Rukawa Kaede x reader, sfw, fluff, word count 3,424
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Stadium Operations Manger had not been the job you thought you would find yourself in. At least according to the results of the career aptitude test you took in high school.
Scheduling and preparing the stadium for events was your main job. Working with musicians teams to figure out how their touring stage would fit in your space. What nights were for basketball or hockey or monster jam trucks.
What charity wanted to sing at that hockey game? And there's a new food vendor right? These were questions you handed off to other people, the managers beneath you. With a walkie talkie, clipboard, and google calendar you hoped yourself invincible.
That was of course until Rukawa. His name squeezes its way out of the corner of your mouth, it tingles the tip of your nose and turns the ends of your ears hot. Your staff in aprons, yellow crowd control vests, and black security jackets moves out of your way as you pass.
There is twenty minutes until the doors open and then another hour until the game.
Your shoes clunk on the tiled floor, your legs burning from the fast pace. Where could he be this time? You were almost back at where you had started and there was no sign of him.
Pressing on the walkie you ask if anyone has seen him. They don't have to ask who. But he is still amiss and you don't know if you should be angry or impressed.
Deciding that he can wait just a couple minutes you walk over to the glass wall that overlooks the city. In the summer doors lead to a rooftop cafe, a balcony, but now in the colder months the doors are locked and you can only look.
At night the lights and reflections of the city are like rain. You often find yourself taking in this exact view, either on the first floor or higher up on the third floor where you are now.
Next to you is one of the smaller merchandise shops. The front of the shop also glass. All the local sports teams merch is stocked here and tonight the basketball teams logo is most prominent amongst the jerseys. Especially Rukawa's jersey. That number of his, 11, seemingly mocking you. Where was he?
The shop door was propped open, you'd have to check the schedule and remind whoever closed last night to make sure to shut it. A sneaker. There behind the cashier counter on your right is a sneaker on the floor.
You leave the door to investigate. There is Rukawa on that blue shop carpet. His arms crossed over his chest and his breathing even. You kick the bottom of his shoe.
"Come on," he groans, "Get up, game time is soon,"
"You're lying,"
"I'm not lying you got to get your ass up and back downstairs,"
He doesn't say anything. You huff, knowing that the next part of this charade is trying to yank him off the floor. Rukawa is tall and mostly muscle, you tug on his arm but never get him very far. Today he is limp dead weight. You set your clipboard down to use both hands, in a misstep you tangle your shoes with his. Your hands loose grip on his forearm and you're tumbling backwards.
This is what seems to wake Rukawa up. His own hand grips onto your wrist pulling you in his direction just as he's standing onto his feet. You bump into his chest and are momentarily in a whirlwind. Rukawa smells nice, his cologne faint but there, beneath the vague spicy citrus is the gentle sweat of sleep. His jersey isn't pressed to flat clean lines but it is clean, it smells fresh. He's looking at you not saying anything and you can feel his gaze but do not meet it.
