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Liam has had some truly embarrassing experiences. If she’s honest, embarrassment comprises most of her life: coming out to her parents with a ten minute, teary-eyed speech after she thought they found the tiny bi flag tucked in her pillowcase; subsequently realizing they had only wanted to confirm she still wanted to sign up for summer vocal classes but of course they still loved her she was their daughter oh please don’t cry, dear ; explaining the whole episode the next day to Harry, who laughed so hard she had to find her inhaler.
The point is, Liam is well used to embarrassment, but this is pretty bad even for her. She wakes up with a pounding headache and stiff grass tickling the back of her neck. Even her eyelids ache when they try to flutter open, so she keeps them squeezed shut for a while longer. As she lays in the dark, her hearing gradually filters in:
“Liam, Liam! Are you alright? Holy shit, you’ve killed my best friend. You’re a murderer now. Are you gonna go on the lam?” Liam groggily thinks that Harry sounds too impressed and not nearly concerned enough considering her best friend is on the cusp of death. Or at least developing a wicked migraine.
A new voice retorts, “I did not fucking kill her, Styles. Christ, calm down. Look, she’s getting up right now.”
Liam finally blinks her eyes open and grunts as her head gives a particularly harsh throb. “Ow. What happened?” Her tongue feels like cotton, sticking unpleasantly to the roof of her mouth. Dazed, she stares up into the blue sky wispy with clouds.
“Louis almost killed you,” Harry informs her, popping into Liam’s fuzzy field of vision. Her curls dangle down and tickle Liam’s neck.
Another head butts in, face scrunched in indignation. “I did not! Payne got in the way of my ball. Everyone saw it.”
“Sorry?” Liam says automatically even though she’s not really sure what they’re on about. The last thing she remembers is watching Louis kick around with Zayn on the far side of the football pitch and admiring her sharp grin, the flex of her calves as she wove past Zayn’s defense to shoot at the goal. As the ball sailed in, Louis had whooped and pumped her fist. She jogged a victory lap around Zayn, who only rolled her eyes.
Then Harry had drawled, “Ah yes, wistful staring followed by silent pining, my favorite flirting technique combination,” and Liam had whipped around, face burning.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Liam huffed.
“Yeah,” Harry rolled her eyes, brushing an errant curl behind her ears, “and I’m going to ace my maths GCSE. Just saying stuff aloud doesn’t make it true.”
Liam gave her a flat look. “Shut up and check the ball, Styles.”
Harry laughed and untucked the basketball from where she had wedged it between her elbow and hip. “Ooh, I love when you boss me around, Liam. Gets me all hot and bothered.” But she tossed Liam the ball anyway and dropped into a defensive stance: knees bent, weight shifted onto the balls of her feet, back straight.
Liam knocked the lingering smile off her face with a sharp jab, pump fake, and explosive first step past Harry reeling on her heels. With her long strides, Harry recovered quickly and once more slid between Liam and the basket. But Liam calmly retreated back to the three point line, forcing Harry to guard her in open space or risk Liam taking an open shot. Liam glanced at the basket, saw Harry’s body lurch forward to block, and darted past her. The ball rattled satisfyingly into the rim.
“Still too slow, Styles,” Liam smirked.
“You try being over 180cm and see how easy it is,” Harry grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest. “And I’m not getting that.” She nodded at the ball bouncing down along the tarmac towards the pitch where it rolled sluggishly into the grass.
“Fine.” Liam jogged over to retrieve the ball. She scooped it up and turned to trot back to Harry, who was yelling something. The last thing Liam registered was a sharp pain thudding against the back of her skull.
And now, Liam has Louis’ delicate cheekbones and blue eyes shoved way too close for her woozy brain to function properly. So it’s really not Liam’s fault when she has to ask Louis to repeat what she just said while Liam was daydreaming about the strength of her thighs.
“I said ,” Louis huffs impatiently, “I’ve seen you walk away from collisions with giants three times your size on the court, so stop being so dramatic.” She leans back and extends a hand.
“You’ve watched my games?” Liam echoes faintly. She’s not sure what’s more surprising, the thought of Louis somewhere amongst the crowd on the rickety school bleachers or the softness of her palm as Liam grips it to haul herself up.
“Zayn makes me go sometimes,” Louis defends herself, cheeks a little pink.
“Oh.” Liam tries to think of something to say besides wow, please never let go of my hand.
“We go to your football games too,” Harry chips in. “Your last match was sick. That header at the end, fucking ace.”
“Thanks.” Louis looks pleased.
Liam blames her possible concussion for the next words that tumble from her mouth. “Yeah, I’ve always wanted to learn to play. But I haven’t got the foot-eye coordination.”
Louis raises an eyebrow. “Really?” She rakes a glance over Liam, who tries not to flush. “You’ve definitely got the physique though.”
Liam fails and feels her face warm. “Oh.”
“If only,” Harry sighs dramatically, “we knew someone who could teach you, Payno. Someone who’s led the school team to two back-to-back division championships. Where,” she taps her chin with a finger, “could we possibly find someone like that.”
“Real subtle, Styles,” Louis snorts. “But,” she pins Liam with another long stare that makes Liam’s stomach flip pleasantly, “I suppose I might have time after practice tomorrow.”
“Great!” Harry slings a jovial arm around Liam, who does an unattractive impression of a gaping fish. “Liam’ll be there.”
Louis nods. “Don’t be late.”
“Didn’t think you’d actually show,” Louis says the next day when Liam drops her backpack onto the grass at the edge of the pitch.
“That makes two of us,” Liam mumbles before she can stop herself, tugging nervously at the neckline of her shirt. She’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail earlier and somewhat regrets it now because she has nothing to do with her fidgety hands.
Louis halts her rhythmic keepy-uppies to catch the ball in her hands and narrow her eyes at Liam. “You don’t actually have to if you don’t wanna. If you were just shooting the shit, I don’t mind. No need to waste both of our times.”
“No!” Liam winces at her outburst, much louder than intended. She huffs a frustrated breath, trying to collect her thoughts. She tries again in a normal voice. “No, sorry, I just mean I’m nervous.”
“Shocked, me,” Louis deadpans, unsympathetic and still skeptical.
“But I want to be here,” Liam continues firmly. “I do.” She straightens her posture, tilts her chin up slightly in steely determination.
Louis appraises her for a moment then slowly nods. “Good. Then rule number one is: no hands.”
“Obviously.”
“Uh huh.” In one fluid movement, Louis drops the ball and swings her foot up to smash it straight towards Liam, who yelps and instinctively brings her arms up to catch it. The strength behind the kick jars her bones, makes her wrists sting as she narrowly avoids earning a football-shaped bruise to her chest. Instead, she’s just got hexagonal imprints stamped onto her palms, which she shakes out with a wince. Then Liam shoots a guilty look at Louis’ unimpressed expression.
“Oops?”
“We’ll work on it.” Louis’s eyes glint as she smirks. “Obviously.”
Liam gulps.
Liam sweats through her shirt about twenty minutes in and has to strip down to her sports bra to focus on not tripping over her feet rather than the unpleasant way the material sticks to her skin. Even then, she has to ask Louis to repeat the drill instructions more times than she’d like to admit. But it’s painstakingly processing Louis’ coaching or getting distracted by Louis’ sharp jaw and fucking up the exercise halfway through.
After a solid hour and a half, Liam’s legs have transcended burning pain to actual numbness, she’s already forgotten the difference between a forward and a midfielder, and she has decided to hunt down and murder whoever decided a football pitch needs to be so bloody long.
Beside her, Louis has hardly broken a sweat despite jogging through the all the drills with Liam. In fact, Liam thinks reproachfully, Louis’ all but glowing with the sunlight limning her hair and causing her eyes to refract too many shades of blue for Liam to keep track of. It discourages Liam how Louis can run circles around while decked out in Converse and jeans, obviously just romping around for a laugh. Liam gulps at her water bottle and tries to sulk subtly. Nevertheless, Liam’s chest can’t help but flutter at the way Louis scans her over and sniffs, “I guess we’ve got something we can work with here after all.”
A couple days later, when Louis asks Liam to come round to watch the women’s World Cup, Liam nods before she thinks about what she’s agreeing to. Her chin just sort of bobs mindlessly while she gets distracted by the swoop of Louis’ fringe and the flecks of grey in Louis’ eyes. Afterwards, the panic floods in as Liam realizes what she’s condemned herself to: three whole hours to make an absolute tit of herself and ruin any chance of Louis ever wanting to talk to her again. Liam manages to wrangle Harry along for damage control, after bribing her with crisps and promising to watch Netflix’s newest romcoms with minimal complaints.
During negotiations, Harry had narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms defiantly. “I want a night of romcoms and a night of Bake Off.”
But Liam was no fool. “Wotsits, BBQ Hula Hoops, and three movies. Of which,” Liam added before Harry could open her mouth to counter, “only two can be Nicholas Sparks. Take it or leave it, Styles.”
Harry’s jaw twitched with how she clenched her teeth. But Liam stood her ground, well versed in how to broker a compromise with her best mate. It’d taken a couple months not to crumble in the face of Harry’s dimples and wide eyes, but Liam was an old hat now.
At last, Harry relented and broke the stalemate. “Ugh, fine!”
And that’s how Liam and Harry find themselves squashed onto Louis’ parents’ sofa trying to decipher the game playing on the telly with Niall taking pity on their confusion and Louis sipping her beer:
“But—but she stepped out of bounds. I just saw her!” Liam points accusingly at the player in question.
“Yeah,” Niall explains patiently, “but the ball didn’t go out.”
“But she was on the line when she kicked it.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Louis replies shortly, leaving Harry and Liam to shoot each other puzzled looks.
“What kind of nonsense sport just ignores sidelines?” Harry mutters under her breath.
Liam shrugs helplessly.
“Oi, shit call, ref!” Louis scowls ferociously, nearly slopping her beer everywhere as she furiously throws her hands up. “Are you fucking blind? Oh, don’t you dare give them a fucking PK.”
“What’s a PK?” Liam whispers while Niall groans loudly at something happening on the screen.
Harry screws up her face, thinking hard. “Party queen?”
“Wouldn’t that be a PQ?”
“Queen with a K, you know,” Harry grins. “K-W-E-E-N. Queen.” When Louis nearly snorts beer everywhere, Harry shrugs. “It’s pride month. I thought I’d give it a shot.”
“It’s a good thing you’re cute, Haz,” Niall sighs, leaning over to pat her head, eyes never straying from the telly while Harry all but purrs and leans into Niall’s hand.
“Megged ‘em!” Louis crows.
Harry squawks in surprise and tumbles head-first off the sofa, grabbing Niall on the way down.
Liam dodges Harry’s flailing limbs to ask, “Who’s meg?”
“No,” Niall giggles, only half on the cushion and slowly sliding to the floor as Harry refuses to let her go, “like a nutmeg, you know.” She makes a completely useless gesture that looks more like an Irish jig than anything else. It doesn’t help that she’s all but upside down, sprawled over Harry on the carpet.
Liam stares blankly. “A what?”
“Nutmeg,” Harry nods sagely and intones, “A fragrant spice derived from the genus Myristica. Commonly used to make butter and delicious apple pie. Not necessarily in that order.”
At Louis’ pinched, bemused expression, Liam sighs. “Not sure that’s the right kind of nutmeg, H.”
At half time, Harry looks close to tears when she realizes they still have at least 45 more minutes. Eventually, she pulls herself together enough to realize she needs the toilet. Somehow she bungles Louis’ simple “It’s down the hall on your right,” directions and gets chased down by an amused Niall.
“So,” Louis says, angling herself away from the screen at last to look at Liam across the gap on the sofa left by their friends, “enjoying your first match?”
“Yes!” Liam exclaims, with so much forced enthusiasm she nearly knocks the bowl of Minstrels over.
Louis raises a skeptical eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Is that why you spent the last twenty minutes trying to throw popcorn into Harry’s mouth?”
“I was still paying attention!” Liam protests, indignant. “I saw them get that yellow box card thing and everything.”
Louis chuckles at that, eyes crinkling. “Glad to see I’ll make a footballer of you yet.” Her posture softens for the first time Liam’s seen since the game started. She slouches more towards Liam, who can’t help but shift to eat up the space between them as well.
“Sorry, I’m really trying. This sport is confusing.”
“Not nearly as bad as yours,” Louis counters.
Liam’s jaw drops. “Basketball is so straightforward, like. And we allow more than one sub.”
“We get three.”
Liam rolls her eyes. “Yeah, per century. No wonder footballers are so fit. You have to run a bloody marathon with no break.”
Louis flicks Liam on the leg with a mischievous grin. “You think I’m fit?”
Liam’s face burns as she stammers, “I meant, like, in general. The England team, you know. The one who scored, she was, like, yeah…” She trails off, all but literally biting her tongue to stop herself from making a bigger idiot of herself.
Louis nudges their knees together. “Reckon scoring a goal’s a pretty attractive quality, innit?”
“I, um, yeah,” Liam flounders. She can feel the tips of her ears probably turning an unattractive scarlet. Louis’ proximity isn’t helping.
“Whatcha talking about?” Harry bounds back into the room and vaults over the back of the sofa. However, on the way, she catches her foot on the edge and nearly spills face-first onto the floor. Liam and Louis leap apart to avoid getting bowled over.
“Nothing,” Liam yelps at the same time Louis says, “None of your business, Harold.”
While Harry rights herself, Niall leans over the back of the couch with a wicked grin. “So which is it, ladies? Nothing or private business, hmm?”
“Private—”
“Nothing.”
Liam and Louis exchange disgruntled expressions.
Louis jabs Liam in the chest with an accusatory finger. “You need to stop that.”
“I need to stop?” Liam gapes. “ You’re the one interrupting me .”
“Am not.”
“Are too!”
“Enough,” Niall cuts in, rounding the sofa to sit on the ground with Harry, who stops pouting when Niall yanks over a package of chocolate Hobnobs. “You’re in luck, you two; half time’s over. But ,” she wags a biscuit over her shoulder at them without looking away from the kickoff, “don’t think this is over.”
Louis rolls her eyes and mouths Watch this to Liam. Then she leans forward to snatch the sweet from Niall’s fingers with her teeth.
“Fucker,” Niall curses, empty hand flipping Louis the bird. Then, a moment later, “Ow, damn it, Lou, what have I told you about biting?”
“Don’t kinkshame me in me own home, Nialler.” Louis lounges back, kicks Niall in the shoulder just to be annoying, and then breaks the biscuit to offer half to Liam.
Liam blinks in surprise but accepts the sweet with a shy smile. “Thanks.”
“Cheers.”
It starts with Harry overhearing Louis and Perrie whisper-fighting about whether it’s worth attempting a footie scrimmage after their last class when they only have a handful of people available.
“You need people? Me and Liam aren’t doing anything today,” Harry offers, far too enthusiastically for someone who regularly complains about how dull football is and probably only lets Niall watch it on the telly because the players are more fit than golfers.
“We aren’t?” Liam frowns, brow wrinkling. She reaches for her phone to check her calendar. “I thought you said we were gonna study for—oof!” She winces when Harry’s bony elbow digs into her ribs and nearly drops her phone.
“Maths later, footie now,” Harry hisses at her before whirling to radiate a sunny smile at Louis, who raises an eyebrow but shrugs.
“If you’re game, I’m not complaining.”
And that’s how Liam ends up in a scratchy neon green jersey, grass stains on her arse, and sweat trickling down the back of her neck as she runs across the lumpy football pitch. She can feel her ponytail slipping from its elastic and wishes for the smooth wood of a basketball court instead of shitty grass hiding ankle-twisting rabbit warrens. Ahead, she sees Niall and Shawn weaving expertly between Jade and Perrie’s defense, ball flowing seamlessly between them with Hailee trailing behind for help. But Niall and Shawn don’t need her as they burst through the girls’ best efforts and streak up the pitch. They rapidly gain on Harry and Nick, who have slowly migrated around the field throughout the game in search of butterflies. Harry and Nick have somehow positioned themselves as the only people between the offense and the unprotected goal, Louis not able to scrounge up enough people for goalies.
“Heads up, Styles!” Liam shouts, legs pumping but knowing she won’t reach them in time to help.
Nick yelps when she sees Niall and Shawn barrelling towards her, but Harry grits her teeth and unconsciously adjusts the headband holding her curls in check.
It happens in a whirlwind of limbs. Niall smirks as she approaches Harry and attempts an overly complicated maneuver consisting of a spin, a faked pass to Shawn, and blurry-fast footwork. It might’ve worked if Harry had any sort of background in football defensive tactics. As it is, she just kind of yells and kicks around at Niall’s ankles for the ball. Niall trips hard and takes Harry down with her, both of them collapsing into a grunting heap. Shawn skids to a halt once she realizes Niall’s momentum up the field has halted. The ball goes flying in the opposite direction—away from the goal, over Hailee’s head, and back towards Liam.
“Got it!” Louis yells, hardly sparing the collision a second glance as she chases the ball down and starts charging towards their goal. “Look alive, Payne!”
But Liam’s way ahead of her, had started edging towards the other goal when she saw Niall and Harry go down. Now she’s almost within scoring range. She hesitates when she sees Zayn and Gigi float up from the goal, faces set. But Louis shouts, “Keep going!” So Liam slips past the defenders, forcing them to choose between facing Louis rushing towards them with the ball and Liam’s beeline to the goal. Zayn and Gigi hesitate for a heartbeat, shouting at each other. Gigi stays up to try and stop Louis while Zayn peels off to cover Liam.
“Payno!”
Liam looks over her shoulder just in time to swear and position herself to receive Louis’ pass. She steadies herself and the ball and keeps running full pelt, putting all her focus into maintaining speed without tripping. Blood roars in her ears. Her knees judder with every pounding step. Each breath tears through her lungs as she eats up the ground between her and goal. From the corner of her eye, she spots Zayn gaining on her, can hear Zayn’s labored breaths. She doesn’t know if she has the dexterity to run full speed, dribble, and defend the ball all at once; so before Zayn makes to swoop in and snatch the ball, Liam steels herself. She zeroes in on the goal and takes the shot before she can second guess herself. Her muscles move automatically, like she’s back at practice with Louis yelling at her to keep her hips squared and her eyes up. Her foot connects with a solid thump . The ball flies forward, sailing in a wobbly arc through the two cones set up as goal posts.
It happens in a roar as the world filters back in so Liam can finally hear something besides her thundering pulse.
“Motherfucking touchdown!” Jesy screams from the sidelines, leaping up to thrash her arms about in wild excitement.
“Wrong sport, dumb fuck,” Leigh Anne shrieks with laughter beside her.
Jesy ignores her in favor of shouting, “Give me an L!”
From across the pitch, Harry and Nick dutifully parrot back, “L!”
“Give me an I!”
In no time, Harry has wrangled Niall, Nick, and Shawn into using their arms to spell out Liam’s name as Jesy cheerleads them through it, Leigh Anne rolling in the grass clutching her sides.
“Nice shot, Payne,” Zayn says behind Liam in a quiet, impressed voice nearly drowned out by the others’ antics. “We’ll make a footie player of you yet.”
Stunned, Liam turns—to say thanks; to ask if Zayn can pinch her because she can’t feel her feet; to demand why Liam can’t even see Zayn sweating; is it a bloody requirement to not have sweat glands in order to make the school footie team?—and just barely manages to catch Louis as she flings herself at Liam. “Holy shit, you fucking did it!” Liam stumbles back slightly with the force of Louis’ enthusiasm but quickly regains her footing. She readjusts and tightens her grip on the backs of Louis’ thighs, sweat-slick fingers sliding on bare skin. She flushes as she tries to subtly find a way to hold Louis up without blatantly groping her arse.
However, Liam’s knees nearly buckle on the spot when Louis grabs her red face in both hands, leans down, and kisses Liam. It’s not the most elegant kiss Liam has ever had, both of them panting too hard into each other’s faces. Louis’ explosive elation means their lips don’t align perfectly. But Liam can’t help but lose herself anyway in how Louis’ soft lips catch the corner of her mouth, the desperate clutch of her fingertips against Liam’s cheeks, the tickle of Louis’ wind-messy hair against Liam’s skin. They part too soon, grinning with too much teeth, but Liam can forgive it because now she can take a moment to drink in Louis’ shining, breathless face.
“I fucking did it,” Liam echoes faintly, eyes darting down to Louis’ lips before she can stop herself.
Louis wraps her legs firmly around Liam’s torso, anchoring herself. With Liam’s hands occupied, she takes the opportunity to tug on Liam’s slipping ponytail and probably fucking it up into something worse, Liam’s sure. Louis crows, “I’m so fucking proud of you!” The second kiss swoops in much gentler than the first, less frantic adrenaline and more sweet press of lips. It slows Liam’s heart rate into something syrupy, something she could bask in forever like the sound of Louis murmuring, “I told you goal-scoring turned me on.”
“Would’ve done it ages ago if I knew this would happen,” Liam teases, licking at Louis’ bottom lip.
Then Zayn wolf whistles, and Harry leads the others in a raucous cacophony of whoops and cheers that half-dissolve into giggles.
Louis takes one hand off Liam’s face to blindly thrust out her middle finger at their friends. Liam doesn’t think she’s aiming anywhere near Zayn, but she doesn’t want to stop snogging Louis to find out.
“Keep it PG for the kids, you two,” Zayn snorts as Leigh Anne and Perrie memorialize Liam and Louis on Snapchat for ten seconds. Niall ducks in to bat at Louis’ hand and flash a peace sign at the phones.
“Fuck off, Zayner,” Louis mumbles inbetween short, sweet pecks against Liam’s mouth. “When you play proper defense, you get to talk to me.”
Zayn huffs. “Oh stuff it, Tommo. Your girl gets one lucky shot, and you think she’s won the bloody World Cup.”
“Almost better than the World Cup,” Louis mumbles as she nibbles on Liam’s jaw and pets at the birthmark on her neck.
“Almost?” Liam wrinkles her nose indignantly and finally drops Louis, who squawks as she lands on her arse.
“Oi! Watch the goods!” She rubs her bum and shoots Liam a reproachful look.
“Ah,” Harry claps her hands together with a dreamy expression, “young love.”
Liam rolls her eyes. “Shove off, Haz.”
“How about this,” Louis relents magnanimously as she stands and brushes ineffectually at the grass stains her shorts, “you score me another goal, and I’ll reconsider my opinion.”
“How about,” Liam steps close again, one hand toying with the hem of Louis’ shirt and the other finding the curve of her jaw, “I score you two, and you let me take you out for dinner tonight?”
Louis sways into Liam’s space, drawn in almost unconsciously. “I think I can make that work.” She darts in to sneak a kiss to Liam’s chin. “Mostly because Zayn’s defense is absolute shit. You’ll get two, no problem.
“You cow,” Zayn mutters, rolling her eyes more for show than anything.
“Is that any way to speak to your captain?”
“It is when she’s been a pain in my arse for months moaning on about the stupidly fit girl on the basketball team way out of her league instead of just asking her out like a normal person.”
“Oi!” Louis glares at Zayn. “I’ll have you know, if you ruin this for me, I will be ten times more annoying. Don’t try me. I’ll ask Grimmy for notes on how to be as obnoxious as possible and everything.”
“Hey!” comes Nick’s affronted objection. Then, “Harry, stop laughing. It wasn’t that funny.”
Liam bites back a pleased smile. “You annoyed Zayn for months about me?”
“Don’t get too excited. Zayn gets pissed off for months when I use the last of her chapstick. But,” Louis scratches the back of her neck sheepishly, “yeah, I may have been extra annoying over you. Or whatever.”
“Wow,” Zayn mutters to Harry, “and they say romance is dead.”
“Don’t worry.” Liam giggles, and they’re so close Louis can feel her laughter bubbling through both of them. “I think a football to the head is proper romantic. Nothing like risking a concussion to set the mood.”
“Would need a concussion to want to go out with Lou,” Niall stage whispers on Harry’s other side.
Louis would cuff her upside the head, but Liam’s smothering a laugh into the crook of Louis’ neck. And Louis figures if her biggest problem is having a gorgeous, brilliant girl in her arms, she’s done something right.