For the Love of the Game // Bucky Barnes

Part Three

It had been a week, and Bucky stayed true to his word.

He showed up to your dorm the morning after the game, going on about his jacket that he just had to have for practice that night. When you slapped it to his chest and tried to push him out the door, he grabbed your wrist and invited you to breakfast—the fancy kind that didn't involve a line of students swiping their dining cards.

That breakfast turned into lunch the next day, and then he was walking you to class on Wednesday, and then it was Friday again and you'd spent more time with Bucky over the last week than you had over the span of three years. Not that you minded—he certainly didn't.

No, Bucky didn't mind at all. In fact, he was bursting with happiness at the progression.

He was waking up early to walk you to class, giving you the excuse that his lecture was just around the corner from yours, doll. Might as well just walk with ya. He didn't even have class on Wednesdays.

When you came to an open practice with Nat, he was getting yelled at by Coach Fury for spending too much time on the railings talking to you. He would toss stray balls in your direction and make faces at you from behind his glove and send you winks every time he was up to bat. Bucky had to take about six laps that day, Coach Fury swearing under his breath that he thought he already dealt with this with Rogers. Now Barnes too?

And Bucky was fixing the straps of your backpack as you walked beside him—pulling them just an inch tighter because it was better for lumbar support, the team's trainer told me so. That was a lie. He was just making things up as he went, always attempting to get that little bit closer to you.

So the first time you initiated that closeness, he just about lost it. It was Thursday, and Bucky was hounding you about the study guide for your test coming up. He seemed to think you should share yours with him; you seemed to disagree. In your intense debate, neither of you realized that you had veered onto the bike path until it was too late. In a last ditch effort to evade the skateboarder flying towards you, you had gripped Bucky's shoulders and hurled yourself behind him.

And that man had never been so ready to take a skateboard to the face as he was in that moment. If it meant you would still be huddled behind him, fingers pressed to his shoulder blades and breath huffing against the base of his neck, he'd take on a season ending injury.

Luckily, he didn't have to; the skateboarder swerved at the last minute and missed the two of you, saving Bucky from a black eye.

Oh my god, my heart is beating out of my chest right now. You had said.

He chuckled and shook his head fondly. Yeah, same here. Although he suspected his was for a different reason.

Little did he know, he was only partially correct. Yes, there was a small part of you that had jumped out of your skin when you saw the impending collision, but the majority of your surprise lay in how good it felt to be pressed up against Bucky.

The remnants of his cologne hit you in delicate wisps and left you wanting to press your nose to his skin. You didn't, but the temptation was still there. His shoulders were toned against your palms and his hair looked soft as it fell down the nape of his neck. And when he flung out his arm to push you further into his back, your breath found a permanent home lodged in your throat.

You thought it might've just been due to the proximity, but then he was knocking on your door on Friday night for the party, and the same feelings emerged. You were so screwed.

"Hey, doll. You ready to party?" His smile was charming as he leaned against your door frame.

You gathered your things and followed him into the hall. "We're not partying, James, we're supervising."