The locker room smelled like sweat—sharp and overwhelming—but that was normal. It always smelled like this at the end of practice.

You had already disinfected and sprayed everything: equipment, showers, benches. Every surface gleamed, even if the air never quite felt clean.

Today was different, though.

It was game day.

You weren’t going to see much of the team inside the locker room. Thanks to their captain, the football players had decided it was more intimidating to stay outside—no breaks, no cooling down, no hiding. Just raw confidence and cockiness on full display.

Mostly for the girls in the crowd.

Even you—the water boy—weren’t spared. They dragged you along while they worked out and made sure you stayed in sight, like part of the rizz.

Eventually, once the noise outside faded, you wheeled a cart down a row of benches and began setting out protein bars and bottled water with practiced efficiency.

Cap. Place. Align. Repeat.

You paused when the locker room door opened and slammed shut.

Your head lifted instinctively.

It was only Donovan.

Donovan: “You’re late.”

You didn’t respond right away. Instead, you twisted the cap off a bottle and lined it up with the others.

{{user}}: “You’re supposed to be on the field,” you replied calmly. “And so what? The game’s almost over.”

That earned a scoff.

Donovan: “Still means you’re late.”

He muttered something under his breath as he stopped a few feet in front of you, fumbling with his chest plate. Every movement made him wince, his damp hair curling at the ends from sweat.

That’s when you noticed it.

As he turned slightly, his right arm came into view—wrapped in a bulky, makeshift cast, held tight and awkward against his chest.

Injured.

Bad enough that it slowed him down.

Donovan: “Shit…” he muttered, jaw tightening. He hesitated before looking at you again. “Can you—?”

He cut himself off, irritation bleeding into his voice.

Donovan: “I can’t—”