oo coach and player? <3
Yep!
It's actually one of my older fics. I started it about a year ago, wrote roughly three-quarters of it, and then abandoned it because the ending I'd originally planned no longer felt right. Everything I came up with afterwards was just... too sad.
It's an AU based on the film In From the Side (2022), featuring Warren Hunt (who's a coach here) and Mark Newton (a player on Warren's rugby team). It's also my first-ever fandom where I'm literally the only author on AO3 😂
Here's a little snippet if you're interested:
The bass from the club’s speakers thumped a nervous rhythm against Mark’s ribs, a frantic counterpoint to the jackhammer beat of his own heart. It was a Thursday in ‘XXL’, and the air was thick with the scent of spilled lager, cheap cologne, and the electric, desperate tang of possibility.
Mark hated it. He also knew, with the grim fatalism of a twenty-year-old virgin, that he needed it.
"Twenty years old and never been properly shagged," his mate Liam’s voice echoed in his head, half-jovial, half-pitying. "It’s unnatural for a rugby player, mate. You’re built like a brick shithouse; you should be fighting them off with a stick."
So here he was. Fighting off nothing but the urge to bolt. He stood near a pillar, nursing a lukewarm pint he’d been making last for forty minutes because he couldn’t afford another one until his next scholarship stipend dropped. He felt about as conspicuous as a flamingo in a flock of pigeons—too tall, too broad, and wearing a shirt that had seen better days.
He scanned the crowd for the tenth time, his brown eyes sliding over men who were too loud, too young, too… London. He was about to give up, to chalk this up as another failed attempt and retreat to the safety of his cramped student flat and his anatomy textbooks, when he saw him.
The man was standing near the far end of the bar, leaning against the brickwork with a posture that screamed 'tired of this shit'. He was older—mid-thirties, Mark guessed—with the kind of quiet, solid confidence that didn't need to shout. He was dressed simply in a dark Henley that strained just so against a broad chest and strong shoulders.
There was a pint of something dark in his hand, and he was watching the chaotic dance of the crowd with a look of detached amusement. His hair was short, brown, and sensible; his beard was neat, deliberate. There were faint lines around his green eyes—laugh lines, maybe, or just the marks of living—and he was handsome in a way that felt grounded. Real. The kind of handsome that didn’t fade under fluorescent lights.
Mark’s mouth went dry. This man was the reason people wrote songs. He was also terrifyingly out of Mark’s league.
Just action, he told himself. Stop being a coward.
Taking a shaky breath that did nothing to calm him, Mark abandoned his dregs and started to move through the throng, aiming for a spot at the bar a few feet from the man. He ordered a water—free, thank god—his hands fumbling slightly with his wallet as he put it away. He could feel the man's peripheral gaze on him, a low-level hum of awareness that made the fine hairs on his arms stand up.
"Not your scene either?" a low voice said, closer than he expected.
Mark turned. The man was looking right at him, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips. His eyes were a piercing, intelligent green. Up close, the force of his presence was staggering. He smelled of something expensive—sandalwood and old leather.
"Is it that obvious?" Mark managed, his voice cracking slightly.
The man chuckles, a soft, pleasant rumble in his chest. "You look like you're about to face a firing squad, lad. Relax. The music's the worst part. It gets better." He extended a hand, large and calloused. "I'm Warren."
"Mark." His hand was swallowed by Warren's firm, warm grip.
The conversation that followed was deceptively easy. Warren didn't ask the invasive questions Mark had dreaded—what do you do, where do you live, how much money do you make. They talked about rugby, of all things, after Warren noticed the faint cauliflower ear Mark was perpetually trying to hide under his curls.
Warren seemed to know the sport, speaking with an easy authority that Mark found himself leaning into, mesmerised. He didn't brag, but there was a weight to his words. For the first time all night, Mark forgot his mission. He was just a guy in a bar talking to another guy. A ridiculously handsome, charming guy who looked at Mark like he actually saw him.
An hour later, Warren glanced at his watch—an expensive-looking analogue piece—and then back at Mark, his gaze holding a new, direct kind of question. The green of his eyes seemed to darken.
"Well, Mark. I'm calling it a night. My knee is giving me hell standing on this concrete." He paused, letting the silence stretch just enough to be charged. "But I get the feeling neither of us really wants to go home alone."
And there it was. The proposition. Simple, direct, and sending a jolt of pure panic and exhilarating fire straight through Mark’s system.
Mark just nodded, unable to form words. "Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah, okay."
