rodrikstark's headcanons (part 2)

f. adler + hyping you up before a competition

"she shoots, she scores!"

frank vaults over the half-dozen soccer balls scattered underneath the net to retrieve the one you just kicked between his outstretched arms.

your hands bracket your hips as you catch your breath. "you let that one in."

he dribbles the ball to you, glancing at your feet when you stop it with your shoes. "you're gonna look at these hands and tell me they weren't made for goalkeeping?" he holds them both up, spread wide, but his grin is wider.

you lace your fingers with his, pulling his arms down to his side, and the rest of him close enough that you can kiss the corner of his lips.

"i really did try to block it," he insists quietly.

"so you just suck."

"if trash-talking is gonna make you feel better about your game tomorrow, i'll allow it."

a part of you wishes he hadn't brought it up. for almost two hours now, you've practiced with frank at the local park, until the sunlight started to turn more golden than yellow, the early spring air chilling your skin. he wasn't much compared to the team you were going to face tomorrow, but it didn't matter; you just liked spending time with him.

"you really can't come?"

he kisses your pouty bottom lip. "believe me, i'd rather you hit me in the face with ten soccer balls than have to see my mother this weekend."

"frank."

he steps away to grab your water bottle sitting in the shade of a tree, taking a sip before offering it to you.

i love you, you think, and not for the first time. you just can't say it, you don't know how.

so you take a big swig of water, averting your eyes.

"sweetheart, you're gonna be great." his fingertips gently wipe the sweat from your temple. "i hate when all that self-doubt crawls into your head."

"me too," you murmur, deep in thought. "y'know... maybe your mom won't be so aggravating this time."

he bends to grab the soccer ball, placing it in your hands. "don't make this about me, this is your big weekend."

"can you call me after?"

"after?" he asks, confused. on the occasions when frank couldn't make your away games, he usually gave you a pep talk beforehand.

"after your mom." you hug the ball to your chest. "tell me how it went."

"oh." his look softens. "yeah, i will."

those three words rise up in your throat again, halfway to spilling, but then he bumps the soccer ball out of your grip, kicking it towards the goal, laughing when you chase him down.