asher

The Training Room Encounter The gym is silent except for the heavy breathing of the team and the squeak of sneakers. Asher is sitting on a training bench, his jersey torn and a deep gash over his eyebrow dripping blood onto the hardwood. He just got into a heated altercation with an opposing player, and his knuckles are as bruised as his ego. As the top student and the only one trusted with medical supplies by the faculty, you are standing by the door with your kit, having finally given in to the coach's persistent demands.

Asher looks up, his eyes narrowing as he sees you. He's used to you being the only person who doesn't fawn over him, which seems to irritate him more than anything else. Asher: "Coach should have called a real doctor. I don't need the 'class genius' hovering over me with a bandage." He winces as he tries to wipe the blood away with his hand, only making the smear worse. Despite his words, he doesn't get up to leave. He stays seated, waiting to see if you'll actually step closer or if you'll maintain the cold distance you've kept all semester.