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HEY! Kita!. She/her. 19 . A black girl making fics for other black nerds. Anime - Fan. Lewis Hamilton Stan. Emerging Basketball Fan - My masterlist (to be created lol)

pairing: Carter Bryant x black!Reader | Assistant Trainer

Summary: You’re bored at home and decide to apply for a bunch of jobs. After a series of rejections, you finally get a job as an assistant trainer at the San Antonio Spurs Training Facility.

A/N: This is my first fan-fiction, and I didn't really proofread it, so please forgive me.

While every other college student was relishing the regained serenity from coming home, you were spending the long summer days bored. Every day began the night, or rather, the morning beforehand.  A faulty commitment to preserve a fleeting sleep schedule was established, yet the clock read 4 am by bedtime. Anger engulfed every 1 pm ‘morning’ you had. Not at the improper sleep, but rather the lack of initiative towards fixing something. Despite the implicit protests to relinquish sluggishness, you would leave to eat lunch and sit back in bed beside whatever failed, spur in the moment outfit from the night before.

After days of this routine, the growing boredom superseded any commitment to being lazy. Like the other members of Gen Z, an endless job search began. One application turned into two…then three...then forty. It got to the point where an application was being submitted for anything. A receptionist? Applied. A spokesperson for the Hebrew Israelites in Texas? Done. Love Island casting director? Already submitted on Indeed. Before you lost all hope, an oddly dated email came in from [email protected].

Expecting another rejection, you reluctantly opened the email. The email was read once, then twice, then possibly four times. What the fuck is this shit? ‘We think you are a great fit for our team after seeing an impeccable interview. The time for the on-site training to meet the team is on Monday.' Huzzah!  A position as an assistant trainer for a rookie of the San Antonio Spurs was secured. Wait a minute? The SPURS? Firstly, what the fuck? Secondly, how the fuck? Lastly, who in the fuck?

The proper credentials to be an assistant trainer were there, but you didn’t even remember the actual position, nor the identity of these men. Another question of impending doom arose. When is the first day? If the training day is Monday, but today is Sunday, that means the first day is tomorrow.

The practice facility looked modern, or rather futuristic. Look at these: performance kitchens, saunas, motion capture rooms, environmental training rooms, social clubs, etc. Every inconceivable, rich thing a person could purchase. Despite the extensive display of wealth, there were indications that this was for something ‘special.’ With each room or practice area, a group of players, managers, or assistants was working tirelessly. While you did not know basketball, you did know how to use social media, hence why the last 24 hours were spent binge-watching highlights, interviews, and TikTok’s surrounding the players. It came as a surprise that the players were so young, but also so humble.

The tour went to a subtle halt. “This is the assistant trainer's office,” the lanky man before you mumbled out. The head trainer began to detail the responsibilities of the position and the dangers of the players’ personalities. He tried to explain how the guys were not dangerous per se, but rather how the boys have an alluring, mischievous nature. He detailed how the last assistant trainer got wrapped up in their shenanigans, claiming “the poor guy seemingly forgot that these kids are technically his client”.

Before the guy could spill the beans on the last assistant trainer, a group of giggles…no…deep chuckles could be heard from outside, plausibly from a pair. The chuckles struck a serious chord in the once positive environment. It had the same impact as finding out that you must babysit the bad ass kids with silver capped teeth. Not innately evil, but a comic nuisance that would garner trouble. A grin began to overcome the older man. “Come on in, boys!”Almost like in a drama, the two guys who were the subject of the latest internet binge were just here. Before you could even utter a single introduction, both spoke urgently. “Hi! My name is Carter Bryant!” “Hello! My name is Dylan Harper!”

The head trainer quietly excused himself because of ‘other business’, but the room could silently agree that his exit was to save himself the trouble of having to tame the two giant Spurs players. Almost as quickly as the room was suffocated by their presence, a deafening silence hung over the air, as if everyone was too shy to say anything.

“So…uh Carter…” The guy, despite towering over you, perks up at the acknowledgement, uttering a silent hmm. “I heard you played for the University of Arizona”. Almost like an activated sleeper agent, he began speaking…like a lot. These niggas were one hundred percent the bad ass kids down the street. One didn’t know how to be quiet, while the other one made situations worse by being snarky. A literal match made in hell. Every couple of minutes, a new random topic sprang up from the giant pair, and with each new topic, a range of cackles could be heard from you. These niggas were hilarious.

“You know they called Stephon the nigga that cracked Wemby,” Carter said while walking down the corridor. You almost loathed how short the hall was, because he couldn’t stop and wouldn’t stop making you laugh. They were supposed to be giving an ‘ultra inclusive Spurs tour’, yet it felt more like watching a toddler attempt to backflip after saying ‘watch this’. Harper interjects, “You’ve been the only nigga speaking since we got here, Carter.” Before Carter could utter a protest, we reached the end of the corridor. “Sorry about him. He doesn’t know how to shut the fuck up.”

Throughout the illuminating conversations, there was something a little strange. The one that looks like a dumpling, Carter. He really loved eye contact. With every string of jokes, absurd comments, and blanket statements, your gaze was always met with his deep chocolate eyes. While it didn’t ring any alarms, one could tell Carter was interested in something (or rather someone). If it wasn’t eye contact, it was the gleaming smile in response to all your cackles and the whispered comments on your humor. You silently patted yourself on the back for being so likeable that even a great NBA star would like to be your friend.

Before Carter could utter another anecdote about his life, Dylan’s phone lit up. He quietly excused himself, citing that he had to oversee something elsewhere. After bidding your goodbyes to the man. Carter urged you to continue the tour, claiming that he could ‘properly focus on the architectural integrity of the training facility.’

The tour itself was pretty pleasant, but there was this unshaking aura between you two. While showing the locker room, Carter looked over and asked you if you had ever watched them play before. Obviously, if a binge watch had to be held to even be prepared for this position, not even a single NBA highlight has been watched before this position. He found that to be the funniest thing ever, stating it was an ironic situation to be in. Throughout the hilarious irony of the conversation, he chirped at you, “Maybe I can give you a one-on-one teaching session about basketball…just you and me, you know, for training obviously.”   

Staring at the clock, Carter announces that it’s time for lunch. “Please come with me because I don’t know what to get, and usually Harper decides for me”. You didn’t realize how important Harper’s presence was in the functionality of Carter, nor did you understand how indecisive Carter could be. With every suggestion for food, Carter had a new protest. One restaurant was too far, another was one he wasn’t in the mood for, and the last one, by his quote, ‘just sounded nasty’. Right as he tries to give another excuse, you just said what mom did. “Either we eat at Chick-fil-A, or you don’t eat at all.”

The man's grin grew twice as wide, almost like this was the response that he was expecting. Remembering how the head trainer characterized the team, you gave another demand, “and you’ll be the one driving”. Carter let out a chuckle, eyeing you up and down, “Okay, aye, aye, captain”. A successful display of dominance for the assistant trainer. This job was easy.

As Carter directed you to his car, he kept the same level of eye contact with the charming smile from before. Amongst everything you’ve learned about the boy, he was chivalrous and sweet, especially when he flashed those doe eyes. No wonder the last assistant trainer got in trouble. Right as you guys made it to the car, he immediately spoke up, “You know I’m not too keen on letting people I just met into my car, but for a special lady like yourself, I’ll probably do a lot more.” He made a move over to the passenger seat and immediately directed you inside the leather interior. After gently shutting the door, he makes his way towards the driver’s seat. The special lady comments, and he’ll do a lot more? The hell did all that mean? “Special lady? What does that mean?” you instantly utter upon the car leaving the parking garage. Without taking his eyes from the road… “You know, a special lady in my book is one that I can’t help but be drawn to…”