My smut inspiration song is Undressed by Kim Cesarion because that song is hot. Anyway..Read along, geez.
It's in the last ten minutes of the second half. Louis feels the most frustrated that he has ever been in his life as he watches the opposing team move the ball effortlessly straight through both the line of midfield and the line of defense, achieving their second goal easily. And he also feels sorry for Liam, because he really is trying to save the team, but they just don't know how to play together. Louis knows that if he was out there, he could do so much more for the team. And when Louis looks over at Harry, who is crouching near the sideline with his lips in a tight line and his eyebrows pulled together in an expression of anger and contemplation, he thinks that he knows it, too. So being the stubborn and persistent person he is, Louis pushes himself off of the bench and approaches his coach with confidence in his step.
"Coach Styles, I'd really like to actually play now," he says in a mock tone of politeness.
Sensing his presence, Harry looks up at him with those penetrating green eyes, standing from his crouch and instantly going from a foot shorter than Louis to a foot taller. Something about this change and the way that his coach is sizing him up makes Louis' confidence waver. When he speaks, his voice is low and challenging.
"If you are so insistent, then why should I put you in?"
Louis doesn't take more than a second to regain control. "Because I can score," he retorts simply, yet with an attitude.
By the narrow in Harry's green eyes and the way his heart lips pucker as he chews at the inside of his cheek, Louis can tell that he's at least contemplating it.
"How many did you score last season?" Harry finally questions, a doubtful tone in his voice.
"Twelve in eight matches," Louis replies, trying to hide his pride.
Harry hesitates, his eyes locked on Louis with an uncertain look for so long that Louis almost thinks he's going to send his arse right back to the bench.
"Go in for Isaiah," he orders quickly, like he's afraid he'll regret it later. "If I am disappointed, you owe me."
Working desperately hard to keep a straight face, despite his joy and relief, Louis jogs to the half line and waits eagerly for the assistant referee to call him in. He can feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins before he even steps foot on the pitch, and something just tells him that he is going to do well. And he was right.
After only two minutes of being in play, Louis scores a goal. A beautiful one, at that. It was off of a counter attack; he executed a clean give-and-go down the middle with Stan around the last defender and drove the ball straight into the back of the net for their first goal in the last eight minutes of the game. He doesn't even need to look over at Harry to see his reaction, because he already knows that it's exactly how he would've wanted it to be.
Just minutes later, an opposing defender bobbled with the ball just yards from the box, which Louis stepped up and swiped from right under his feet, easily finding the left corner of the goal with a clean shot and achieving a tie.
And--even though he himself didn't score--with three minutes left in the game, Louis performed a series of foot skills and maneuvered around three defenders like he did it in his sleep, then dishing a perfectly placed, perfectly paced cross off to the left striker who was able to take a one time shot for the win. He was nearly bursting with self pride as the final whistle sounded. Both teams jogged to the half line, forming two lines as they walked past each other and shook hands with the opposition before returning to their respective benches. As Louis followed the team as they crowded around Harry at the end of the game, he received a few pats on the back from those of his teammates who were actually decent people and not appalled by his homo/bisexuality. This time, when Harry spoke to the team, he actually bothered to listen.
"Hey, pay attention," he commanded over the chatter of the upbeat team, but he didn't sound harsh now. "After this game, I have realized your potential as a team, and your potential as individuals, as well. So now, I expect more of you," he adds, his green eyes pointedly finding Louis' in the crowd. "Keep it up."
The speech--if you could even call it that--was so brief that it was now apparent how hesitant Harry was to give a compliment...to anyone. It may have been small, but it was enough to impress Louis. He didn't think he had it in him.
"No school tomorrow, therefore, no practice. See you all on Monday, don't be late."
And the team breaks off into their cliques, exchanging back-slaps and comments on the game with one another as they begin slowly filing into the locker room to get their stuff and get the hell off of school grounds, ready to start a weekend of partying. So Louis finds Liam and Isaiah and catches up to them as they begin heading towards the locker room, too. When he approaches, he gives Liam and Isaiah each a clap on the shoulder.
"Good job, lads," he compliments them with a smile. "I'm so ready to get out of here."
Liam turns to him and gave him a knowing look.
"I know. The midterms right now are killing me."
"I'm really just in the mood for--"
"Tomlinson," a booming voice calls out from the field behind them just as they were about to enter the lockers.
Louis' heart either drops or jumps--he isn't quite sure--when he hears Harry calling for him. Part of him is nervous, and the other part is confident, but definitely, one part overrules the other. Needless to say, it isn't the latter. He gives Liam and Isaiah a smile--that was supposed to be apologetic, but probably ended up looking like a scared grimace--and says goodbye before turning around and walking towards his coach, who stands near the bench, shoving his things into his duffel. Louis' stomach twists as he stops in front of him, but he forces himself to put on a brave face.
"Yeah," he says, but it's not sassy or mean, just neutral this time.
When Harry finishes packing and zipping up his duffel, he stands up tall and looks down at Louis, with a thinking look on his face, pulling his eyebrows together and his lip between his teeth. And now Louis feels his heart racing all over again, because every single time Harry looks at him, it never fails to take his breath away. And now he realizes that Harry was speaking while he was staring, and feels his face get hot.
"U-uh, sorry, I missed that," he stutters, trying to seem casual even though his red cheeks are probably giving him away.
"Are you feeling okay?" Harry repeats, and Louis is slightly taken by surprise by this question.
"Y-yeah, I think so," he answers after a second, playing with his fingers.
"Your bruises are gone?"
"Um, no, actually, but they don't hurt as much," he says quietly, avoiding Harry's eyes because he finds himself getting embarrassed about the whole situation.
He got beat up because he is gay and pathetic, and then Harry had to come save him like he was some damsel in distress, and he just feels like he is so weak and defenseless, and it's really mortifying. But the way Harry's acting towards him doesn't make him feel embarrassed, and he is kind of grateful for it.
"Yeah, good," Harry mumbles absently, his eyes slowly moving around Louis' face. "This is looking better."
Louis' whole body seems to become electrified as Harry reaches his hand out and gently touches Louis' healing cut on his cheekbone, like he doesn't give it a second thought. Then his hand drops, and Louis tries not to stare at him as he stands perfectly still and breathes a "yeah" in reply. In this moment, Harry's mossy eyes are softer than he usually gets to see them, and Louis tries to make it last, but after a moment, they harden back into their usual piercing green.
"You know, your persistent attitude can be quite admirable at times," Harry says, voice deep and husky in a way that has Louis fighting shivers. "But if you're not careful, it will get you into trouble."
Louis doesn't know what to say, or if he can say anything right now, because Harry has this look in his eye that he can't even explain, but it's alluring and hot and it makes Louis confused and tingly inside, and something about his word choice sends shivers down his limbs. He desperately struggles to sound like he has it together as he frantically creates a reply.
"I like to think of it as more of a harmless, yet aggressive way of living," Louis retorts quickly, mentally applauding himself for his clever response.
He doesn't know when it happens, but suddenly Harry is leaning in closer than before, so close that Louis can count each individual golden fleck in his green eyes and smell his peach and vanilla scent. And just like that, his heart is racing at one hundred miles an hour again. His eyes are narrowed, with that same observant look that they always seem to have, and his pink bottom lip is caught between his teeth again. When Harry speaks, his voice has that usual rough edge, but is soft and calm at the same time, enough to make Louis' insides churn.
"You have a lot of nerve, Louis Tomlinson."
The words themselves are challenging, but the way he says them doesn't sound like a threat, but like a compliment. An actual compliment, given to Louis from Harry. Louis stands frozen with shock, partly wanting to hide himself someplace, and partly with fear that if he moves one muscle, the whole moment will end. And of course, he has to just stare with wide eyes as Harry's tongue darts quickly across his lips.
"Interesting boy," Harry mumbles, as if he were talking to himself, and he normalizes the distance between them, either to Louis' relief or disappointment.
When Harry starts to grab his duffel bag and sling it easily over his shoulder, Louis can finally take a breath that he didn't realize he had been holding. But then Harry's sharp eyes are down on him again, seeming to stare straight into his very soul and existence.
"I'm impressed, Louis Tomlinson," he says, and Louis blinks up at him.
As Harry turns his back on him and turns briefly to call something over his shoulder, Louis waits in anticipation.
"Don't be late on Monday."
And he's gone.