Chapter Text
Luke hisses as he eases his jersey over his head, left shoulder still throbbing from the hit during the game.
“Yeah, that was a dirty hit,” Chris observes, slamming his locker closed and shifting to lean against it.
“Not illegal,” Luke sighs, unstrapping the shoulder pads. “And I’ve got bigger problems than a shitty hit.”
“Shake it off,” Chris slaps a hand on his back.
Luke shoves him away, pitching the shoulder pads onto the ground. “I can’t just shake it off every game, Chris! The team is tanking and it’s my fuckin fault- and even if it’s not my fuckin fault, everyone thinks it is and everyone is saying it is and everyone will act like it is the next day. Like I can’t just fuckin shake that shit off! Maybe I can shake it off once or twice- but this is our ninth loss in a row. Nine in a fuckin row. Like… God fuckin damn it!!”
His increasingly elevated voice cuts off as he balls his fist up and slams it into the metal of his own locker.
“Dude. Dude. Dude!” Chris steps in front of him and cuts off his third attempted punch. “Get your shit together, seriously. You’re the Captain- that’s just how it works. You’re going to take the shit when we lose- none of us are blaming you. We understand-”
“Bullshit!” Luke snaps, pulling away from him. “Most of the guys think it’s my fault and even you think… something. You think something man- I’m not dumb. I can tell you all think it, I just… we never lost nine times in a row when Bulych was captain.”
“You’re not Bulych man, and-”
“I fucking know that!” Luke yells, slamming his fast back into the locker door so hard the metal dents inward.
“Dude-”
“Just… get out. Just get out, okay? I’m not… I can’t… I just need to be alone.”
“You need to calm the fuck down,” Chris mutters as he picks up his duffle bag and leaves the room.
Luke can see the final dregs of his teammates awkwardly scurrying out after Chris out of the corner of his eyes. He inhales sharply, holding the air trapped within his chest until it hurts. Chris is right- he does need to calm the fuck down.
He slumps to rest against the front of his locker, burying his head in his hands and yanking at the ends of his hair. He focuses on the spark of pain spreading across his skull, lets it ground him in the moment.
“Get it together, Castellan,” he whispers.
He lowers his hands, feeling the dull ache bloom throughout his shoulder muscles again. It hadn’t been an illegal hit… but it had been pretty fuckin close. Not quite a tackle from behind, but close enough to it that Luke hadn’t seen it coming. He was gonna ache for a week- and sleeping in his backseat wasn’t going to help that much. Maybe he should just fuckin quit.
“And do what?” Her taunting voice fills his head.
“Anything else,” he mutters rebelliously.
“No, Castellan. There is only one thing you can do… and that’s go forward.”
He huffs as her voice fades, yanking at the ends of his hair until he winces one last time. Then he pulls himself to his feet, snapping a salute to a figure who is not there.
“Yes, Coach.”
He turns toward the shower, pushing the waistband of his football pants downward.
“Oh my god!” A voice yelps from behind him, and he freezes. He would recognize that voice anywhere.
“Grace,” he says through gritted teeth. “This is the men’s change room. Men. You may have heard of them? I know you hate them now, but they do actually still get a changeroom to themselves.”
Thalia snorts. “Sure, Luke.”
He inhales through his clenched teeth. “No, no ‘sure Luke’. Get out! That is the answer here- the answer is to leave.”
She sighs. “Turn around, dumbass.”
He grimaces. “Why, so you can make fun of me?”
“Make fun of what? Aren’t you wearing a cup? So even if you were rock hard from your own naked glory, I wouldn’t know. Right?”
Luke glowers at the far wall. “That’s not how cups work-”
“Just turn around dumbass!”
He huffs petulantly, spinning on his heel slowly, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “What?”
Thalia doesn’t answer him, and his eyes drop to her face. Her eyes are fixed lower and he realizes she is staring at the indent of his hip bones. Embarrassed, he yanks the pants higher, praying she keeps her accurate but cutting remarks on his physique to herself. He can’t handle them tonight. Not tonight… not when he already feels so awful about himself.
Her eyes snap back to his, two light pink spots high on her cheeks.
“Shut up,” she snaps, and his brow furrows.
“I didn’t say….,” his words trail off as his mind finally takes in the sight in front of him.
“You,” he swallows, licking his lips. “You are wearing my number.”
And she is.
Thalia Grace is standing in front of him in the golden home jersey for the Titans- and his number is stretched actually relatively tightly across her chest. And the swell of emotion inside him is so intensely primal that he has to bite down on his tongue to restrain the noise that wants to escape.
“It was on sale,” she shrugs. “But yeah… I thought you should know. My brother and Martin got one too. We were watching- not me so much because football is a boring ass sport. But like… we were cheering for you or whatever. Not me so much. They were really into it. Jason was really mad about the hit, which he says is closer to illegal than not. He was hooting and hollering at the ref. So… yeah. I don’t know. I just figured you were down here whining about how no one likes you so I thought you should know. Dumbass.”
He blinks at her.
She huffs. “Okay, yeah. So whatever. I don’t know what the hell I thought you were gonna say, but I knew it was going to be stupid. But I expected you to say something; should have known better, gaping like a fuckin cod fish is more your specialty.”
‘Chancellor Palpatine,’ she continues in a bad imitation of Obi-Wan, ‘gaping like a cod fish is my speciality.”
This gets him moving.
He darts forward, hand raised toward her mouth.
“Shh!” He hisses. “What if someone hears you?”
Something immeasurably sad flickers into her eyes for a moment, before it is replaced by a flash of crackling anger. “Don’t touch me,” she spits, swatting at his hand.
He winces, the hit pulling at his aching shoulder muscles. “Fuck.”
Her eyes shutter entirely, his glimpse into her inner emotions withdrawn so suddenly that he remembers it has been years since she’s let him see them. It feels like losing something again. It has him raising his hand toward her despite the throbbing burn in his shoulder.
He holds it in the hair, not quite touching her. “Thal.”
“Jason made me bring this,” she drawls, reaching into the pocket of her leather jacket and pitching a small tube of some sort of medicated cream at him.
He catches it barely, groaning aloud this time at the pressure on his shoulder muscles.
“I’m not putting it on you,” Thalia spits.
He hadn’t asked her to. He hadn’t even thought about it. But now that she has brought it up, he is.
Thalia, straddling one of the benches beside them, his colours against her pale skin, his number pressed against her tits, his name between her sharp shoulderblades. Her pale fingers pressing gently but firmly into his bare shoulder muscle; maybe he would groan and tip his head forward to rest against her shoulder. She would bring up the other hand to tangle into the ends of his hair like she used to. He’d open his mouth, pressing a kiss against the sharp angles of her collarbone where the jersey had slid to the side. Her hair gave him easy access to her earlobes, and he’d trace his tongue along the shell-
“What the fuck is the matter with you?!” she snaps, stepping backward, arms crossed tightly.
“Huh?” Luke says stupidly.
“You’re just fuckin staring at me, not listening to a single word I’m saying. I know you couldn’t possibly be picturing the Rebel Alliance, because God forbid. So what the fuck is the matter?”
“Nothing!” he snaps, unscrewing the lid of the tube. “I’m tired and sore and you aren’t even supposed to be here. Lay off.”
He squeezes a dollop onto his finger, pressing the cream into his screaming muscles. The relief is almost immediate, and he bites into his tongue again to hold back the relieved groan trying to slip out of his throat.
“Jason swears by that stuff,” Thalia offers. “He plays football too now, I’m not sure if you knew. He plays for SPQR.”
“Oh,” Luke says, squeezing more cream onto his finger.
This takes away from Thalia wearing his jersey a little bit. He had thought that she had come to the game for him, that his jersey was the first she had ever worn. In retrospect, this is an insane thing to assume, but it still feels like he is losing something all over again.
“Thanks,” he says softly, handing the tube back. “Tell him I appreciate it.”
“He says you play well,” Thalia offers again, shoving the tube back into her pocket. “He says that he thinks next year will be your year.”
Luke snorts. “Yeah, okay.”
He turns toward his locker, more for something to do with his hands than for any real reason. But she stops him, reaching out a finger to poke at his bicep.
“Ouch,” he says untruthfully. “Your nails are sharp.”
“He’s not just BSing you or whatever,” she snaps as he turns to face her. “He meant it. He says you guys play more like a team with every passing game; he says you’re learning. He thinks it’s too late in the season for you to make it to a championship or anything, but he genuinely thinks that if you can keep this momentum going, you’ll be set next year. He’s not BSing you… and neither am I.”
Her eyes unshutter for a moment, letting him see the truth of her words. She really believes them; she really wants him to believe them too.
“Thal,” he says again, daring to actually rest his hand against the side of her face this time.
“Fuck off,” she says weakly.
He drops his hand.
“I should shower and get out of here,” he says, clearing his throat. “Thanks for…. Thanks.”
She nods stiffly, turning to leave the changeroom. “Yep.”
“You should get an away jersey,” he calls out, not having gotten his teeth in the hole engraved in his tongue quickly enough.
She turns back, eyebrow cocked and eyes locked away from him. “Why the hell would I do that?”
“I just think you’d look great in the white,” he shrugs stupidly. “I don’t know… it was dumb. Nevermind.”
“Tell you what,” she drawls, turning toward the door again. “Next game you win, I’ll pick one up.”
“That’ll be the day,” Luke scoffs, heading toward the shower area at the back of the changeroom.
(They win the third game after; Luke can’t help but scan the stands for her. She waves a white jersey at him with a smirk; his smile doesn’t drop for hours.)