Jason Todd Centered Fanfic
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“ You block like a fuckin’ girl. Hit me harder.”
Jason Todd weaves through his teammates and plunks down on a bench as he ties his cleats tighter—stupid things. What used to be a fierce red is now a faded pink from a year of abuse and heavy wear. Three more games–guaranteed games– until his sophomore season comes to a close. A season of raw grit and blood. He spits on the turf and reaches for a water bottle.
“ C’mon, Jay. Slackin’ is a bad look.” Golden boy, team captain, Richard Grayson. Squinting down at him with mock sternness before his eyes crinkle into one of his dumbass smiles. “ Drop down and give me twenty.”
Jason scoffs but pushes to his feet anyway. Despite all of Dicks bullshit, he sure knows how to encourage. Not that Jason would ever tell him that.
“ Not slacking. I stay out here later than all of you, anyway.” Jason huffs again and starts marching towards his blocking drills with the rest of the defense. He glances towards Headcoach, Bruce Wayne. Established and notorious for his winning streaks, stealthy offense, and smart plays. His father–adoptive.
Bruce doesn’t spare him a glance as he works with offense. Good. People suspect Jason gets special treatment for having his rich daddy coach his team, but if anything, it's the opposite. He’s had to work twice as hard to earn so much as a nod from the guy. He spent half of freshman year benched for attitude, and the other half for simply not being good enough. This year was supposed to be a turnaround, but Jason does admit he has an explosive reputation. Arguing with refs and cheap fouls have cost their team yards in crucial moments, which Bruce says “is a weak mind that makes a weak player.”
Whatever the hell that means.
He glances over at Dick again, his stupidly goofy attitude sobering up as he crosses his arms, mimicking Bruce’s stance as he chats with the head coaches. Dick’s always had it figured out, filling in Bruce’s legacy as the Gotham Knights QB. He's put in work, sure, but it’s always come naturally to him. He’s got a promising future, scouts breathing down his neck to be drafted in the NFL, a strong legacy, and an even stronger bond with his coaches. He’s not a liability, and he's certainly not a waste of anyone's time. Richard Grayson knows exactly who he is, and he’s got the stats to back himself up. Jason feels something ugly twist in his chest at the thought of Dick moving on to bigger and flashier things next year while Jason is still here. Fighting his father for an ounce of playing time and a sliver of respect.
Jason’s always felt the need to prove himself. The scrappy kid from a poor childhood, doomed for a life like his parents'. Sad, lonely, and definitely not sober. Bruce gave him a second chance, but lately it feels like he hasn’t had a choice at all. Benched throughout his College seasons, and then that's it for him, no more ball. Bruce knows damn well Jason’s the best defensive lineman they have, but his stubbornness is almost as big as his ego. They do things Bruce’s way, or nothing at all.
Jason’s feet stop in front of two knuckleheads, Miguel and Liam, who are already running the drill without him. Duke clasps a hand on his shoulder. Another charity case kid, who Bruce gave a scholarship to be here. And a good investment at that, he's a damn good safety. Duke’s all bright smiles too, it’s normally infuriating, but Jason still feels like an asshole for squirming out of his grip. Duke is explaining the drill with his hands on his hips. Jason tunes out; he's done this one thousand times before. He takes his place on the line and rolls his shoulders, staring one of his teammates dead in the eyes.
Three more games. Then the conference championship.
Jason plunks down in front of the main computer in the film room, eyes squinting as he replays clips from the whole season. He’s not worried about the Midwestern Tigers. They’re washed aside from their running back. And he knows they could beat the Brawlers easily. It’s the championship he's unsure about.
The Metropolis Bulldogs. Gotham Knight’s rival team is currently fighting for its top spot in its conference. He’s squinting at their own film before he switches gears, typing in his opposite team’s film. Number 8 is their absolute unit of a QB. His arm is insanely good, and his build is solid. Massive guy, definitely over 220 pounds. Last year, Jason remembered him vaguely, playing only at the beginning of their game, while Jason sat on the bench. Starting as a sophomore was impressive enough. The bulldogs had screamed every time he threw an insane dot and chanted “Prime Time!”
Footsteps approach from behind him, and he checks over his shoulder before clicking out of the tab.
“ Don’t psyche yourself out. We’ve got this in the bag.” Dick pulls up a chair, much to Jason’s dismay, and peeks over his shoulder.
“ I’m not. Just doing some research. Don’t act like you don’t watch film every time you get a second alone?”
Dick laughs at that and leans his head on his hand, propping his elbow up on the desk. “True that. Just don’t burn yourself out-”
“ Fuck off, Dickface.” Jason shoves his brother out of his space, huffing in amusement as he teeters back and his rollie-chair slides backwards. Dick scoots up again, looking like an idiot as he scrunches his lips up and throws his head back.
“ Seriously. Listen to my advice. Next year, when I’m gone, you’re gonna be all like,” He furrows his eyebrows and ruffles his middle part to imitate Jason’s bangs as he gruffly mimics him, “ I’m so, so lonely without my older brother here to give me advice. If only I had cherished him and his incredible wisdom-”
Jason punches him again, and Dick raises his hands with a laugh, “Alright, alright. I’ll leave you alone. Don’t stay up too late.”
Despite Jason’s middle finger towards the door, he clicks off the light at a reasonable time and heads for his apartment.
Just as he suspected, they won their next two games.
And not like he suspected, he didn’t play a minute in the last one. He had thrown his helmet to the ground and sneered as the team celebrated. Even the low-tier benchers that haven't touched the field aside from practices were flooding towards their established QB, grabbing the ice cooler to dunk over Bruce as the crowds go wild. Miguel, the absolute unit of a wide receiver, steps past him, spitting on the ground and sniffing, wiping at his face and smearing eyeblack all over his white away jersey.
“ Hey. We won, Todd.” He laughs, and a group of his friends joins in, as if he were expecting Jason to loosen up or something
Well, that comment has the opposite effect, because Jason just turns sharply and heads towards the locker room. He shoulder checks a cheerful and oblivious Roy Harper, a defensive back, who played the whole game. Roy turns and calls after him.
“ Cmon, Jay. At least come celebrate with us after?”
Jason pretends not to hear as he undoes his gloves, throwing them to the floor. The only sound is his cleats crunching against the concrete as he stomps away.
Fuck Bruce and fuck this.
He adjusts his pads and ruffles his hair out of his face. Last guaranteed game of the season, and he’s far less excited than he’d expected. This whole season flopped, and their last game sealed his humiliation. Coach's son, benched the entire game.
The locker room is chaos and chatter, guys laughing and goofing off all around him. Then he lays eyes on Dick, staring at his helmet as he mutters under his breath. Despite his cool exterior, Jason can feel the nerves radiating off of him. It’s the little things, the tight draw of his shoulders, the wrinkling of his nose, and the fact that he’s keeping to himself instead of with his friends. Jason rolls his eyes as he approaches, leaning against the cubby as he raises his brows.
Dick exhales a laugh. “Just…thinking. Last high-stakes game in this jersey, you know?”
Jason wrinkles his nose and shakes his head, but there's no bite. “ Just don’t choke. I didn’t bust my ass all season for you to fuck up.”
That earns a smile from Dick. Jason's tough way of saying he believes in him. Dick reaches out his hand to clasp it with Jason’s, doing a tough bro-hug.
“ We’ve got it.” Jason finds himself muttering.
“ In the bag.” Dick grins.
Jason uses the walkout to try and quelm his nerves, staring down the other team as they warm up. And there he is in the flesh, the tank, number 8. *“Prime Time.”* Gross, his ego could be smelled from miles away. The way he parades about and always has a pack of guys following him. Overrated. Metropolis gets in a circle and starts chanting, with him leading it. Something about “Men of Steel” and other dumb shit. Duke widens his eyes and presses his lips together, motioning towards the herd with his thumb.
“ A bit overkill. Don’t you think?” And Jason just nods in return, eyes not leaving that arrogant, beast of a player.
He doesn’t start again, reduced to sitting in his signature spot and glowering as the game kicks off. It’s a close one, and the most stressful to watch. Metropolis hands out cheap fouls frequently, and the ref only calls it half the time. He finds himself standing and screaming at those smooth-brained refs until Bruce shoots him an icy stare that shuts him up.
The head coaches are stressed, scribbling in their clipboards and whispering among each other. His gear starts to weigh him down, his heavy pads and helmet feeling more like a burden than an honor. “School pride” has never meant shit to Jason. He couldn’t give a damn how the team does if he plays like shit. He represents himself and himself only. No matter how many times Bruce has tried to drill it through his head, he will never try to fill the shoes Bruce left a long time ago. Big shoes to fill, and he doesn’t even want to try. Red-hot resentment floods through his veins and pumps through his heart. He feels disappointment bubble in his gut as he watches the Knights’ defense get run around by the Bulldogs. They finally switch to offense, and he sees Grayson, hands on his hips as he scans the field. He wonders what he thinks before he has to do game making plays. Or how he feels after.
Must be pretty great being him. The team worships him, along with the coaches. He’s even glazed by other schools. During team trips, some of the guys bet on who will get asked for their socials by the most girls, and Dick always wins. But he’s got that part of his life figured out, too. After every home game, his high school *sweetheart*, Kori, will rush to sweep him up in a hug and kiss. Nice girl.
I mean, who wouldn’t love the guy? He’s friendly and talented. He’s kind, funny, and has a certain air to him that people just eat up. He pleases people just the right amount that most would do anything for him. He’s respected and a total goof, notorious for being the “best at kegstands” out of all the guys. He’s easygoing and pleasant, everything Jason isn’t. He’s soft around the edges and never could dream of getting game suspensions or getting told off in front of the team by Bruce. As much as it pisses Jason off, he can’t help but look up to the guy.
Gotham University’s Golden Boy.
It’s not until the third quarter that Bruce waves Jason down and points, muttering a game plan and slapping him on the back. Fucking finally. He takes out his anger on the stupid Metropolis players and tries as hard as he can. But it's no use. They’re tied, and time is ticking out. Metropolis is relentless, and probably the toughest team they’ve played all year. It doesn’t help that their student section is chanting that stupid Prime chant, along with their bench. Gosh, how did that corny shit even stick?
Bruce calls a timeout, and he's wracking his pen on his clipboard as he yells the switch in formations. Grayson’s pushing through the defense huddle and wiping at his forehead, his eyeblack smeared all down his face.
“ Bruce. Put me on defense.”
All eyes turn towards him, some wincing and some hopeful. He starts arguing his case, wasting their valuable seconds, and Bruce stares at his clipboard before scribbling and sighing.
“Surez. You’re off. Grayson, free safety.”
They break, and Jason spares a glance at Dick’s determined face. It’s all or nothing. Even if he’s frustrated at Bruce, he’d never let that get in the way of his performance. This could be Dick’s last college game. Granted, he’ll be in the NFL next year, but Jason won’t let him end his college career on this note. Bruce be damned, Jason’ll score a touchdown on his own if he has to.
Gotham plays smart, but Metropolis plays dirty.
Jason manages to bite his tongue as refs ignore every cheap tackle or dumb move done by their rivals. He nods at Roy as they get on the line and fight back. They’re running out of time, and his muscles are aching. He’s adjusting his mouthguard with his mouth and sizes up number 8. That stupid arrogant prick is rolling his neck, waving at the sidelines as the crowd screams and chants.
*“ Prime! Prime! Prime! It’s **Prime Time!**”*
Jason grits his teeth. The play starts, and he tries hard to stay with the guy he’s guarding. The crowd roars, and blood rushes to his ears as the whistle blows. They’re forced back a few yards, no biggie. The whistle blows again, and the play is quick and hard to follow. He whips his head around, and his heart drops in his chest as Dick’s blocked by two guys, buckling.
Jason doesn’t need to see the flag go up to know that was a foul. The shrill of the whistle is muted as he pushes through the guys crowding him. Trainers and Bruce are running over, horror etched across Bruce’s normally stoic face. He crouches and sees Dick’s eyes screw shut. He’s hyperventilating and clutching at his knee, waving people back. Jason gets in his face anyway.
“ What the hell happened?” He demands roughly, his hands shaking and his voice barking out harsher than he means.
No. Absolutely not. Now, of all the times for Dick to flake out on them.
His brother’s voice is shaky as he grits out from clenched teeth.
“ I can’t feel it. I can’t-” He looks so small, sprawled on the floor, jersey all scuffed up.
The trainer stoops next to him and immediately pulls his helmet off. He’s crying and wiping at his face, his eyeblack smearing all down his face, and his tears cutting through his eyeblack. The great Richard Grayson was reduced to tears and humiliated all at the hands of some so-called “Men of Steel.”
Jason pushes to his feet and whips his head around, staring at the guy who did this. The guy who might have cost Dick his season just for a cheap move. He’s sick of this and their bullshit, moving on instinct as he whips his helmet off, throwing it behind him as he approaches.
“ What the fuck was that, huh?”
The guy raises his hands and steps back as Jason gets all up in his face, shoving his chest, and he squints.
“ Chill, dude. It’s just a game. I didn’t mean-”
The guy is abruptly cut off as Jason's hand grips the front of his helmet, pulling him closer and pointing.
“ Your cheap shit cost my brother-”
There are hands on him, yanking him backwards. People are yelling and shouting for him to calm down. Roy’s strong hands on his shoulder tug him back, and he's in his face, frantically pushing him backwards and shaking his head, but Jason doesn’t hear any of it. The thunder of the crowd is taunting as it assaults his ears. He's exhaling and balling his fists as the asshole shrugs and calls out.
“ He shouldn’t have been on defense. Just sayin,”
Jason breaks free of Roy’s grip, and he's swinging before he can register his movements. His fists connect with the guy's helmet, his head snapping back on impact. The crowd is screaming as bodies get in between him and the perpetrator. Ref’s are screaming at him, and he already knows the rules. He knows he’s ejected. But he doesn’t care one bit.
He watches as Dick is lifted off the field in a stretcher, and he spits, kicking his helmet as he’s told off by refs and forced to leave immediately. The screaming in the stadium might as well be boo’s and jeers, as he carries his heavy feet to the locker room, crossing his arms with his head low.
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