Off Limits

PROMPT: "Okay but bellark where Bellamy is Clarke's assistant coach in lacrosse or something and she's too damn smart and cute and no he isn't interested in her at all that's not why he offers to spend one on one time with her" - son-of-rome (tumblr)

"Griffin," he calls to her.

Blonde hair flips up and her bright eyes connect with his. She drops her taped-up stick onto the damp grass of the high school's football field – because there is no specialized place for the lacrosse team to practice – and she heads over his way.

Her navy skirt is rumpled a little from the hours long practice, hitched up dangerously high on her leg. Clarke isn't anything if not enthusiastic for the game, but for some reason, Bellamy feels like she knows what she does to…not him, of course. But the general public of males. How could she not realize the effect she has on…them?

And he does not have to consciously remind himself that she is off-limits when she straightens her clothing, stepping in front of him with her shoulders set back and a polite smile on her lips. Not at all. He knows she's eighteen, also knows she's still a senior in high school and a member of the girls' team he's working with, which for him is off-limits by any stretch of the situation.

He knows the rules, respects them even. But sometimes he finds himself searching for a loophole when Clarke Griffin steps into the picture.

Shaking his head, he ignores the thoughts that are sure to get him fired and leans on the rickety plastic net beside him. The grass is wet, soaking into his sneakers and he shifts a little in discomfort. Clarke clears her throat. "Coach Blake?"

"Clarke," he acknowledges, tilting his head in greeting. "I wanted to talk to you."

The way she smiles makes his chest feel a little tight. The air didn't feel nearly as constricting a couple of seconds ago, with a healthy distance between the two. "I think you already are," she quips, bending down to tie the loose lace of her cleat.

Bellamy will admit he looks onto her approvingly. Not fondly, no, of course not. "Well," he starts, watching as she straightens up and locks their eyes. "Your cradling needs work."

Slowly, a blonde eyebrow arches, and Clarke is looking at him like he's told her she's actually a forty year old man named Charles. "Is that so?" she challenges, crossing her arms over her chest.

Okay, so maybe her technique doesn't actually need work. At all. Maybe Clarke is entirely too good at the sport and makes it annoyingly hard for Bellamy to pinpoint one of her weaknesses. Because she doesn't have any. Maybe he had to make something up for this to work.

But he isn't backing down. Because he sort of really wants this.

"I'm going to have to recommend some one-on-one support," he goes on, idly swinging his shining silver whistle back and forth in his hands. Her eyes go softer and Bellamy thinks the look is something of realization. She smirks.

"Do you?" she asks, tilting her head to the side. There's a sparkle in her eyes that he's sure means trouble. "I suppose I could talk to Coach Collins about getting that extra help." She turns over her shoulder, peeking at the head coach as he shows a fellow teammate how to grip the shaft of her lacrosse stick for the best results in shooting.

Suddenly uncomfortable, Bellamy shifts his feet again, but it isn't because of the cool dew slipping into his socks. "Well, I mean…" He's awkward; he hasn't a clue what to say. Because he hadn't intended for this to take a turn so…undesirable. The exact opposite of what he wanted. "I'm sure Coach Collins is busy with the rest of the team," he corrects, desperately swallowing the thickness in his throat. "However,I'm free almost every week day, and I specialize in keeping the balls in their spot."

It takes a moment for his words to reach his ears, and when they do… Dear God. He wants to bury his head in his hands and walk away with whatever dignity he has left. Before things get even worse, because he knows they can with his luck. He refuses the blush that is so adamant to appear on his face and swallows down whatever embarrassment he feels, finally meeting her eyes.

Clarke is laughing.

It's not all that upfront and in his face, but she's using her scratched up fingers to cover her pale pink lips, snuffing out any helpless giggle that rises in her throat. Her eyes are squinted and her cheeks are red. He wants to bury himself under a hundred tons of turf.

"You know what I mean," he mutters, staring somewhere past her shoulder. He sees the team going on with their practice. And Clarke suddenly moves into his vision.

"I do," she says, and for some reason, she looks like she really means it. Her eyes are knowing and she's giving him that damn smile that'll put him out of work, he swears, because this surely isn't legal. And then she says it. "I'd love to work with you personally. I'm thankful for the opportunity, Coach Blake."

Her words are serious, but her expressive blue eyes tell all. And they're willing to admit even more than he, himself, is.

"Tuesday evening, Griffin," he tells her, nodding his head toward the field of plastic nets and raised sticks. "Seven o'clock sharp."

With that devious little smile of hers, she nods, backing away. "It's a date," she says, fluttering her eyelids into a wink before turning her back on him and merging with her teammates in the start of a scrimmage.

Bellamy blinks. Watching her melt in easily with her team, and he's shaking his head, yet not denying his lips the privilege to curve up.

Clarke Griffin is trouble and he's in for the fight.