27 bandshirts || a metallica fanfic

16 - You're My Bugz Too:

The sport's center was halfway between my house and the ballet school - in other words, nothing my usual walking routine could not handle. It was just another one of the many days I opted for neglecting my car. Driving made me inexplicably anxious, even more so after Cliff's death. I only picked Kirk up from the airport as a favour to his mother... and maybe I also wanted to be the first person he saw when he touched down on American soil.

Be that as it may, maybe it wasn't such a good idea for me to deplete most of my energy by walking. Not only were my energy reserves already deathly low due to my eating habits (or lack thereof), but my backpack was hiking up my already short tennis skirt and the catcallers were out in full force that particular morning. I did have a concealed carry permit, but a firearm underneath a pleated white skirt wouldn't exactly have been inconspicuous. Feeling unsafe made me pick up speed. Lars wasn't the most intimidating man, but I could trust him to protect me. The sooner I could get to him, the sooner I'd be in a place of safety.

I wasn't the best tennis player. I was extremely light on my feet, as expected, but tennis required a much different skill set than ballet did. Lars had the quickness I sadly lacked. So when he called me up that morning with the invitation of "I'm in the mood to kick your ass in a game of tennis", I knew him kicking my ass was exactly what I could expect. Him and I had the least in common, but I at least had the tennis basics down. So I was out on the court with him whenever he asked for it.

I presumed he was in the mood to apologize to me as well. Lars was the true king of brushing things under the rug and pretending confrontations or misunderstandings never happened, but I wasn't the type to pull that shit with. I never buried the hatchet until I was given a good reason to do so.

"Hey, Bugz!"

I looked up from my walking shoes and saw Lars, enthusiastically waving at me. Odd behavior from a man who wanted to do my head in, literally, just the previous day. Nevertheless he just looked so silly it would've been embarrassing if I didn't acknowledge him with a wave back.

"Whoa..." he stared in wonder as I stepped onto the tennis court, "awesome! I bet I'm the only one who gets to see you in that get-up!"

Just get to Lars, I said. I'll be rid of the catcallers when I get to Lars, I said.

"Yeah, and the Kirk's the only one who gets to see me naked. Pass me a ball - I serve first."

I was proud of myself for at least keeping up the game's intensity. He was sprinting to and fro like a madman, madder than he usually did. I made him put in some work at least. The smallest, dumbest things made Lars sweat, but in this case the perspiration was pig-like.

I let him (well, sort of) score for a final time and then we had enough. His quadriceps were flexing against those itty bitty tennis shorts and I'll be honest, I didn't quite know how to look away. It was patently apparent those legs could be useful in a number of situations other than strength-testing tennis match-ups and double bass thrash metal beats.

We sat down beside each other - him leaning against the pole that kept the net in place, me leaning against his arm, using our icey water bottles as some form of consolation.

"Fuck sakes, I'm so out of shape..." He complained breathily and I pulled a face, unbeknownst to him.

Ballet made me torture myself to just stay in shape and yet this man just wiped the court with me in his apparently out of shape state. I wanted to curse him, but I guess I couldn't blame him for being good.

"You made me come here just to prove you had professional training and I didn't?"

"No, I asked you to come here, because you're the only one who seems to be interested in doing things I wanna do."