#honeybee!reader

·˚ ༘ she comes from silver spoon, golden rule, private school, never missed sunday church ·˚ ༘ and i come from blue collar, low dollar, out here where concrete meets old red dirt...

WORKS!

"HOW'D YOU MEET?" - fluff, 1k words

finally, 5 pm, the end of cheerleading practice. you hurry to put away all your stuff, making sure your stanley cup doesn't spill at the bottom of your cheer bag like it did yesterday. you're on a mission, the same mission you have been on every monday through thursday for the past month;

pack up the fastest, be the first outside, watch the last 20 minutes of the football team's practice, watch him practice.

there he is, john b routledge in the flesh. football in hand, shirt nowhere to be seen and sweat glistening down his chiseled abs as he practices with kook academy's varsity football team.

sure, he's a pogue, but he's the best football player you've ever laid your eyes on,--and that says a lot considering your dad is ex-nfl--i mean, he even got a merit scholarship to kook academy for his ball skill, so that means he's, like, better than other pogues, right?

either way, you're staring, hard, and it doesn't go unnoticed. your teammate, mckenna, breaks away from the rest of the girls on your cheer team after they make their way outside and she spots you eyeing up the new transfer for the third time this week.

"you actually gonna talk to mr. pogue prince this time or are we still being stalkers?" she teases, leaning onto the gate around the stadium next to you.

"it's not stalking, ken, it's scoping out potential. my dad likes to mentor guys like him, i just wanna make sure he's, uhm, mentee material." you try deflect--your cover was blown weeks ago, but actually having to admit to being obsessed with a guy you've had but one conversation with? tragic.

"you sure you're not trying to see if he's boyfriend material?" she continues to tease, earning herself a groan and eye roll from your end.

"don't you have a family dinner to attend?" you ask, though it was more of a triumphant statement. a foolproof way of getting her to go away.

"you're no fun!" the girl beside you whines, pushing off the gate. "talk to him!" and with her last little scolding encouragement, she runs off to her car, leaving you and your slightly creepy, but mostly endearing people watching alone again.

maybe mckenna was right, maybe you should talk to him...

taking a metaphorical leap of courage, you decide that instead of watching john b practice from the gate like a weirdo, you'll head up to the bleachers. plus, you can actually sit on something other than the ground or your cheer bag that way. it was a win-win.

5:23 pm, the football team are currently gathered in a tight little circle in the middle of the field, practice is officially over.

interpreting it as your cue, you run down the bleachers--still being careful not to trip and fall because that would be humiliating--and head over to the locker room doors that reside under said seating.

after a few minutes of waiting there, you watch guys that you've known for years walk into the room--most of them ignoring your presence, others giving a casual nod--until you finally see him.

john b's the last to make his way in your direction, as he was going over a few things with the coach after the team broke their huddle.

he's about to pass you. he's gonna leave. you have to do something quick.

"hey pretty,"

fuck. why would you say that? well, your mom didn't raise a quitter, so you cant back down or take it back now.

a flash of intrigue meets the brown-haired boy's face as he takes in your bold greeting. "sorry?" he asks, just to make sure he heard you right, not because he was offended.

"i said, hey pretty." you double down despite feeling sick to your stomach about how bold you are being all of a sudden.

he chuckles at your audacity before wiping sweat off his hand on his shorts and sticking it out to you. "Well hello to you too, pretty."

your brain short circuits for a moment as you take his hand in a shake, theres no way this is real. "uhm... HONEYBEE, i mean, like, fuck, i'm HONEYBEE."

still laughing, the boy takes your introduction as a sign to do so as well. "john b."

"i know." I KNOW? who even says that? you apparently. "no! i mean, like, so- my dad was in the nfl, you're good at football." how the hell did you go from bold and cheeky to stumbling over your words so quickly?

john has to be an angel sent from heaven with the strict assignment to ignore how awkward you're making everything the way he doesn't miss a beat before answering. "no kidding? that's awesome. when can i meet him?"

straight to the point, huh. "i can, uh, set it up- can i get your number?"

"because you think i'm "pretty" or to set something up with your dad?"

"both?"

"perfect."

john b doesn't miss the stupid smile you try to hide as he waits for to you fumble to get your phone out of your cheer bag so he can put his number into your contacts.

he snaps a picture of himself flexing--because of course he does--for the contact photo before handing the phone back to you. "alright, HONEYBEE, i'll be waiting for a text tonight, k?"

"you have my word."

you can't hide your little flustered smile anymore, so you stare at your phone with red cheeks as the boy disappears into the locker room. while staring, you realize what he put as his name in your contacts.

PRETTY BOY...