Random headcanons/AUs that won’t get fics anytime soon. If anyone wants to add on/chime in/create something, feel free.
Sports broadcaster Smith pines over basketball player Trott, in a world of college athletics, career internships, and complicated feelings.
It’s march madness, so this happened.
cw: minor injury, aftermath of a fight, blood, mention of fainting though no fainting occurs
If I need to tag something, let me know.
Smith’s career revolves around watching Chris Trott, one of the most talented point guards in the country, utterly own the basketball court. Well, sort of. He’s a sports broadcaster for his college’s basketball team, following each game and filming it for their radio/tv network. That’s given him a lot of time to memorize players’ names, numbers, and scoring records. And to watch Trott’s well-toned figure run around in a jersey and shorts.
One late night after a game, shutting down the filming equipment and locking up the press booth by himself, he overhears shouting down near the team locker rooms. By the time he rounds the corner, he’s missed whatever skirmish happened, but someone in generic college apparel is storming off further down the hall, and Chris Trott- Smith recognizes the number on his jersey because he’s still in uniform- lies in a crumpled heap on the ground.
“Hey, you alright!?” Smith jogs up to him as Trott gets to his knees, and steadies his arm
when he staggers.
Trott wipes a shaking hand across his face with a sharp “fuck”. Blood drips from his nose, smeared over his fingers, and dripping on the linoleum flooring.
Oh shit, Smith thinks, quickly trying to focus on anywhere but the blood- the numbers on Trott’s jersey, or the glare of the overhead lights, or anything else– as a wave of nausea hits him. He’s always, always been squeamish around blood. It’s a stupid possibly-genetic thing he’s never been able to shake himself from. And it’s inconvenient as hell.
Trott coughs harshly and holds his ribs, obviously more hurt than Smith can see. His head
is tipped downwards, and he’s holding his nose pinched shut to staunch the flow of blood.
Fuck, he can smell the copper… Smith weakly plasters his hand against the wall for some
stability and breathes slowly. Don’t faint, don’t faint, don’t faint-
“Ugh, fuck…” Trott mutters, voice nasally, sarcastic, “That went well.”
“Are you alright?” Smith asks. He still has one hand on Trott’s shoulder. He forces himself to move it, stop touching the man’s skin, warm under his palm.
Trott nods and slowly straightens his posture, looking up at Smith and wincing. “I’m fine. But thanks.”
Fuck, his eyes are pretty in this light, Smith thinks, before getting a glimpse of a nasty looking black eye and the orange-red smear of blood under his nose, and slamming his eyes shut as his vision blurs suddenly.
“You, on the other hand, don’t look so hot,” he hears Trott say. His hearing’s going distant too.
Smith follows the wall down to the floor, sitting up against it and putting his head between his knees. “I’m hemophobic,” he tells him, trying to inform him as quickly and clearly as possible should he actually pass out, “It’s stupid, I know, but it’ll pass if you can get that blood off your face and the floor. Can you walk? Are you sure you’re alright? Fuck, sorry, it’s stupid-“
“It’s not stupid,” Trott says quietly above him. “Seriously. I can go clean myself up. Should do anyway. Will you be alright for a minute while I duck into the locker room?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure thing.” Smith feels so much better sitting here with his head between his knees, but he knows if he sees Trott covered in blood, he’ll most definitely faint.
At least that would be a good lead-in to asking him out. Hah, yeah you’re just so attractive I can’t help but swoon over meeting you in person. Say, are you into dudes? Because I’m totally gay as hell for you, mate.
A couple minutes pass in which Trott leaves and comes back, and then leaves again after cleaning up the drops of blood on the floor.
When Trott comes back again, he hands Smith a water bottle from the vending machines. “Hey. Here. Will this help? I’ve cleaned myself up, too.”
Smith lets out a deep breath and slowly looks up. True to his word, Trott is blood free. He takes the cold water bottle from him and cracks it open, parching his thirst from hyperventilating. “Thanks. You are alright, then? You were holding your ribs earlier,” he remarks, frowning in concern at Trott.
Trott nods. “I’ll…probably have to ice them, because they’re…pretty sore, but. Yeah. I’ll be fine.” He sighs and looks down the hall, in the direction of the main entrance. “My ride did ditch me, though…so I guess I’ll have to call a cab.”
“I can drop you off. So long as you don’t spontaneously start bleeding again,” Smith jokes,
recapping the bottle and standing up. He wipes condensation off on his jeans and offers Trott a hand. “I’m, uh- I’m Smith, by the way. Alex Smith. I work the sports broadcast.”
Trott nods again and shakes his hand. “Chris Trott, though you probably know that already.”
Smith chuckles. “Yeah, well. Can’t miss you, mate, you’re the leader of the pack.”
Trott snorts. “Right.” He jerks a thumb at the locker room. “I’m gonna go change and grab my stuff. If you don’t actually mind giving me a ride, I might take you up on that offer? Fifteen minutes waiting time, tops.”
“Yeah, I can do that. I’ll wait out here.” He watches Trott go back into the locker room, and internally groans at himself. Of course you’ll wait out here, it’s not like he’s going to
invite you in the locker room to bang him! Fucking perv.
Trott is true to his word once again, out in fifteen minutes, and Smith leads him back to his car parked out in front of the stadium. “Are you hungry?” he asks over his shoulder, “Because I haven’t eaten anything except nasty arena nachos.”
Trott laughs, and Smith grins back. Fuck, he wants to bottle that laugh up, just so he could
hear it again. Is that weird? That’s probably weird.
“I don’t want to make you drive me around town, or anything,” Trott says, slinging his gym bag over his shoulder.
“Nah, mate, it’s cool. You’ve got to be starving after all those sick plays. What do you have a taste for? Taco Bell? Chinese? Something more healthy than that? Or less, like terribly greasy pizza?”
“After today’s events, pizza sounds comforting.” Trott smiles.
“Great. Good choice.”
Smith has to hold himself back from being gentlemanly and opening the passenger door for him. Fucking hell, this isn’t a date. This is not you taking Chris motherfucking Trott on a date, no matter how much you’re fangirling over the fact that he’s in your car. Stop being a creep. Stop it.
But oh fuck, actually talking with him makes Smith’s crush all the more potent. Interacting with Trott is like a drug- he can’t get enough, he’s addicted- and they actually have things in common, the more they hash their interests in music and movies while sharing pizza.
For the rest of the outing- it’s not a date, Smith, don’t think of it as one!– he’s internally
kicking himself, because this will all lead out to nothing. Tomorrow, Trott will go back to being a star college basketball player, and Smith will go back to filming basketball footage while ogling over Trott like a disgusting piece of shit.
“Don’t forget to ice those ribs, yeah? And that black eye,” Smith says with concern when he drops him off at his apartment.
Trott smiles, tiredly but warmly, thanks him for the ride, and bids him goodbye.
Smith watches him get inside before he drives back home, sighing. “Fuuuuuuuck…”