youāre starting to zone out under the tent. same cycle every other day. you and sasha slowly die watching super fit people just run and run and run. your professor insists that you two must watch the meets, no matter how long and boring they are. āsomeone could get hurtā āsomeone will get hurtā.
at least, not in the dramatic, chaotic way professor hange makes it sound. itās always just shin splints, a blister that needs some mole skin, or some over dramatic sprinter complaining about a tight hamstring because they didn't stretch after their warm up.
"y/n," sasha groans, her forehead pressed against the cool metal of the training table. "if i don't get a soft pretzel from the concession stand in the next five minutes, i am going to pass out. and then you will have to perform first aid on me."
"we can't leave," you mutter, eyes mindlessly tracking a group of pole vaulters across the field. "hange has eyes like a hawk when they're actually paying attention. remember what happened when you snuck out for nachos last week?"
"i was gone for two minutes!"
"you missed a guy throwing up behind the hurdles. hange was so fascinated by his 'gastrointestinal response to extreme cardio' that they almost made us write a case study on it. we can't risk giving them an excuse to assign more homework."
sasha lets out a dramatic, muffled wail into the vinyl padding of the table. you can't even blame her. the sun is beating down on the track, the smell of melting asphalt and sunscreen is making you dizzy, and youāve spent the last three hours doing absolutely nothing but handing out paper cups of lukewarm water.
then, the announcerās voice crackles over the loudspeaker, clearing his throat.
āmenās one-hundred-meter dash, final heat. please clear the track.ā
the energy in the stadium shifts, the dull chatter of the crowd sharpening into something louder, more expectant. you blink, trying to shake the cobwebs out of your brain, and look toward the starting blocks.
thereās a small crowd forming near the tent line, mostly girls from the university's soccer team, whispering and pointing. you follow their line of sight straight to lane four.
even from across the track, his presence is obnoxious. heās stretching out his hamstrings, his dark hair pulled back into a messy, half assed bun, looking entirely too relaxed for someone about to sprint at a ridiculous speed. he says something to the runner next to him, connie and smirks when connie just rolls his eyes and shakes his head.
jaeger is, unfortunately, the star of the track team. heās also, fortunately for your sanity but unfortunately for your peace of mind, the most arrogant guy on campus. he knows heās fast, he knows heās good looking, and he acts like the university built the entire athletic department just to give him a place to stretch.
"oh, look," sasha says, suddenly reviving herself to lean on her elbows. "it's the golden boy. do you think if he trips, hange will let us go home early?"
"he doesn't trip," you say, watching as eren steps into his starting block, his entire demeanor shifting from loose and cocky to completely locked in. "he just glides and makes everyone else look bad."
"i am bitter. i've been sitting on a plastic chair for four hours, sasha."
the starter pistol raises. the track goes dead silent.
you find yourself leaning forward just a fraction, your eyes glued to lane four.
the runners explode from the blocks. itās a blur of movement, but within three strides, lane four is already pulling ahead. erenās stride is ridiculous,long, powerful, and infuriatingly perfect. by the fifty meter mark, itās not even a race anymore, heās a solid two paces ahead of the rest of the pack.
he crosses the finish line with a casual, almost bored expression, easing into a slow jog as the crowd cheers.
"see?" you sigh, slumping back into your chair. "perfect form. no injuries. we are doomed to sit here forever."
sasha doesn't answer. she's squinting toward the end of the track.
you frown, looking back out at the field. eren had slowed down near the turn, but instead of walking it off and grabbing a sports drink like he usually does, heās stopped completely. his hands are on his hips, his head bent low, and heās shifting his weight uncomfortably on his left leg.
"y/n," sasha whispers, her voice losing its playful edge. "look at his ankle."
eren takes one step forward, winces visibly, and immediately swears, dropping down onto the grass right outside the white lines.
across the field, professor hangeās head snaps toward your tent, their eyes lighting up with a mix of academic excitement and sudden panic.
ātrainers!ā hange yells, waving their arms wildly from the sidelines. ājaegerās down! look at that biomechanical failure! grab the kit and move, move, move!ā
sasha looks at you, her eyes wide. "holy crap. someone actually got hurt."
your heart does a weird, sudden thump against your ribs. you grab the heavy medical kit from under the table and sling the strap over your shoulder, your eyes locked on the figure sitting in the grass.
"come on," you say, kicking yourself into gear. "let's go deal with the golden boy."
the two of you speed walk to him, he looked completely distressed. hes sitting in the grass, his long legs stretched out in front of him. his head is tilted back, his eyes closed as he draws in sharp, angry breaths through his teeth. he looks less like the untouchable track star now and more like a pissed off kid.
āget the fuck away from me, dont need helpā he says almost immediately, sasha scoffs and rolls her eyes.
āwe have to at least check on you.ā he ignores your reasoning and pulls his leg away, masking the pain and stands up.
āIm fine. completely.ā he walks back to the bleachers, leaving no room for protest.
āhe cant be serious..ā sasha mutters, staring at his retreating back.
he is serious. but heās also limping so badly that his left shoulder dips violently with every single step he takes. itās a pitiful sight, especially for someone who was gliding down the track like a god thirty seconds ago. heās dragging that foot, stubbornly trying to force a normal stride while his face grows paler by the step.
"he's an idiot," you say, tightening your grip on the strap of the medical kit. "and he's going to tear something completely if he keeps walking on it."
"trainers! report!" hangeās voice echoes right behind you. you both jump as hange skids to a halt, clipboard in hand, their glasses slipping down the bridge of their nose. hange looks past you, blinking at the empty patch of grass, then at eren, who is currently trying to scale the bleacher steps like a wounded animal.
"wait, where is the subject? why is the subject moving? did he perform a self reduction? is it a compound fracture?!"
"no, professor," you sigh, rubbing your temples. "the 'subject' is just an incredibly stubborn prick who refused treatment and is currently ruining his career on bleacher row three."
hange gasps, looking deeply offended on behalf of sports medicine. "refused? but the potential data! the immediate inflammatory response! y/n, sasha, go after him! use force if you must! if he attempts to drive home on a grade-two sprain, the physiological consequences will be catastrophic!"
you don't wait for sasha. you start marching toward the bleachers, your irritation completely overriding any professional politeness you were supposed to have. the soccer girls are still hovering at the bottom of the stands, whispering, but you push right past them, heading up the metal stairs.
eren didn't make it very far. heās sitting on the third row of the metal bleachers, his elbows resting on his knees, his face buried in his hands. his breathing is heavy, ragged, and when you stop right in front of him, casting a shadow over him, he doesn't even look up.
"i told you to leave it," he grunts, his voice muffled by his palms.
"and i told my professor i'd do my job so i don't fail this rotation," you reply, dropping the heavy medical bag onto the metal bench next to him with a loud, intentional clack.
you drop to one knee right in front of him on the narrow footrow. before he can pull away or snap at you again, you reach out and firmly clamp your hands around his left calf. your grip is solid, locking his leg in place so he can't retreat.
"let go," he growls, his hands finally dropping from his face. his green eyes are flashing, tight with a mixture of pure agony and deep embarrassment. "i don't need you hovering over me likeā"
"like a trainer?" you cut him off, staring right back into those intense eyes without flinching. "eren, look at your ankle. even through the sock, it's doubling in size. you hit an uneven patch, didn't you?"
he freezes, his mouth slamming shut. his jaw tightens so hard you can see the muscle pulsing. "how did you..."
"because i was watching. it's my job," you say, your voice dropping a fraction, losing the sharp edge and turning into something practical. "now, you can either sit here, act like a toddler, and let hange come up here with a tape measure and a goniometer to study your pain tolerance, or you can let me wrap this right now so you can actually walk tomorrow. your choice, golden boy."
eren stares at you. the silence between you is heavy, underscored only by the distant sound of the announcer calling up the next event. up close, you can see the sweat beads tracing down his temples, the messy strands of his dark hair falling out of his bun. he looks completely cornered.
finally, with a sharp, angry exhale that blows his bangs out of his eyes, he slumps back against the row behind him.
"fine," he mutters, looking away toward the track, his posture stiff. "do whatever. just hurry the fuck up."
you roll your eyes, āyou probably shouldnāt run on it, was this your last event?ā you asked.
he lets out a harsh bitter laugh, keeping his eyes glued to the track where the hurdles are being set up for the next race.
"yeah" he mutters, his jaw clenching as you gently slide your fingers under the edge of his sock to assess the swelling. "it was. lucky me."
"well, thatās the only lucky part of your day," you reply, unzipping the kit to pull out a roll of athletic tape and a couple of gauze pads. "because if you had another event, iād have to physically tackle you to keep you off the track."
"you could try," eren says, his voice dropping into that quiet, challenging tone. he finally looks down at you, his green eyes boring into yours, a trace of his usual arrogance flickering back to life despite the pain. "but i'm still faster than you on one leg."
"not right now you aren't," you say, totally unfazed. you press an instant ice pack over the lateral side of his ankle, causing him to instantly hiss and turn his face away, his hands gripping the edge of the metal bleacher row so hard his knuckles turn white. "hold that there. don't move."
sasha finally catches up, leaning against the railing a few steps down, out of breath but looking highly amused. "hange is currently explaining the physics of your wipeout to connie, by the way. you're a case study now, jaeger."
eren groans, burying his face in his hands again. "shoot me."
"can't. medical ethics," you murmur, waiting a minute for the ice to numb the area before you pull it away and start prepping his skin for the tape. "this is going to be tight eren. itās just to stabilize it so you can get to the training room without snapping anything."
"just do it," he grumbles through his fingers.
you work quickly, your hands practiced and steady as you anchor the tape around his mid calf and begin wrapping the figure eight pattern around his heel and ankle. every time you pull the tape tight, you can feel the subtle tremors in his leg as he fights the urge to flinch. heās stubborn, but his body can't hide how much it hurts.
"there," you say, snapping the tape with a sharp tug and smoothing down the edges. "that should hold you. but you're non weight bearing on this for at least twenty four hours. meaning no walking to class, no pacing, and absolutely no running."
eren lowers his hands, looking down at his freshly wrapped ankle with a dark expression. then his eyes shift to you, dark and intensely focused.
"and how exactly am i supposed to get to my car?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "you gonna carry me, trainer?"
you look at him, deadpan. ānot my problem.ā
behind you hange beams with energy, āoh sweet y/n i hope you arent being mean to a patient!ā
you mentally sigh, āyou can help him to his car! but unfortunately at the dorms, youāre on your own golden boy!ā they beam
hange drops down to eye level with eren's ankle, their glasses nearly touching his skin. eren looks completely annoyed, shifting his upper body away as if hange might actually bite him.
"professor, please," eren mutters, his cocky facade entirely crumbling under hange's intense scientific gaze. "just let me go to my car."
"of course! of course!" hange shouts, clapping their hands together. "y/n, sasha, hoist him up! letās test the strength on that wrap! sasha, grab the left arm, y/n, take the right!"
you exchange a weary glance with sasha. so much for leaving him to fend for himself.
"fine," you grumble, stepping up close to him.
"up we go, golden boy. don't make it weird."
"i'm not the one making it weird," eren grunts, though he doesn't protest as you loop his right arm over your shoulders. sasha takes his left, and on a count of three, you both lift him off the metal bench.
eren's a lot heavier than he looks. he's solid muscle, and the sheer heat radiating off his skin from the race makes your own uniform shirt feel suffocatingly warm. he winces heavily the second his right foot touches the concrete, keeping his wrapped left foot completely hovering off the ground. his body tenses, and you can feel the rigid line of his shoulder pressing hard against your neck as he tries to keep most of his weight off you.
"easy," you murmur, adjusting your grip around his waist to stabilize him. "just lean into us.
eren doesn't say anything, but his jaw clenches so hard you're worried his teeth might crack. he looks straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with the few remaining track athletes watching the dramatic exit.
the walk to the student parking lot is a slow, agonizing process of synchronized limping. hange walks backward in front of the three of you the entire time, taking furious notes on a clipboard and asking eren highly specific questions about his pain scale that he answers with one word grunts.
by the time you reach his black sedan, everyone is sweating. sasha quickly opens the driver's side door, and you both carefully ease him into the seat.
eren swings his uninjured leg inside, leaning back against the headrest with a heavy, exhausted sigh. the wrapped ankle sits awkwardly in the footwell.
"there," sasha says as you wipe a stray bead of sweat from your forehead. she tilts her head down to look at him through the open door. "you're in. y/n, can we go back to the tent now? im totally getting that pretzel by the way. you coming?"
"i'll catch up in a second," you tell her. sasha gives you a knowing smirk, waves a brief goodbye to a miserable looking eren, and heads off toward the stadium concessions.
you lean your forearm against the top of the open car door, looking down at the track star. "you have crutches at your dorm?"
"yeah," eren mutters, his fingers tapping an anxious rhythm against the steering wheel. he looks incredibly small in the driver's seat, stripped of the imposing presence he usually has on the track. "my roommate has an old pair in the closet."
"good. use them. and don't drive with that foot."
"whatever ," he snaps defensively, he quieted down for a second, his green eyes flicking up to meet yours. he hesitates, his throat bobbing as he swallows. "...gotta go. off my car."
āwow no please?ā you ask, crossing your arms.
he scoffs. āplease get off my car damn.ā
"whatever, don't get used to the VIP treatment, jaeger," you say, tapping the roof of his car twice. "ice it tonight. i'll see you in the training clinic on monday morning for rehab. don't skip it. or ill tell hange to kill you"
eren watches you pull away from the door, a slow, familiar smirk finally creeping back onto his face. "wouldn't miss it for the world, ms trainer.ā
a/n : if you couldnāt tell from that one inumaki chapter i love healthcare :3
