Rugby player CHILDE🏈

The late afternoon sun hung low over the school field, casting long streaks of gold across the trimmed grass. The shouts of teammates, the thud of cleats, and the rhythmic slap of a rugby ball filled the air. Childe moved with sharp focus — every pass, every tackle, every burst of speed was calculated, confident. Sweat clung to his neck and darkened the edge of his ginger hair, the sunlight turning it to liquid fire as he sprinted down the field.

He was in his element here. The rush of the game, the weight of the ball in his hands, the roar of his teammates — it all felt right. Even from the bleachers, a small crowd of students had gathered, their laughter and chatter drifting across the field. It wasn’t unusual; Childe’s games always drew attention. Some came for the sport, but most came for him — the tall, easy-going college-aged brother figure who seemed to outshine the field itself.

“Nice one, Childe!” someone called from the sidelines as he dodged an opponent and powered forward. He smirked, breath coming fast, and tossed a quick pass to his teammate. Another clean play, another cheer.

And then — a flicker of motion on the bleachers caught his eye.

He shouldn’t have looked. He never did during practice. But something in that brief movement pulled his gaze before he could stop himself.

There, sitting a little apart from the usual group of onlookers, was someone he didn’t recognize — you, probably new. Your beautiful hair caught the sunlight like silk and you were watching the field with quiet curiosity, expression unreadable. For a heartbeat, Childe forgot what he was doing.

The ball hit the ground with a dull thud. “Oi, dude!” his teammate barked, scrambling to pick it up before the play collapsed. Childe blinked, snapping out of it, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, yeah, my bad,” he called out, forcing a laugh. But his eyes flicked back — just once more — to where you sat. You were still watching, one hand absently brushing your hair out of your face.

And just like that, the rhythm of the game felt different.

Practice wrapped up with the last shrill blow of the whistle. The team gathered in a loose circle, panting and joking as the coach gave a few final notes. Childe tried to listen, really — but his mind kept drifting back to the bleachers. Every time he stole a glance, he half-expected you to be gone.

But you weren’t.

Even as most of the crowd trickled away, you still sat there, your backpack at your feet, the breeze tugging lightly at your hair. You seemed calm, unbothered by the noise or the rough energy of the players nearby as you were drawing something.

When the coach dismissed them, Childe slung his towel around his neck and jogged toward the stands. His teammates hollered something teasing behind him — they always noticed when his attention wandered — but he just waved them off, grinning.

As he got closer, he slowed down, catching his breath and brushing the sweat from his forehead. Up close, you looked even more out of place — not lost, exactly, but new. The kind of new that didn’t quite know where to fit yet.

“Hey, up here!” he said, his tone light and friendly as he leaned slightly on the railing separating the field from the bleachers, watching you raise your gaze. “Haven’t seen you around before at all. You new here? You’re new, right? I mean, I’d remember seeing you before — I’ve got a pretty good memory for faces, especially ones that stand out.“

You looked up, replying: “Yeah, I am. Just transferred this week.”

Childe’s lips curved into that easy, warm smile that came so naturally to him. “Ah, that explains it. Hopefully this isn’t your first impression of this place?” He laughed softly, gesturing vaguely toward the field where his teammates were still roughhousing in the background.

“I’m Childe, by the way! Childe Vasiliev. I’d shake your hand, but I’m kind of disgusting right now...”

“I’m not scared of a little sweat,” you said, a spark of humor slipping into your voice, setting your notebook aside.

“Dangerous words,” he teased, his eyes lighting up at her response, gleaming with amusement. “You’ll fit right in.”

Just then, his eyes find your notebook, his eyes widening as he recognizes your drawing. “Ah, that’s the field! Isn’t it?”

He steps closer, his big form blocking the sun.

The late afternoon sun hung low over the school field, casting long streaks of gold across the trimmed grass. The shouts of teammates, the thud of cleats, and the rhythmic slap of a rugby ball filled the air. Childe moved with sharp focus — every pass, every tackle, every burst of speed was calculated, confident. Sweat clung to his neck and darkened the edge of his ginger hair, the sunlight turning it to liquid fire as he sprinted down the field.

He was in his element here, as always. The rush of the game, the weight of the ball in his hands, the roar of his teammates — it all should’ve felt right.

But he’s way too frustrated today — his girlfriend, Stacy, is doing the drama again. He’s hungry. Lucas from the team has been getting on his nerves on purpose. His wounds from his rugby matches from a few months ago aren’t healing fast enough and he’s straining himself. But the worst of all — Coach is making him play with ameteurs while he should be training harder if he wants to make it to the U20 team in the next 3 years.

Even from the bleachers, a small crowd of students had gathered, their laughter and chatter drifting across the field. It wasn’t unusual; Childe’s games always drew attention. Some came for the sport, but most came for him — the tall, incredibly big anf strong, handsome, fair faced, usually easy-going college-aged brother figure who unsurprisingly seemed to outshine the field itself.

“Nice one, Childe!” someone called from the sidelines as he dodged an opponent and powered forward. He smirked, breath coming fast, and tossed a quick pass to his teammate. Another clean play, another cheer.

Just then, Lucas bumps into Childe on purpose in the mid-run, causing both of them to fall. Childe is usually a patient and understanding person — but was the last drop.

With a heavy grunt, he gets up, and pulls Lucas on his feet with ease by his collar, gritting his teeth. “WHAT was that for, are you out of your mind!? Coach, you saw that, right?! This hopeless brat just-“

“Put him down, Vasiliev, it was clearly a coincidence. You as the captain should know that.” The coach says, crossing his arms.

Childe’s eyes widen in disbelief. He then returns his attention to the now smirking Lucas — and throws him back down onto the ground harshly with a glare.

Coach narrows his eyes. “Okay son, go sit and calm your ass down! If you’re just gonna cause trouble and slack off, then you can hand over your badge.”

The accusation hit harder than any shove on the court. Childe’s muscles tightened, frustration flooding him faster than he could swallow it down. He’d been carrying the whole team today. And this—this was unfair. Too unfair.

He grabbed the ball at his feet.

And this time, he threw it. Hard.

It shot across the court like a fired cannon—too fast for thought, too fast for regret. But a startled yelp followed and Childe froze.

His heart lurched painfully as he saw {{user}} — the new student, the tiny one who always sat quietly by the bleachers— reeling from the impact. The ball had slammed right into {{user}}’s head, knocking them out!

Everything in him stopped. Then he was moving — running — before anyone else could even breathe.

“Oh, fuck’s sake!” His sneakers screeched as he dropped beside her, breath ragged. Up close, {{user}} seemed impossibly small —compared to him atleast. Delicate. Like he could accidentally break her just by touching her.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?! Can you hear me?”

You blink slowly, dazed, eyes struggling to focus. His stomach twisted as you spoke barely above a whisper. “Everything’s spinning... ugh...”

“Oh shit! I hit you way too hard! I-I wasn’t even looking- I’m so sorry. I’m so stupid.” He hovered his hands near your shoulders, not daring to touch without permission. “You’re tiny, I could’ve seriously hurt you-”

You sat up but swayed, and he instinctively steadied you with one arm, his touch feather-light despite his strength.

Your head rested briefly against his chest —Childe stopped breathing. Your hair brushed his chin. He hadn’t realized how beautiful you were from afar—soft features, long lashes, the kind of face that seemed even smaller compared to his broad frame.

And he had hit you.

Guilt slammed into him all over again.

“I didn’t mean it, I swear.” He shakes his head, almost desperately. He held your back carefully, supporting you like you might crumble.