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arysafics · 5 years

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Someone Else’s Baby

Summary: When Gina finds out she can't get pregnant, she and Bellamy enlist in the help of a surrogate, Clarke Griffin. Bellamy didn't realise how much the pregnancy would affect him.

Rated E, ~3.6k words

Bellamy and Gina always knew they wanted kids. Raising a family has always meant more to Bellamy than any of his other life goals, and he and Gina were always on the same page, that they would start trying as soon as they were married. They tried for a year on their own before they started to get impatient, worried, and enlisted the help of a fertility clinic. Gina cried for almost three days straight when they got the results back, telling them that, ultimately, she was infertile.

After the initial shock had worn off, they discussed their options, and settled on surrogacy. Gina even confessed to him that she was secretly glad she wouldn’t have to give birth, because that thought had always kind of terrified her.

They went through an agency, and two months later, they met Clarke Griffin. Who is now standing at the front door, despite the fact that their ultrasound appointment isn’t for another half an hour.

“Sorry I’m so early,” Clarke says, as Bellamy lets her inside. “I told my boss I had an ultrasound appointment and she got so excited she let me go early. It was just easier to come straight here than go home first.”

“It’s fine, Clarke,” Bellamy says, leading her into the living room. Although he’s not entirely sure if it is fine. Gina isn’t here yet, and Bellamy doesn’t really like being alone with Clarke.

Clarke sinks down onto the couch, Bellamy’s eyes on her protruding belly. She never wears maternity clothes. Today it’s just a stretchy tank top and a maxi skirt. A sliver of her stomach always seems to be visible. She’s six months pregnant now, and along with her growing belly, her breasts seem to have increased a cup size or two as well, a fact which hasn’t escaped Bellamy’s notice. From the looks of it she hasn’t bothered to get a new bra fitted, electing to go without instead.

Bellamy realises he’s staring, and he quickly clears his throat. He shoves his hands into his pockets so they stop feeling so useless and awkward. “Would you like something to drink?”

“No, I’m okay,” Clarke says. “Where’s Gina?” She looks around, almost nervously. Like maybe she’s afraid to be alone with him as well. Maybe she’s figured out he’s insanely attracted to her and is worried he’ll try to do something about it.

“Still at work,” Bellamy says. “She should be here soon.”

Clarke looks up at him from the couch. “Are you going to sit or what?”

“Yeah,” Bellamy says. He sits on the end of the couch, as far away from her as possible. He watches her though. He can’t seem to stop. He thought she was pretty when they first met, but now, when she’s six months pregnant with his child, she’s all he can think about. It’s a disease.

She rubs her belly absentmindedly. Bellamy yearns to do the same.

“Only three more months until you become a dad,” Clarke says. “How does it feel?”

“Honestly, it doesn’t feel real yet,” Bellamy says. “It’s like, Gina and I are reading all these parenting books, buying all this baby stuff, and we know it’s coming. But it’s still so… abstract.”

“Do you think it would feel more real if it was Gina was the one who was pregnant and not me?”

Bellamy shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s always like this for the dad.” He pauses, studying her for a moment. Not that his eyes ever left her. “How’s being pregnant?”

“Not so bad,” Clarke says. “Random people keep trying to touch my stomach though, which is annoying. And I guess I’ve got all these crazy hormones.”

“Crying over eating the last cookie, that kind of thing?” Bellamy smiles, remembering when his mom was pregnant with Octavia.

“More like—” she stops, blushing. “Well, let’s just say I sometimes wish I wasn’t single.”

Bellamy finds himself blushing too, when he realises what she means. Her pregnancy hormones are making her horny, and she’s got no one to help her out. “Right,” he says awkwardly.

“Sorry,” Clarke says. “I shouldn’t have said that, way too much information.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Bellamy says. They’re adults, they should be able to talk about sex without it being weird. “I guess it would be hard to find someone who wants to have casual sex with a pregnant woman.”

“Yeah, but it’s not just the sex,” Clarke says quickly. “I actually don’t think it would be that hard to find someone to have sex with if I was really trying. But I get really—touch-starved, I guess? Like I just want somebody to hold me for a while.”

He could do that, right? Just hold her for a few minutes while they wait for Gina? That’s not cheating. It’s just helping out the woman who is carrying their baby. Except he knows it’s not just that, because even though he’s pretty sure his attraction to her is mostly to do with her being pregnant with his baby, it’s still there, and his reasons for holding her wouldn’t be totally altruistic.

“I guess, if we were doing this the normal way, you know, I’d be there for you— I mean, the father of the child would be.” Which is him. God, she’s blushing again, all the way down to her chest. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“It’s fine, Bellamy.”

He wants to groan at his own graceless attempts at conversation. He’s sure he’d be normal if he wasn’t trying so hard to not accidentally flirt with her. He’s not sure he’s even achieving that.

“I never asked you why you decided to become a surrogate,” Bellamy says, desperately trying to steer the conversation away from Clarke’s sex life, and the fact that she’s carrying his baby. He’s half hard now, and if it gets any worse, she might just notice.

Clarke turns her head towards him, squinting at him, as if she’s not sure if she should tell him. “I just wanted to do something… selfless.”

“Why?”

She shrugs. “I did a lot of—not great things when I was younger. I guess I’m trying to make up for it.”

Bellamy is bursting to ask her what kind of things she did. But it’s clear she doesn’t want to talk about it. He searches for something else to say that isn’t invasive or creepy, since he’s covered both of those things already.

Before he can think of anything, he’s saved by his phone ringing, and he scrambles to answer it, relieved at the intervention. “Hey, babe,” he answers. “It’s Gina,” he mouths at Clarke, as if she might think he’s call someone else babe. Clarke nods.

“I’m trying really hard to stay calm right now, but I want to murder my boss,” Gina says.

“What’s wrong?”

“Even though I told him about our appointment, he’s now saying I can’t go. There’s a lot of work to do here, but he fucking promised me. I told him how important the six-month ultrasound is, and he just told me I didn’t need to be there since I’m not actually the one who’s pregnant.”

She sounds like she’s on the verge of tears from pure frustration.

“Want me to come down there and kick his ass?”

“The only reason I’m not kicking his ass myself is because I’m angling to get extra maternity leave,” Gina complains. “But I really want to be there.”

“It’s okay,” Bellamy tells her. “We can reschedule. Right, Clarke?”

“Sure,” Clarke agrees.

“Clarke’s there?”

“Yeah,” Bellamy says. “She says it’s fine.”

“I feel so bad. Tell her I’m really sorry she had to miss work for nothing,” Gina says.

“Gina says she’s sorry you had to miss work.”

“It’s okay,” Clarke grins. “My boss loves me. She won’t care if I have to take more time off.”

“Clarke is really fine with it,” Bellamy tells Gina.

“Okay,” Gina breathes. “I guess I better get back to it. I’m really sorry, babe. Will you call the doctor and reschedule?”

“Of course,” Bellamy says. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Okay, bye. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

He hangs up, and quickly calls the doctor to reschedule, checking with Clarke to make sure the new time suits her too.

“I guess I should go then,” Clarke says, once Bellamy has made the appointment. Bellamy nods. No point in acting like he thinks she should stick around so they can hang out. It’s not like they’re really friends. Even though he’s sure they could be really good friends, if he trusted himself enough around her to not do something stupid, like kiss her.

“I’ll see you next week,” he says.

Clarke goes to stand up, but then she stops, her hand flying to her stomach.

“Ooh!” she exclaims, her eyes lighting up. “The baby’s kicking. Come feel.” She reaches for him, and Bellamy scoots closer, somewhat apprehensively. She grabs his hand and pulls her tank top up, baring her swollen stomach. She places his hand on her baby bump, his large palm covering her skin. He feels nothing. He glances at Clarke.

“Just wait,” she says. He feels a jerk against his hand and his heart skips a beat, a grin spreading over his face. He knows this isn’t the first time she’s felt the baby kicking, but it’s the first time he’s felt it. His insides melt. That’s his baby.

Clarke is absolutely beaming, her eyes sparkling at him. Bellamy grins back. He leans down and puts his cheek against her belly.

Clarke laughs. “You won’t be able to hear anything,” she says, resting her hand on his head. Bellamy feels the baby kick against his cheek, and before he can think better of it, he turns his head and presses his lips against her stomach. Clarke’s fingers curl into his hair.

Bellamy pulls away abruptly, his face flaming. “Sorry,” he whispers hoarsely. “That was inappropriate.”

“It’s okay,” Clarke says. “You were kissing the baby. You weren’t kissing me.”

Bellamy swallows thickly. His heart is racing. He nods.

“You don’t have to stop,” Clarke says. “You should be able to kiss your baby as much as you want.”

“Clarke, I don’t think—” he stops, shaking his head. He wants to put his lips on her so badly. Not just on her stomach. Everywhere, all over her body. But it would be so fucked up. He can’t cheat on his wife, let alone with the woman who’s carrying their baby. “I don’t think you understand,” he says.

“I understand.” He looks at her sharply. She bites her lip. “Seeing me pregnant with your baby turns you on.”

Bellamy looks away again, flushing. “It’s that obvious, huh?”

“Only to me,” Clarke says. Bellamy manages to look at her again. She wants him to touch her. Her pupils are wide, her eyes full of longing.

Bellamy slides his hand over her belly again, watching Clarke’s expression the whole time. Her eyes flutter closed, and she breathes in deeply. When was the last time she was touched properly? By somebody who cares about her and not just the human she’s growing in her stomach?

“I can hold you,” he blurts out. “For a little while. I can give you that.”

Clarke opens her eyes, and nods hesitantly. It’s a bad idea, Bellamy knows that. It’s an even worse idea to take her to his bedroom, but that’s what he does. There isn’t enough room on the couch.

Clarke lies down on his bed, on her side, and Bellamy cautiously settles himself behind her. He wraps his arms around her, his hands resting on her belly, and Clarke sighs happily. Bellamy breathes in the scent of her coconut scented shampoo.

“This feel better?” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” Clarke says. “Thank you.”

Bellamy rubs her stomach gently, over her tank top, almost subconsciously. His cock presses insistently against the fly of his pants. He splays his hands over her stomach possessively, and Clarke puts her tiny hands over his. His lips rest against her bare shoulder, and he kisses her there without thinking. Her hands grip his tightly, and he stops, squeezing his eyes shut, feeling guilty when he realises what he’s doing.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I keep forgetting. I just—didn’t realise this pregnancy would—” he swallows. He shouldn’t say it out loud. “Make me want you so much.”

Clarke is silent for a moment, and Bellamy wonders if he’s taken it too far, if he’s offended her. But she doesn’t move away, and her thumb rubs the back of his hand gently, soothingly.

“It turns me on too,” she finally whispers. Bellamy’s breath hitches. “I think about you,” she says, her voice shaking. “When I touch myself. Wish you were holding me or fucking me. Taking care of me like you would if I was your wife.”

“Clarke,” Bellamy chokes out. “You have no idea how much I want to do that. But Gina—”

“I know,” Clarke says. “You’re such a good husband. You’re going to be such a good father. I’m so happy I’m having your baby. I only wish it was my baby too.”

“Me too,” Bellamy admits. He’s never admitted that even to himself before. But he loves Gina, and it’s their baby Clarke is carrying. And he doesn’t want to do anything to fuck up this baby’s life, like cheat on his wife and ruin their marriage.

“Bellamy,” Clarke whispers. The way she says his name gives him goosebumps. “I’m so horny,” she tells him. His cock jumps. He’s fully hard by now, and he’s aching for her. “I haven’t been fucked in so long.” He can feel what little resolve he had fading as she pleads with him. Some primal instinct tells him it’s his duty to take care of the woman carrying his baby, to give her what she needs.

His hand slides down her stomach, her hand on his, guiding him lower, dipping beneath the waistband of her skirt, into her panties, until his whole hand is over her pussy. His heart is racing. This is wrong, so wrong. He’s crossed a line he never thought he’d cross.

“Please, Bellamy,” Clarke murmurs hoarsely. “Finger me, please.”

“Look at me,” Bellamy whispers. He shifts, propping himself up on his elbow and Clarke rolls over onto her back. Bellamy looks down at her, his hand still covering her pussy. She’s got tears in her eyes, desperation creasing her face. He slips a finger inside her, and she gasps. She’s wet as hell.

“Gina can’t find out,” he says, and saying it out loud makes his stomach churn with guilt. Still, he doesn’t stop. He keeps one finger inside her, stroking her lazily. With his other hand, he pushes her tank top up again, bunching it under her breasts. He kisses her stomach again, and again, and again, soft and sweet.

“Seeing you like this,” he croaks out. “Fuck, Clarke. Every time I see you, you’re bigger. My baby growing inside you. Drives me crazy.”

“I know,” Clarke breathes. Bellamy rubs her clit with his thumb and her breath hitches. “I see you looking at me.”

Bellamy groans. “I want to make you feel so good,” he says.

He kisses her stomach again, then lower, and lower. He pulls his hand from her panties, then drags them down, along with her skirt, abandoning them on the floor at the foot of the bed. He presses his lips to her cunt, covered in soft curls. He slips his tongue between her folds, and she moans when he makes contact with her clit.

Her hands find their way into his hair as he caresses her clit with his tongue.

“God, Bellamy,” she groans. “That feels so good. Don’t stop.”

He has no intention of stopping now. He’s too far gone. His guilt doesn’t eclipse his arousal, or his need to please Clarke, his need to make sure the woman carrying his child is satisfied.

He fucks her with his tongue, tasting her arousal, until she’s panting and writhing, right on the brink, and then he sucks on her clit and tips her over the edge. She cries out, pulling on his hair, arching against his face.

He pulls away as she comes down, her grip on his curls loosening. He presses a kiss to her inner thigh. His cock throbs, and he’s even more aware of it now that he’s not focused on Clarke’s pleasure. Would it make a difference if he fucks her now? He’s already cheated on his wife. Gina sure as hell wouldn’t see a difference between him going down on another woman or fucking her.

Bellamy looks up, meeting Clarke’s eyes. Her stomach bulges between them, and he knows he has to have her. Has to fuck her. Otherwise he’ll never stop thinking about it.

“Can I—?” he asks, knowing Clarke will know what he wants, what he needs. What he’s been dreaming of since they implanted his seed into Clarke’s uterus.

“We’ve already come this far,” she says. “And it’s not like I can get any more pregnant.” No chance of leaving any evidence.

Bellamy sheds his clothes like a man possessed, and Clarke pulls her tank top over her head, so he finally gets to see those magnificent breasts. God, if she was his wife, he’d get to watch her breastfeed their baby.

“Fuck, you are so fucking gorgeous,” he growls. He brings his mouth to her breast, kissing her messily, then sucking her nipple into his mouth.

“Bellamy, come on,” Clarke whines. “Fuck me, please.”

“I will,” he says, moving his mouth to her other breast. “But this is the only chance I’ll ever have to do this. Let me enjoy it.”

He lavishes her tits, sucking on her nipples, squeezing them with his hands. God, she has the best tits he’s ever had his hands on. It’s a travesty they don’t belong to him.

She’s whimpering now, desperate for his cock, and he’s just as desperate to be inside her. His hands ghost over her stomach, a swell of possessiveness surging in his chest as he sheaths himself inside her. He keeps his hands on his stomach as he fucks her, the thought of his baby inside her spurring him on. Doesn’t matter that she’s not the mother of the child, in this moment, she may as well be. He wants her to be.

“Can’t wait for you to have my baby, Clarke,” he groans, his words coming out breathless and hoarse as he keeps up his steady rhythm. “Wish I could’ve fucked my baby into you. Made you pregnant myself.”

“Me too,” Clarke moans. “God, I want to have your babies. Want you to be the father of my children.”

“Fuck, Clarke. I wish we could.”

“I’m going to come again.”

“Me too.”

“Come inside me,” Clarke begs. “Please, put your come in me.” As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she’s coming again, he second orgasm washing over her, her cunt clenching around him. She draws his orgasm from him, and he fills her with his seed. Like she said, it’s not like she can get any more pregnant.

He stays on top of her as he comes down, his breathing slowly returning to normal. He slips out of her, his come slipping from her cunt and onto the bed. He curses inwardly. He’ll have to change the sheets before Gina gets home, and then come up with an excuse to why he changed them.

“Tell her the dog threw up on the bed,” Clarke says, reading his mind. This lying, cheating thing comes too naturally to both of them.

“This can’t happen again,” Bellamy says, but his hands itch to be on her again already. He places one on her stomach, unable to stop himself. She rests her hand over his.

“I know. Do you feel guilty?”

“Not as much as I should. Do you?”

Clarke shakes her head. “Not really.”

“So much for doing something selfless though, right?” Bellamy snorts.

Clarke flushes at that. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

“You’ve done this before? Fucked another woman’s husband?”

“Boyfriend,” Clarke says.

“So what happened?”

“He died. In a car accident. I was driving.”

“Fuck, Clarke,” Bellamy winces.

“Told you I have a lot of shit to make up for. That’s just the start of it.” She pauses, looks down, then back up at him. “Guess I can add you to my list, huh?”

Bellamy shakes his head. “Or maybe I should add you to my list.”

Clarke smiles wryly. “You’re still a good man.”

“Am I?”

“Maybe you’re not. Does that bother you?”

“Does it bother you?”

Clarke bites her lip. “Wish you were a little bit worse, actually. Then we could keep doing this. Then maybe you’d leave her for me.”

“Don’t say stuff like that.”

“Why not?”

“Makes me feel—tempted.”

Clarke sits up, and Bellamy’s hand falls from her belly. “I should go.”

Bellamy nods. He starts the process of stripping the bed as Clarke dresses. He lets her go, and part of him wishes he didn’t have to see her again. Part of him knows that being with her just once will never be enough. But it has to be, because he’s married, and he’s starting a family. And Clarke isn’t part of that family, and she never can be.

#bellarke #bellarke fanfiction #the 100 #the 100 fanfiction #mine

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welllpthisishappening · 6 years

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Playing Man Down

It’s the dumbest idea in the history of all ideas.

There is no idea that has been more dumb than this one. And yet...Emma’s stubborn and determined and really goddamn good at playing lacrosse. So she’s going to prove it. To everyone. To her friends and her ex-boyfriend and the unfairly attractive guy she just so happens to be sharing a room with.

Or: a lacrosse themed She’s the Man AU

Rating: Like a low M. Swearing. Kissing. Lacrosse slashing. Word Count: Probably way too many, that’s why it’s two chapters. AN: Several months ago I had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad week and in an attempt to reclaim some of my positivity I asked the internet for CS prompts. One of them was a She’s the Man AU, which let’s be honest, is a classic of our time, but I’d just written an Out of the Frying Pan soccer story, so they play lacrosse instead. Because, let’s also be honest, Killian Jones is a for realz lax bro name. Also I love lacrosse a lot. I’m bringing this back because it never got posted on its own and because I’ve been covering a lot of lacrosse recently and for no other reason than I really enjoyed writing this.

Also on Ao3 where there are two chapters because words and an entire never-ending list of prompts that I am always open to add onto.

It’s hot.

She remembers that.

She doesn’t remember much else. It all seems to happen in a blur – anger clouding her vision and her muscles and Emma’s vaguely aware of making some kind of strangled sound, but she can barely hear it over the rushing in her ears and then she’s moving and her hands are moving and it’s not exactly good form, a fact Neal is quick to point out, but she’s fueled solely on frustration and fury and, possibly, global warming.

Because it is so goddamn fucking hot.

She punches him and smacks at his shoulder and then tries to check him, without a stick in her hand and she wishes she had a stick in her hand because she’d slash him in the knees. That’s not even the right term.

Neal would point that out as well.

Because, she’s suddenly realized, Neal Cassidy is a goddamn fucking asshole.

“This is something we’ve known for years,” Ruby mutters after Emma’s just recounted the story again and her words are starting to slur together the more she repeats herself. Or the more alcohol she drinks.

She’s had a considerable amount of alcohol to drink.

“Hey,” Elsa chastises softly, but it doesn’t really sound all that threatening when the three letters all sound like one, enormous sound and Emma’s head is starting to pound. Mary Margaret is an incredibly heavy weight against her side, resting on Emma’s shoulder with an arm draped over her legs and a faint hint of tequila smell just wafting through the air. “Don’t do that,” Elsa continues. “Now is not the time for I told you so’s.”

She blinks once when she realizes she’s just mumbled a word that isn’t actually a word and if Emma still weren’t so incredibly pissed off she’d probably laugh. She can’t laugh with Mary Margaret more or less lying on top of her.

Elsa mouths so’s again, like she’s testing it on her tongue and Ruby makes some kind of God-awful noise that might be a laugh, but just sounds like a cackle. It hurts Emma’s head. And her entire body.

She’s fairly certain she dislocated her middle finger earlier.

“Here,” Graham says, appearing out of nowhere with an actual tray in one hand and an understanding smile on his face. “You need to hydrate. Desperately.”

He sinks onto the edge of the coffee table Emma’s feet are propped up on, resting the tray on his knee and nodding towards the glasses of water, an unspoken command to take them and hydrate that Emma knows she should listen to, but absolutely does not because even the idea of consuming any sort of liquid that isn’t tequila seems like the worst idea in the history of the world.

Or maybe that was beating up her boyfriend earlier that afternoon.

Ex-boyfriend. Decidedly ex. Happily ex. Absolutely.

“I need another drink, Humbert,” Emma announces, leaning forward and that’s an even worse idea. The whole room spins with her and Mary Margaret makes some contradictory noise in the back of her throat.

Graham levels her with a knowing stare – some kind of look that seems to scream you are an adult, act like one, but Emma just huffs and sticks her tongue out and Ruby cackles again.

It’s all Neal’s fault, really. And she could do it. She absolutely could do it. She could…

“Emma,” Graham says, snapping her out of her thoughts before she can stand up and try to find Neal so she can punch him in the face again. “Stop thinking about it. It’s not going to change anything. And it’s not even a good gig.”

She growls, slinking lower into the couch until one of her legs falls off its perch on the coffee table. “It’s absolutely a good gig,” Emma argues and they’re all starting to repeat themselves again. “And I could totally do it.” “I’m not questioning that.” “No?” “No.” “Seems like it.” “I’m not.”

“Yuh huh.”

Graham scowls, grabbing a glass off the tray and pushing it into Emma’s hand until she doesn’t have any choice but to actually accept it. She’d dump water on Mary Margaret’s head otherwise.

“Ok,” Ruby announces, waving her hands through the air and barely managing to keep her balance on the seat she’d claimed as hers as soon as Emma told the story the first time. “Go over it one more time.” Emma’s not sure who makes the loudest noise – it might be her – but Ruby just glares and it’s not even midnight yet and she’s lost track of the number of drinks she’s had and she kind of feels bad for Graham because he absolutely did not agree to be everyone’s keeper that night.

“Fine,” Emma sighs. “The story, as I have told sixteen-thousand times already is that the bonds business I was working at went under unexpectedly without much notice and, now, if I want to keep this very lovely apartment we all seem intent on destroying tonight, then I need a job for the summer.” “And you decided to ask Neal about a job?” Ruby asks. Emma rolls her eyes. They’ve been over this, at least, twelve-thousand times. “Why?” “They’re dating,” Elsa says reasonably and Emma’s definitely the one who makes noise that time. “Were,” she corrects. “Were dating. That’s not a thing anymore. That is the opposite of a thing. What’s the opposite of a thing?” “I think those exact words.” Emma’s eyes are going to get stuck rolled into the back of her head. She tries not to think about that – her tequila-filled stomach can’t quite cope with that. “Anyway,” she continues, tracing absentminded patterns on Mary Margaret’s back. “He’s got that summer thing with Regina Mills’ clinic or whatever and there are rich kids to teach lacrosse to and I figured he’d be all in on us getting to spend the summer together and playing and…” And it didn’t work.

Or, well, more to the point, Neal was positive it wouldn’t work.

Emma wasn’t sure it was a particularly distinct difference, but it seemed to be the crux of the problem. She’d heard of the Mills clinic for years – teammates who’d signed up to coach during the summer and it’d be hot, but the pay was good and the kids were, probably, talented if not a little pretentious because they were spending their summer at a lacrosse clinic, but she wouldn’t have to worry about room and board and, well, she was a former All-American. She’d set records at UMass for God’s sake.

Neal didn’t seem all that impressed by it.

“It just wouldn’t work, Em,” he said, like she was supposed to accept that answer. She didn’t. She kept pushing and asking and finally he just sighed dramatically and rolled his whole head and told her what he was really thinking. “It won’t work because you’re a girl and girl’s lacrosse is...well, it’s not real lacrosse is it? There’s not even any checking. You get fouled for checking. What are you going to teach these kids, Em?”

Her memories got kind of hazy after that, just flashes of red that might have been a visible representation of the questionable heat wave they’d had in the last few days, but also might have just been her anger and Emma didn’t listen to anymore explanations before she started throwing fists and absolutely against-the-rules checks.

“So, the short version, since I’m not repeating myself anymore,” Emma says. “Is that he thinks I couldn’t work at this clinic because I am a girl and girls can’t play lacrosse and don’t know how to check, which is just...insane, right Humbert?” Graham blinks once, as if he’s surprised to be involved in the conversation, and they’re going to have to buy him a ridiculous amount of replacement tequila for dealing with all of them for most of the night.

“Of course, Em,” he promises with a smile and Emma’s suddenly thrown several years into the past with memories of meeting Graham Humbert at forced athletic icebreakers freshman year. He’d set records at UMass too – assists in a single-season their junior year and the guy’s team was awful, but it was early Division I years and Humbert never complained.

He never did anything wrong.

They asked him to coach at the clinic weeks ago.

“Plus,” Ruby adds, still wobbling slightly until Graham pushes a glass of water in her hands as well. “What Cassidy failed to realize was that you’ve got all that pent-up aggression stored from years of not being allowed to check anyone and go along with all those weird restart rules.” “You’ve been holding in your feelings about women’s lacrosse for awhile haven’t you?” Elsa asks knowingly, one eyebrow lifted and Ruby shrugs in response.

“It doesn’t make any sense. Why are the rules different? They aren’t in soccer.” Mary Margaret makes another noise – another age-old argument and none of them should really be friends. It doesn’t make any sense at all.

Emma was never sure how she stumbled into lacrosse, but for a kid who spent most of her childhood shipped around the country, a sport that allowed her to, literally, carry a stick and hit people had its appeal. Until she got to high school and learned the rules for her brand of lacrosse and it took an entire season of penalty minutes and unreleasable fouls to change her approach.

It worked out – UMass came calling the spring of her junior year and she didn’t have many other offers, certainly nothing else Division I, and it was impossible to turn down a free ride. There was a lacrosse joke in there somewhere.

And the irony that she was about to play for a team called the Minutemen when she’d spent most of her career arguing against girls rules was not lost on Emma.

It was the first thing Ruby had talked about when they, quite literally, ran into each other at another required athletic event. “This is the worst isn’t it,” Ruby grumbled and Emma nodded and, well, that was that.

They kept talking and kept bashing the ancient, vaguely patriarchal tendencies of the NCAA and Emma met Mary Margaret three weeks later. She’d grown up with Ruby in some tiny town in Maine and she was the living, breathing embodiment of all things sweet, a physical therapy major who wanted to work with athletes eventually – or so Ruby told Emma. And, for awhile, Emma believed her until she went to one of Ruby’s soccer games with Mary Margaret who seemed to lose any semblance of sweet as soon as a tackle wasn’t called and, well, that was that.

Again.

Elsa joined the fray second semester, a slightly frantic request from the student newspaper to interview Emma before the start of the season and she started by explaining that she knew nothing about lacrosse and Emma smiled and answered questions anyway and Ruby and Mary Margaret took her out for drinks when the story ran.

The four of them were some kind of collective unit from there on out – anyone needing to get in touch with all of them only having to text one of them and the message would, eventually, get passed along and they were all in the stands when Emma scored twice in the A-10 championship their senior year.

Graham drove them to the regional finals on Long Island and they were some kind of weird, five-person pretzel of limbs and tears when the Minutemen lost.

And not much had changed since graduation – even if athletic careers were some kind of distant memory now. Until Emma’s very steady, very well-paying job all but disappeared in front of her and she thought, for a moment, of past glory and championship goals and, for the first time in a very long time, she wanted to check something.

She could absolutely work at this clinic. Even with different rules.

“It’s not really going to be fun,” Graham says and Emma dimly wonders if they’re all following a conversational schedule she wasn’t aware of, because she’s fairly positive they’ve done this already as well. “It’s going to be like school all over again and working those summer camps with screaming kids.” “Except these screaming kids have really rich parents,” Elsa adds. Graham glares at her. “I’m just saying. This is a little different than kids coming for a couple of hours a day in Amherst.”

“Exactly,” Emma shouts, like that’s just proved her point. “And I don’t even really care about the kids. It’s not...well that sounds shitty, but this is not about that.” Graham lifts his eyebrows. “What is it about then?” “Screwing over Neal Cassidy.” “Fucking finally,” Ruby mumbles, but Emma’s eyes don’t leave Graham’s and his lips twist in thought. Or like he’s trying to mind-meld with her and force her to give up on whatever path of revenge she’s already halfway down.

They stay that way for what feels like several eternities until Mary Margaret makes some kind of inhuman noise, leaping away from Emma like she’s just contracted a deadly plague. “Jeez, M’s,” Emma mumbles, taking a gulp of water before she remembers that it’s water and not tequila. “What’s your deal right now?” “I’ve just had an absolutely incredible idea,” Mary Margaret shouts and the whole room collectively winces at the volume of her voice. “Plus, if I’m there to do the training stuff, then...oh, shit this could work.” Emma nearly falls over, which is impressive since she’s sitting down, but she’s never heard Mary Margaret talk like that. It’s probably the tequila. “I mean it’s insane, but...this could work. I think. ”

“You think?”

Mary Margaret nods enthusiastically. “Ok, Humbert, what time do you have to be there next week…” It is absolutely the most insane idea in the history of ideas. It’s as if Galileo and Thomas Edison and, like, someone else who invented something all got together and, collectively, decided to try and come up with the most insane idea in the history of ideas just to spite all those people who didn’t believe in them before, but Mary Margaret keeps talking and Ruby keeps pouring drinks and by the end of the night it almost makes sense.

Which is how Emma finds herself on the campus of goddamn Towson University four days later with a bag in one hand and a stick in the other, trying to keep her breathing level when she tells a slightly overwhelmed looking woman at a fold-up desk “Hi, my name is Graham Humbert, I’m one of the coaches for the clinic.”

The woman behind the desk – there’s a name on a sticker that Emma can only half read, but might be Aurora – nods distractedly, flipping through a small stack of paperwork and handing Emma a folder with a string of instructions she’s only half listening to.

“You’re with Jones and Scarlet,” she says, like those words have actual meaning. “So, uh, there’s an elevator or stairs and it’s the sixth floor and room...whatever it says on your folder. There’s keys in there, but you’ll have to go get an actual ID if you want to ever eat while you’re here. Lunch starts serving in a couple of hours and then there’s meet and greets with all the kids later on tonight.” Aurora lifts her head when Emma doesn’t immediately respond and she feels her eyes go wide when the woman actually meets her gaze.

They cut her hair – or, rather, Mary Margaret cut her hair – and it was definitely a look, but both Ruby and Elsa promised it fell somewhere in the realm of hipster, but masculine when she actually put a wig on and left that morning and it was some kind of miracle Emma could even breathe because she’d wrapped her boobs up so tight she wasn’t entirely convinced her ribs weren’t going to sustain permanent damage.

She doesn’t really look...like a guy, but she doesn’t really look like her either and, as a very drunk Mary Margaret was quick to point out, no one at this clinic was going to know what Graham Humbert actually looked like.

Except Regina Mills. Who’d hired Graham. But he promised she had no plans of being there and as long as Neal didn’t recognize her then none of it mattered.

At least that’s what Emma kept telling herself while she spent nearly eight hours in her ancient VW bug that morning.

“We all good?” she asks, doing her best to sound like a guy. It doesn’t work. At all. Her voice just sounds scratchy and fake and Aurora tilts her head in confusion. “I, uh...just want to make sure my equipment’s all set before we do anything later tonight.” Aurora quirks an eyebrow. “There are just icebreakers tonight.”

“Right, right, right, I absolutely knew that. Because you just told me that. And I read the schedule already. Several times. When I got hired to be here.” Aurora nods again and Emma’s fairly certain her ribs have started to crack. “Alright, well, I’m going to….”

She doesn’t finish, just hitches her bag further up her shoulder and practically sprints up the first flight of stairs she can find, not willing to wait for an elevator. There’s a stitch in her side by the time she reaches the fourth landing and this was a mistake.

In some kind of grand, sweeping way.

“Holy shit,” Emma breathes and she’s not out of shape. She runs down criminals. She can do the same thing with a stick in her hand and a ball in her stick and she’s suddenly so full of determination and fury that she’s almost surprised she doesn’t just levitate to her room with Jones and Scarlet, whoever they are.

It'll be fine.

Except that one thing.

It’s the one part of the plan even Mary Margaret hadn’t quite figured out.

“What happens when you have to shower?” Graham asked, tugging on the bottom of Mary Margaret’s shirt until she collapsed into a heap on their living room floor. “These are guys, Em. You can’t just...take half an hour in the shower every morning.” “Ok, first of all, that’s rude and stereotyping,” Emma argued. “And I know how to take quick showers. I probably set records at Amherst with that. All that foster home experience, you get in and get out before someone flushes the toilet or the house runs out of hot water. This is fine.” “And what about the rest of it? You’re going to have to, you know, make it look like you’re a guy.” “I’m not expecting an audience while I shower.” “I’m just saying.” “Are you not in on this? You said you were in on this. This is all so I can show up Neal and then, you know, ruin his lacrosse life or something.” “You’re a picture of maturity,” Graham sighed, but there was a hint of a smile on his face and he couldn’t argue with the combined, very drunk force of four UMass grads with a plan. “And, yeah, I’m all in on this. Of course.”

It was going to be fine.

So she has roommates. Emma’s always had roommates. Granted, they’ve always been girls and she’s never actually had to tape her boobs down just to try and stay under some kind of metaphorical radar, but this isn’t about that.

This is about fucking over Neal and it is...easily the most insane idea she’s ever had.

She’s frozen in front room 619, resting most of her weight on her stick and trying to psych herself up again when the door swings open and oh, well, fuck. God fucking fuck.

She’s going to kill Humbert. He should have told her.

He should have warned her...or something. Anything. He should have cut whatever wires in her bug made her bug capable of driving her from Boston to Baltimore because then Emma wouldn’t be standing stock still in the middle of a hallway at goddamn Towson University, breathing through her mouth while trying to will her heart rate to slow down.

The guy widens his eyes – all blue and vaguely amused and he’s got a Maryland t-shirt on. His hair’s nearly as long as Emma’s is, even after it’s been cut, and there’s a piece falling across his forehead that is just absolutely stupid because it’s obvious he’s not trying at all, just casual confidence and certainty and his ribs probably aren’t cracking.

Because he’s a guy.

He is a guy.

“Can I help you?” he asks, resting against the side of the open door frame with his arms crossed over his chest and that only serves to scrunch up the Maryland state logo emblazoned on his shirt.

Emma nods slowly, trying to force her brain to catch up to the moment at hand and the guy’s eyes flit towards the stick in her hand. “Are you the third, then?” he continues and Emma’s fairly convinced he’s just started speaking in tongues.

“I have no idea what that means,” she says and the guy just smiles even wider. His eyebrows are stupid. Emma takes a deep breath, hitting herself in the hip with her own bag when she pushes her right hand in front of her. “Humbert,” she says and it almost sounds like the truth. “Graham Humbert. UMass ‘10.” The guy doesn't blink, just keeps staring at her outstretched hand and maybe she shouldn’t have done that because she definitely doesn’t look like she’s got guy’s hands. It takes, exactly, two seconds to realize that is not the issue.

He rocks back on his heels, twisting his lower lip between his teeth – which is decidedly distracting for absolutely all the wrong reasons – and tilts his head when he holds his left arm out towards her.

Oh.

And it all clicks very suddenly.

Emma is absolutely going to kill Graham.

She can’t quite believe she didn’t recognize him – but it’s been years since that national championship run and, really, the Maryland t-shirt threw her off. “You didn’t go to Maryland,” Emma accuses and Killian Jones’ eyebrows fly up his forehead. She thinks he maybe, almost, smiles at her too, but his left arm is still hanging in the space between them and, well, there isn’t a hand to shake there.

It wasn’t national news – no one cares about lacrosse that much – but she’d heard the story and Graham thought it was tragic and Emma thought it was absolutely fucking unfair because Killian Jones had been good, great, fantastic, some kind of faceoff specialist that they’d probably put in a hall of fame if lacrosse was a sport people actually cared about.

He won something like ninety percent at the ‘x’ when he was a senior and no one had really even heard of Monmouth before, but suddenly they were getting votes in national polls and winning games and Killian Jones kept getting the ball to his attackers and they kept scoring goals and, suddenly, they were beating Hopkins in the national championship game.

He won nearly every postseason award possible and he couldn’t actually go to the Tewaaraton ceremony because he’d been too busy playing in a national final and it was some kind of impossible run that even Sports Illustrated acknowledged once. And then it was tragic and fucking unfair and it wasn’t like he could do much more than coach after he graduated, but he was going to, or so the rumors suggested, until there’d been an accident and it was impossible to win a faceoff with one hand.

“That’s true,” Killian says, eyeing her cautiously and they were both still frozen in the doorway. “But I’ve been doing ops at Maryland for a season and a half now, so, you know, they give you free stuff.” “Is that not an NCAA violation?” “I’m not an actual student-athlete anymore.” Emma hums – a mistake because she sounds so much like her, she’s positive Killian can see through her clothes or something. Thinking that is also a mistake. There’s more talking from inside the room and another set of footsteps and Emma’s eyes dart for an escape route. There isn’t one.

“Is this the third, then?” another guy asks, pushing Killian out of the way and leaning towards Emma with an expectant look on his face.

Killian nods, eyes still tracing over Emma and she tries to stand up taller. She hits herself with her bag again. “Yeah,” Killian answers. “Humbert comma Graham. UMass class of 2010, apparently.” “UMass has lacrosse?”

“We’ve had lacrosse for nearly a decade,” Emma snaps. Killian grins. “It was just...shitty when they...I mean, I...when I started playing. But the women’s side won the A-10 just a couple seasons after we moved up.” “Impressive,” other guy mumbles in a way that makes it sound the exact opposite. Emma glares at him and she can’t start beating up her roommates before they even get to icebreakers.

Killian smiles wider. “Alright, alright,” he says, licking his lips and elbowing other guy in the ribs. That almost puts them all on even footing. “Humbert, class of 2010, this is Scarlet, comma Will, class of absolute asshole and a former goalie at Monmouth.” “And you were making fun of my program,” Emma seethes, well aware that she doesn’t have a leg or a stick to stand on. They won a national championship. “What kind of competition you dealing with in the MAAC?” Scarlet almost looks impressed. “Probably not quite as good as whatever Division II you started out as.” “God,” Killian sighs, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling and pushing Will back into the room. “Shut up, Scarlet. Although I really don’t think you can start trash talking this early, Humbert,” he adds. “There’s rules about trashing-talking form.” “Are there?” Emma asks and Killian grins, lower lip stuck out slightly when he nods. “Absolutely. Although I’m not entirely sure what form goes along with further introductions since you seem to know where I went to school already and, based on your staring issue, I’d say the rest of my very public history, so, uh...if you’re good, then we’re going to get some food.” He doesn’t wait for her to answer, just nods toward Scarlet who makes sure to glare at Emma when he walks by, leading with his shoulder and fucking hell this is a disaster. “See you on the field later, Humbert,” Killian calls over his shoulder when there a few feet away and Emma throws her bag into the room as soon as she hears his footsteps retreat.

She doesn’t leave the room until her stomach actually starts making noises that don’t quite sound human anymore, but downing dining hall food like she’s being timed doesn’t do much to help the state of her ribs and by the time she gets to icebreakers, she’s treading some very thin metaphorical ice.

“This is a goddamn disaster,” Emma hisses, leaning against the railing behind the end zone of the football stadium they were staging some sort of get to know you event on. Mary Margaret shoots her a look, one she should probably have patented by now and Emma tries not to sigh too loudly. “It is,” she continues. “I should just...I don’t know, just go or something before this dissolves into a criminal offense.” “You can’t get charged with anything when you have Graham’s permission,” Mary Margaret argues. “At least, I don’t think so. And, you know, you guys are splitting all these work checks, so it’s totally legit. Absolutely. For sure.” “You really shouldn’t have kept talking M’s.” Mary Margaret just levels her with that look again and Emma’s not really paying attention to any of the kids or the clinic or whatever it is Neal is doing with a group of guys who he seems to already be well acquainted with. “And,” Mary Margaret continues. “There is a plan. It’s a good plan. It’s not like Neal ever met Graham. He has no idea who you are. You really don’t even look like you right now.” “You’re only saying that because you're the one who cut my hair,” Emma reasons, but Mary Margaret just waves a dismissive hand in her face.

“I’m not. I’m saying that because you can do this and because…”

She trails off, eyes darting up when someone walks towards them and Emma tries not to shake her. Instead, she follows Mary Margaret’s gaze and barely has a moment to turn her groan into any other noise before she’s standing face to face with another guy and another outstretched hand.

“Hey,” he says brightly, an easy smile on his face and a t-shirt with a comically large orange on the front. He doesn’t seem to even notice Emma. “You uh….they’re starting some game about first names and I figured, well, since you’ve got two, you might get bonus points or something…”

Emma snorts, biting back hysterics and Mary Margaret stares imploringly at her. An absolute disaster. “Hi,” Emma says, taking the outstretched hand and she’s given up on trying to do any voice that isn’t hers. “I’m Graham Humbert. UMass. M’s and I went to school together.” “David,” he answers. “Nolan. ‘Cuse longstick.” “Yeah, I wouldn’t have been able to guess that at all.” “Em…” Mary Margaret shouts, eyes going wide when she realizes what she’d almost done. David looks momentarily confused, but then his gaze flits back to Mary Margaret and it’s like he’s rediscovered his center of gravity and Emma wonders what kind of science she’d need to just melt into a puddle on the Towson football field.

“Ah, well,” David says, stuffing his hands back in his pockets when he pulls away from Emma. “They told us to support our teams when we got here, which doesn’t really go along with the community feeling they’re telling us we’re building tonight, but whatever. Pays good, right?” Emma hums noncommittally in the back of her throat, rolling her shoulders in her UMass gear. “Longstick, huh? Middie or defenseman?” “Defensive middie.” “Best of both worlds.” “Something like that.”

Mary Margaret looks torn between several different emotions, but Emma finds herself almost liking David Nolan, defensive middie, and she’s got half an idea of what’s going on here. The other half of her mind, however, seems preoccupied with the voices calling from midfield and cheers from the crowd of kids with rich parents who can afford to spend their whole summer at a lacrosse clinic.

And it’s like the world slows down for a moment because Emma knows who’s running towards her before he even skids to a stop in front of them and she can just barely make out David’s mumbled is everything ok when Neal lands in front of her and Mary Margaret.

He blinks once and Emma can’t breathe – her lungs are on fire and her ribs are just disintegrating, she’s positive. “Oh,” Neal says, perking up when he notices Mary Margaret. “Hey Blanchard. Long time no see.” Mary Margaret visibly bristles, narrowing her eyes and Neal is just as ignorant as always and Emma is glad Ruby isn’t there because she absolutely could not deal with another told you so moment. “Neal,” Mary Margaret says softly. “It, uh….well, you’re here, aren’t you? Have you met David Nolan? ‘Cuse. And, uh…” She glances towards Emma, a million questions on her face and Emma shrugs in response. “This is, uh...Graham Humbert. Played at UMass when we were there.”

Neal’s eyebrows shift, but he doesn’t seem to realize anything and Emma wonders how long she can go without oxygen finding its way to her brain. Probably not much longer. She takes a deep breath, shoulders heaving and poor David Nolan looks decidedly out of place. “Nice to finally meet you,” she says, thrusting her hand out into the open space in front of her. “I’ve heard some stuff.” “Good stuff I hope,” Neal grins and Emma makes a contradictory noise in the back of her throat. Mary Margaret tries not to laugh.

“Stuff,” Emma repeats.

Neal’s lips quirk down and Emma tugs her hand back to her side, glancing up when she can hear Killian Jones yelling about teams and rules and playing to ten, but win by two and oh fuck. They’re going to play.

Game on or whatever.

“Right, right,” Neal mumbles. “Well, uh, some of the kids are going to play a little bit and I think that Jones guy is going to make sure we don’t all kill each other, so, uh...I was just coming to see if you guys wanted to suit up.” David wavers for half a moment, glancing at Mary Margaret like he was hoping for a few moments – or possibly an entire lifetime – alone, but Emma’s already nodding. “Yeah,” she says, staring at Neal. “You going to play?”

“That’s why I came over here.” “Good.” Neal looks at her for half a beat and that one corner of Emma’s mind that is still certain this is a goddamn disaster is positive he knows , but then he blinks and the look is gone and she’s far too competitive to care one way or another.

They’re already handing out sticks by the time Emma, David and Neal rejoin the crowd and Killian looks momentarily amused when his eyes land on her. “Ah, Humbert comma Graham,” he says. “I thought you’d disappeared.” Emma’s going to check him. In the head. “I’ve been around,” she answers evasively and the smile on Killian’s face evolves into a smirk that is both the single most obnoxious and attractive thing she’s ever seen. “You going to give me a stick or you just going to stare all night?”

It’s petty and a little immature, but it gets the smirk off his face and Killian nods before pushing a worse-for-wear stick against Emma’s chest. “Try not stun anyone with your Division I talent, Humbert,” he growls and Emma grimaces in response.

“Watch me,” she mutters.

Someone gives Killian a whistle and there are more rules Emma absolutely doesn’t listen to because she’s got a stick in her hand and a ball in her stick and she’s not sure if she’s trying to show off for everyone else or a bit for herself, but she spins away from a defender and lets out some kind of whoop when the ball lands in the back corner of the net.

It took thirty-seven and a half seconds.

“Holy shit,” Will grumbles, leaning behind him to fish the ball out of the net. “That was a rocket, Humbert.” Emma shrugs and Neal is standing slackjawed a few feet out of the crease. “You said you went to UMass,” he says and it sounds like the accusation it absolutely is. Emma nods. “Did you...you know my girlfriend then?”

She can hear herself breathing, which is the only proof that she still is, but it’s loud and just a bit haggard and Emma’s whole body stiffens at the present tense of that particular question. Neal waits for an answer and Will coughs awkwardly there isn’t one.

Emma’s dimly aware of David a few feet away from here and Killian blows that stupid whistle again, shouting about faceoffs and staying on track and Emma licks her lips before lining up again, a ringing in her ears she’s not sure will ever disappear.

It doesn’t. And the game sort of...falls apart after that.

She doesn’t score again, probably accounts for what feels like four-hundred turnovers and picking up a groundball is, suddenly, the most difficult thing in the world. She gets whistled for a slash, whipping her stick across the back of Neal’s calves and it’s the product of frustration and disappointment and athletic-based anger. It leaves Neal yelling about fucking intent to harm and Mary Margaret actually gasps when she sees the bruise already forming and Killian drags Emma off the field, fingers wrapped around her wrist and words mumbled under his breath.

“Alright, alright, alright,” Emma yells, yanking her arm back to her side when they’re on the sidewalk outside the stadium. She elbows herself in the process.

He doesn’t stop moving, pacing a small semi circle until he’s turned back towards her and Emma can practically feel the heat radiating off him. She’s an absolutely disgusting mess – sweat pooling at the base of her spine and dripping down her temple and underneath whatever contraption is still crushing her ribs and maybe she can just stay in Mary Margaret’s room for the night.

That won’t help anything.

“Are you insane?” Killian barks, glowering at her as if she’s just drawn an unreleasable with two minutes left in the national championship game.

Emma meets his expression with one of her own, landing back in the realm of pissed the fuck off rather quickly. She’s never quite done well with authority – or assholes telling her what she can and can’t do on the field. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she mutters and maybe she should just stay angry all time because her voice doesn’t really sound like hers anymore.

Killian takes a deep breath, tugging the oxygen in through his nose and his shoulders move with the force of it. He twists his lip in between his teeth again, running a frustrated hand through his hair, unable, it seems, to stop moving or staring at Emma like she’s arrived solely to ruin the integrity of lacrosse.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says after what feels like several lifetimes, but his voice has lost that threatening edge it had a few moments before. “That’s…do you know Cassidy?”

That’s not the question she expects.

She’s not sure what she expects, but a week ago she would have been positive that breaking into a lacrosse clinic pretending to be one of her best friends was the absolute last thing she ever expected, so, all things considered…

Killian just waits for a response, breathing evening out and someone else is blowing a whistle inside the football stadium. “Yeah,” Emma mumbles. “I, uh, do or did…” She shakes her head, trying to will away any sort of misplaced emotion, determined to linger in angry as long as possible. “He...dated one of my friends?” “Was that a question?” “No, no, I mean he did, but he’s a colossal dick so…” “So you were what, exactly?” Killian asks. “Defending your friend’s honor by being a complete fucking idiot on the field?” Emma rolls her eyes, frustration shooting through all of her limbs and lingering at the base of her spine with the sweat. It’s a disgusting thought. “No,” she snaps. “Well, I don’t know...why do you care? It’s not like you’re some pillar of lacrosse purity here.” She has no idea what makes her say it – probably something about that anger and stubbornness to prove herself born out of a lifetime’s worth of not being enough and Killian takes a step away from her as soon as the words land between them. “True,” he says slowly, fingers tapping lightly on the brace at the end of his left arm. “But...well Cassidy might not be the best guy to try and go up against here.” “What?” “How much did your friend tell you about Neal Cassidy, former starter at UNC?”

“Plenty.” “Yeah?” Emma nods, but she can feel her certainty slipping through her grasp and she’s not sure she can find the right word to describe the look on Killian’s face. He takes another step towards her. “Cassidy is here because of his name and his father’s ability to make things very difficult for Regina and her company if he didn’t have a paying gig all summer. You think she wanted him here? She knows his family, apparently knows his dad and, boom, just like that lil’ Cassidy isn’t working for the family business anymore, he’s got a job all lined up teaching kids how to destroy kneecaps with a one-handed shot outside the crease.”

Emma never really knows how she managed to stay standing, but her own kneecaps seem to take Killian’s words as some kind of challenge and she doesn’t move when he grins at her. “I don’t...Gold knows Regina?” Killian hums, but there’s a flash of confusion in his eyes. He didn’t expect her to know names. “I didn’t….I didn’t know that.” “Why would you?” She shakes her head, dragging in a ragged breath and silently promises herself never to make another decision fueled on tequila and Mary Margaret’s optimism ever again. “No reason,” she mumbles. “And did you say something about kneecaps?”

“I did.” “And?” “And what? I thought you knew all about me.” Emma groans, rolling her head back and that’s a mistake because her fucking hair nearly falls off. “I know generic facts that the entire lacrosse world knows,” she argues. “It’s not as if I’m secretly stalking your life.” He does something stupid with his eyebrows, sinking onto the edge of a flower arrangement outside the stadium. Emma doesn’t move. “I grew up with Cassidy,” Killian mutters and Emma’s not sure how much more surprise her body can withstand. “At least kind of. He lived down the block from my mom’s house in a much larger house and played travel ball and club ball and sneered at the idea of high school teams and he went to UNC and I went to a school in fucking New Jersey and when we played against each other in that regional final, he played like he was possessed. Started slashing everything he could.

I think he set some kind of record, but it didn’t work and he kept ending up in the box and we were winning. Until he checked me, straight across the back, no whistle and I lost the ball. He scooped, stayed onsides and didn’t even try to score. He shot at Scarlet’s kneecaps, took him out of the game. Nearly fucked up the whole thing and I don’t think that backup goalie ever really recovered. He’s an ass. Cassidy. Not the backup goalie. He’s got three kids and lives in Tacoma with his very nice wife who bakes things.” “She bakes things?” Emma echoes and Killian’s eyes shoot up towards her, disbelief etched into every single inch of his face.

“Yeah. Cookies. Cupcakes. Apparently an absolutely delicious carrot cake that she brags about in all of her Christmas newsletters.” Emma barks out a laugh and for half a second she forgets everything else except the slightly cautious smile on Killian’s face and her mind roams to completely impossible ideas and it’s as if the entire world flips upside down.

She can’t believe she didn’t realize. Well, no, she can, but she’s kind of mad at herself that she clearly isn’t capable of doing basic math, but she’s always heard that regional final loss differently and she never paid much attention to Neal when he started talking lacrosse.

He always seemed to want to talk about his stat line.

That probably should have been a sign.

God, Ruby’s never going to let her live any of this down.

“Christmas newsletters sounds very adult,” Emma mumbles, rocking awkwardly on her heels when she realizes she’s still standing up. Killian nods towards the seat next to him and she tries to keep, at least, six inches of space between them.

“It does, doesn’t it?” “Carrot cake sounds fucking awful though.” It’s his turn to laugh at that and Emma’s mind has some kind of mind of its own, picturing things and this is now an even worse idea than the worst idea in the history of the world. “It’s not bad with the icing,” Killian muses. “How...how long did you friend date Cassidy?” “Nearly a year. Her friends, well….they...we hated him. Knew he was kind of a dick and self-important and I mean, you know, he played at UNC. What even is a Tar Heel?” “I have no idea.” “Exactly. And then he was always kind of Glory Days’ing things and harping on how great UNC was and just the entire ACC which is, you know, whatever….lacrosse is a countrywide sport now.”

Killian laughs. “I went to Monmouth, you don’t need to tell me about the growing popularity of lacrosse. Although that Denver national championship helped things. UAlbany too. Give a couple of kids a stick and tell them they can hit each other and they’ll come flying in.” “Is that part of your recruit pitch at Maryland?” “Almost verbatim,” he grins. “Although we barely made it out of the Big 10 this year, so I’m not sure I’m doing much in the way of actually accomplishing anything. Need a faceoff kid.” Emma tenses slightly, licking her lips and she’s not sure what to say next. “That’s not easy though,” she mutters. Nailed it, Swan. Absolutely dominated. “And I’d imagine your requirements are fairly high.” “At this point my requirements are trying to find a kid who can win it clean without getting a violation and we have to play man down.” “Ah, well, maybe you can find someone here. Change someone’s life or something.”

“Why do you think I’m here?” he asks, glancing at her over his shoulder and Emma pushes her palms flat against the stone she’s sitting on until she’s almost positive she’s cut up her hand. “Plus the money. And to get Scarlet to shut up.” “Does he need to be shut up?” Killian doesn’t answer at first and Emma wonders if she’s overstepped some imaginary boundary, but she sees his shoulders move when he takes another deep breath and he doesn’t blink when he looks at her. “He got the invite since, technically, he can still play, your goal notwithstanding. And he got me in because he knew I’d have some time during the summer before workouts start and he figured it’d be good for me. Bring me back to my humble beginnings or something after the shit season we had.” “Humble?” Emma asks. “How so?” “I never would have been able to afford any of these things when I was a kid,” Killian says, rushing over the words. He’s still looking at her. “I, uh….my brother did his best to help, but he was older and there were only so many ways to play lacrosse by yourself. So I kept working and shooting against the side of the house until I’d broken just about every window and there was a scholarship to one of these prestigious clinics the summer before my senior year. I went and played and that’s where I got offered. It was the only team that even looked my direction.”

“Yeah, me too,” Emma mutters before she realizes what she’s said. Killian looks as if he’s going to fall on the sidewalk. “Uh, I mean...well I kind of bounced around when I was a kid and I played because I could and it was an outlet in a very stereotypical way, but I didn’t think I could do anything with it until UMass showed up. Winning the A-10 was some kind of dream.” She smiles and forgets, for a moment, that she’s not Emma Swan, All-American and that’s her first mistake. Killian narrows his eyes and Emma’s breath hitches, ribs aching and lungs shrinking, or something absolutely impossible, and he twists his lips when he stares at her.

“Right,” he says slowly, standing up and nodding towards the discarded sticks behind them. “You should bring those back to equipment. Don’t go after Cassidy again. He’ll destroy you where you stand.” Emma doesn’t say anything, barely even has a chance to register the words before Killian’s turning away, fingers wrapped around his left forearm and this is the worst thing she’s ever done.

You can read Part Two (the one with the kissing!) here.

#cs ff #captain swan #cs #captain swan ff #cs fic #ouat fandom crescendo #i've covered a lot of lacrosse in my life #and there is a video out there on the internet of me learning how to shoot #from a kid who is literally one of the top goal scorers in ncaa history #and it's straight up just him shooting and me screaming and running away from the goal #so i'm a real professional #some other guys on that team taught me how to check one time too #that was a fun team

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