Chapter Text
Tommy was still riding the high of the match.
He’d been talking about it since they’d left the pitch, replaying every decent play he’d made as though he had personally carried the entire team over the finish line by himself.
The winning point had been his, obviously. The block in the second half had been his too, even though Tubbo maintained that Tommy had simply tripped over at an inconveniently useful moment. The pass he’d made before that had apparently been so amazing that Tommy had already described it three separate times, every second of it acted out for dramatic flair.
Tubbo had stopped arguing somewhere around the second retelling. Tommy didn’t mind. He had a lot to say when he’d played as well as he just had. He just had to keep saying it while they walked.
The GAA’s clubhouse wasn’t far. A few minutes down the path, past the edge of the pitches and the low fence that separated them from the road.
Tommy’s boots dragged slightly against the ground. He didn’t notice at first. Or, at the very least, he pretended not to.
His hurl hung loosely from his left hand, the grip and tape wrapped around the handle still damp with sweat. His helmet hung on his hurl just above the boss, as always after a match. He’d switched it over from his right hand without thinking. Carrying it on that side made the weight pull awkwardly across his chest, and the right side of his body had begun to object to just about everything.
His other hand kept finding his ribs.
Not consciously.
It would drift there for a second, fingers pressing against the fabric of his jersey, before he remembered himself and shoved it into his pocket.
Then it would happen again.
A few steps later.
Press. Release. Pocket.
He kept his breathing shallow. It wasn’t obvious. That was the important thing. Hurling was one of those sports that had every player all but panting when they exited the pitch. That’s why he loved it.
The pain itself wasn’t particularly useful. It didn’t tell him anything except that something hurt. He could still walk. He could still talk. He sure as hell could still swing his hurl.
He’d done all three for the rest of the match. Therefore, he was fine.
It had happened during the second half. One second Tommy had been running for the sliotar, lungs burning and legs going faster than he thought they could, and then the next second, there had been a collision.
A shoulder, maybe a hurl being swung towards him. It was something hard. A sharp, ugly impact underneath his ribs. And then he tumbled to the ground.
For a moment, the world had narrowed to the grass beneath his cheek and the complete absence of air in his lungs.
He’d stayed down for three seconds. Maybe four.
Someone shouted out to him.
Tommy had waved them off before they had even reached him. Then he dragged himself upright, sucked in a breath that had felt like broken glass, and got back into position.
The match was still going. That was all that mattered in that moment.
Now, with the adrenaline fading, the pain had settled into something deeper. Every step sent a dull ache through his side. Every breath pulled at it. Laughing was the worst.
Which was unfortunate, because Tubbo had just said something about Tommy’s allegedly miraculous block that made him laugh anyway.
The pain flashed hot beneath his ribs. He covered it by laughing harder.
Tubbo glanced over. His eyes lingered for a half a second too long. Tommy straightened instinctively.
“You’re walking weird.”
Tommy looked at him, “No I’m not.”
Tubbo didn’t answer immediately. His gaze dropped briefly to Tommy’s legs, then to the hand buried in his pocket, then back to his face.
Tommy smiled. It was an easy smile. The same one he’d been wearing since the final whistle.
Tubbo eventually shook his head and looked away, not wanting to push further.
Tommy let out a breath he’d been holding. He kept walking. His pace had fallen behind without him realising.
Tubbo slowed too.
That was worse.
Tommy hated being waited for. So he sped up. His ribs protested immediately. He ignored them.
The clubhouse came into view. People were still scattered around the changing room, voices carrying through the open doors. Someone was laughing inside. A hurl clattered against a bench.
Everything was normal. Good. Tommy could make it through normal.
He followed Tubbo inside.
The room was warm after the cold evening air. Tommy dropped his hurl and helmet against the wall and bent down to pick up his gear bag. The movement stopped him. Pain seized beneath his ribs so sharply that his fingers went slack.
The bag fell back onto the bench. Tommy stared at it. For one brief second, he considered just leaving it there.
Then Tubbo looked over.
Tommy straightened, “Forgot something.”
Tubbo raised an eyebrow.
Tommy couldn’t remember what he’d supposedly forgotten. It didn’t matter. He reached for the bag again. The strap slid onto his shoulder. His side lit up and his jaw clenched. He held it for two seconds. Three. Then he took it off.
Instead of explaining, he picked it up by the handle and held it out.
Tubbo looked at the bag. Then at Tommy. There was a question there. Tommy ignored it. Tubbo took the bag wordlessly.
The weight left Tommy’s hand. His shoulders loosened before he could stop them.
“Cheers, Tubbs.”
Tubbo only shrugged, slinging the bag over his own shoulder.
Tommy didn’t look at him. It was nothing. A bag. Tubbo carrying a bag wasn’t help. It was just Tubbo carrying a bag. That was completely different.
They finished getting changed without much fuss. Tommy took longer than usual getting his jersey off, turning slightly away from the others and carefully working the fabric over his head.
Nobody commented. That was good. Whatever injury he had had successfully been hidden.
By the time they all left, the pain had dulled again. Or maybe he’d simply gotten better at ignoring it. They reached the gate where they usually split up. Tubbo adjusted his bag and Tommy’s.
Tommy shoved his hands into his pockets. For a moment neither of them moved. Then Tubbo looked at him. The question came quietly this time.
“You sure you’re alright, mate?”
Tommy smiled, it was almost automatic now. “Never better.”
Tubbo rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth lifted. He handed Tommy his bag back, then he turned and started down the road.
Tommy watched him go.
He waited until Tubbo was far enough away that he wouldn’t look back. Only then did he stop. His hand came out of his pocket and pressed against his ribs.
The bruise wasn’t visible yet but he could feel every inch of it.
He took a slow breath.
Pain.
Then another.
More pain.
His face twisted before he could stop it. He dropped his hand.
Tomorrow.
It would be better tomorrow. It had to be.
Tommy forced himself to start walking again.
It’ll be fine tomorrow.