you can feel like

“I cannot be photographed like this,” Fenwick huffs, gesturing animatedly at the fat lip he received at last night’s game. The vain bastard.

“Fenz, please. You’re just as handsome as ever,” you contend through the door.

Fenwick scoffs, shooting the door a disbelieving look. “Well, duh. That was never up for discussion.”

“Where’s Black?” Remus ventures helpfully. “He’s usually all about the social media presence.” 

“Team’s entire feed is Black already,” Krum grumbles. “Asshole is pretty, but not that pretty.” 

“Fenwick,” you call out.

The player in question eyes the door warily. “Yes?”

Your question echoes like a death toll. “Who else is in there with you?” 

With this, the remainder of the locker room freezes; four professional six-plus foot hockey players hold their breath like terrified rabbits in the face of a prowling mountain lion. 

“Fenwick,” Woods hisses. “Don’t you fucking-”

“Lupin, Krum, and Woods,” Benji rapid fires, wincing contritely in the face of his three teammates groaning in betrayal. 

“Fenwick, you’re off the hook if you open this door right now,” you promise. 

“Benji Fenwick, if you open that door-” Remus starts, only to be cut off by Krum.

“I will string you by testicals to rafters, Fenwick.”

“Guys, I love you, you’re my entire world, I would take 83 slapshots to the ribs for all of you-”

“Fenwick…” Remus pleads again.

“-I cannot be photographed like this.” 

Benji—in his final act of betrayal—swings the door open and flies out into the hallway behind you, using your smaller frame like a human shield. And while Remus is surprised by the show of restraint from Krum and Woods, there was never any chance that Remus was going to go shoving past you to get to Fenwick. 

No matter how badly he wanted to throttle the sod. 

“Förbannada skit,” (translation: fucking shithead) Remus curses under his breath, though even he can hear the resignation in his voice.

You have the grace to smile apologetically at the three remaining players, holding your camera up in one hand and the other in a universal sign of surrender. “Any chance one of you is willing to smile for the camera? I’ll be so quick.” 

“No. Russians do not do this,” Krum announces, earning him a glance from Woods.

“Russians don’t what? Smile?”

“Da.” 

“Woodsy, you’ve got a nice smile,” Remus hedges cautiously, cautious of drawing attention to himself by pointing it in someone else's direction.

“You do,” you agree, flashing a smile in the assistant captain's direction. “But we’ve got lots of the team captains already.”

Woodsy’s smile is victorious. 

“Well, then,” he hums happily, offering the last two players in the locker room a smarmy salute. “Lady, gentlemen.” 

Krum mutters Russian profanity under his breath as he finishes up in his own stall. 

“Just a picture,” you all but beg, and Remus’ traitorous heart squeezes at how desperate you sound.

It doesn’t squeeze enough for him to willingly place himself in front of your camera lens, though. 

“Is never just a picture with you, l’vyónak,” (Львёнок: lionet/little lion, lion cub) Krum argues, but his use of a Russian epithet belittles whatever ire he has with you.

That’s the danger of the team's favourite social media team member. While they all make a point of avoiding you like the plague, there’s something about you that has wiggled its way into the heart of every player on the team. You even managed to win over the prickly Russian goalie and the notoriously aloof Remus.

Especially the notoriously aloof Remus.

Perhaps that’s part of the reason he avoids you so resolutely; he doesn’t want to do anything to draw attention to the fact that he’s really quite smitten with you. 

Honestly, when you’re not waving a camera or phone in his face, you may very well be his favourite person on the team’s support staff. 

And that’s saying a lot, considering that their PT, Lars, has magic fingers and turns Remus into a certified pile of goo twice a week during their therapeutic massages. 

“It must be Loops,” Krum decides, earning him a strangled sound of disbelief from Remus.

“Why must it be Loops?”

Krum shrugs as if it’s really quite simple. “Because, Russians do not do this.”

“Russians smile, Krum. You have a lovely smile,” you argue sweetly, and—dammit—even Krum softens. 

“Paper, rock, scissors me,” Krum announces. 

“I beg your pardon?”

Krum doesn’t bother responding, merely steps up to Remus with one palm raised flat and facing upwards, the other held above it in a fist. 

“Paper, rock, scissors. Da? Scissors me, Loops.”

“Never say that again,” Remus tells him emphatically.

“Why won’t scissors me?” 

“Krum, please stop asking me to scissor you.” 

Remus loses the stand-off with his starting goalie when he’s distracted by your laughter. Dammit, he wishes Swedes didn’t smile either. 

“Okay, it all comes down to a game of rock, paper, scissors,” you announce, holding up your damn camera to capture the moment between teammates. Krum was right; it’s never just a picture with you. 

Remus—against all his better judgement—mirrors Krum’s posture and does, indeed, play a round of rock, paper, scissors. 

He loses when Krum crushes Remus’ scissors with his rock.

“Best two out of three?” Remus all but begs. 

“Net,” Krum declines, slinging his bag over his shoulder and striding from the room. “Smile for camera like good little Swede.”

“Bye, Viktor!” you call out after him.

Krum replies from some distance down the hall. “Goodbye, Львёнок.” 

“I’m really sorry, Lupin.” You sound so apologetic, look even more so when Remus removes his glare from the now empty hallway his teammates have abandoned him in to face you. “I know no one likes to get stuck with me, we can be quick.”

And well, now doesn’t Remus feel like the biggest prick. “I love being stuck with you.”

Too honest, dial it back, Loops. 

“It’s that” He points at the camera like it might bite. “that I struggle with.”

You laugh good naturedly at him. “Fair enough. Come sit, we’ll be quick.” 

It is not, in fact, quick, because apparently all of Remus’ smiles look like pained grimaces. 

“You look like you just ate something sour.”

“I don’t look like anything,” Remus argues.

“Yes you do.”

“This is just my face.”

“Your face is usually nicer than this,” you counter.

“Well, now you’re just being hurtful.”

You laugh and look up from your camera; Remus smiling in victory at eliciting it. 

“See! Like that. Why can’t you smile like that for me?” 

I did just smile like that for you, Remus thinks grimly. It’s the camera I’m not fond of. 

You sigh. “Fine.”

“Fine?” 

You hum thoughtfully, scrolling through the viewfinder on your camera. You’re silent for so long that he thinks you’re going to dismiss him before you carry on. “What do you think you’d do for work if you were more athletic?” 

Remus pauses, his mind like a record, scratching and skipping and trying desperately to feed the needle back onto the thread. 

“What?”

“If you were more athletic,” you repeat, still not looking up. “What do you think you’d be doing? Like, a sport, or something.” 

“What sport?” Remus clarifies. “If I was…”

“More athletic,” you confirm. 

Remus is staring at you open mouthed, confused as to how he’s not possibly missing something in translation here. 

“Can you repeat that?” 

You’re still looking down at your camera, but your lips purse as if you’re fighting off a smile. 

“What kind of sport would you be playing, or job would you be doing, if you were more athletic?”

“More athletic?” Remus balks, disbelief colouring his tone. “I’m an athlete!”

“Well, yeah, sure.” Sure, you say! Like Remus hasn’t dedicated the majority of his life to perfecting his skill, strength, and body to elite levels. “But like, if you were more.”

Remus lets out a startled laugh, and then you finally look up at him.

Your eyes shine with mirth, silent laughter shaking your shoulders as you smirk triumphantly at Remus. 

It’s over for Remus then; he dissolves into delighted laughter which only picks up when you join him. 

“Unbelieveable,” Remus huffs with a shake of his head.

“That’s me,” you agree triumphantly, lowering your camera until it hangs from your neck. “That’ll be all.”

You don’t end up showing Remus what you managed to capture of him while you made him question all of his life’s work and choices; the picture you ended up posting on the team’s social media was of him and Krum playing rock, paper, scissors, plus one of Remus throwing his head back in defeat and Krum smirking (though certainly not smiling) triumphantly. 

It’s only (much) later that Remus finally sees the picture you took of him that day—one of him laughing at your chirping—used as his contact image on your phone. 

He’s glad that’s where it stayed; he looks entirely too love sick for that to be posted onto the team’s account.

Your eyes shift over to your friend’s tupperware washed and awaiting pick up on the counter. So, maybe you’re only responsible for one other person tonight, and it’s hardly an arduous task—she mentioned she would swing by on her way home to pick it up herself. 

You’re sliding a frozen pizza into your preheated oven with one hand and taking a sip from your (second) very large glass of wine when the doorbell rings. 

You shoot your cat a major warning glare as you make your way to the door, not wanting your poor friend to walk in on the scene of a crime (murder in the first degree) when all she wanted to do was to pick up her favourite tupperware container. 

You fling the door open, ready to warn her of the serial assailant and let her in to retrieve said containers when you nearly choke on your sip of wine. 

Because it is decidedly not your friend standing on the other side of your wide open door. 

And now today has turned into one of those days; after an already grueling day at work, you get home, strip your pants off, free yourself of your bra, all but chug one large glass of wine and pour yourself another before flinging your door open to a young man who’s looking at you like you just shouted a slur at him. 

“Oh,” is all that manages to leave your lips. 

People often talk about fear responses: fight or flight. And by God do you wish your instincts told you to slam the door in this—albeit rather pretty—man’s face and hope he comes back never (or at least when you’re clothed) instead of standing here, partially clothed, gaping at him like a landlocked fish. 

The guy’s fully clothed—the bastard—and white knuckling a clip board in front of him which he’s now using to shield your bare legs from his line of sight, refusing to blink lest he be accused of not making anything but perfect eye contact with you at all times. 

The two of you stay in some kind of half-naked, silent standoff. Or maybe it’s more of a game of chicken; whoever draws attention to your distinct lack of clothing first loses. 

A game he’s clearly playing to win. “Steve.” 

Your brows raise. “I beg your pardon?”

He winces, moving to correct himself. “Harrington! I- shit. Steve, I’m Steve. Harrington. Steve Harrington.” 

You nod slowly. “Okay, Steve Harrington.” You bring your glass to your lips and give him a once over—something only one of you can do without being called a pervert. “What exactly can I help you with?” 

Steve Harrington seems to shake himself out of something, looking down at his clipboard and then letting out a pained sound when it forces his eyes down towards your naked legs. 

“Right! Yes, well, uhm, you see. I have a little league team? Not, like, own it or anything. But, like, run it? No, coach! I’m the coach. I coach a little league team.” 

“The point, Steve Harrington?” you all but beg, flashing your elderly neighbour a tight-lipped smile as she walks by shooting you a look of disdain. Your entire apartment complex is going to be talking about the half-naked chick in unit 303 who entertains men with an open door by morning. 

“Yes! Right, okay.” Steve collects himself. “My team is hosting a barbeque next weekend to raise money for their end-of-season tournament. We’ll be selling hotdogs, hamburgers, veggie burgers, street corn, as well as tickets for different raffle prizes, and– well, yeah. That’s pretty much it. Barbeque. Raffle. Raising money. Baseball.” 

You both take a deep breath at the end of his speedrun spiel.

“Great,” you say on an exhale.

“Yep.”

The two of you continue staring at each other, and you honestly have to hand it to Steve. His eye contact game in the face of bare legs, women’s underwear, and pert nipples really is superb. He should get a trophy. Do they make trophies for that? If they can make trophies for squeaky voiced little league players, surely they can make them for gentlemanly men. 

“Is that all?” you manage.

Steve shakes himself again, ripping a sheet from his clipboard and thrusting it in your direction while busying himself with admiring the brick facade of the wall above your door frame. 

You accept the flyer, giving it a brief perusal before lowering it in an attempt to protect your modesty. Just as quickly you’re ripping it away from yourself when one of your neighbours nearly trips over his feet when he assumes you're entirely naked from the waist down. 

“Great. Just- yeah. Great. Thanks, Steve Harrington. Anything else?”

“Steve,” he blurts. “Just, uh, just Steve.”

You offer him the most genuine smile you can muster. “Okay, Steve. Well, I’m going to go put more clothes on-” His gaze briefly flickers down before those doe-shaped eyes dutifully make their way back to your own “-and die of embarrassment, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” he huffs, managing a small chuckle disguised as clearing his throat. “I, uh, hope you can make it to the barbeque.” 

“Right,” you laugh. “I’ll make sure to wear more clothes.”

“Might be best, you know, with the kids and the PTA.” 

“Right.”

“But…” His blush has migrated to the tips of his ears and down the neck of his shirt. “This seems like a nice way to spend an evening if- uhm, if you ever consider inviting company, I’d love a flyer of my own.” 

With that, he taps his knuckles twice on his clipboard, flashes you a devilish smile completely at odds with the pink of his complexion, and turns to leave you gaping on your doorstep. 

You’re only startled out of your stupor by a fur-lined body rubbing on your ankles which prompts you to slam the door, your ears ringing as you blink at the woodgrain. 

A wet nose presses into your calf. 

“Not a fucking word,” you hiss at your feline companion.