or read for fun for once or whatever else you feel like doing. Because you don’t have to go anywhere, you don’t even take a shower, opting to stay in your comfy pajamas, not bothering with any makeup or hair effort, as you lounge around.

You have the place to yourself now, but you share it with your twin brother Alex, the two of you lucky enough to go to the same university.

When you eventually hear his keys scratching at the door, you’re sprawled on the couch reading a novel you’d left half-finished for ages despite actually really enjoying it. School really had a way of making you not read. Or at least never full books.

As Alex opens the door, you’re surprised to hear him talking to someone else. You see his unexpected guest a moment later from your spot on the couch, your college apartment rather small after all. And you’re mortified. Miguel. Alex’s best friend, university soccer team superstar, ridiculously attractive Miguel.

God, why did Alex not warn you he was bringing someone over? All it took was a quick message, for fuck’s sake. And Miguel of all people? Ugh. Well, it wasn’t like you could tell him. “Hey, brother dear, I have a huge crush on your best friend, so can I please get a warning next time he’ll be around? You know, especially so I’m not looking like a total mess when he shows up?��

He’d been coming over a lot recently actually. He and Alex were both on the soccer team and happened to share a few classes too, so their schedules really lined up. Usually, it was nice to get to see him. It’s not like either of them paid that much attention to you when they were hanging out, but Miguel was nice to look at. Even now, they seemed like they were coming back from a casual soccer match or something, and he still looked amazing. His thick, dark hair was messy in the way that made you want to run your hands through it; his t-shirt hugged his unreasonably broad chest and shoulders perfectly, and his sweatpants — fuck, his sweatpants — his ass looked miraculous as he turned to put his gym bag down.

Miguel’s looking at you as he and Alex step into the living room. “It’s Saturday, Y/N, and the weather’s finally fucking nice. Why’re you reading a book? You’re such a nerd,” Alex snaps as he plops onto the couch next you, pushing your legs off to make room.

“I’m a nerd because I’m reading a book? Am I am tomboy because I’m not wearing a dress, too, or are we keeping it to one stupid superficial stereotype?”

Miguel chuckles as he sits on Alex’s other side. “Cut him some slack, Y/N, he took a soccer ball to the head today. Might be making him even more of an idiot than usual.”

You can’t help but worry; you love the idiot after all.

“You okay? Was it bad?” you’re asking as you run your hand over his head looking for bumps. “I’m fine, mom,” he mocks, pushing you away. “And you? You asshole,” he accuses Miguel playfully. “‘Took a ball to the head’?” he repeats, then turning to you adds, “It was him that kicked it!” Miguel starts laughing.

“It was the perfect setup, man. Not my fault you were distracted.” “Whatever,” Alex says as he reaches for the video game remotes. Knowing them, it was time for FIFA.

You’re eager to hide with how you look right now anyway, so you get up to head into your room. “We didn’t mean to kick you out,” Miguel starts kindly. “ You don’t have to go; you were clearly comfortable here.” “Clearly comfortable”? God that sounded bad in your head. He was “super hot”; you were “clearly comfortable.”

“Thanks, Miguel. It’s fine. I was going to —“ but you don’t finish your excuse as you trip on the remote’s charging wire as you step across, falling unceremoniously to your face right in front of them.

“Mierda!” Miguel yells.

Alex immediately asks, “You okay?,” but it’s Miguel who’s up and over you in the same instant.

“You alright?” he asks softly as his hands grab your hips to help you up.

His hands on you were the last thing you needed right now. So much for composure. “Fine. Really,” you say, your breath shaky. You’re kneeling on your living room floor; Miguel’s squatting in front of you, close; his hands haven’t left your body even though you’re no longer prone. He just watches you closely, eyes beautiful and concerned. You stare back into them, and after a couple more shaky breaths finally manage to stand up and step away, looking anywhere but at him. “‘M fine,” you repeat. You turn away hurriedly and go the few steps to your room. Once safely behind closed doors, your face scrunches and your stomach sinks at the sheer embarrassment.

It’s been days since Miguel was at your apartment, and part of you is happy for the lack of pressure but another part of you still gets a funky feeling in her gut at the idea that the last memory of you he had was of a clumsy mess. He and Alex have a game today, and pretending to convince yourself that you just felt like it today, you make yourself up more than usual for it. You’re actually pretty happy with your look as you head out to meet some friends at the match.

They win. Miguel scores. Twice. Alex’s defense is probably the main reason for their clean sheet.

So, hyped up on adrenaline and victory, they’re laughing and messing around with their teammates as a bunch of people approach the sidelines to congratulate them. Alex spots you and makes a goofy face, always so playful when he’s happy. He jogs over to you and gives you a huge hug.

“Stop, you’re so sweaty!” you squeal. He just holds you tighter and rubs his sweaty hair on you, laughing. When he finally pulls away, Miguel is standing right next to him, smiling at the two of you. “Do I get a hug too?” he teases. “I scored two more goals than he did!”

You’re not sure if he’s kidding, and you’re sure the chuckle you give in response is somewhat tense.

But, stepping toward him, you just say, “Congratulations,” and wrap your arms around his shoulders without getting too close. Damn, they were like boulders. Miguel wraps his arms around your waist and closes the distance you’d maintained, giving you a surprisingly intimate embrace. You’re struck by the feeling of him around you. He’s sweaty, too, and you can smell his musk, but instead of off-putting, you find it incredibly arousing. You can feel the rise and fall of his breathing where your chest is flush with his. He’s so warm, and you just want to breathe him in and trace every ridge of his body. But the hug is already lingering too long to be normal, and you pull back a bit awkwardly. Miguel is still looking at you, a subtle smile on his face.

He seems about to say something when a high pitched squeal right next to you startles you.

“Miguel!” a very pretty girl yells at him as she approaches, unabashedly jumping onto his back. She’s in a cheer uniform. “Oh my god, you were so good!” Miguel’s so sturdy, her jumping on him didn’t throw him off physically, but his face looks a little flustered. “Uh, thanks,” he says politely, putting her down. She just giggles and grabs his arm as she compliments him again.

You feel so awkward watching this, so you just turn around and walk away. You don’t see Miguel looking after you.

You’re at the after party with a couple of your friends. The soccer team was quite popular, and the victory parties tended to be good. You’re mostly having fun, but you can’t help but keep looking over to where Miguel is. Man of the match and man with that face, he was obviously the center of attention. People were coming up to congratulate him left and right. He handled it all so graciously. It shocked you how there was no arrogance in his demeanor; he was just the easygoing life of the party.

You wanted to go talk to him too, but you’d already congratulated him and didn’t know what else you would say. The last thing you wanted was to embarrass yourself again. You could go talk to your brother, who was right next to him, but he was busy flirting, and you didn’t want to ruin it for him.

A bunch of people are dancing in the open space between you and Miguel, and the chaos lets you sneak long looks at him without his noticing. But when your friend leans over and asks, “Who do you keep looking at?,” you realize you have to be less obvious. “No one, just curious who Alex is flirting with,” you lie, proud of how quick you were with it.

“You a jealous, protective sister type?” she laughs.

“No, just curious.” “Is he?” “What?” “Protective?”

“Um, sometimes, depends. Why?”

“Because that guy over there keeps checking you out.” She nods toward an okay-looking guy chatting with someone on the edge of the dance floor. A second later, he was indeed looking over at you. “You should go talk to him!” “Oh, I don’t know. I’m not so interested.” “Why not? He’s hot! I’m pretty sure he’s on the team too. You don’t have to marry him, Y/N, just go dance! You’ve been weirdly tense all night.”

You look over again, and your eyes meet. Before you can do anything else, he makes the decision for you, walking over to you.

“Hey.” “Um, hi.” You exchange names and pleasantries, and he asks you if you want to dance. Without thinking about it, you glance toward the person you really wish you were dancing with. To your surprise, Miguel is already looking toward you. He looks less happy than before. You look back at this guy quickly, hoping neither of them noticed.

You feel slightly bad thinking this, using this guy you weren’t super interested in, but you couldn’t help but feel it’d be nice if Miguel saw a side of you that might make him think of you differently, not just as Alex’s sister. It’s just a dance anyway, so, you accept the offer and head to the dance floor.

You fall into a rhythm with the music, with the guy. The dancing is fun; the guy is fine. Your back is to Miguel, and you can’t resist spinning to catch another glimpse, doing it seamlessly as you keep dancing. Your breath catches when your eyes meet his.

Miguel watching you from across the room is doing much more to turn you on than anything your current dance partner is doing, but you channel your new energy into your movements. It’s not a well thought out decision, though in the back of your mind you know who it’s for, but you start moving a bit more suggestively. You let your hips follow the music, let your hands come up to your hair as your body rolls rhythmically. Feeling especially bold, you even manage to meander closer to where Miguel is, giving him a better view.

Unbeknownst to you, this unfortunately also makes Alex, now unoccupied, notice you for the first time. You don’t hear him leaning over to Miguel and saying, “Gross. I hate seeing my sister with random guys. Let’s go get more drinks.” He drags him away, and Miguel, unable to come up with a good reason not to follow, does.

The next time you spin, all you catch is the backs of their heads.

The following week, you’re coming home from classes, and all you can think about is eating. You’d had to skip lunch to finish an assignment and couldn’t wait for dinner.

When you enter your apartment, you find Miguel sitting on your couch.

“Hey,” he greets. “Hi.” He’s sitting on the edge of the sofa closest to you, and he adorably shifts over to make room, as if you couldn’t just go around. You weren’t planning on sitting anyway, but now that he’s wordlessly extended an invitation, you do. “Where’s Alex?”

“Went to take a shower. We’re gonna play a couple games when he’s done.” He gestures toward the video game console. “Are the remotes charged?” you joke. “I hear it’s a hazard to have the wires across the living room floor.” Miguel chuckles lightly at your self-deprecating humor. He’s turned toward you, sitting in the middle of the couch, his elbow on the backrest as he occasionally messes with his luscious hair. “I felt so bad that day. Taking over your space and tripping you. When you looked so peaceful when we got here.”

“Don’t feel bad,” you laugh, amused but also masking your stirring feelings at the fact that he had thought about it at all. “I was just a mess that day. And I wouldn’t call my pyjamas peaceful, just comfortable. In my defense, though, I wasn’t expecting company.”

“I liked your pyjamas,” he teases, and you roll your eyes. “What? I did! I’m all for comfy clothing; have you not noticed 90% of my wardrobe is gym clothes?”

“Yes, well, you can get away with it. You’re a guy, and you look like that,” you say, gesturing at his body before you really realize what you’re saying. You tense as soon as you do. It just slipped out, the conversation getting weirdly easy and comfortable with him. “Like what?” he asks, but he’s smirking, knowing what you meant. You just roll your eyes again. “No, c’mon, chula, like what?” He lifts his eyebrows in challenge, mirth in his eyes. You’re too busy reeling from the pet name to have mental energy to come up with a retort. You’re grateful for what would’ve otherwise been embarrassing: your stomach grumbling. Miguel looks at your stomach and giggles. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” you say, taking the escape route and walking to the adjoining kitchen. He follows. “You can get away with it too, you know,” he says nonchalantly. You think you know what he means but look back at him questioningly. “The clothes. You always look good.”

You’re glad you’re not facing him, your expression probably revealing your excitement. “Thanks.” “You’re welcome.” He leans on your counter. “So what are you having?” “I don’t know, whatever we have. Haven’t had time to go to the store.” You’re rummaging through your cabinets. “I can make you something,” he offers. You stop and look at him. “What? I’m a great cook,” he shrugs defensively. “Have you never had my tamales?”

“It’s not about you being good or not,” you giggle. “There’s no reason you should have to cook when you’re just here to hang out.”

He just shrugs again, but there’s a tinge of shyness in his typically confident facade.

You turn to open your fridge, and he comes up right next to you. “Oh shit, you guys have jarritos. Can I steal one?”

“Yeah, of course,” you laugh. “Grab whatever you want.”

You didn’t think he would immediately… As you bend over to grab something from the drawers, Miguel reaches up to grab the soda, leaning forward. Both of you moving simultaneously, your ass presses firmly against his crotch. You both freeze in panic, prolonging the position, before you jump up at the accidental contact. His and your “sorry”’s and “I didn’t mean to”’s get jumbled together in the colossally awkward moment. Miguel looks down, then back up again looking startled. He scurries around to the other side of the counter, it now separating you. “Jesus, Miguel, I didn’t do it on purpose! You don’t have to put a barricade between us; it’s not like I’m gonna jump you!” “No, no, it’s not that! Fuck, it’s, uh, fuck…” He looks lost for words. His hand comes to his face, covering it in resigned embarrassment. His voice is a mumble through his obstructing hand, “I’ve a bd’ve uh sitch-ation.”

“What?” He uncovers his face with an exasperated sigh. “I have… a bit of a… situation,” he whispers, looking down.

“Oh… oh!” you say, realization hitting you. Probably largely because of the awkward tension, at least partially at the idea of you giving Miguel O’Hara a boner, you start cracking up. He just stares at you, deadpan, his hands coming to his hips. “It’s not funny.” “It’s a little funny.” His glare cracks the tiniest bit.

“Okay, maybe it’s a little funny. But it’s your fault!”

“I didn’t mean to!”

“Didn’t mean to what?” Alex asks nonchalantly, coming out of his room, lazily drying his hair.

“Nothing!” you and Miguel say simultaneously.

“Okay… should I just pretend that wasn’t really suspicious?”

“Yes,” you tell him. “It’s nothing, really. Just me being clumsy again.”

His eyes are still skeptical, but Alex just chuckles and nods, letting it go at the look on your face. He heads to the couch with an easy “C’mon, man” at Miguel. Miguel follows, giving you a sideways glance and tense smile. When he sits, he immediately puts a cushion on his lap. You grab the first thing that looks edible in your fridge and head to your room.

Two weekends later finds you at another soccer team party. They’d lost this time, 2-1. Miguel scored their sole goal, and the other team’s second had been a sketchy penalty. If the victory parties were good, the defeat ones were wild. Most of the players, Miguel and Alex among them, were drowning their sorrows, especially after such a disheartening defeat.

You weren’t a player, but you had your own sorrows to drown, and you weren’t stopping yourself from doing just that. You’d hardly seen Miguel in almost two weeks, and the few times you had, he’d been cold, keeping interactions mainly to greetings and goodbyes. You didn’t know if you’d done something wrong, if he was still caught up with your little awkward encounter, or if you were just making it up, your feelings for him needing some outlet. Making up stories by constantly obsessing about him was as good as outlet as you could get sometimes. Alcohol was a better one now.

A while into the party, you’re at the bar for your… you lost count… numberth tequila shot. You down it, lick the salt off your hand, and stick the lime in your mouth, cringing.

Your eyes are still closed when you feel a hand on your shoulder. You open them and see Miguel standing beside you. “Maybe switch to water, huh, guapa?” he tells you.

“Why? M’fine,” you slur.

“Maybe, but you won’t be if you keep this pace up.” “And how would you know?”

“Just noticed,” he shrugs.

You squint your eyes accusingly at him. You didn’t know what you’d feel next time you talked to him, but you hadn’t expected to feel this angry.

“You notice me enough to watch how much I drink but not to say more than two words at a time to me for weeks?” He looks surprised. “Y/N…”

You cross your arms and lift your eyebrows in an implied “what?”

When he doesn’t say anything, you just walk past him. You end up walking through the dance floor, and though it wasn’t your plan, you kind of like moving to the music. You’re drunk enough to the lack the inhibitions to just dance alone. You’re enjoying yourself, not even bothering to look back and see if Miguel was still there. A bit later though, you startle as you feel a hand on your ass. You turn and find a random guy you’ve never met before, smiling at you disgustingly drunkenly. You’re taken aback, your mind already a bit slow from the alcohol, so you haven’t decided yet how to tell him to fuck off by the time Miguel is in front of you shoving him away. He’s not overly aggressive but, even drunk, easily moves the guy away from you with an angry “What the hell, man?”

The other guy looks seriously scared and just lifts his hands with a pathetic “sorry, Miguel.”

“Fucking better be, what the hell is wrong with you?” The other guy stumbles away. Miguel turns towards you, and his expression melts from frightening anger to warm concern in two seconds. “You okay?” he asks, his hands carefully grazing your shoulders. You nod and lean into him. At your seeming comfortable, he lets his arms come around you.

“Thanks,” you whisper in his ear.

“Of course,” he whispers in yours, and it sends a shiver down your entire body. You stare into his eyes, your hands resting on his chest.

“Miguel?”

“Yeah?”

“Wanna dance with me?”

They don’t call it “liquid courage” for nothing.

Miguel considers you for a moment, but a soft smirk is whispered across is sharp features. He nods slowly, and his hands move slightly further down your back. You close your eyes at the sensation of his hands running along your body. You run your hands up his chest slowly and wrap your arms around his neck. When you open your eyes, you see his crimson ones boring into you.

You start moving a bit more as you focus on the music to relieve some of the tension you’re feeling. He follows your lead, and soon you’re dancing together much more easily. As a couple of songs go by, you’re both moving freely, staying close to each other the whole time.

You’re so exhilarated, and he seems as enveloped in you as you are in him, so the next time the beat calls for it, you let your body twist rhythmically in his grasp. Your back is now flush with his chest, your ass on his crotch, your hand reaching behind you on his neck, in his hair. His hands are firm on your hips, and when you roll them against him, you hear his whispered “Fuck, mami” in your ear and feel his arm come around your middle, pulling you into him. His hips move in rhythm with yours. You’ve probably never been so turned on in your entire life. You keep this up for a delicious while. You can feel Miguel is hard through his jeans, but he makes no sign of being embarrassed, just continuing to dance with you with expert hip movements that make your imagination go wild. Of course he’d be an amazing dancer. Of course you’d imagine what else his hips could do.

You twist back in his embrace, coming to face him. He holds you close, and you bring a hand to his face. He leans into your touch. You move your face up slightly, and he seems to be following, moving his down. You’re so close, even think you feel your lips graze his, when someone bumps up against you, making you stumble.

Miguel’s strong arms catch you, but the moment is gone, and a second later, he looks startled.

“You okay?” he asks, stepping back a bit, speaking loudly to keep his distance. “Yeah, I’m fine,” you assure, but he seems off.

“Let’s get some air, huh?”

You follow him outside, the sudden change in ambience making your head spin a little. You lean against the wall, and he puts his hand on your shoulder.

“Sure you’re okay?” You nod but don’t say anything, maybe a bit drunker than you thought, trying to ground yourself. He leans on the wall next to you. His body is warm where it grazes your side. You can feel his gaze intermittently on you. You get a little dizzy again, and you lean onto his shoulder. He just lets you, and you stand like that for a while.

His fingers graze the back of your hand.

“Want me to take you home?”

You nod into his body. He wraps a firm arm around your shoulders and leads you away from the party.

You’re home before you know it, the whole journey a blur dominated by his warmth by your side. When you reach your front door, you lean on it and look up at him. His subtle smile elicits your full one. “Thanks,” you whisper. “’S no problem,” he shrugs. “You’ll be okay?” “Yeah,” you nod. You’re already sobering up. “You?”

He chuckles and nods.

“I wasn’t the one downing tequila shots like water,” he teases. Your cheeks warm, and you look down as you chuckle.

“Wasn’t that many…”

He laughs.

“It was, cariño.” Again with the pet names.

“I’m still surprised you noticed.” “I always notice you,” he responds without missing a beat. Your eyes snap up to his, and you see the longing there.

You stare at each other for a heavy moment, then, drunk more on the sensations of your earlier almost-kiss than on alcohol, chasing that feeling, you lean up to try again. Your lips are a breath away from his when he looks down, effectively rejecting your advance. You pull away, mortified.

“Sorry, I… sorry,” you stutter as you scramble for your keys. You turn to your door. “Y/N,” he whispers, his hand holding your wrist softly. “It’s okay,” you say, looking back him, wiping tears from your eyes. “You don’t have to say anything; sorry I misunderstood.”

You quickly go inside and close the door. You lean on it, crying. Miguel, eyes closed, fists clenched, rests his forehead on the opposite side.

Miguel doesn’t come around for a while. Even as days pass, you can’t stop thinking about your night together. Confusion, sadness, embarrassment — all mixing together into a terrible cocktail.

Another match day rolls around, and you can’t stomach the idea of watching Miguel play, of potentially having to talk to him after. You tell Alex you’re really sorry to not support him this time, but that you’re not feeling well. He worries over you a while, unhelpfully but adorably emptying your medicine cabinet onto the kitchen counter, looking through stuff, suggesting this and that, telling you to text him anything you needed that he could bring you after.

A while later, you’ve just slumped down onto the couch, when your stomach sinks at the sight you’re met with. There, at the corner of the room, lie his cleats. He’d been cleaning them the night before and had clearly forgotten to put them back in his gym bag.

“Fuck.”

You lift yourself up, grab them, and head over to the stadium.

When you get there, you pound at the locker room door, and it opens — of course, you couldn’t catch a fucking break — to Miguel O’Hara’s gorgeous face. Though he looks at you intently, you can’t quite read his expression. Then he yells over his shoulder, “Ale!”

Alex jogs over and, upon seeing you, lets out the biggest sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank God. I fucking love you.” He reaches for the cleats you’re holding up to him and gives you a bear hug. “Saved my fucking life, Y/N/N. Thank you.” He kisses your forehead. “You don’t look as sick. You’ll be okay?” He’s clearly in a rush to get back but wants to make sure you’re alright.

You nod and playfully shove his chest, pushing him back into the locker room. “You’re the best!” he yells over his shoulder as he saunters back. Miguel is still just standing there, all geared up for the match. It crosses your sick mind how good the uniform looks on him.

“You’re sick?” he asks.

“Nothing I won’t get over.” You offer him a weak smile. He’s nodding slowly, considering.

“Stay for the match?”

“Miguel, I —“ “Please.” You’ve never heard him plead before. You’re head is nodding before your mind can catch up. He just nods too. “I’ll find you after.” And with that, he jogs back into the locker room.

You’d never known ninety minutes could drag on for eternity, with a half-time’s worth of eternity in between. You’re sure you’re heartbeat was elevated the entire time, your mind and emotions reeling. What was Miguel going to say to you after the match? You had absolutely no read on him during your short interaction before. Then again, apparently you weren’t always great at reading him.

Minute after minute trickles by. At the end of the second half, your team up a goal (yes, Miguel’s), the ref announces an unusually large number of minutes. You moan with everyone else, for your own reasons. What was a potential leveler compared to the leveling of your heart?

Slowly, the minutes pass. The other team builds a mounting attack; they get a good attempt; they miss. The whistle blows; the crowd cheers, and you, you’re frozen in place.

You thaw yourself slowly as the players shake hands, go to their respective huddles. By the time they’re roaming the sidelines freely, you’ve only just managed to leave your seat.

As you descend the bleachers stairs, you catch sight of Miguel. He’s obviously searching, halfheartedly ignoring the congratulations coming from all sides. His eyes eventually meet yours, and as soon as they do, he’s running over to you, meeting you much closer to the bleachers than the field.

He comes to a stop right in front of you and just watches you. You just watch him. “Congratulations,” you say. He chuckles, lightly shaking his head.

“Thanks.”

He takes a step closer to you. “Y/N…” “Yeah?” “I…” “Miguel!” you’re interrupted. “Congratulations! Way to pull it out!” “Thanks, yeah, thank you,” he says hurriedly, looking back over to you. “Listen, I just, I wanted to clear things up after how we left them.” You nod, worrying your bottom lip, your arms wrapping around you defensively.

“I didn’t want you to think that —“

“Congratulations, Miguel! Did it again, man!” And a slap on the back.

“Uh-huh, yeah, thank you,” Miguel responds, turning away, approaching rudeness. “For fuck’s sake,” he says, much more softly. “C’mere.” He grabs your arm and drags you around the bleachers, stopping when you have a semblance of cover. He’s looking around to make sure no one else is about to talk to him, and his worried looks right after he’s just won makes you laugh. The sound draws his attention fully back to you. He smiles at seeing you smiling.

“Where can a guy get a little privacy, huh?” he jokes. “Probably not still by the field where he just scored the winning goal, I’m guessing,” you tease. He chuckles. Then he takes a deep, sobering breath. “Listen, Y/N…”

His tone sounds apologetic, and it makes you immediately think the worst. He probably just didn’t want you to be embarrassed. Wanted to fix things so they wouldn’t be awkward if he hung around, which he’d obviously want to do given Alex was his best friend.

Already fighting back tears, wanting to beat him to the punch to save face in whatever way you could at this point, you cut him off. “Miguel, you don’t have to explain anything or anything. I’m sorry I made more out of a good time than I should have. Please don’t let me keep you from hanging out with my brother even if I’m around, and I hope we can still be friends.” “What? No, that’s not… This isn’t about Alex. I mean, well it is a little bit.” He’s looking unsure. “Just keep things how they were before. It’s all fine.” “Is that what you want?” He looks serious. “What do you mean?” “Is that what you want? To keep things how they were before? To still be friends?”

“I… well… it’s what you want, isn’t it?” “I never said that.” “You didn’t have to. I tried to kiss you, and you pretty much said no to that. Twice.”

“I didn’t. Well, once, yeah I did, but it was only because I was worried you were too drunk. I didn’t want to take advantage of you. And, also, maybe a little bit because I panicked, okay?” He sounds more vulnerable than you’ve ever heard him yet. “I was worried it’d be weird with Alex or that I’d fuck it up with you, and I just, I don’t know, I panicked. And the other time wasn’t my fault. I was going to kiss you if you hadn’t stumbled.” “Someone bumped into me!” “I’m not blaming you! I just, it just, it made me remember you were drunk, and I didn’t want to be like that idiot guy I’d had to push away a while earlier.” “You’re nothing like that guy,” you say sternly. “I…” He’s started to look frustrated, unable to find the words. He runs his hand over his face, takes another deep breath. “What if you try now?” “What?” “I don’t know how to tell you. So maybe I can just show you. Try again, and no one will bump into you. I won’t panic, and I won’t think of all the things that could go wrong. I’ll think of how I’ve been feeling since that night. Absolutely fucking miserable. It’s been eating away at me; all I could think about was making it right with you, but I didn’t know how, didn’t know if I should. But I can’t take it anymore, and if you feel the same way, then, fuck, let’s just stop getting in our own way.”

“Miguel…” “Yeah?” “That was pretty good for not knowing how to tell me.” Your face forms the slightest teasing smirk, your eyes lighting up at the realization of what he’s telling you. “Shut up and kiss me already,” he says, rolling his eyes, unable to help his bright smile, pulling your body to his and bringing his lips onto yours.

You pull him into you, reciprocating eagerly. He moans into your mouth, and you feel his towering body sink onto yours. His arms are tight around you, one hand cupping your head, bringing you close. His kiss is fervent, desperate but concentrated.

You run your hands in his hair, and he chuckles gruffly, the sound muffled by your chasing mouth. You lose yourself in his embrace. You grip him tightly, breaching into his mouth, wanting to kiss him as much as wanting to be kissed by him. You could feel the beginning of a beautiful push and pull as your mouths move together, your bodies mold into each other’s.

You want to kiss him forever, but some loud cheering nearby startles you slightly apart. Miguel is looking deeply into your eyes. He kisses you again, lets his forehead rest on yours when he pulls back. You’re smiling when you say, “You should probably get back. I’m sure people are looking for you.” He groans dramatically and hides in the crook of your neck. He kisses it before saying, “I just want to be with you.”

You giggle, nuzzling his face with yours, holding him close, your hand in his hair.

“Yeah, me too.” He hums into your neck. He plants another kiss there, and one on your cheek on his way up, as he lifts his head again. His rough hands caress your face tenderly.

“This is good,” he says simply. You laugh and nod. “Fuck ‘em. I’ll go over there at some point. Let’s just stay here a little while longer.”

“Okay,” you smile.

Miguel leans back into you, kissing you and kissing you and kissing you.

#miguel ohara #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara x you #spiderman 2099 #miguel ohara fanfiction #miguel ohara imagine #miguel ohara oneshot #miguel ohara fluff #miguel ohara angst #across the spiderverse #spiderman #atsv #spiderman across the spiderverse #spiderman fanfiction #slow burn #mutual pining #bbf!miguel #soccerplayer!miguel

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leilakisakabiri · 1 year ago

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Once You Know (Pedri)

Summary: The three times Pedri tried to confess his feelings for you, and the one time he succeeded.

A/N: Had to post for Pedri's birthday (three days late oops)! Happy 21st to him. Requests are open.

Word count: 3.6k+

Masterlist

The first time he felt an urge to tell you how beautiful you looked he nearly gave himself whiplash turning to do a double take. It was his 21st birthday party and he had gone all out. Hosting a private party on a famous rooftop club in Barcelona. You had just moved to Barcelona the month before - entering your final year of university and having an internship in the city.

He was ecstatic to have you there. You two had been friends since you were nearly eight, your families being friends due to owning restaurants on the same strip. While you were close growing up, as Pedri moved away and you started university the two of you had slowly drifted, seeing each other every couple of months as opposed to weekly. However, now that you had moved to the same city as Pedri, he had taken the opportunity to invite you to his party, hoping to see you again.

You arrived a little later than everyone else, having to rush straight from work. You quickly changed in the bathroom, putting on a sundress and trying to fix your makeup as best as you could. You were extremely nervous. You hadn't seen Pedri in over three months and had also never been to such a high-class event. You had never visited him before moving to Barcelona and you were anxious about the thought of meeting his friends who also happened to be world-class athletes and had more money than probably your whole hometown combined.

As soon as you entered the club you spotted Pedri leaning against the railing talking with another player. Torres, you realized.

Seeing as you didn't know anyone else here you headed straight for them.

You came to stand next to Torres facing Pedri, "Hey. Happy Birthday!"

You saw Pedri spare you a glance as his lips lifted in a smile, "Hey. Thanks."

He turned back to his conversation and you stood awkwardly with your present unsure how to give it to him seeing as the conversation ended.

You opened your mouth to speak up when you saw his head snap back to you, eyes growing wide as he realized who you were, "Holy shit Y/n! I'm sorry I didn't even recognize you."

He pulled you into a hug, warm hands pressing against the small of your back.

You giggled against him as you gave him his present, "For you."

His hand went to grab yours as he squeezed, "Thank you."

You gave him a smile, unsure what you were feeling. Seeing again him, felt like the universe was finally falling back into place. Like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

"This is my friend Fernane." He introduced you to the other player.

You smiled, giving him a wave, "Nice to meet you."

The boy waved back at you, a grin on his face, "Sorry didn't catch your name."

"Y/n."

"Well Y/n, do you wanna go grab a drink while Pedri greets everyone else?"

You laughed in agreement, following behind him to the bar.

Pedri watched you go, his heart beating a little too fast for his liking, and the urge to tell you to stay with him stronger than ever. The feeling kept growing, continuing to creep into his mind, until all he could do was think about you, about how much you reminded him of home, about how safe you made him feel, how content.

Maybe he did see you as more than a friend. But then again - the two of you had known each other since you were kids, and maybe he was just getting emotional at the thought of someone from home being so close to him now. Like a piece of the islands and his childhood had finally come back to him.

However, the way your dress wrapped around your figure as the wind flowed past you, and the way your perfume lingered in the air even after you walked away, was beginning to make him dizzy.

He thought there might be something there, but even if there was he wasn't sure how to approach it, or even if he ever would. You two worked best as friends.

So, therefore he couldn't be sure. Definitely not. He concluded that the liquor was getting to his head.

He didn't know how to feel. Actually, fuck it. He did know how he felt. He just didn't know what to do with the information.

He had never been in a situation like this before. Sure, he had liked girls in the past before, but they were people he had met without any intention of being friends. But with you it was different, you were friends first, and for so long. He couldn't quite pinpoint when he started to think of you as more of a friend, but he knew that the night of his birthday hadn't been the first time, but simply the time he finally realized it.

He had chickened out that night. Unsure of how to talk to you. Unsure if you were even single. The two of you hadn't talked for a while and he didn't know anything about your situation other than that you moved for work.

He hoped there was no one else. He really hoped. But then again maybe you already being taken would make it easier for him to move on.

He wasn't sure why his feelings for you came on so strong. One day it was just an inkling in the back of his mind, and the next he could see you everywhere and in everything. He would be listening to a song in the car and one lyric would randomly remind him of you, or he would be training and his mind would start to wander, wondering what you were doing right now, if you were on lunch break or busy studying.

He thought there was something seriously wrong with him.

Because why was he thinking about you so much? Why did he keep hoping you were watching his games, even though you had never asked to come to one before?

His fingers hovered over the button as he debated pressing send. In any normal situation, it wouldn't have been an issue, just one friend asking another to come to their game, but now that felt how he did, the task became that much more daunting.

"God damn it Pedri just send it!" Torres leaned over the boy's shoulder, annoyance plastered across his face.

"I'm nervous. What if she says no?"

He gave him a blank expression, "Then she says no. Big deal. But seriously she's your friend, it's not weird, just send it."

Pedri bit his lip, still unsure, "Fine."

Your phone screen lit up as you got a text. Stretching you reached out to grab it expecting it to be your manager sending you details about the file you were working on but you were surprised to see a text from Pedri instead.

"Hey, hope your first few weeks in Barca have been good! Barcelona's playing this weekend and I have two extra tickets if you want to come and bring a friend."

You smiled at the unexpected gesture. You had always wanted to go to a Barcelona game but felt weird asking Pedri if you could come.

"I would love to! Are you sure though? I can buy tickets if you need to give them to someone else."

Your phone buzzed immediately.

"No one else needed them, so they're all yours."

Lies. His brother had wanted to come to the game this weekend but he had told him no, not wanting to overwhelm you with his family in case you did say yes.

You agreed to take them and texted your friend, one of the biggest Barca supporters you knew, and asked them to go with you.

Your phone quickly became overrun with messages as they texted back asking a million questions about how you got family tickets and who you knew.

The day of the game arrived and you were abuzz with excitement. You contemplated what to wear, should you just go for a casual look or should you wear a jersey? And if you did wear a jersey should it be a blank one or Pedris? Would it be weird if you wore his?

You guys were friends, but he had also never offered you his jersey.

You opted for a regular fit, choosing to just wear a Barca scarf that your friend lent you.

Arriving at the stadium, you immediately texted Pedri in awe of how big it was, and how many people there were.

“Just got here. This place is massive. Excited to see you play!”

Your friend tugged you to your seats, making you take a hundred pictures of him in the stands.

“Oh my god Y/n I can’t believe we’re actually here. I haven’t been to a game since I was like seven, and I’ve never sat in the family section before. I feel famous.”

You laughed next to him, “I know. Mean either - it’s a little overwhelming.”

He sighed next to you, “So are you finally going to tell me who you know on the team? Is it Lewandowski or something? Or Gavi?”

You shook your head no, “Pedri actually.”

His mouth dropped open, “No way.” He smacked your arm, “How come you never told me? And how come you never invited me to a game before?”

You shrugged, “I dunno we’re friends but he’s never invited me before. This is my first game too.”

His eyes twinkled, “Dude he totally likes you.”

“No way. We’ve known each other for years.”

“Ok, but he didn’t invite you till now.”

“I just moved to Barcelona. He’s trying to be friendly.” You defended.

He squinted his eyes, “Mhm ok. Does he know I’m here?”

You nodded.

“Ok but does he know you brought a guy?”

You frowned, “He said I could bring a friend. You’re my friend.”

His smile widened, “Right but he doesn’t know that.” He pointed out.

“You’re making this weird.” You whined.

He held up his hands in surrender, “Fine but if he thinks we’re dating it’s your fault.”

The game started after that and the both of you became immersed in watching, shouting along with the rest of the fans. Besides yourself, you felt your mind wander back to your conversation with your friend, your heart skipping a beat when you thought about Pedri and the possibility of more.

You scolded yourself immediately, he was your friend, and that was it.

Although you couldn’t deny that he looked good down on the pitch, cheeks adorned with a pink hue and sweat trailing down his neck from running on the field.

Your friend left to go to the bathroom near the end of the game, Barcelona was at a stalemate with the opposite team, neither being able to break the other’s defensive line.

Finally, in the 84th minute, you saw Pedri make a break for it. He ran past the defenders, skillfully side-stepping one and doing a few tricks you remember him learning back when he still played for your school team. He saw the opening the same time you did and without another thought, he kicked. The ball landed in the back of the net with a thud.

Screams. All around you. Everyone was chanting Pedri’s name, and the boy in question was running towards the fan section, his hands already up in his signature pose.

He was embraced by his teammates, a proud smile on his face. Finally, they left him, beginning to walk back to their starting positions as he followed. Suddenly though he turned back around, his eyes going up to the family section, arm going up to point at you.

You bit your lip trying and failing to hide a smile. You had no idea why he was pointing at you but you would be lying if you said you there wasn’t a warm fuzzy feeling in your tummy because of it.

You saw his grin widen as yours spread across your face.

He was running on a high.

Nothing was going to stop him now. He had scored a goal and then partially dedicated it to you. And you had smiled. At him.

He felt like he was on top of the world. He had never understood it when other players had told him how important it was to them when their partners were able to come and watch them. The only thing Pedri had to compare it to was his family, and while he was always happy when his family could come, there was an unmatched feeling when he looked up and saw you in the stands, knowing that you had taken the time of out of your day to come and support him, and not because you had to, but because you wanted to. It made him play better, wanting to impress you, wanting to hear how good he was from your lips.

He had texted you to meet him outside the locker room minutes ago and you told him you were on the way.

He was going to do it. He had to do it.

He wasn’t even sure himself why he was so adamant about telling you now, but everything felt perfect like it was now or never.

He heard you before he saw you, talking with someone. He followed your voice, his eagerness, and excitement on full display. You hung up the phone as soon as you made eye contact with him, your smile mirroring his as you closed the distance between the two of you. You hugged him tight as he lifted you, his joy rubbing off on you.

“You did amazing. You should be so proud.” You beamed, fingers squeezing his shoulders as he put you down.

He was smiling in a way that was starting to make you breathless.

“Are you though?” He asked, eyes never leaving yours.

“Am I what?”

“Proud. Of me?”

You wanted to laugh at the absurd question, of course, you were proud of him, who wouldn't be? But the way he was looking at you, eyes shining with sincerity, like he really needed to know, made you sober up and want to give him an honest answer.

“Of course. I’m always proud of you.” You exhaled, not being able to look away from his annoyingly pretty eyes.

There was a beat of silence before Pedri began to speak a determined look on his face,

“Y/n I have to tell-” Pedri’s voice got drowned out by another familiar one.

“Y/n why did you just leave me? I barely-” Your friend's voice trailed off when he saw what he had just walked in on.

“Oh hey, guys.” He greeted awkwardly.

Your hand slipped off of Pedri’s shoulders and the action did not go unnoticed by the boy, “Oh Pedri this is Ian. Ian this is Pedri, the one from my hometown.”

Ouch.

There was that feeling in his heart again, just like when he had first seen you again for his birthday, but now instead of making his insides feel warm it was tearing them apart.

Was that all he was to you? Some kid you just knew from your hometown? And who was this guy anyway? Had he just given you a free date night?

So many questions and you just kept staring at him like you were expecting him to do something. But do what? Pretend to play nice when all he wanted to do was wallow in his misery. He was going to be sick.

“Hey. Sorry, I forgot I have to do something right after this. I gotta go.” His voice sounded cold even to his own ears and he forced himself to act nonchalant.

“Oh, do you want us to wait for you?”

“No, I already have plans with someone else.”

“Oh…ok.” Your voice trailed off, not knowing how to respond to that and honestly feeling a little stupid for thinking he would want to do something with you after.

“Yeah she’s an Instagram model, so I couldn’t say no. You probably don’t know her Y/n, y’know since you’ve lived in Tenerife your whole life and don’t get out much. She’s French actually.”

You felt the cruelty in his words. In just one breath he had taken several digs at you and basically compared you to a famous French model you knew you had no chance of competing with. He was right, you were just some random girl from a small town in Spain trying to fake your way through life in Barcelona. You felt the lump start to form in your throat, but you told yourself he probably hadn’t even meant to mean and you had just taken it the wrong way.

You nodded, refusing to make eye contact with him, “Ok. I guess we’ll leave then.”

“You know the way out.”

You felt Ian scoff beside you but you couldn’t focus on anything except Pedri’s figure as he walked away, your brain not being able to comprehend how it had gone bad so quickly.

He was sure now.

If there was anything he was sure of it was his feelings for you. But now the two of you weren’t even talking and every time he opened his eyes all he could think about was how badly he fucked up things between the two of you.

He wished he could turn back time and take it all back. There had been no one waiting for him, no French model, he had just wanted to get under your skin, hoping he could hurt you to even a fraction of the degree you hurt him. But he regretted it. He regretted it the second it passed his lips, he didn’t know why he did it. It was like he wasn’t even there for the conversation, his mind pleading with him from above, warning him he was making a mistake - but he didn’t listen.

It had been over two weeks since that night and now he was back in the Island ringing in the New Year with his family. Every now and then his mind would slip into thinking about if you were here too, just a five-minute walk away from him, having your own celebration.

It was just an hour before twelve when he decided a night walk was just the thing he needed. He had been absent all day, mind wandering as he kept thinking back to you and he felt bad having his family deal with him in his shit mood. He decided visiting the old football field, which was in the opposite direction from where you lived, would be the best option so that he wouldn’t be tempted to walk past your house.

It seemed fate had other plans for him though because there sitting on the grass, one barely-there street lamp illuminating the silver of your dress, was you, back turned to him.

It seemed even when he was trying to avoid you he couldn’t stay away.

“Y/n.”

You jumped at the sudden noise, looking up to see who was next to you.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, his voice was as smooth as honey and despite yourself, you felt yourself relax at the familiar sound.

“I just missed-” your voice was soft before you remembered how he had made you feel the last time you spoke, “Actually you know what, I don’t owe you an explanation. What are you doing here? Isn’t Tenerife a little small for you? I don’t think any Instagram model would want to come all the way out here.”

You felt him sigh as he sat next to you, you felt his leg brush yours and you instinctively moved away from him.

“Don’t do that.” You could hear the hurt in his voice.

“Why?” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

“It doesn’t make me feel good about myself. I know I messed up.”

“Well, you didn’t make me feel good about myself. Actually, you made me feel like shit. Like you didn’t even care about me at all.” You spoke, finally admitting the truth.

“I’m sorry. I care. I care so much.” He tried to reassure you but you weren’t giving in.

“Then why even say it? Obviously, you can spend time with whoever you want since we’re only friends, but since you invited me to the game I thought-”

“I lied.” He cut you off.

He continued, “There was no other girl. Just you. I lied because I thought it would make me feel better after learning the girl I liked had a boyfriend.”

You sat in silence as you digested his words. Your heart felt like it was about to explode out of your chest, there was never someone else, but you also felt annoyed that he was so quick to jump to conclusions. He could have spared the both of you a lot of heartache if he had just asked.

You played with the grass in front of you, finally turning to look at him as you shook your head, “You’re an idiot.”

You felt his eyes scan your face, “Why?”

“If you would have just asked or stayed for a second longer instead of running off you would have known that Ian is just a friend and not my boyfriend.”

“Are you fucking with me cause this isn’t funny?” It sounded like a warning but his voice was pleading.

“No.”

“So you're single?” He confirmed.

You nodded again.

He gave you a soft smile, “I lied again.”

“What?” Now it was your turn to be confused.

“It’s not just like. I love you.”

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klaineccfanficlibrary · 21 days ago

Note

Any fics where they play professional soccer (either one or both)?

Hi - you've said soccer, rather than football, so assuming it's the English game here is:

Enemies with benefits by @klaineanummel

Kurt Hummel is the captain of the NYU Violets soccer team. Blaine Anderson is the captain of the Columbia Lions soccer team. They’re bitter rivals on and off the field, but that doesn’t mean that they can’t also be attracted to each other. Right?

~~~~~

#klaine fanfiction #fic finder #soccerplayers!klaine

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merrycrisis-if · 2 years ago

Note

Football player MC but their uniform number is 4, much to their family's displeasure lol "Were there no other numbers left??" Their parents watch MC fall or fumble badly during a game and claim it's their uniform number that's the reason.

OMG i love this!!! (Context: 4 sounds like "death" in Mandarin and most other Chinese dialects spoken in Singapore, and is considered really inauspicious).

I'm now imagining this whole damn saga where MC's family has taken matters into their own hands after their laments have not seemed to have any effect on MC:

Sent emails to MC's club manager to request a uniform number change

Gone to see MC's games during their visits to the US, and gone up to the coach to try to persuade them to change MC's shirt number

Gone to a cheap printing shop in Singapore to get MC's name printed on the team jersey with a different number and sent it to MC's manager

Stitched on a small "5" to all of MC's uniforms so it becomes "54" and means don't die instead.

#merry crisis #interactive fiction #if #asks #family #Soccerplayer!MC

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smil3z · 6 months ago

Photo

(via "Kids playing soccer " Greeting Card for Sale by artqween)

#findyourthing #redbubble #greencard #soccer #soccerplayers #soccerball #game

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noevilproject · 1 year ago

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#noevilproject #stereotypes #FootballPlayer #SoccerPlayer #HockeyPlayer

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spartanathleticco · 1 year ago

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Score Big with Alumagoal: The Top Choice in Soccer Goals

Soccer is a sport that requires precision, technique and talent. When it comes to competing at a professional level, having the right equipment is crucial for success. This includes regulation size soccer goals which provide players with an accurate target to aim for during games or practice sessions. At Spartan Athletic Co., we understand the importance of quality and reliability when it comes to soccer goals, which is why our -Classic Alumagoal Soccer Goals Pair are designed specifically for professional use.

#soccergoals #soccer #football #soccertraining #footballgoals #soccerislife #skills #soccerlover #soccerplayer #soccerpractice #soccerworld #soccerplayers #soccerlove #footballdrills #soccercoach #soccertime #soccergame

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novascharms · 3 months ago

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teach please me — tutor!reader x soccer player!rafe

reader's life is meticulously planned, from high school to becoming president of the country—she knows exactly where she's headed and every step to get there. but her airtight plan hits a snag when the principal ropes her into tutoring rafe cameron, the school’s star soccer player, who’s failing algebra and at risk of being benched next season. the team needs him on the field, and reader needs the principal’s glowing recommendation to secure her spot at her dream school. balancing her ambitious goals with rafe’s chaotic charm might just throw her perfectly crafted plan off track.

word count — 1.8 chapter index — next chap. masterlist

one

thursday, january 9th

go where the wind takes me. it’s a phrase you’d heard countless times over the years. it eased people, gave them perspective, helped them loosen up. but you? no, it did the opposite. it made you do what you did best—research. what kind of research? the top 100 most successful people and whether they’d ever "gone with the wind." the answer was no. not a single one. going with the wind doesn’t make anyone successful. it leads to dead ends, wrong turns, wasted time—and time was the one thing no one could afford to squander.

the importance of planning everything as meticulously as possible was something that you'd ingrained in your mind at a young age and it had led you exactly where you were. it was the foundation of everything you’d achieved: top of your class, surrounded by like-minded peers, ready for a prestigious summer program, and just a year away from the university of your dreams. everything you’d worked for was at your fingertips. nothing could get in your way now.

"hi, sandy," you greeted the office secretary who watched you struggling to balance a precarious stack of papers in your arms.

"good morning, sweetheart. need help with that?" sandy asked with a warm smile.

"nope, i’ve got it," you replied, setting the stack on the counter with a satisfying thud. carefully, you aligned the papers before placing your palms on top to steady them.

"these are the documents for the student body audit next week. i printed an extra copy for principal oakley, complete with annotations, just in case there’s any confusion."

"always so thorough," sandy remarked with a grin. the compliment made your entire week.

"ah, just who i needed to see." a familiar voice sounded behind you and you twirled around to see principal oakley walking into the office. "oh, good morning, principal oakley." you said, your tone as polished as ever. you barely glanced at the boy trailing behind him before falling into step with the principal.

and yes, following him into his office was a tad unconventional but someone with as much determination and drive as you rarely let things like "innaproriate behaviour" get in your way.

"you are just who i wanted to see too. i know the holidays just ended but i did want to just follow up on my recommendation letter which you'd think about writing, remember?" you fixed your bag on your shoulder as principal oakley sat at his desk and briefly glanced behind you.

"y/n—" the principal tried to interrupt.

you didn't stop talking. "and i know you don't write recommendation letters for your students to keep things fair and whatnot but i—" principal oakley tried to interrupt again but didn't have the chance before you continued rattling. "—hope you reconsidered because i just know that having your letter under my belt will make me stand out to the admissions board and who am i if not representation for our fine school?"

principal oakley cleared his throat and this time you noticed the brief glance behind you. you slowly followed his gaze to see rafe cameron leaning against the doorframe.

your mental file on him loaded instantly: soccer player, tall, messy, and in your opinion, a bit… ran through. still contemporary philosophy like utilitarianism says the morality of having multiple partners depends on whether it increases overall happiness and minimizes harm so you were in no position to shame anyone just trying to increase their own happiness. you suppose.

"oh, was this a bad time?" you asked sheepishly, stepping aside. "not at all," the principal replied. "in fact, this concerns you as well. please, have a seat—and refrain from going into rants until i'm finished speaking." principal oakley says.

frowning in confusion, you complied. sitting beside rafe, you tried to mask your unease. what could he have to discuss with both you and rafe cameron? you weren't very good with uncertainty so sitting still was becoming a challenge as principal oakley rummaged through his desk.

you had to focus on something to stop yourself from panicking so you focused on him. very discreetly. he was so very..unruly. like something hard to contain, just spilling over the edges with his messy hair, that sweater that was not ironed, the shirt under the sweater that was untucked in that untidy way, that smell—woody with a faint hint of vanilla. you liked that smell.

you looked down at your own clothes—a powder blue ruffle top from khaite that you saved for for months and gifted yourself over winter break, off-white pants that were perfectly ironed and fresh from the laundry, hair in a neat french twist. from first sight, you and him were polar opposites.

"alright, y/n," principal oakley finally sat back down, his gaze steady as you watched him attentively. "you know rafe, right?" he asked, gesturing slightly toward the boy seated across from you. your eyes flicked to rafe, who was already staring at you, his expression unreadable.

"uh-huh," you murmured, turning your focus back to the principal.

"well, rafe here has a little problem." principal oakley slid a paper across the desk, and your curiosity spiked as you glanced down. it was rafe's report card.

it was disastrous.

you gasped softly, and rafe let out a noise of protest. "shit, it's not that bad," he muttered, leaning in close to peer over your shoulder at his own grades. the sudden proximity sent a ripple of awareness through you. despite your best efforts to stay indifferent, the intoxicating mix of his scent and the startling lack of male attention in your life was doing a number on your self-control.

"language, mr. cameron. and yes, it really is that bad," principal oakley said firmly. "which is why we need your help, y/n."

you tried to focus, though every nerve in your body screamed for you to stay perfectly still, afraid rafe would pull back. your intrusive thoughts—chief among them being the absolutely insane urge to bury your head in his neck—were becoming harder to suppress. quickly, you straightened and fixed your attention on the principal.

"my help?" you asked, the words laced with genuine confusion.

"the athletic board won’t let rafe play next season if he doesn’t pass at least one of his failing classes. we’ve discussed it with his teachers, and they believe algebra is his best shot. mr. coleman specifically suggested you for the job. he said your grasp of the material is exceptional, sometimes even surpassing his. your work ethic, dedication, and knowledge are exactly what rafe needs to bring his grade up to a satisfactory six—or, with hope, even a seven or seven and a half."

principal oakley's words hung in the air as you processed them. finally, you blinked slowly. "you want me…" you began cautiously, "to take him from a two-point-five to a seven-point-five in five months?"

"that’s like 150 days," rafe interjected, his tone unexpectedly eager. "we can do this! i’ll be the best student, i swear."

we?

"and on which planet is that 150 days, rafe?" you turned to him, your voice tinged with disbelief. "five months is about 150 days, sure. but i don’t know about you, mr. cameron, but i have class every day from eight to three. we have over 15 assignments a month, tests, midterms in march. i’m student body president. i’m organizing spring fling, pajama day, color war, the bake sale, and the car wash fundraiser—where, by the way, i expect the soccer team’s full, enthusiastic participation in semi-nude form for maximum profit. there’s also valentine’s day card exchanges, college fairs, and, oh, right—i have a life. i need to eat, study, and spend enough time with my friends and family to avoid being accused of neglecting them." you folded your arms. "so tell me, rafe, where in that mess do you see time for this?"

rafe stared at you, slightly wide-eyed.

"exactly," you concluded, crossing your legs. "nowhere."

you turned back to principal oakley. "maybe someone could contact the board and ask for len—"

"y/n, this is their leniency. usually, a two-point-five is an automatic cutoff." principal oakley cut you off, his voice calm but insistent. "i wouldn’t be asking if i didn’t believe in you."

the praise softened you momentarily. "principal oakley," you began, reaching into your bag and pulling out your life planner with a flourish. its heft rattled the pens on his desk. "this is my schedule." flipping to the last pages, you tapped a line with a manicured nail. "rafe, read this."

he leaned in, eyebrows raised. "january 20th, 2056: be sworn in as the 59th president of the country."

you smiled, all proud like you'd already achieved it which you technically had since everything that belonged to you was already yours.

"now, as you can imagine, i have a very rigorous plan in place to achieving my final goal and unfortunately, my schedule is just..airtight until.." you grimaced, "atleast 2061, maybe 2065." you were still debating the second term.

rafe chuckled quietly, and you shot him a glare before principal oakley interrupted.

"i assume my recommendation letter holds a significant place in your 30-year plan."

you hesitated. "…it does."

"well, helping your fellow student would demonstrate the leadership and dedication your university looks for. i could write you a glowing recommendation and even personally contact the dean’s office if you agree to tutor mr. cameron."

you froze, your mind flashing with possibilities. the thought of the dean knowing your name—of shaving years off your plan—was too good to pass up.

"fine," you said at last, exhaling. "but i expect nothing short of perfection in that letter. and the dean better invite me for tea when you’re done."

turning to rafe, you leveled him with a sharp look. "every tuesday and sunday at four. take this seriously, or you’ll see how hostile i can get. and read the chapters beforehand. i’ll text you my address."

you strode toward the door.

"you don’t have my number!" rafe called after you, amusement clear in his voice.

"i practically live in this office, rafe!" you shot back over your shoulder. "i have everyone’s number!"

chapter index — next chap. masterlist

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