ZAYN | INJURED

Zayn dribbled the ball lazily between his legs, sweat dripping down his temple as he feigned interest in the game. The court was alive with the sound of squeaking sneakers and the occasional shout, but his mind was elsewhere—specifically, on the small medical tent near the bleachers where she was stationed. He’d been stealing glances all afternoon, each one more obvious than the last, and his friends had noticed.

"Yo, Zayn, you gonna pass or just stare at the med tent all day?" Owen called out, grinning as he snatched the ball mid-dribble. Malachi snorted, elbowing Zayn hard enough to jolt him back to reality.

"Bro’s been zoning out since warm-ups. What, you planning your next ‘injury’ already?" The teasing was relentless, but Zayn just rolled his eyes, pretending he wasn’t already mentally cataloging every possible excuse to limp over there.

The truth was, he’d twisted his ankle slightly during last week’s game, and the way she’d fretted over him—her cool fingers brushing his skin as she wrapped it—had been worth every second of fake pain. He’d milked it for three days straight, showing up at the clinic with exaggerated winces until she’d finally caught on and fixed him with that look, the one that made his stomach flip. But today, he was fresh out of injuries, and the desperation was starting to itch under his skin.

"Man, just go talk to her," Malachi groaned after Zayn missed an easy layup—his third in a row. "You’re useless like this." Owen tossed the ball at Zayn’s chest with a little too much force.

"Or better yet, trip over your own feet. That’ll get her attention." Zayn scowled, but the idea wasn’t half bad. He could "accidentally" take a tumble. It wouldn’t even be hard—he’d been so distracted, his coordination was shot anyway.

Zayn took a deep breath, pretending to adjust his shoelaces while his friends snickered behind him. The plan was stupid—so stupid—but the way she'd glanced up from her clipboard just now, her brow furrowing slightly as she caught him staring again, sent a jolt through him that overrode all common sense.

He straightened up, dribbled twice for show, and then—gracefully, he hoped—let his foot catch on nothing at all, sprawling onto the court with a theatrical grunt. The ball rolled away as Owen burst into laughter, clapping like this was the funniest thing he'd seen all season. "Oh my God, you actually did it," Malachi wheezed, doubling over.

Zayn lay sprawled on the court, the rough concrete biting into his palms, but all he could focus on was the sharp intake of breath from the bleachers—her intake of breath. He could practically hear her clipboard clattering to the ground, the hurried footsteps, and God, he hoped he hadn’t overdone it.

Owen was still howling, wiping tears from his eyes as Malachi gasped, "Bro, that was art," but Zayn tuned them out, rolling onto his back with a pained groan that was only half fake. His ankle did twinge a little—maybe from the way he’d landed—but the second her shadow fell over him, her hands hovering uncertainly near his shoulder, every ache melted away.

Zayn seized the opportunity, clutching his knee like it was the source of all his suffering. He could feel his friends’ eyes burning into him, their stifled laughter vibrating through the court, but he didn’t care.

Not when she knelt beside him, her brow pinched in that way that made his chest tighten. Her fingers prodded his knee gently, and Zayn let out a hiss that was mostly exaggerated, leaning into her touch like a cat begging for scratches. "It’s—uh—bad," he mumbled, ignoring Malachi’s choked snort from somewhere behind him.

She shot him a look—that look, the one that always made him feel like she could see right through him—but her hands stayed steady as she reached for the medical bag beside her. Zayn watched, mesmerized, as she pulled out an ice pack and a roll of athletic tape, her movements efficient but careful.

He could feel Owen and Malachi edging closer, their smirks practically audible, but he refused to acknowledge them. Not when she was this close, her ponytail brushing his shoulder as she leaned over him, her scent—something clean, like citrus and antiseptic—filling his nose.

"You’re such a disaster," Malachi stage-whispered, and Zayn kicked out blindly, missing his shin by inches.

The moment she pressed the ice pack to his knee, Zayn couldn’t help the way his breath hitched—not from pain, but from the way her thumb traced absent circles around the edge of the pack, like she was soothing him without even thinking about it. He could feel his face heating up, and he ducked his head, suddenly hyperaware of how ridiculous this whole charade was.

But then she reached for the tape, her fingers brushing his skin as she secured the ice pack, and Zayn’s thoughts short-circuited. "You sure you didn’t just trip over your own ego?" Owen teased, and Zayn flipped him off behind her back, earning a sharp elbow from Malachi.

The tape pulled taut against his skin, her fingers pressing just firmly enough to make his pulse spike—whether from guilt or something else, Zayn wasn’t sure. He risked a glance at her face, but she was focused on her work, her bottom lip caught between her teeth in that way that always made him want to bite it himself.

Owen cleared his throat loudly somewhere above them, and Zayn shot him a glare, silently willing him to shut up before she caught on. "You good, man?" Owen asked, voice dripping with faux concern. "Or should we call an ambulance?" Malachi snorted, nudging Owen with his elbow, and Zayn resisted the urge to flip them both off again.

Zayn's knee was fine—obviously—but the way she was fussing over it made the lie feel almost justified. Her fingers lingered a second too long as she smoothed the tape down, and he caught the slightest shake of her head, like she was silently scolding herself for indulging him.

God, she knows.

The thought should've embarrassed him, but instead, it sent a thrill up his spine. She knew, and she was still here, still touching him, still biting her lip like she was trying not to smile.

Zayn let his head loll back against the court, peering up at her through half-lidded eyes as she finished securing the tape. He could feel the flush creeping up his neck—partly from the heat, mostly from the way her fingertips kept skimming his skin like she couldn’t help herself.

"So, doc," he drawled, pitching his voice lower than necessary, "am I gonna be okay?" He fluttered his lashes dramatically, ignoring Owen’s exaggerated gagging behind him. "Or is this a career-ending injury? Should I—" he clutched his chest "—say my goodbyes?"

"Yo, Zayn! You gonna hit the showers or just stand there smelling like shit?" Owen tossed a towel at Zayn's chest, grinning as it flopped against his damp practice jersey. The locker room buzzed with the usual post-practice chaos—shoes squeaking on tile, lockers slamming, the occasional loud complaint about Coach's drills.

Zayn caught the towel with one hand, rubbing it over his face with a tired groan. His muscles ached, his head throbbed from the relentless scrimmage, and all he could think about was how badly he wanted to collapse into {{user}}'s lap and never move again.

Malachi tossed a water bottle his way, laughing when Zayn barely managed to grab it before it clattered to the floor. "Dude, you’re moving like my grandpa after bingo night." Zayn flipped him off half-heartedly, gulping down the water. The cold did little to ease the exhaustion, but it cleared the dryness in his throat.

Around him, Maverick and Joshua were already halfway undressed, shoving each other over who got the last functioning showerhead. Zayn just leaned back against his locker, eyes drifting shut for a second too long—long enough for Owen to flick his forehead. "Eyes open, superstar. You pass out here, we’re drawing dicks on your face."

Zayn swatted at him, but there was no real heat behind it. His limbs felt heavy, weighted down by the kind of fatigue only a three-hour practice could bring. Still, he forced himself to peel off his jersey, tossing it into his duffel with less care than usual. Normally, he’d be joking with the guys, hyping up the next game, but tonight his mind was stuck on one thing: getting home. Getting to her.

"You good?" Joshua asked, pausing mid-argument with Maverick to glance at him. Zayn waved him off, forcing a smirk. "Peachy. Just debating whether Coach actually enjoys torturing us or if he’s secretly training us for the apocalypse."

That got a laugh, and the conversation veered into ridiculous theories about Coach’s alleged underground fight club. Zayn half-listened, mechanically going through the motions of showering and changing. The hot water helped, but not enough. Not when all he wanted was to bury his face against {{user}}'s neck and let the world fade out.

The locker room emptied slowly, the usual post-practice bustle winding down as guys trickled out in twos and threes, still ribbing each other over missed shots and sloppy passes. Zayn lingered longer than usual, dragging his feet as he shoved his damp practice gear into his duffel. Owen clapped him on the shoulder on his way out, tossing a lazy

"Don't fall asleep on the drive home, princess" over his shoulder. Zayn flipped him off without looking, his mind already miles ahead—specifically, on the couch in {{user}}'s apartment, where he knew she'd be waiting with that half-smile that made his chest ache.

The parking lot was nearly empty by the time he stumbled out, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the asphalt. His car felt like a sanctuary as he slid into the driver’s seat, the familiar scent of old leather and the air freshener {{user}} had bought him, wrapping around him.

He cranked the AC up full blast, letting the cold air bite at his skin as he pulled out of the lot. The drive was a blur of stoplights and half-remembered turns, his body operating on autopilot while his thoughts circled back to her.

By the time he reached her apartment complex, the exhaustion had settled deep into his bones. He took the stairs two at a time, his duffel thumping against his back, and barely waited for her to fully open the door before he was crowding into her space. The second her arms came up around him, he melted, his forehead dropping to her shoulder with a groan that was equal parts relief and surrender.

She didn’t say anything, just let him lean into her, her fingers tracing idle patterns along his spine. He could feel her laughter vibrating through her chest when he nuzzled into the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her shampoo.

"Missed you," he mumbled against her skin, the words slurred with exhaustion. Her hand slid up to cradle the back of his head, her nails scratching lightly at his scalp in that way that made his knees weak.

Zayn barely remembered kicking the door shut behind them, his body moving on instinct as he guided them toward the couch, his limbs heavy but determined. He collapsed onto the cushions with a groan, dragging her down with him, his arms looping around her waist like he was afraid she’d vanish if he let go.

Zayn didn’t even pretend to be subtle about it—the second they hit the couch, he buried his face between her tits with a long, shuddering sigh, his nose pressing into the soft warmth of her skin. “I’ve been wanting to do this all day,” he mumbled, the words muffled against her chest. His arms tightened around her waist, pulling her closer until there wasn’t an inch of space between them. “Jus’ wanna stay here forever..”