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It isn't the worst gig for a Friday night, but Anya sure is already exhausted by how bright the lights are.
It's early in the game but she's rather clueless about what's going on. Normally she doesn't work this shift or this location, but a convoluted scheduling mishap and an unfortunate accident had led her here, sitting on a metal bench by a cot and the opened back of an ambulance.
She kicks the toe of her non-slip clog against the concrete below. At least there's a shift differential. The extra money will be nice. Maybe she can finally get a DSM5 that isn't halfway torn apart on her next check. Admittedly, a lot of her coworkers quite enjoy this- Getting to sit aside and get a fairly up close view of the game under the dark night sky. She's the unique case, not particularly interested in sports and honestly a little bitter about losing a Friday of staying inside and reading.
She taps her fingers on her thigh while she gazes out idly into the action on the field in front of her.
The uniforms are rather striking, aren't they? They're bright and almost gaudy, but fitting for the sport. The shorts are incredibly short, which checks out given how much these men need to pump their legs and flex their muscles to achieve whatever their objective is. Get ball into either goal A or B, with slight variations in what path is taken to get there. She can't quite figure out what's going on, but her eyes flick to the scores every so often, trying to keep track if only to keep herself busy.
She's been told that during most games they don't have to do anything. That's why it catches her entirely by surprise when there's a sudden commotion. She hears the nasty sound of the hit itself first, followed by loud groaning, horrified gasps echo from the field, and the shrill sound of whistling.
An injury .
An actual injury.
She shouldn't be as excited as she is when they're called to bring the stretcher out. She shoots to her feet, a little overzealous as they rush out to the site of the injury. She's so focused on the exhilaration of getting to do something, she barely notices who's in her care.
Once they're settled off the field and the player has been moved onto a cot, Anya immediately put in charge. It doesn't seem like an awful injury, but he has a bleeding gash on his forehead that could cause issues. She surveys the wound before stepping away to grab supplies and snap on a pair of gloves.
Only once she's prepared does she really take note of who's beneath her. His blonde curls spread out messily beneath his head, and his skin is dusted with pretty, light freckles.
He's smiling. It's almost painfully bright, especially for someone who's head just got knocked in. He's looking at her like she's an angel.
“This is going to sting a little bit.” She warns, dabbing a damp cotton bud against the injury, clearing the blood away.
“Wow…” He doesn't cringe- That's a good sign, right? It must not be too bad. They did determine it was safe to move him, after all. “Your hands are so blue…”
“I- Sir, these are gloves.” She shakes her head, but smiles in amusement. Okay, so he's a little bit delirious. That's a mild cause for concern. “How are you feeling? Dizzy?”
“Maybe?”
“What's your name?” She asks.
“Curly.” He answers politely, though a bit slurred.
“Your first name.”
“Everyone just calls me Curly. You should too~ Call me, I mean. You're pretty.”
Oh, he's definitely concussed. She's trying not to laugh, but it is pretty amusing seeing a full grown man be reduced to some kind of flirtatious mess.
“Can you see alright?” She probes.
“I don't know. Hold your hand up.” He replies. It's comforting that he's aware enough to recognize the question.
She holds up her hand in response.
“How many fingers am I-”
She's caught off guard when he reaches to take her hand into one of his own.
“So soft.” He notes curiously. “They're like… Powder.”
Anya blinks, caught off guard by the touch. It seems like Curly is careful to only touch the gloves, too. He's being polite in whatever way his shaken up brain will justify.
“I need that, thank you.” She tugs her hand away and focuses back on the wound on Curly's forehead. It isn't deep at all, and once it's been thoroughly cleaned, she bandages it simply.
“Do you come here often?” Curly asks.
“Nope.”
“You should.” His eyes are so clear and earnest. “I'd play better if I could see you every game.”
“Shouldn't you be keeping your eyes on the ball?” She can't help but tease him a little bit.
“I can do both!”
“Can you even see all the way over here?”
“No. But you could sit in the stands~”
“Sorry, I'm not a big fan of sports.”
“That's okay!” Curly laughs, not at all scorned. “You can come and watch me. And if I get hit again you can hold my hand until it feels better.”
“You're starting to worry me. We might have to take you to a hospital for a CT scan if you keep this up.”
She says it as a joke, but it might be an actual concern. Admittedly, there's a few steps before going that far, but for now he seems stable enough. Keeping him here and seeing how he feels by the end of the game is probably the best option.
“What's your name?” Curly asks, unphased by the threat.
“I'm Anya. Nice to meet you, Curly.”
“That's a nice name. Anyaaa…”
She can't help but snicker, leaning back some to give Curly some air. She may as well get comfortable if they're going to be together for a bit. She honestly isn't sure how long these games last or how far in they are, but Curly might just be more fun to watch anyway.
Curly folds his hands over his stomach and crosses his legs at his ankles.
“If you don't come here often, why are you here today?”
“Oh, boy.” Anya rolls her eyes as she answers. “The real answer is the guy who usually works this job cut his hand open cutting open cat food to feed a raccoon . Can you believe that?”
“I can!” Curly immediately answers. “He needed food!”
“God-” If she wasn't wearing gloves still, she'd put her face into her palm. “Should've been Daisuke here. You two would love each other.”
“That the other guy?” Curly asks, rolling over a bit before Anya grabs his shoulder to push him back flat onto his back.
“Mmhm. He's lovely, but a little bit… energetic.”
“Good for a job where you need to move around a lot, huh?”
“It is! He's great at his job. It's just annoying to have the change come up last minute. I was the only one who didn't have anything else to do.”
“If he hadn't gotten hurt, I wouldn't have got to see the most beautiful EMT in the world~”
“Oh, God.” Anya laughs and shakes her head. “You really are out of it, huh?”
“I'm not! Promise! Ask anyone!” He defends himself. “I didn't even get hit that hard.”
“You absolutely did. I heard it from all the way over here.” Anya points out immediately. “And you can't walk.”
“I can walk!” Curly goes to swing his legs over the edge of the cot, but Anya immediately pushes him back down again .
“Uh, no. You are staying lying down for at least the next twenty minutes.” She shakes her head.
Curly pouts at her in response.
“If you say so, Doctor Anya.” He sighs, playing up the dramatics.
“Good boy.” She teases playfully, but as soon as the words leave her mouth, she realizes her mistake of using that specific phrase on a man who's already down bad for her.
His cheeks are immediately red. His pupils go so wide that his deep blue eyes almost look black.
She wants to apologize, but that'd mean admitting defeat, which she is not prepared to do. Instead, she ignores the rush in her chest and plays as casual as possible.
“Anyway,” Anya clears her throat and tries to wave away the incident. “You need rest, so stay down for a while.”
“Can you at least tell me if we're winning?” Sports are always a good distraction.
“Uh…” Good question. She looks over at the scoreboard. It should be easy enough to read, but it takes her a moment to work out the puzzle. She quickly glances back down to Curly's uniform to confirm his team, somehow having not taken in the bright colors. “Right now, yes.”
“Awesome.” Curly laughs, seemingly relieved by the news- Or maybe just by the change in topic.
“Were you winning before?”
“We were head to head.” He answers simply, letting his eyes close and trying to relax more. It's difficult when the field lights are so bright, but he does trust the EMT’s judgement despite his stubbornness. “It's hard not being out there to keep an eye on ‘em.”
“You must not get hurt often.”
“Not head injuries.” Curly shrugs slightly. “I've had some nasty bruises before, though. A few months ago I got caught under my friend's cleats. Looked like a porcupine stabbed me.”
“Ouch.” Anya hisses at the thought. She doesn't need to know about the game to imagine how bad metal spikes to the flesh must feel. “Some friend you've got.”
“It was an accident! Part of the risk of the job.”
“Is that really worth it?” She questions.
“Is anything?” Curly replies so quickly. It's a depressing concept, but he still has that dumb smile across his perfect face. “As long as I can make it through the day, I'm happy.”
Anya bites her tongue to keep from saying out loud how stupid that sounds. This man is horribly naive if he really believes that, and he seems genuine about it.
She sighs softly and reaches over to comb the damp blonde curls back from Curly's forehead. There's still some blood on his hairline, blooming across the varied shades of strands. He seems to relax immediately, submitting to her touch and letting his head fall fully against the gurney. Spurred on, and against her better judgement, she combs her fingers down, brushing her nails against his scalp.
If Curly were a cat, he'd be purring. He seems so satisfied to be touched, relishing in the attention. This is special. This is something different and more personal than the fame he gets for his sports skills. This is like an angel delivering a blessing onto his sore body.
It's nice, sitting here, admiring this strong, athletic man while she pets him. Everything around them seems to fade away. The crowds, the lights, nothing else matters for as long as they're together.
A loud sound pulls them both from their comfortable fantasy. Curly's eyes snap open and he thrusts himself up to gauge the scoreboard.
“Hey- We won!” He beams out at the field before turning his sights back to Anya. “You see that?”
“Good job.” Anya smiles cheerfully, pulling herself to her feet as well. “And even better, you seem to be doing okay, so I can free you from medical prison. It was nice meeting you, Curly.”
“-- I have to leave already?” That seems to dampen Curly's mood, to Anya's surprise.
“Well, yes?” She replies. “You don't want to stay stuck over here, do you?”
“I really liked talking to you.” Curly replies.
He's so sweet, he could give her cavities. Why has he taken such a liking to her? Anya doesn't understand it, but she's softening for him.
“Stay here for a second more.”
Anya rushes to the open back of the ambulance, digging through miscellaneous supplies until she finds what she's looking for. As she returns to Curly's side, she removes the cap of the permanent marker and starts scribbling numbers on his inner forearm.
Ten numbers followed by a messy heart.
“You go celebrate with your team and text me when you get a chance, alright?”
“Wow…” Curly looks at his arm as though he's been given an award. When he pulls his bright blue eyes back to Anya, she's suddenly not entirely convinced he isn't concussed.
“And make sure you see your doctor in seventy-two hours.” She tacks on for safety before properly shooing him off of the cot.
People file out of the stands and Anya packs up to leave with the other paramedic. When she gets home, the first thing she does is peel off her dirty uniform and take the hottest shower imaginable.
As she lays down on her bed, she takes her phone in her hand and sees a message from a number she's not familiar with.
Thanks for taking care of me today! ❤️