The Plague {One Direction AU}

3. Louis

Los Angeles, CA
December 10

"What the fuck is the point of this?" Louis tapped the football gently from toe to toe, not letting it hit the ground. "Half our team is out with the damn flu. The other half, ahhhh," Garber, their second string midfielder, coughed until he puked on the grass, "come on! The others are ill as well. Their team seems to be sick too. Shit," he waved his hands toward the largely empty stands, "there's not even a crowd to play for."

"Not the point Tomlinson," the assistant coach's gruff voice was hoarser than usual.

"Well, what is the fucking point? Because I'm afraid I just don't see one."

"The point," he coughed roughly into the crook of his elbow, "is we never give up. No forfeits." Louis tried really hard not to roll his eyes, but he couldn't help himself. He loved football. Becoming a professional player had been his life's ambition, and nothing had made him prouder than the moment he was signed to the LA Galaxy. But...this was just fucking ridiculous. "We are the top team in the league. We don't quit."

"Whatever you say, Coach." Louis bounced the ball away and ran some passing drills with the other players, all of whom were in some state of illness. Louis wasn't feeling great himself, but he knew it was the large quantities of weed he had smoked this morning and all the booze he had consumed last night, not any stupid fucking flu that was making him cough out his lungs, making his stomach churn.

He paused the drill and rested his hands on his hips, struggling to breathe. Fuck. His lungs really burned. He trotted over to the Gatorade jug by the bench and drank down a cupful in one long draught. He coughed as the last of the liquid hit his throat, sputtering it back out. His choking gasps turned into panicked gags as he released the liquid back up from his stomach.

"Hey!" A man called from the sidelines.

Louis wiped his mouth and raised his hand in greeting, then grabbed another cup of green apple electrolyte-ade.

"Hey, Tommo, is it true?" The guy called.

Louis shrugged. He had no idea what this guy was on about, and he was in no mood to find out. The fans in LA had never really taken to him, and he always had his guard up, ready for criticism. But he wasn't ready for what came next.

"Hey, Tomlinson," the 'fan' held up an old tabloid from England. Louis rolled his eyes and turned away, retying his cleats. "Yeah, you love having cock in your mouth."

"Fucking ridiculous." Louis shook his head. He was never going to get away from all that shit. He thought coming here to Los Angeles would be a fresh start, a chance to move on. But no, apparently fucking not.

"Up his ass, more like," another heckler joined in. "Probably why he plays like a girl."

Fucking pricks.

The taunts continued.

"Down on his knees, as usual."

"Ha! Second string loser."

"Lay off the weed, maybe your game will improve."

"Whose balls did you suck to get this position anyway?"

"Just admit it, ya fag."

Louis couldn't take it anymore. He rounded on the assholes, "that's all rubbish! Laughable!" He didn't feel like laughing though. He was torn between punching one of these assholes and falling to his knees crying. "I am in fact straight!"

"Come on, my friend," Paolo, another second string player led him away from the sideline.

Louis ran his hands through his long messy hair. "Thanks," he muttered, trying to breathe away his rage.