C'est La Vie

HIM: Niall James Horan. Irish. Boyband member. My best friend. The guy I am hopelessly in love with. All rolled up into one.
ME: Maxime Adelina Mercer. American, but of French descent (cue to my name, in case you couldn’t tell). Personal trainer/physical therapist for previously mentioned boyband. Eternally friendzoned.

Will Niall ever see me as more than just a friend? Or is this just the life I'm destined to live? Being friendzoned by the boy who means more than the world to me.

Find out more in "C'est La Vie"

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1. Sorry Not Sorry

 

-MAX’S POV-

“Fuck you Max.”

“Oh you’d like that wouldn’t you, you little Irish fucker. Now sit still dammit.”

“Your accent is so annoying.”

“Yeah well your face is annoying.”

“Millions of Directioners would beg to differ my dear so you can just—ow!”

“I told you to sit still you shithead!”

HIM: Niall James Horan. Irish. Boyband member. My best friend. The guy I am hopelessly in love with. All rolled up into one.

ME: Maxime Adelina Mercer. American, but of French descent (cue to my name, in case you couldn’t tell). Personal trainer/physical therapist for previously mentioned boyband. Eternally friendzoned.

I used to be a first class fuck up on the straight and narrow path to Fuckland. I just barely managed to graduate high school, only passing my final exams by bribing a couple nerds who adored me for some insane reason. Right out of high school I was recruited to play soccer at UCLA, and they wanted me so damn bad they set aside my shitty GPA. I had already picked out the decorations for my dorm room when I had to go and REALLY fuck up. Even if UCLA was willing to set aside my bad grades in order to acquire my amazing soccer skills (I’m not bragging! Oh wait, yes I am), they couldn’t exactly ignore it when I got thrown in jail.

Yep you read me right.

Jail.

Me.

In it.

Yupp.

It wasn’t even a big deal though! I mean, so what if I beat up some skank that I caught making out with MY boyfriend at MY ‘departing-for-university-so-let’s-get-wasted’ party? And so what if I was drunk out of my mind and under the legal age limit to drink alcohol in the United States? And so what if when the cops busted us they found weed in the guest room? That’s not that bad right?

Okay yeah, it’s pretty damn bad. But hey, what can you do?

So long story short, after my lovely night spent in a dusty jail cell, UCLA said ‘Haha Max no more school or soccer for you!’ and my parents said ‘Haha Max no more house for you!’ and my friends said ‘Haha Max no more friends for you!’ and Life said ‘Haha Max sucks for you!’

Well you know what I said right back to Life?

FUCK YOU.

That’s right.

I went there.

Come at me bitch.

So instead of moping about, begging my friends and parents to take me back underneath their wing, or for UCLA to let me back in, I threw my middle finger up in the air, shouted out ‘Deuces sluts!’ and made my merry way back to France.

Oh yeah, I’m from France originally. That’s where ‘Maxime Adeline’ comes from. My parents moved out to America when I was nine though, so the only thing French about me now is my name and the way I like to kiss.

Fortunately I had this grumpy old great-aunt who still lived out there, so I took all the money out of my savings account and jumped on the first flight to Valbonne, France. I stayed with her a month or so just fucking around, going to French clubs and parties, drinking my ass off without fear of getting arrested (hell yeah lower drinking age limit motherfuckers!), that kind of thing. Then it finally dawned on me that I did need to get a job of some sort.

Ugh.

Fucking responsibilities.

So I sat down and thought to myself, ‘Hmm. What do I like to do and how can I make a career out of it?’

Well. I like to play soccer. And I also like to…

Erm…

Uh…

Shit, that’s all I like to do? Well doesn’t that just blow massive chunks of unicorn rainbow shit. I can’t get a job out of that!

But wait! There was hope for me after all. Coincidentally enough, a local physical therapy clinic was looking for amateur personal trainers!

Personal trainer? I could do that shit! So I went in, signed some forms, bada bing bada boom, I was hired! A couple months passed and I considered myself an experienced personal trainer and had even been doing some physical therapy clinics too. Things were looking up for me for once: I was back in my home country, my French was getting even more fluent than it already had been, I had a job I enjoyed, a few boyfriends I liked well enough.

It was great!

Then Life had to go and shit on my parade.

So I may have possibly gotten caught making out with a patient in the clinic when I was supposed to be taping his high ankle sprain...

Whoops.

Sorry not sorry!

And even though my boss Collette loved me very, very much, she still had to fire me. Sad day.

Luckily for me though, Collette had just been contacted by a very large music label looking for a personal trainer/physical therapist to tour all over the world with some band they didn’t want to name at that time. And since Collette still had some mercy on my poor, innocent soul she sent my name to the people who had contacted her!

And they offered me the job.

Um…

HELL YEAH FUCKING RIGHT! Travelling the world? Doing easy shit like handing out icepacks and taping up ankles? Not to mention getting to hang out with a band and seeing concerts for free on a regular basis?

SIGN ME THE FUCK UP.

And so they did. I later learned that the band was none other than One Direction (of course I knew who they were, I mean you’d have to be living under a rock not to have seen pictures and gifs of those sexy motherfuckers). I’d only heard a couple of their songs at that point in time and I wasn’t a crazy fangirl or anything, so it was cool.

One month later I said goodbye to my boyfriends, my aunt, and Collette before flying out to London (first class mind you – Syco don’t settle for less than the best ya dig?) to meet up with five boys who would change my whole world.

We quickly became best friends, Louis, Zayn, Harry, Liam, Niall, and I. They liked my ‘I don’t give a single fuck if you’re a sexy foreign motherfucker you don’t mess with me’ attitude, and I liked the fact that they were sexy foreign motherfuckers. We all clicked instantly, but it was different for Niall and I.

I’m not sure if it was his Irish accent, or his adorable grin, or his contagious laugh that could liven up a room in a matter of seconds, but something about Niall got me hooked. My friendship with him was much deeper than with the other boys, and everyone knew it. I went to Niall for everything. He was my rock, and I was his. When there was a dispute between him and the boys, I settled it. When he missed his family so much it hurt, I was there to give him a hug. When the stress of the limelight became too much for him, I was the one to drag him to the clubs so we could get totally plastered together.

I’m not quite sure exactly when I fell in love with him.

However, I’m absolutely positive of when I became eternally friendzoned.

It was a Monday evening, and Niall, Louis, Harry, and I were shopping at some mall in Manchester. The paps were at our heels, but I’d been touring with the boys for three months at this point so I was used to it. I’m not even ashamed to admit that I kind of liked seeing my name in the papers whenever I was spotted out with the boys.

Either way, as the paps were shouting at the four of us during our shopping escapade, Niall suddenly started laughing uncontrollably. Louis and Harry were just as confused as I was, so I finally turned to Niall and said, “Yo. Leprachaun. The fuck is wrong with you?”

I’m the best friend ever, I swear.

Niall just kept laughing for the longest time though. Finally, he managed to spit out a reply  I’ll never forget.

“That pap just asked if it was true you were pregnant with my child! How fucking dumb is that, like me and you would ever be a couple!”

Ouch.

Yepp.

That cracking sound you just heard? Yeah that was my heart breaking.

But did I let Niall know that? Fuck no. I pursed my lips into a smile and said, “Yeah that’s pretty stupid.”

That was five months ago. So I’ve been with One Direction for eight months total now, and I’m still hopelessly in love with Niall. Nobody knows or suspects it though. I’m like a damn ninja with my feelings yo. I suppose I could have confronted Niall about my feelings for him, but in all honesty, I would rather be friendzoned forever than lose him by being honest.

Pssh. Honesty is so overrated.

So that’s how I ended up here! In a random room at Sheffield Arena, taping up Niall Horan’s knee because the little idiot I called my best friend had gone and hyperextended it (yet again) from doing one of his fancy little jumps onstage.

Wow that was one long ass backstory.

Eh, sorry not sorry.

“You know Max, you don’t have to wrap it that tight!” Niall whined, biting his lip as I tightly wrapped the white medical tape around the back of his knee yet again just like Collette had taught me back in Valbonne.

My heart wasn’t racing at our close proximity.

My palms weren’t sweaty over the fact that I was touching his bare skin.

My breathing didn’t get shallow when he randomly reached out and tucked a strand of my long brown hair behind my ear that had been falling in front of my face.

No, not at all.

“Niall would you shut the hell up please? Knowing you and your idiotic tendencies, if I don’t wrap it this tight then you’ll probably just hurt it even more!” I ripped the final piece of tape and sat it down on the table Niall was sitting upon with an exasperated sigh. I looked up at Niall’s flawless face and sighed. “Niall I know I’ve said this a million times, but you really need to have that surgery for your ACL.”

Niall just rolled his eyes and chuckled. “Yeah you’re right Max… you have said that a million times. And for the millionth time, not until tour is over.” He smirked at me and I rolled my eyes right back at him.

“You’re a dumbass Horan.”

“And you love me for it Maxime.”

You’re right, I do love you.

With that, Niall jumped off the table and kissed my forehead before limping off to join the other boys for the rest of their rehearsals.

“Dammit Irish, how many times have I asked you to stop calling me Maxime?!” I shouted after him.

His laughter drifted away from me and I heard him call back, “Whatever you say, Maxime!

I chuckled and began putting away the medical supplies I had pulled out for Niall’s knee. I really was concerned about that; he’d torn his ACL way back before I even joined the crew, yet refused to have the surgery because it would surely keep him off the stage for at least a couple months. His dedication to his fans was admirable, but he was suffering for them in the process.

As I finished cleaning up, I jumped up on the table where Niall had been previously sitting and exhaled a deep breath.

I’ve become so different and yet somehow managed to stay the same over the past eight months. Zayn, Liam, Louis, Harry, and Niall had honestly changed my life for the better. Those boys were my family now, and I loved them.

But one of them I loved just a little bit more.

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