By his side | Tee Higgins
summary — After a brutal game, Tee Higgins is left alone in the locker room—bruised, breathless, and trying to pretend he’s fine. But when Y/N, the team’s new personal trainer, finds him still sitting in the silence, what begins as a routine checkup quietly unfolds into something more. Beneath the pain, the stubbornness, and the weight of expectations, there’s a moment of honesty neither of them expected. Because sometimes, what hurts the most isn’t the injury—it’s learning to let someone stay.
The night had been loud—roaring fans, pounding feet, electric lights slicing through the dark sky. Now, silence wrapped around the nearly empty locker room like a heavy, unseen fog.
Tee Higgins sat on the bench, his jersey damp, shoulder pads halfway peeled off. He winced as he moved his arm, pain shooting up through his side. His ribs felt like someone had wrapped barbed wire around them, and breathing came with a price. He hadn't told anyone how bad it hurt.
Just then, the door creaked open.
"You shouldn't still be here," came your voice—soft, tired, familiar.
Tee looked up, catching sight of you. Y/N, the trainer who had started with the Bengals just this season. He knew you didn't come to find anyone unless you were worried.
He gave you a half-hearted smirk. "Was just... catching my breath."
"Yeah?" You stepped closer, your expression somewhere between skeptical and concerned. "You've been catching it for forty-five minutes."
Tee looked away. He didn't like being seen like this—vulnerable, banged up, worn thin.
You crouched in front of him, setting your bag down beside you. "Take off your jersey."
He hesitated, but the look in your eyes was firm. Not cruel. Not pushy. But certain.
So he peeled off the jersey with a grunt, revealing the deep bruise blooming across his ribs. You inhaled sharply.
"I told you I was fine," he mumbled, leaning forward.
"That," you said, pointing at the swelling, "is not fine. That's likely a cracked rib."
Your fingers reached out, hovering above his side, waiting for permission. He gave a small nod.
When your hand finally touched him, he flinched. "Damn."
"Stop moving around," you said immediately, your voice low but sharp. "You'll make it worse."
He froze, biting back another sound of pain.
Your hand moved more gently now, trained and sure. "Why didn't you tell anyone after the hit?"
Tee exhaled through his nose. "Didn't want out. We needed the yards."
"You can't carry a team if you're broken."
The silence that followed was heavier than anything either of you had carried all night.
You hated seeing him like this—shoulders tense, pain buried under performance. He was always the one laughing on the sidelines, picking up rookies, leading with quiet strength. But now...
"You always do that," you said quietly.
He didn't answer. You weren't sure if it was because he disagreed—or because you were right.
You reached into your bag and pulled out a cold pack. "Lean back."
He did, letting you press it gently to his ribs. He hissed but stayed still this time.
"I've seen this before," you said after a beat. "Players pushing through pain. Pretending it's not there."
"No, it's part of the culture. Doesn't mean it's healthy."
Tee chuckled bitterly. "If I stopped every time something hurt, I'd be benched half the season."
You raised an eyebrow. "So you'd rather play broken?"
"Yeah," he said, meeting your gaze. "Because playing broken still means I'm playing."
That silence came again, but this time, it wasn't heavy—it was sharp. It cut.
You looked down at his side again, the black-blue discoloration spreading like spilled ink. You adjusted the ice slightly.
"Does it hurt to breathe?"
"Then it's worse than you think."
You didn't realize how tight your grip had gotten on the cold pack until Tee flinched again.
You pulled back, shaking your head. "You're so stubborn."
He smiled, only a little. "You keep showing up, though."
You looked up, and something in his voice stopped you. It wasn't cocky. It wasn't teasing.
"You think I wouldn't?" you asked, searching his face.
"I don't know," he said. "Some people don't stay when they see you hurt."
You swallowed, hard. That hit too close to home—for both of you.
"I'm not 'some people,'" you replied softly. "And you know that."
His eyes met yours again, and this time, there was no barrier. No act. Just fatigue, and pain, and something raw.
"You scared me tonight," you admitted. "When you went down in the third quarter. You didn't get up right away."
"I couldn't breathe," he said. "Felt like someone had crushed my chest."
You closed your eyes briefly, that image slicing through your memory like a knife. You'd been on the sideline, clutching your medical bag, your heart slamming against your ribs.
"I thought you were down for good."
"So did I," he whispered.
When you opened your eyes again, he was still watching you.
"You didn't have to come here," he said. "Most trainers clock out the second the game ends."
"Yeah, well," you replied, giving him a small smile. "Most trainers aren't me."
"Good," he said, almost inaudible. "I don't want anyone else."
The air between you shifted. It was subtle—but unmistakable.
You cleared your throat, trying to ground yourself. "Okay, um... I need to tape this up. You'll need scans tomorrow. And you're not practicing this week."
"I'll go straight to Coach. Don't test me, Higgins."
He huffed a breath. "Fine. One week."
You moved carefully, wrapping gauze and support tape across his ribs, fingers brushing bare skin. Neither of you spoke for a while. The tension had changed. Not gone—but deeper now. Quieter.
"Thanks... for coming back."
You tilted your head. "Of course I came back."
"No," he said. "I mean it. Every time."
You understood then. He wasn't just talking about tonight.
He meant every time he had to put himself back together—emotionally, physically—and you'd been there. In ways others hadn't been.
"I'll keep coming back," you said, steady and sure. "Even if you keep pretending you don't need anyone."
"I don't pretend," he said.
"Okay," you replied with a quiet smile. "Then stop flinching when I touch the parts that hurt."
You finished wrapping the last strip, smoothing the tape gently with your palm.
"There," you said. "Still hurts, but at least you won't make it worse... unless you do something stupid.
He gave you that crooked grin again. "Define stupid."
"Anything involving a football before your X-rays come back."
He groaned, leaning back against the bench. "You're the worst."
"Yeah, well, I'm the worst who keeps you breathing."
That earned a real laugh—short, careful, but real.
You stood, gathering your things, but paused before turning away.
"Need help getting to your car?"
He hesitated. "Can I ask for something else?"
You glanced back. "What?"
Tee looked down for a second, almost sheepish. "Just... sit for a minute?"
"Of course," you said softly.
You sat beside him on the bench, close but not touching. For a while, neither of you said anything. You just breathed—slowly, quietly, together.
The noise of the world could wait.
Here, in this quiet space of bruised ribs and unspoken things, Tee Higgins wasn't a star or a warrior or a wide receiver.
He was just a man. Hurting.
