Metallica one shots and headcannons

Beyond the game🎾(Lars Ulrich one shot)

Tennis has always been my life. I'd dedicated everything to it—sacrificed relationships, time, and even parts of my sanity for the game. But winning a major tournament? That was supposed to be the culmination of it all. The moment where everything I'd worked for paid off.

And yet, after the tournament, all I could think about was Lars Ulrich.

It wasn't like I'd never heard of him. I'd seen the name, heard the rumors, but I hadn't given it much thought. He was the drummer from Metallica, a rock god, not the kind of guy I typically paid attention to.

But when he showed up at my post-match celebration, I couldn't help but notice. He was everywhere: charming, magnetic, with that intense smile of his that probably got him whatever he wanted. He approached me with all the confidence of someone who was used to having doors opened for him.

"Hi, I'm Lars," he said with a grin, offering a hand like we were two ordinary people meeting for the first time.

I didn't shake it. Instead, I raised an eyebrow. "You're Lars Ulrich, right?" I asked, trying to sound indifferent, like it didn't matter.

"Yeah, that's me," he replied easily. "But I'm not just a fan. I wanted to say congratulations on the win. It was impressive."

I nodded briefly, not really interested in the flattery. I had more important things to do than entertain some celebrity. "Thanks," I said, turning to walk away, my coach calling me over.

Lars didn't take the hint. Over the next couple of weeks, I found myself receiving gifts—flowers, expensive chocolates, a hand-written note almost every day. At first, I thought it was funny. But after a while, it became annoying. I didn't need a rock star to send me things to get my attention.

But Lars didn't stop. Every day, another gesture. He didn't just send the usual flowers and gifts; he sent things that felt more personal, like he was trying to get to know me. He'd comment on my matches, send messages telling me how he was watching, how he admired my style of play. It was flattering, but also... exhausting.

Finally, one day, I snapped. I was tired of the flowers, tired of the constant attention, tired of it all. So, I sent him a short message: Dinner. Tomorrow night. 7 PM. My treat.

I wasn't expecting much. Honestly, I wasn't even sure why I agreed to it. Maybe I just wanted it to end. If he had a chance to prove himself in person, maybe he'd back off. I couldn't keep ignoring him forever, right?

When I showed up at the restaurant, I was prepared for another round of charm and persistence. But what I found wasn't what I expected. Lars was relaxed, easygoing, almost... normal. He wasn't throwing compliments at me every five seconds, and he didn't seem to be in any rush. It was a simple dinner, just two people sitting across from each other.

"So, tennis, huh?" he asked, his voice casual, his gaze warm as he watched me. "How do you do it? Make it look so effortless?"

I smirked, pushing my plate aside. "It's not effortless. It's hard work. It's blood, sweat, and tears."

"Yeah, but there's something different about you," he said, leaning forward just a little, eyes never leaving mine. "The way you play... It's like you're one with the game."

I didn't know how to respond to that. Most people didn't bother trying to understand what it meant to be in the game. But Lars was different. He wasn't just admiring the surface. He was looking deeper.

"Well, I guess I don't really have a choice," I said, trying to brush it off. "The game is everything."

He chuckled, the sound light but with an edge of sincerity. "Yeah, but that's why you're so good at it. You've got something most people don't. And I can't help but admire that."

I paused, looking at him for a moment. "Alright, you're persistent. I'll give you that."

Lars smiled, that damn grin of his I'd seen in every magazine. But this time, it didn't feel like he was trying to win me over with it. It felt... natural. Like he was just being himself.

We talked about other things, too. Not just tennis. We talked about music, about travel, about the weird quirks of our jobs. It wasn't about impressing each other; it was just two people finding something in common. And, to my surprise, I found myself enjoying it.

By the end of the evening, I realized something I hadn't expected: I was actually looking forward to seeing him again. There was something refreshing about him, something I couldn't quite put into words. And despite all the gifts, all the persistence, he hadn't made me feel like an object of desire. He'd made me feel... seen.

As we walked outside together, I felt his gaze on me. He leaned in for a quick kiss on my cheek, and for a moment, I didn't pull away.

"I'll be around," he said, with a grin that I couldn't ignore. "And I'm not going anywhere."

I shook my head, but part of me was already wondering what that meant. "You'll regret that."

"Not in a million years," he replied, his voice soft but certain.

I couldn't help but smile. Maybe he wasn't the persistent rock star I thought he was. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to Lars Ulrich than I had first assumed.

And maybe... just maybe... I was starting to see it.