One More For The Road
Feb. 15th, 2012 04:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
in_the_blueTitle: Eros Day
For:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lostinapapercup
From:in_the_blue
Canon: Battlestar Galactica
Word Count: approx. 2150
Summary: A little bit of pre-canon AU nonsense, no angst, nothing serious. Written for the prompts "Eros Day" and "Atlas Arena" on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
pyramidofdreams.
What ever prompted fans to send him so much frakking mail, he never really figured out. Sure, he was on that billboard near the Pantheon Bridge and sure, C-Bucs fans were C-Bucs fans: rabid, dedicated, vocal. He got the whole thing about being a fan of the game 'cause if he didn't, he didn't deserve to wear the uniform and play. But as much of a fan of pyramid as he was, he didn't send fan mail. Maybe it was just because he didn't have to; he knew most of the other players and besides, he didn't go to sleep dreaming about some... forward blocker for the Krill or that long lanky substitute rear guard the Wildcats picked up last year, leggy and pretty though she was. No, he was pretty godsdamn sure his own falling-asleep thoughts would be nothing but disappointing to most of his fans. He dwelt in a land of arcs and trajectories, in likelihoods and percentages, of perfect shots and games played without fouls and the right move at the right time on the right piece of turf. In his mind, there was always a pyramid game or a replay, a practice session, a strategy session. He lived and breathed his profession.
None of that negated the fact that yeah, he had a pretty face and yeah, it graced the covers of magazines and yeah, the local press had given him the dubious title of Caprica's Most Eligible Bachelor and he hated that with a passion he usually only reserved for the Tauron Bulls, but what the hell, it was part of the package. Part of what made him a popular player and when he had time he'd take a look at his fan mail and sometimes even answer a piece or two. Usually, though, he was too frakking busy working hard at improving his own game. That was if he wasn't stepping out at night to some movie premiere, a local politician's daughter or some model or whoever on his arm, like some actual local celebrity. Over here, Sam. Smile for the camera. Put your arm around her. Give us a smile. One more, one more. One more.
He was always pretty happy to oblige. Life was good. No, frak that: life was great. No matter what kind of playing shape he was in (good, better, best) there was only ever one day he dreaded getting off his ass and heading over to Atlas Arena for a game, and that was Eros Day. They always had a home game scheduled then, and it was always sold out, and the place was always frakking decked out in hearts and flowers, an abundance of pink and red that didn't go with the C-Bucs' black and scarlet and gold at all, or with the whites of their home uniforms, and there was always some frakking meet-and-greet and he always had to be one of the players to do it. Always. People wanted the team captain there, his agent told him, and it was good for his career outside of pyramid too, his manager told him, and so he did it. This year it was him and Barolay and Ten-Point and Sue-Shaun, all crowd favorites, and the first 200 lucky fans. A guy could shake a lot of hands and pose for a lot of pictures with a lot of fans in an hour's time, and it was a good thing that by the time they were done, there were still a couple hours before game time. He needed it. He had his routine and his superstitions like all ball players did, and when he and his teammates finally extricated themselves from the crowd, he was more than ready for a little downtime. Tonight's game was gonna be tough, against the always-aggressive Panthers fresh off the shuttle from his home world of Picon, and they'd promised a match.
They always did. Tonight, although he didn't say it because he never promised a win, he was feeling pretty godsdamn good. Red and pink hearts everywhere or not, fans were still allowed to love their C-Bucs and if nothing else, he knew they could put on one hell of a good show.
*
"I still can't believe you managed to score the good seats." Starbuck turned to Boomer in line, ready to file into the arena along with 35,000 other crazy pyramid fans. "Who'd you have to frak to get these?"
Boomer smiled that little none-of-your-frakking business smile of hers and shook her head. "I didn't have to frak anybody. Helo had them, but when his shore leave didn't coincide, he gave them to me. Made me promise to take someone who would appreciate going to a game, so that left you."
"For anyone else but you," Starbuck grinned, "I would've insisted on staying put at the bar as long as possible before heading in here. Makes me feel like I'm some stupid lovestruck thirteen-year-old getting to the game this early."
Sharon shrugged, weaved her willowy frame through the crowds into the arena entrance. "We can drink any time. We can drink here, too. It's Eros Day, though, and Helo said they do special decorations at the game on Eros Day. I'm supposed to report back."
"Like I said, Boomer. If it was anyone else but you." An hour before the game, just like they were new or something. "Hey," Starbuck motioned to the guy selling drinks as they took their seats -- nice ones, third row back at center field -- "a couple beers over here." If they were going to do this thing, they were going to do it right. She hadn't promised to be a quiet spectator, anything but, although she was sure from the time they'd spent together in the rec room watching games Boomer knew exactly what she was getting herself into, going to Atlas together. Frak it, they'd be lucky if she didn't dive over the divide onto the field, suit up herself, and show these frakking sorry-assed C-Bucs how to really play ball.
*
Pre-game warmup was always... well, frak it, everyone who followed the team knew he spent hours a day at Atlas practicing. Running -- he ran the stadium, up to the top tier of seats and around the upper level five times -- and back on the field stretching. Wind sprints. Practicing making goals from impossible angles all over the field, both with the inner and outer sets of plinths. Sometimes he was alone for it, sometimes his teammates joined in. Sometimes he took them on in packs: two-on-one, three-on-one, even four-on-one. He always lost those, but it was good for him. The point wasn't to win or to be better than everyone else. The point was to improve his game, and he worked hard at it. Every single day of the week, game or not, he worked hard at it. The pre-game warmup was as much for show and showmanship as anything; he'd already done the hard workout way before most of the rest of the team even opened their sorry eyes and crawled out of their nice comfortable well-appointed beds. But he loved the outdoors, loved being out in the sunshine, took to it like a fish to water, and couldn't ever lie and say he liked stowing away in the concrete bowels of Atlas Arena more than he liked being out on the field.
Today he'd done the obligatory shit, the meet-and-greet, the photo-op, the autograph signing, but it was Eros Day and a good day for whichever of his teammates to go and do more. To be good-will ambassadors, to... to show off for some lucky fans. They'd only keep up the grandstanding until about a half hour before game time, when the serious prep work began, but he walked out with Rally, tossing a ball back and forth, and he couldn't say he didn't eat it up when the crowd started to cheer and applaud. "We're not even doing anything yet," he informed the nearest fans with one of his huge patented Samuel T. Anders million-megawatt grins, but that didn't stop them from cheering him on. "You can do something with me, Sam," called out an exceptionally brave (and really pretty, he noticed) fan, and he grinned and waved and wished her a happy Eros Day, and lobbed the ball at the back of Rally's head as his teammate ran by. Little by little the rest of the team joined them on the field and little by little, they progressed around the field. Every now and then he stopped to chat to someone, and every now and then he followed the sound of his name being called out from the stands. It was good PR, and no one knew the value of good sports-star politics more than the team captain. He lived it and breathed it.
He lived it and breathed it with his eye on the clock, and with just a couple more minutes to go before that crucial half-hour mark, he tossed the ball one last time to Rally, watched his best forward blocker sprint off toward the clubhouse, and began his own way back around the periphery of the stadium, giving high-fives to the fans.
"Hey, Anders," he heard, "try not to frak things up tonight."
Just some good-natured shit from a lady in center field: he trotted over, grinning that billboard-worthy grin, and pointed to her. Some short-haired blonde with a cynical smile and the nicest eyes he'd seen in a long time. "Hey, man. Stick around after we win and tell me that again."
All around them, the crowd burst into laughter ("you tell her, Sam" and "we believe in you, Sam" and "happy Eros Day, Sam" and "want a kiss for luck, Sam?" and "you want us to stick around after too?"). He grinned, lowered his head and shook it, and was about to head back to get ready when he stopped. Looked back at the mouthy blonde and her friend, committed their seat numbers to memory, and stepped forward. "I mean it. Stick around after we win. We can have the discussion then."
He might as well play it for all it was worth, he figured.
*
"Oh, frak, me." Starbuck shook her head, stashed her ticket stub in a pocket, and stood to stretch. If she was playing, if she hadn't frakked up her knee but good, she might've been able to show those C-Bucs a thing or two. Then maybe the crowd wouldn't have had to go away so frakking disappointed at yet another home-team loss.
"So close, huh?" Boomer gathered her belongings. "At least it was still a good game."
"There's that." Mouth twisted into a half-grimace, Starbuck glanced back at the field. No celebrating into the wee hours of Eros Day here. "You want to hit The Galleon with me? A little post-game commiseration?"
"Sure." Bag slung over her shoulder they started down the row, only to be held up by one of the security guards.
"Hold on, ladies" he told them, one finger covering an earpiece. "Just one moment, please." He nodded at whatever conversation was happening in his ear; Starbuck sighed and rolled her eyes. "Yes, we've got it. All taken care of."
Starbuck shrugged at Boomer, who seemed equally befuddled. Neither of them had drunk that much, and neither of them had been any louder than any other fans, or any more vocal in their disapproval at the game's outcome. When a second guard neared, envelope in hand, the first guard nodded toward her.
"Here you go." And just like that, the powers that be manning Atlas Arena disappeared back into the crowd.
"What is it?" Sharon looked over, as curious as a child.
"Frak if I know." Never one to be delicate, Starbuck ripped open the envelope, pulled out a piece of paper, read it, and laughed. For good measure she read it again before handing it over to Boomer.
And now you know why I never promise a win. Hey, we tried. Next time don't be such a beautiful distraction and we might stand a better chance. I'd write you an Eros Day poem, but I suck at those as much as I sucked at scoring a winning goal tonight, so I'd better quit while I still have a little dignity. See you around sometime. --T.
Grabbing it back, Starbuck folded the note and tucked it away in her pants pocket. "Don't frakking look at me that way, Boomer. It is not my fault they lost tonight. Frakkers can't pass, can't shoot, and they sure as hell can't take the point. Distraction my ass."
Sharon just grinned. "I can't take you anywhere."
For:
lostinapapercupFrom:
in_the_blueCanon: Battlestar Galactica
Word Count: approx. 2150
Summary: A little bit of pre-canon AU nonsense, no angst, nothing serious. Written for the prompts "Eros Day" and "Atlas Arena" on
pyramidofdreams.What ever prompted fans to send him so much frakking mail, he never really figured out. Sure, he was on that billboard near the Pantheon Bridge and sure, C-Bucs fans were C-Bucs fans: rabid, dedicated, vocal. He got the whole thing about being a fan of the game 'cause if he didn't, he didn't deserve to wear the uniform and play. But as much of a fan of pyramid as he was, he didn't send fan mail. Maybe it was just because he didn't have to; he knew most of the other players and besides, he didn't go to sleep dreaming about some... forward blocker for the Krill or that long lanky substitute rear guard the Wildcats picked up last year, leggy and pretty though she was. No, he was pretty godsdamn sure his own falling-asleep thoughts would be nothing but disappointing to most of his fans. He dwelt in a land of arcs and trajectories, in likelihoods and percentages, of perfect shots and games played without fouls and the right move at the right time on the right piece of turf. In his mind, there was always a pyramid game or a replay, a practice session, a strategy session. He lived and breathed his profession.
None of that negated the fact that yeah, he had a pretty face and yeah, it graced the covers of magazines and yeah, the local press had given him the dubious title of Caprica's Most Eligible Bachelor and he hated that with a passion he usually only reserved for the Tauron Bulls, but what the hell, it was part of the package. Part of what made him a popular player and when he had time he'd take a look at his fan mail and sometimes even answer a piece or two. Usually, though, he was too frakking busy working hard at improving his own game. That was if he wasn't stepping out at night to some movie premiere, a local politician's daughter or some model or whoever on his arm, like some actual local celebrity. Over here, Sam. Smile for the camera. Put your arm around her. Give us a smile. One more, one more. One more.
He was always pretty happy to oblige. Life was good. No, frak that: life was great. No matter what kind of playing shape he was in (good, better, best) there was only ever one day he dreaded getting off his ass and heading over to Atlas Arena for a game, and that was Eros Day. They always had a home game scheduled then, and it was always sold out, and the place was always frakking decked out in hearts and flowers, an abundance of pink and red that didn't go with the C-Bucs' black and scarlet and gold at all, or with the whites of their home uniforms, and there was always some frakking meet-and-greet and he always had to be one of the players to do it. Always. People wanted the team captain there, his agent told him, and it was good for his career outside of pyramid too, his manager told him, and so he did it. This year it was him and Barolay and Ten-Point and Sue-Shaun, all crowd favorites, and the first 200 lucky fans. A guy could shake a lot of hands and pose for a lot of pictures with a lot of fans in an hour's time, and it was a good thing that by the time they were done, there were still a couple hours before game time. He needed it. He had his routine and his superstitions like all ball players did, and when he and his teammates finally extricated themselves from the crowd, he was more than ready for a little downtime. Tonight's game was gonna be tough, against the always-aggressive Panthers fresh off the shuttle from his home world of Picon, and they'd promised a match.
They always did. Tonight, although he didn't say it because he never promised a win, he was feeling pretty godsdamn good. Red and pink hearts everywhere or not, fans were still allowed to love their C-Bucs and if nothing else, he knew they could put on one hell of a good show.
*
"I still can't believe you managed to score the good seats." Starbuck turned to Boomer in line, ready to file into the arena along with 35,000 other crazy pyramid fans. "Who'd you have to frak to get these?"
Boomer smiled that little none-of-your-frakking business smile of hers and shook her head. "I didn't have to frak anybody. Helo had them, but when his shore leave didn't coincide, he gave them to me. Made me promise to take someone who would appreciate going to a game, so that left you."
"For anyone else but you," Starbuck grinned, "I would've insisted on staying put at the bar as long as possible before heading in here. Makes me feel like I'm some stupid lovestruck thirteen-year-old getting to the game this early."
Sharon shrugged, weaved her willowy frame through the crowds into the arena entrance. "We can drink any time. We can drink here, too. It's Eros Day, though, and Helo said they do special decorations at the game on Eros Day. I'm supposed to report back."
"Like I said, Boomer. If it was anyone else but you." An hour before the game, just like they were new or something. "Hey," Starbuck motioned to the guy selling drinks as they took their seats -- nice ones, third row back at center field -- "a couple beers over here." If they were going to do this thing, they were going to do it right. She hadn't promised to be a quiet spectator, anything but, although she was sure from the time they'd spent together in the rec room watching games Boomer knew exactly what she was getting herself into, going to Atlas together. Frak it, they'd be lucky if she didn't dive over the divide onto the field, suit up herself, and show these frakking sorry-assed C-Bucs how to really play ball.
*
Pre-game warmup was always... well, frak it, everyone who followed the team knew he spent hours a day at Atlas practicing. Running -- he ran the stadium, up to the top tier of seats and around the upper level five times -- and back on the field stretching. Wind sprints. Practicing making goals from impossible angles all over the field, both with the inner and outer sets of plinths. Sometimes he was alone for it, sometimes his teammates joined in. Sometimes he took them on in packs: two-on-one, three-on-one, even four-on-one. He always lost those, but it was good for him. The point wasn't to win or to be better than everyone else. The point was to improve his game, and he worked hard at it. Every single day of the week, game or not, he worked hard at it. The pre-game warmup was as much for show and showmanship as anything; he'd already done the hard workout way before most of the rest of the team even opened their sorry eyes and crawled out of their nice comfortable well-appointed beds. But he loved the outdoors, loved being out in the sunshine, took to it like a fish to water, and couldn't ever lie and say he liked stowing away in the concrete bowels of Atlas Arena more than he liked being out on the field.
Today he'd done the obligatory shit, the meet-and-greet, the photo-op, the autograph signing, but it was Eros Day and a good day for whichever of his teammates to go and do more. To be good-will ambassadors, to... to show off for some lucky fans. They'd only keep up the grandstanding until about a half hour before game time, when the serious prep work began, but he walked out with Rally, tossing a ball back and forth, and he couldn't say he didn't eat it up when the crowd started to cheer and applaud. "We're not even doing anything yet," he informed the nearest fans with one of his huge patented Samuel T. Anders million-megawatt grins, but that didn't stop them from cheering him on. "You can do something with me, Sam," called out an exceptionally brave (and really pretty, he noticed) fan, and he grinned and waved and wished her a happy Eros Day, and lobbed the ball at the back of Rally's head as his teammate ran by. Little by little the rest of the team joined them on the field and little by little, they progressed around the field. Every now and then he stopped to chat to someone, and every now and then he followed the sound of his name being called out from the stands. It was good PR, and no one knew the value of good sports-star politics more than the team captain. He lived it and breathed it.
He lived it and breathed it with his eye on the clock, and with just a couple more minutes to go before that crucial half-hour mark, he tossed the ball one last time to Rally, watched his best forward blocker sprint off toward the clubhouse, and began his own way back around the periphery of the stadium, giving high-fives to the fans.
"Hey, Anders," he heard, "try not to frak things up tonight."
Just some good-natured shit from a lady in center field: he trotted over, grinning that billboard-worthy grin, and pointed to her. Some short-haired blonde with a cynical smile and the nicest eyes he'd seen in a long time. "Hey, man. Stick around after we win and tell me that again."
All around them, the crowd burst into laughter ("you tell her, Sam" and "we believe in you, Sam" and "happy Eros Day, Sam" and "want a kiss for luck, Sam?" and "you want us to stick around after too?"). He grinned, lowered his head and shook it, and was about to head back to get ready when he stopped. Looked back at the mouthy blonde and her friend, committed their seat numbers to memory, and stepped forward. "I mean it. Stick around after we win. We can have the discussion then."
He might as well play it for all it was worth, he figured.
*
"Oh, frak, me." Starbuck shook her head, stashed her ticket stub in a pocket, and stood to stretch. If she was playing, if she hadn't frakked up her knee but good, she might've been able to show those C-Bucs a thing or two. Then maybe the crowd wouldn't have had to go away so frakking disappointed at yet another home-team loss.
"So close, huh?" Boomer gathered her belongings. "At least it was still a good game."
"There's that." Mouth twisted into a half-grimace, Starbuck glanced back at the field. No celebrating into the wee hours of Eros Day here. "You want to hit The Galleon with me? A little post-game commiseration?"
"Sure." Bag slung over her shoulder they started down the row, only to be held up by one of the security guards.
"Hold on, ladies" he told them, one finger covering an earpiece. "Just one moment, please." He nodded at whatever conversation was happening in his ear; Starbuck sighed and rolled her eyes. "Yes, we've got it. All taken care of."
Starbuck shrugged at Boomer, who seemed equally befuddled. Neither of them had drunk that much, and neither of them had been any louder than any other fans, or any more vocal in their disapproval at the game's outcome. When a second guard neared, envelope in hand, the first guard nodded toward her.
"Here you go." And just like that, the powers that be manning Atlas Arena disappeared back into the crowd.
"What is it?" Sharon looked over, as curious as a child.
"Frak if I know." Never one to be delicate, Starbuck ripped open the envelope, pulled out a piece of paper, read it, and laughed. For good measure she read it again before handing it over to Boomer.
And now you know why I never promise a win. Hey, we tried. Next time don't be such a beautiful distraction and we might stand a better chance. I'd write you an Eros Day poem, but I suck at those as much as I sucked at scoring a winning goal tonight, so I'd better quit while I still have a little dignity. See you around sometime. --T.
Grabbing it back, Starbuck folded the note and tucked it away in her pants pocket. "Don't frakking look at me that way, Boomer. It is not my fault they lost tonight. Frakkers can't pass, can't shoot, and they sure as hell can't take the point. Distraction my ass."
Sharon just grinned. "I can't take you anywhere."
