For the Love of the Game

He could walk into any party and become the life of it, eyes tracking over each girl that sent him a suggestive glance. If he felt like it, he would talk them up first; act like he was really interested in what they were saying, and maybe even brush some of their hair behind their ear. Girls loved that. 

But more often than not, he would skip that step. A quick whisper in their ear was more than enough to have them dragging Bucky to their dorm. Or to their car. Sometimes just down the hall of whatever frat house they were in. Anywhere was fine with Bucky; it’s not like it had to be romantic.

There were, of course, a few flings that wanted more with him. They would linger as he pulled his clothes on, desperate to race out of their dorm before they could ask him to stay. He would get a text sometime later; something about coffee or lunch that he would have to ignore. If he saw them again it was awkward, but Bucky found that more manageable than having to deal with an entire relationship. 

Because Bucky Barnes didn’t do girlfriends. 

Well, not until you anyway. 

He noticed the little things at first. Like the way your laugh made his chest feel weird and the way he found himself wanting to hear you talk for ages. You were never talking to him—and your laugh certainly wasn’t meant for his ears—but just being around the sound was enough.

He brushed it off as a coincidence. Sure, everything that came out of your mouth had him on the edge of his seat, but that was just because he was sick of the guys. And maybe the way you laughed caused his breath to get lost in his throat, but the air quality in the sports bar had never been the best anyway. 

But then it was bigger things—things he couldn’t ignore. 

Because how could he ignore that even when you wanted nothing to do with him—even when you wouldn’t speak to him and barely met his eyes—all he wanted was one small, fleeting chance. 

You drew him in. You smiled up at something Thor said and he was kicking himself, wishing he had said it. You yanked Sam’s jacket from his hands, complaining that he had torn it again and you would now have to fix it, and Bucky was about to rip his own in half. Not that you would mend it for him; you’d never offered before. 

You cared so much. Too much in Bucky’s opinion, but maybe that was just because you held an ice pack to Pietro’s eye after a rough practice and not to his. You brought those little snacks in your bag that the team got in emergencies, and you gave the best birthday presents. But not to him. Sure, you got him a card every year, but they were so impersonal. He still found himself wishing he had saved them. You picked them out yourself. 

And why did Parker get help with his homework? Bucky needed help with his homework too. And Bucky was pretty sure the kid didn’t even appreciate how close he got to sit by you; how he could probably smell your perfume and how you even brushed your hand against his shoulder when he got frustrated. 

Obviously, Bucky knew these things because he was in the library at the same time by accident. He hadn’t overheard Parker asking for help. That would be weird. 

The worst moments were the ones that gave him a glimpse. When something would slip behind your indifferent mask and you would grant Bucky with his own smile. He would say something that caught you off guard and your laugh actually would be meant for him. And it always made him ache because you reeled yourself in just as quickly; you would blink and remember yourself and suddenly he felt cold again. 

It was even more painful when he got to touch you. 

Those moments were rare, much more rare than your occasional laugh, but he found himself holding onto each one.

When he got nervous on the mound during games, he would remember the way your thigh brushed his in the crowded lecture hall. You were late that day, forced to take the empty seat Bucky had saved with his bag. You let out a small huff before plopping down next to him, rummaging through your backpack in a flurry. 

“Need a pencil, doll?” 

“Uh,” you started. His fingers twitched when you spoke. “I’m fine. Thanks.” 

His disappointment only lasted for a moment; the guy next to you was taking up too much space, and had forced you to press your thigh to Bucky’s after you settled. You seemed uninterested in the contact. Bucky tried to mimic your expression, but excitement was buzzing through his veins.

You wouldn’t even remember the occurrence. 

Sometime before the summer—right after Bucky discovered you were probably the love of his life—you touched him on purpose. You touched him twice, actually, but the first time was much less pleasant than the second. He was appreciative of both. 

“Oh my god,” you exhaled. You dropped to his side. “Oh my god, I am so sorry.” 

Bucky hardly felt the throbbing in his nose; he was too focused on your palm pressed to his cheek. 

“I didn’t mean to hit you, I swear. I didn’t even know you were standing there.” 

The team was all laughing around him, slowly filing out of the gate that led to the stadium. He didn’t really mind. They could laugh all they wanted if it meant you would keep touching him. 

“James?” you asked, pulling him to attention. “I didn’t give you a concussion or anything, right?” 

Obviously not; you hadn’t hit him that hard. The only reason he was on the ground was because you knocked him into the curb. Maybe if he had been paying attention and not trying to catch your conversation with Tony, he would have stopped your hand before it connected with his face. 

He gave himself another second before answering—one more second to take in your concerned face that was just inches from his. “Nah, doll, I’m fine.” 

You blew out a relieved breath, and he relished in the feel of it against his neck. And just like that, you weren’t touching him anymore. His face burned where your impression lingered, and he felt the softness of your touch more than the smack to his nose. 

“You gonna live?” Steve asked. He loomed over Bucky, offering a hand when you left to continue your conversation elsewhere. “Or do you wanna tell her you’re in love with her now?” 

But what really did him in—what kept him up at night and made his skin realize its lack of your touch—happened right before junior year. When you got caught under the damn rubber on the mound. 

Of all people, Steve had dropped his keys on the field. They fell out of his bag on the way out of the dugout, leaving a very tired group of players leaning against his car, waiting to be driven to campus. 

But you were lagging behind that day, and in the perfect position to run back and grab them. The field wasn't very far from the car, so when you were gone for ten minutes, Bucky volunteered to check on you. Steve threw him a knowing look that he didn’t catch, too intent on getting to you. 

When he saw you sitting in the dirt with your leg twisted at a weird angle, he ran faster. 

“Fuck, are you okay?” 

You groaned. “I’m fine. I slipped and my sandal got caught. Why is there so much space between the dirt and the rubber thing?” 

He crouched beside you and assessed the damage. Your shoe was pressing your foot into the mound and the dirt covering your leg made it very hard to see. He hesitantly reached out and brushed it away. When you didn’t protest, he started to pull. 

“Ah—” He stopped as soon as you opened your mouth. “Okay, that hurt.” 

“They haven’t filled the dirt since the season hasn’t started,” Bucky explained. He rubbed your calf, attempting an apology. “Looks like I can’t just pull your leg out, doll. I gotta lift you up first.” 

“Like—my whole body?” 

He smiled sheepishly. “I can get Steve to come help if you want.” The offer made him cringe. 

“No, no, it’s okay just—let’s just get this over with.” 

He shuffled behind you and reached down to grab your waist. There was a pause—so infinitesimal you couldn’t even tell—before his fingers pressed into your skin. His chest connected with your back before he moved up, and his breath felt lodged in his throat. 

He was holding you—not at all romantic, but you were pressed against him and he wasn’t sure if he had the mind to speak anymore. He leaned more of your body on him as he stood, pulling you gently. 

“Is it hurting at all?” he breathed against your ear.

You shivered, gripping his forearms around your waist. “No.” 

When your foot popped out, you didn’t leave his arms immediately. You kept your body pressed to his as you rolled your ankle a few times, even letting your head fall back against his chest for a moment. He watched with bated breath; if he said anything, you might move, and he certainly didn’t want that. 

“Well,” you giggled. “I’m sure you can’t say you’ve ever done that.” 

And he was a goner. Because not only were you still wrapped up in him, but you were laughing, and he could feel it in his chest. Physically. 

He let another beat pass before he answered, memorizing your hands against his arms. “No, can’t say I have.” 

Maybe it was the way his breath tickled at your ear, or maybe his fingers twitched too much on your waist, but you tore away from him after that. You reached down for your shoe and you spun around on your heel and your face was back to the way it always was around him—indifferent and blank. 

“Well, thank you.” 

Yeah, this was much worse than when you smiled at him. 

After that—after the way your body molded into his and your laugh echoed in his chest—Bucky decided it was time he tried harder. He’d been admiring you from afar for too long, worried that if he showed interest, you would become even more distant from him; that if he started treating you like a friend, you would leave him with nothing. 

It was obvious you didn’t like him, although he couldn’t figure out why. Steve wouldn’t tell him, and Natasha was even worse. No matter how many times he begged and pleaded for them to spill the information, they told him it wasn’t their story to tell. 

So Bucky just figured it was because of his reputation. 

Well, that wouldn’t be an issue anymore—not after he got to feel you against him and suddenly every girl that lingered by his ear made him cringe. They all laughed too loud and their hands were too rough and their perfume was too strong. And they didn’t make him feel like you did. He could have a girl in bed, lying beneath him and ready, and all he could think about was you. 

So he stopped going to parties. He stopped seeking out a new girl every weekend, and he figured that was a good start. He’d show you he was different now and you’d surely give him the time of day. 

Except you didn’t. Not even a little. 

In fact, the only time Bucky got a reaction out of you was when he brought other girls around. And he so loved the way your eyes looked when they met his. So, he brought other girls around. 

He didn’t want to. He hated the way they felt against him and how their breath met his skin. They were pushy and Bucky couldn’t believe he used to seek this out; how he could’ve been satisfied with their advances every night when just a single glance from you was a million times more pleasing. 

Sam told him he was being an idiot; he said no girl would ever become more attracted to a jerk if they were constantly hanging off of another girl. But Sam didn’t understand that the tiny huff you let out when a random sorority girl sat on his lap, was on replay in his brain all weekend. He didn’t get it because while you granted him your words and gentle tone, all Bucky could hold onto was your annoyance. 

And after months and months of nothing changing, he’d had enough. It was time to make some real changes. 

~~

“I’m not askin’ you to force her on me, Nat. Just a little push maybe?” 

“Bucky, give it a rest, would you? She’s not going to sleep with you.” 

“I don’t want her to sleep with me! Well, I do, but not—” Natasha glanced up at Bucky with a sharp brow. “Okay, that came out wrong. What I meant is that I just want to get to know her.”

“And why the sudden interest?” she drawled. 

Bucky didn’t really know how to answer that. He could barely answer that for himself. There wasn’t one exact moment that peaked his interest; he just knew that overtime, everything you did made him want to get closer to you. 

“She’s really pretty.” 

Natasha scoffed. “She’s always been pretty.” 

“Right, of course,” Bucky rushed. “She’s just been around me more and I’ve noticed.” 

“She’s been ‘around you’ for years.” 

This wasn’t going well. He knew Natasha was protective of her best friend, but this conversation was nearing a dead-end. He took a deep breath and swallowed his pride—just for a moment. 

“Nat, you know me. You know I haven’t been interested in a single girl since I got to this school. If I was looking for a quick lay I could find one. But I’m not. I’ve been asking you about y/n for weeks now.” 

Natasha finally pulled her attention away from her laptop and narrowed her eyes at the pitcher. He’d had this entire conversation with the top of her head up until now; she hadn’t humored a single thing he’s said. But now it felt like she was seeing through him. He shifted under her scrutinizing gaze. 

“I just want to talk to her,” he reasoned. “Promise.”

She pressed a manicured nail to the top of her computer, snapping it shut with finality. “She’s meeting me here in fifteen minutes. You can...stay. It’ll be like a trial period. For me, not for her. She’s still not going to want to talk to you.” 

And it wasn’t much, but it gave him hope. Bucky slid down the chair and got comfortable, his hoodie riding up his neck and blocking out the air of the library. A trial period. A way to show Natasha that he didn’t just want to get in her best friend’s pants. He had no idea how he was going to do that when you never spoke to him, but he’d give it his best shot. 

He had resorted to fiddling with his phone as Natasha went back to her work, but when the delicate trill of your voice greeted the librarian, he shot up in his seat. A little too quickly, it seemed, because he knocked his knee on the table and received a sharp glare. 

“Hey, Nat! I brought you a coffee but they were out of—” Your voice trailed off, eyes darting between Bucky and Natasha. “Uh, I didn’t know anyone would be joining us.” 

Bucky sent you a shy smile and looked across the table for an explanation. Natasha rolled her eyes. “Bucky’s going to be sitting with us. Just for a little while.”

You looked extremely uncomfortable, weight shifting between your feet and coffees held out in front of you. “Oh, well I um—I would have gotten you something from the cafe if I’d known.” 

Of course you would.  You practically hated the guy, but of course you would try and get him a coffee when he crashed your study date with your best friend. Just another reason for Bucky to be falling for you.

“No problem, doll. Not like you coulda known,” he flirted. 

“I wish you would stop calling me that.” You took the seat next to him begrudgingly and started to grab books from your bag. “I do have a name, you know.” 

Natasha threw him a pointed glance, causing him to remove the arm he was about to place around your chair. Bucky wasn’t used to being watched when he was trying to make a move, and he certainly wasn’t used to being evaluated. 

“‘Course you have a name, doll. I just think mine fits you better.” 

You furrowed your brows at him before diving into your books. In hindsight, this probably wasn’t the best place to try and talk to you; you looked really busy and Bucky hadn’t brought any work with him. But according to Natasha, this was his time to prove himself. 

“So, uh,” he started, nodding to your homework. “What class is that for?” 

“Nothing you’re in, don’t worry.” 

“Right. So you don’t like it?” 

You turned back to him, confused. “No, I like this class. It’s one of my favorites.” 

“Favorites? What is it then?” Bucky smiled, resting his chin in his palm. 

“You want to know about my favorite class?” you deadpanned. 

“Yeah. Lay it on me.” 

God, he’d never seen you look more guarded. You looked almost afraid to tell him; it was as if you feared he would make fun of you. He’d never do that. He wouldn’t dream of making you second guess yourself, or worse, making you upset. 

You pulled your book a little closer to your chest and let your gaze track to Natasha. You were having a conversation that he had no way of deciphering, eyes locked on each other and expressions changing. Bucky was left sitting there, glancing between the two girls, praying Natasha was on his side. 

With one last confused look, you turned back to Bucky. “It’s art history.” 

“That sounds fun. I’ve never taken it myself, but maybe I should. Hey, you’re pre-med though, right? You just takin’ it as an elective?” He couldn’t stop speaking; something in his brain needed to fill the awkward silence between you. 

“It’s just an elective. I like that we have to go to the museums sometimes—like The Met.”

He shoved that information into the back of his mind; maybe you’d let him take you sometime. “Wow, The Met. I haven’t been since I was a kid. My Ma used to drag me and my sister there every summer.” 

“Why’d you stop going?” 

There it was—just a little bit of interest had sparked in your eyes. He could use that; he could latch onto your niche interest and drag it out. Maybe you’d ask him about his favorite class next. Then he could ask you if you needed someone to walk you home. This was a perfect in. 

“Got really busy with baseball. Then I started here and got busy with… well everything.” He was kicking himself. Why would he say that when you obviously knew what ‘everything’ was. He tried to change the subject. “I, uh—I didn’t know you liked art.” 

If his previous comment hadn’t done him in, this one sure did. That tiny glimmer in your eye dimmed and the mask you wore covered your features. “There are lots of things you don’t know about me. Everyone else knows I like art.” 

“Well, I’d like to know—more about you, I mean. Now I know you like art. What else do you like?” 

He shouldn’t have said that, but the words shot from his mouth before he could stop them. He wanted you to like him so badly, and your aversion to his charm was throwing him off. Yes, Bucky should know you like art—he’d been around you for years now—but he didn’t, and he wanted to change that. 

He opened his mouth to elaborate, but you beat him to it. “You know what? I—I just remembered I have office hours right now. For uh, my math class. Sorry, Nat, raincheck?” 

How were you packing up so quickly? You haphazardly shoved your books and laptop back into your bag as Bucky scrambled for something to say. 

“Wait. Do you need me to walk you? I have somewhere to be too. I could—” 

“Don’t worry about it,’’ you shot out. “See you tonight, Nat.” 

And with that, you were gone. 

Bucky blew it. He completely blew it and there was no way Natasha was going to help him now. At least he got to have a tiny, fleeting conversation with you before his heart was torn in half. 

“Alright, Barnes, I’ll help you out.”

His head shot up fast enough to give him whiplash. “What? But—she just ran out. Literally ran away from me. Why would you help me?” 

“I know y/n. And I know other… things. About you and about her. You looked like a lovesick puppy the second she walked into the room. That’s a new look for you Bucky—a good look, but a new one.” 

Bucky was seconds away from asking her a million questions about you, when Natasha pointed an angry finger at him. “But if this is some kind of game—if you hurt her—you’re gonna regret ever asking me for anything.” 

“It’s not. I swear, Nat, I don’t wanna hurt her.” 

“I know you don't,” she agreed. “But you still might.” 

And Bucky would have to grapple with that for years to come—even in the years that you allowed him to hold you in his arms. The idea of who he was, and the history he had created for himself, was something that could hurt you on its own. It already had, apparently. 

“Well, what do you want to know about her?” 

He wanted to know everything.