Work Text:
The cold water hit his skin, washing away layers of sweat, dust, and synthetic grass off his skin.
The cool tile feels good against his aching feet; the water calms the stinging in his torn open knees, and as he lathers up his hair, hoping to get rid of the excess hair gel, he can experience the privilege of forgetting just for a second.
It isn't often that he feels like this, or maybe it is: indulging in emotions when you're in as busy of a career as he is in is more so a rare occasion.
In all honesty, Choco Ball Cookie knows why suddenly all his emotions are crashing over him: one of his teammates had been caught doping, fair and square.
They are currently attempting to somehow get him out of this mess, but in the end, it's all futile: the career his companion has worked so hard to achieve is over, his dreams crushed, and his passion ruined.
And to think that it could be him the next day horrifying; He would like to tell himself that he is a clean, fair player, but that would be a lie.
No one besides himself knows, and after he established himself as trustworthy, he gets checked rarely; the testing procedures are tight, with little to no room to escape, no holes to slip through, without any chance to exchange samples or dilute them.
His only chance would be bribery, and if they refused, he would be even more fucked; being a dirty player and a corrupt one?
Unimaginable, Unforgivable: he has an image to uphold and expectations to prove correct.
Wrapping a towel around his waist, he steps into the locker room: he is always the last to leave, no matter what happens or how the athlete is feeling; so, he, of course, expected the room to be empty of life, with some spiders hanging from the ceiling being the only exception.
However, it seems like today, he will be greeted by an oh-so-familiar red-head.
"I could be naked right now, you know?"
"But you aren't, so?"
"This is the men's locker room; you have no business being here."
"My business being here is finding out if the person I've idolized my entire life has been playing dirty all along!"
Running a hand through his hair, Choco Ball Cookie sighs; he'd hate to break the news to this poor soul, but it seems like there's no way out now.
"Let's sit down for this, shall we?"
Taking a seat and patting the empty space beside him, he considers lying to her: if someone told him what the showbusiness actually was like at her age, he would have never gotten this far; if someone just had informed him that it isn't only glamour and fame, but urinating into a cup while being nearly completely exposed, while being watched by a stranger.
Sometimes, just sometimes, he feels like no more but a circus act; maybe his whole personality is a circus act he puts on to please the audience, and besides that, his insides are empty; besides that, he is nobody.
Maybe he had always been a nobody: a stupid little boy with an unreachable dream, like millions of others, and perhaps it isn't his skill that got him far but his silly little act and dashing looks.
Maybe, just maybe, he doesn't deserve this.
Huffing, Cherry Ball sits down, arms crossed over her chest, foot nervously tapping the ground as her expression sours with anticipation and annoyance.
"Well, did you also dope? He had thousands of little kids looking up to him: I don't get how he could do that, anyway."
"Maybe that's why he did it."
"Okay, but that isn't an excuse."
"But it is an explanation; besides, most Athletes lie when they say that they have never taken anything. Everyone did it at least once: it just goes unspoken, you know? That's how it works, just a bit from time to time, and sometimes, people get too cooky, and then they get caught."
Shrugging his shoulder nonchalantly, he sighs for what feels like the hundredth time today, slicking his now damp hair back as he watches the fury shine bright in the girls' eyes.
"Are you serious? You've been playing dirty this whole time? You're a goddam liar and a cheater, and I regret having ever idolized you!"
"You would understand this if you were as high up as I am, as we are, and as he was! Do you think he did that because he thought it was funny? Do you think I am doing this because it's fun? This simply happens sometimes, and it barely even matters if you're just doing it from time to time."
"Do you actually believe the bullshit you're spewing here? If it barely matters, why are you doing it?"
It's nearly comical: the great Choco Ball being yelled at by someone that barely reaches up to his chin, or perhaps it would be funny if neither of them were close to tears.
"Because it's better than nothing! Am I wrong for having some reassurance? Sure, we've had a winning streak: but just because the coin you've been flipping showed tails eight times in a row doesn't mean it'll happen again: there's no guarantee, ever, for anything!"
"Yes, you are wrong! You goddam are, and I hope the next time you'll get tested, you will finally be caught, cheater!"
And with that, she whips around and storms away, looking over her shoulder as she grips the doorframe with one hand, locking their eyes together, and her stare goes directly into his soul.
He feels like a patient on the operation table, slowly being dissected apart, having things that otherwise would never be exposed lay bare; she can see; she knows everything and anything, all his emotions and insecurities ripped out through his eyes.
And with one last look of disgust and disappointment, she leaves, slamming the door shut as he stands stock still.
For a couple of seconds, he stares at the cheap wood, the empty space where she was standing just a moment before.
The cold airbrushes against his skin: and his still wet, muscular calves feel especially cold, as does his face; as he reaches up, he realizes that tears are flowing down his face; those silent little traitors, don't they know that anyone could walk in on his most vulnerable moment?
His mother had told him that becoming a professional football player would be a bad idea; the pressure would be too hard on him, the physical injuries her poor boy would go through, and what would happen when he was old and couldn't play anymore?
There are only so many teams in need of a coach, and he knows nothing about team play because he is an egocentric brat, and look me in the eyes when I'm talking to you; am I not worth your attention?
"What a bitch," he thinks to himself as he towels his hair dry: "she was, and that brat is no better."
When in doubt, he hates, and he blames; wouldn't his life be so much better if he just reconsidered and thought before he took action and not afterward?
He was a foolish little boy for thinking that his big dream of being a star would make him less insecure.
What a foolish little boy he is for thinking he would be happy if he had the approval of thousands and thousands of cookies who have never met him.
How foolish, uncalculating, spoiled, little brat he was, and maybe all that changed from then was his height.
"Choco Ball Cookie? We need to talk; now."
His trainer calls out.
You fucked up big time, little boy, didn't you?