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Bellamy doesn’t mean to become a soccer dad. It just happens.
One day, Alexander comes back from school, a flyer held in his tiny fist, wherein lies an ad for the neighborhood’s soccer team, which is hosting tryouts. He’s a little disappointed, he’d hoped his son would take after him and like, want to learn Latin or something, but he’s not about to live through his kid. He can learn Latin on his own –though he might not get a refund for the already paid extra Latin course.
So he signs Alex up for soccer team, and it turns out his boy is good. Like, really good. By the time the first game rolls around, he’s a field player, and Bellamy’s his biggest fan. He had a t-shirt made. Octavia made fun of him for weeks.
The first year is awesome, they don’t win the regional championship, but they have a lot of fun: Alexander makes friends, Bellamy learns a lot about football (though one might say it’s not so much learning as “becoming overinvested”), and they still watch the odd historical documentary every two weeks or so.
The second year, though, is a different story: a new team signs up for the tournament, and they start practicing at their field.
It’s not actually theirs, but it’s the neighborhood’s park. The other team is from a different neighborhood, so they should find their own park to practice on. Bellamy’s never been one to keep his thoughts to himself, so the second time he’s called to pick up Alexander when he’s half the way back from dropping him off, he confronts the other team’s coach.
She’s blonde, and pretty, shorter than him, but not so short that he feels like his height is an advantage, and it seems to him that she’s not going to let him yell at her. He does it anyway. “Excuse me, this is the second time you’ve interrupted my son’s team’s practice. The field belongs to the neighborhood, and I don’t think you’re from around.” He spits, glowering. As he thought, the blonde stomps over to him, a serious but annoyed look to her face.
“We asked permission to the neighborhood council.” She responds, hands on her hips, chin tilted in a defiant way. “If you have a problem, go talk to them.”
“Look, lady, I don’t care if you want to use the field. That’s not my problem. But how come your team only practices when my son’s team does?” he points out, taking a step towards the blonde. “Are you sabotaging us?”
Her cheeks turn red then, from anger or embarrassment, he can’t tell, but it makes smugness flourish within him. “I am Clarke. Griffin.” She says, “I am the coach, and my team doesn’t need to stoop to sabotage to win a tournament. We could beat your team whenever.” She claims, crossing her arms over her chest. Bellamy tries not to be distracted by the motion.
What? She’s hot. But he’s angry.
“Oh really?” he growls, inching closer. “Prove it. Don’t be an asshole and let Alexander’s team train. They were here first, by the way. And then we’ll see who’s better at the tournament.”
“Fine. The Arkers are going to crush your sorry team.” She replies, pushing a finger against his chest. Bellamy takes the hand and kindly shoves it the fuck away.
“Not if the Rebels have anything to say about it.” he mutters, turning around. He spots Alexander a few feet away, chatting with a little girl from the opposite team, and he feels ridiculous animosity surge within him. “Alex, come on buddy, we’re going home.”
“No, you’re not.” Coach Clarke yells from behind him, “Arkers, we’re leaving, tell your parents we’re going to have to discuss practice schedule.” At this, Bellamy feels triumphant, because his team is getting to train after all, and embarrassed, because he could have been nicer about the whole thing.
Oh well, he thinks to himself, nothing to do now.
“Come on, Lilly, let’s go home.” He hears Clarke say, and the little girl talking to his son perks up, shouts a “yes, mommy, coming!” and takes off after saying goodbye to his son.
“In retrospection, we should have sabotaged you.” She says to him on the day of the match between their teams. Bellamy’s team won 5 goals to Clarke’s 4, and sometime before the announcement, she sidled up to him to be a sore loser,
“You should have.” He agrees, smug.
“But for the record, your kid spent half of the match googly-eyeing my Lilly.” She points out. Bellamy sputters. “So, you kind of sabotaged us.”
“We did not!” He exclaims, indignant. Clarke laughs good-naturedly. He takes a second to compose himself, breathes deeply, and then says: “So, I know it’s not a trophy,” he smiles mischievously. Clarke throws him a dirty look, “but I was wondering if as a, ah, sort of consolation prize, you would like to have dinner with me?”
He feels very proud that he didn’t stutter, but it was expectable, considering he’d practiced that last bit on the mirror for about fifteen minutes that day. Clarke stares at him for a long moment.
“You yelled at me when we met.” She states.
“And I apologized the next day! I even brought cookies!”
“Those were some good cookies.” She concedes, scratching a nonexistent beard. “Are you paying?” Bellamy duh’s, which annoys her, if her frown is anything to go by. She thinks it over some more, making him anxious, until she smiles. “Lilly!” she yells, “We’re getting dinner with the Blakes!”
Bellamy directs her a goofy smile. “Did you really have to think about it that much?”
“Nah, I just like making you suffer.” She admits, crossing their arms. Alexander and Lilly catch up to them, taking their respective hands, and Bellamy feels pretty content with the world. “We’re beating your butt at the next game, by the way.”
“You’re on, Griffin.”