To: Mestikins

Time: 8:45 AM

WHY IS IT SO FUCKING COLD MEST IT'S THE SUMMER

To: Mestikins

Time: 8:45 AM

DOES INCLEMENT WEATHER NOT EXIST FOR SOCCER PLAYERS

From: Mestikins

Time: 8:45 AM

Lahar gave me an office with no A/C Lucy. I'm in the middle of my fourth heat stroke of the day and it's not even nine.

The rainy weather she can excuse: April showers bring May flowers and all that. The surprise cold front? Not so much. May is not single-digit weather, dammit. Where is the sunshine? The pollen that'll have her popping antiallergens from now until winter rolls around? Where is the justice in all this? Lucy scowls, tucking her freezing fingers into her armpits and crossing her legs tightly to conserve what little heat she can. Whatever legal team is taking on those oil companies better be tighter-knit than OJ's because if they don't come out victorious in the battle against climate change, she's going to take some drastic measures that involve very not-legal means.

"You look kinda cold," Gray comments as he pauses next to her.

"You're not?" Lucy gives the team's stylist a once-over. Forget sweater, he's not even got full-sleeves on! The jeans hugging his legs look sort of warm at the very least - warmer than her own thin dress-pants, anyway.

Gray shrugs. "I was born up North. This is kinda comfortable, actually. You want me to grab you a sweater or something?"

"That'd be-"

"Gray!" Sorano yells from the field, "Get your ass down here! You didn't tell me you ordered new jackets!"

"Ah, shit. Sorry, Lucy, I'll see you around!"

"...great…" Lucy trails off with a sigh, watching them longingly. The thick, fur jacket Sorano's got on looks so warm, and she'd kill to get those invitingly cozy boots, too.

"Do you have beef with the weatherman?" Cobra asks, dropping down beside her. "Seriously, your phone has the temperature on the homescreen. What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I don't need to be judged by you, Mr Vivas. Shouldn't you be in the locker room waiting for the game to start?"

"Mr Vivas?" His face is wholly unimpressed. If this were anyone else, she might even wager he's kinda annoyed at her for throwing up the proverbial wall between them, but he can't be that dumb that he doesn't get why. As it turns out, having a world-famous striker wrestle you into his shirt is one of the many things that unite fangirls and fanboys alike in an internet-pitchfork fest that culminates in (temporarily, she'd been assured) shutting down your social media accounts until some new scandal pops up. Truth be told, the death threats don't scare her nearly as much as the crazy dedicated fans demanding she list the kicks Cobra used to win the World Cup five years ago to prove her worth or whatever it is they're aiming for.

Mirajane, their PR rep, had kindly held her hand through the whole process and gently suggested she do her best to drive a professional wedge between the two. Just for a bit. Easier said than done when Cobra knows where she lives and has her phone number and a collection of vine compilations he enjoys sending her at three in the morning and he keeps 'forgetting' his stuff in her office and he's been getting into a lot of new legal bitchfits these days, which forces them to spend more time together. Lucy groans and rubs her slightly warmed hands over her face. She should've gone into criminal defense. The pay makes it worth it.

"Fine, Cobra-"

"Erik," he stresses.

"Erik. Again. The game starts soon. Why are you still here?"

"I'd be affronted if I cared that much." Deja vu hits her right in the chest as he takes off his sweater and holds it up between them with a raised brow, violet eyes twinkling mirthfully. How does one even get purple eyes? She's never seen it before in her life but she can't imagine him with any other eye colour. It's so...him.

"So? You know the drill or do I need to force you into this, too? It'd suck if I had to shut down my social media as well."

"You know?" Lucy blurts.

"Mira told Mard to tell me. Honestly, legal, you work for me, forget FC Fiore. You should've turned off your DM's a long time ago," Erik admonishes, though the sudden tension in his jaw belies his lackadaisical posture. "The comments weren't too bad, were they?"

I've seen this in like, every shitty romcom ever. You know the drill. You got this.

"Why is it that I get grilled on your average goals per game, but you all get stuff like 'I wanna turn the sweat from your jockstrap into a cologne to snort on my off days'?" Lucy teases. There's no point in bringing up the death threats. They both know they're there and coming in at a steady pace and there's nothing either can do about it. Erik takes the opening, though she has a feeling he'll be bringing it up later. Probably at three am when he decides to throw another vine her way.

"I broke my wrist early on in my career and had a girl offer to send me one of her wrist bones for, and I quote, 'better healing'," he says with a snort.

There are many words she can string together to respond to that and none of them can ever quite adequately capture the horror and twisted hilarity she's feeling right now. It's too cold for her to feel her face, but she imagines it's contorted rather comically because Erik laughs and holds the sweater above her head, saying, "Yeah, I didn't take her up on that. Now, before my legal nightmare turns into a popsicle. C'mon, you're making me late."

Lucy allows him to slip the sweater over her head and help her arms through the holes so she can twist her messy hair up into a bun. His eyes fall to her back and he grins a little.

"Number six doesn't look so bad on you, legal. Keep it." Erik ruffles her hair and pulls out the hairtie on his way back to the locker room, waving with his other arm. Lucy's a little too in shock to do anything other than squawk indignantly.

What the hell is it with him and getting her to wear his jersey number? What 80's movie set has she stumbled into? What the fuck?

From: Cobra

Time: 2:59 AM

kick_fails_ 4

From: Cobra

Time: 3:00 AM

I average 22 goals per game, but who's counting.