Lalala I'm only three days behind now...
Dec. 13th, 2004 06:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
anotherusedpageWarning for RPS. Rating G.
*
'Where are we going?' Fabregas asked for the fourth time. ‘And are we nearly there yet?’
Reyes muttered something under his breath in Spanish. It must have been faintly insulting, because Fabregas stuck his tongue out. The other players exchanged amused glances. On the pitch, Fabregas didn’t often give them cause to remember his youth – he was more even-tempered and less erratic than many of his elders, he trained as tirelessly as anyone, and if he was occasionally called inexperienced, he was never called immature. Usually, his youth showed only in the energy of his legs.
He was putting this to use now by kicking the back of the seat in front of him.
Wenger quirked an eyebrow, in a characteristic expression that most of his players now recognised as his nearest equivalent to a smile.
‘I told you, it’s extra training. Special training. There’s a big match ahead of us, I thought we’d all benefit from this.’
‘From what?’
‘You’ll see. We’re nearly there.’
Fabregas wiggled in his seat, and then resumed his kicking. Bergkamp, in the seat in front of him, gritted his teeth and pointedly ignored him. He had the look of intense calm on his face that they usually only saw three seconds before Wenger subbed him off so he couldn’t pick up the red card he was asking for.
Ljungberg shook his head.
‘Cesc, stop that,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a headache.’
There was a moment of dead silence. Ljungberg sighed and bit his tongue.
I’m fine. No really, totally fine, he didn’t say to Wenger and the entire team. Sorry. I know I let everyone down. I’m sorry. He didn’t say that either.
‘Everyone’s just a little bit on edge,’ Wenger said. ‘It’s a big game. Not so big as Wednesday’s, but big enough.’
There was silence. Right that moment, it felt like the biggest game of the season. Nothing depended on it, not really, not yet. But it still mattered, at the level of gut instinct.
‘Here we are,’ said Wenger as the coach juddered to a halt. Fabregas pressed his nose up against the window.
‘It’s a sports centre,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘I thought you were joking about the extra training.’
Wenger quirked an eyebrow.
‘I never joke,’ he said.
They piled out of the coach, and followed Wenger into the building. The place was deserted.
It was a sports centre, yes. But the sport in question wasn’t football. Brightly coloured lights flashed everywhere, and tinny pop music blared.
‘Oooooh,’ said Cole with a grin. ‘Bowling!’
Reyes frowned. ‘Bowling?’
‘You know, bowling,’ Cole said. ‘You role the ball at the skittles, try and knock them all down.’ His eyes shone like a kid on Christmas morning. ‘I’m good at this!’
‘We went bowling for his birthday, once,’ Pires said. Henry chuckled at the memory.
‘He beat us all hollow. It was embarrassing,’ he said. Cole laughed.
‘Robert bowls like he dribbles,’ he said. ‘The ball kinda veers crazily from side to side and then stops somewhere unexpected.’ Pires punched him affectionately on the arm. ‘Titti, on the other hand…’
‘Thierry tends to make it bounce,’ Pires sniggered.
‘I’m scared of dropping it too near my feet,’ Henry admitted. ‘I saw a kid break a toe like that once. Can you imagine that? Out for six weeks cos of a bowling accident.’
‘Last thing we need,’ Pires agreed.
‘It’s not going to happen,’ Wenger said. ‘Take your shoes off.’ He’d already stepped out of his own.
‘You’re going to play?’ Fabregas said.
‘Of course,’ Wenger said.
‘Cool!’ Reyes said.
‘I think…’ Pires said with a raised eyebrow.
‘I think we’re going to watch,’ Henry finished for him. ‘Besides, I’m sure the shoes won’t come up big enough.’
‘That’s no excuse,’ Cole complained. ‘They even have shoes big enough for Sol.’
*
‘Strike!’ Cole crowed. Reyes, who was losing, shook his head disgustedly.
‘How do you do that?’ he said. Cole put an arm around his shoulder.
‘Sometimes it helps if you pretend they’re people,’ he said.
‘Uh?’
‘Look. See that one in the middle there?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘That’s Van Nistelrooij.’ Cole swung his arm and the skittles came tumbling down. ‘And that,’ he said, ‘Is Van Nistelrooij spitting mud. With a bowling ball up his…’
Reyes was impressed.
Once he’d knocked down several uppity Spanish strikers and the entire Chelsea defence with the heavy balls, he found that not only did he feel considerably better, he also wasn’t losing anymore.
*
Henry and Pires had disappeared.
Ljungberg wondered vaguely where they’d got to as he watched his ball skid down the alley and into the gutter without hitting a single skittle. He’d feel better about losing so abysmally if he was in good company. The flashy lights were really distracting him, streaking across his vision, but there was no way on earth he was going to admit that.
Bergkamp scored another perfect strike. Ljungberg went and sat down next to him, made some half hearted crack about being a striker. Bergkamp looked at him hard, and Ljunberg had to bite his tongue to keep from apologising again. Bergkamp touched his arm, and didn’t ask him if he was alright, which was a good thing because he probably wouldn’t have been able to answer.
He shook his arm free and headed to the bathroom. Henry and Pires stared at him, looking slightly guilty, as he opened the door. He smiled at them, splashed his face with water, and walked back out again.
It wasn’t until a few moments later that he thought to wonder what they were up to. He briefly considered going back in to check on them, and then decided he’d rather not know. Still, the idea made him smile.
Feeling considerably more cheerful, Ljungberg stepped out onto the alley, slipped, and sent the ball flying down the gutter. Again.
Wenger, watching, shook his head thoughtfully.
Reyes caught the look and frowned.
‘Ashley says it helps if you think they’re people,’ he said to Ljungberg.
It didn’t help. The only person he could think of that he hated that much at the moment was himself.
‘Thanks,’ he said anyway, and smiled.
Reyes came and sat down next to him.
‘Where did Rob and Thierry go?’ he asked after a moment.
Ljungberg shrugged. ‘Well, the entire point of this exercise was to relax. I guess they’re… relaxing.’
Reyes shook his head.
‘You should try that sometime,’ he said. Ljungberg sniggered, and Reyes looked confused.
‘I meant it euphemistically,’ Ljungberg explained. Reyes didn’t look any less confused. ‘Oh, never mind.’
‘Do you mind losing?’ Reyes asked after a moment.
‘Of course,’ was Ljungberg’s automatic response. He shook his head. ‘Not bowling. Not really. I know I could beat Rob if he was man enough to play.’
Reyes grinned.
‘It’s just that everyone’s looking at me,’ Ljungberg continued in a small voice.
Reyes didn’t know what to say to that. He was guilty as charged. Not because he was waiting for Ljungberg to screw up, but simply because the curve of his back and shoulders made kinda nice watching, even if the bowling technique wasn’t so hot.
‘People are worried about you,’ he said.
‘Exactly.’ Ljungberg shook his head. ‘I wish they wouldn’t.’
‘You shouldn’t look so mopey then,’ Reyes said.
‘I can’t help it. It’s my natural expression. And I prefer to think of it as pouty.’
Reyes started losing on purpose after that. Ljungberg was sure of it.
Fabregas looked delighted – he seemed to see it as something of a competition between the two of them. Reyes smiled indulgently at him, revelling a little in not being the baby of the group. His own private competition was with Ljungberg, and he wasn’t quite sure of the rules, only that he wasn’t going to let him finish last.
*
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not gay. Although the new boys are considerably more slashy than the oldschool team.
AN: Yeah, they really did go bowling in preperation for the Chelski game. Also, in case you're not an obsessive Arsenal fan it might help to know Freddie's currently ill with migraine.
The final scores of the bowling match were, according to the Sun:
Ashley Cole -194
Dennis Bergkamp – 146
Patrick Vieira – 142
Kolo Toure – 138
Manuel Almunia – 125
Sol Campbell – 117
Cesc Fabregas – 112
Arsene Wenger - 110
Freddie Ljungberg - 78
Jose Reyes – 72
This one's forpink_potato who gave me the idea.
*
'Where are we going?' Fabregas asked for the fourth time. ‘And are we nearly there yet?’
Reyes muttered something under his breath in Spanish. It must have been faintly insulting, because Fabregas stuck his tongue out. The other players exchanged amused glances. On the pitch, Fabregas didn’t often give them cause to remember his youth – he was more even-tempered and less erratic than many of his elders, he trained as tirelessly as anyone, and if he was occasionally called inexperienced, he was never called immature. Usually, his youth showed only in the energy of his legs.
He was putting this to use now by kicking the back of the seat in front of him.
Wenger quirked an eyebrow, in a characteristic expression that most of his players now recognised as his nearest equivalent to a smile.
‘I told you, it’s extra training. Special training. There’s a big match ahead of us, I thought we’d all benefit from this.’
‘From what?’
‘You’ll see. We’re nearly there.’
Fabregas wiggled in his seat, and then resumed his kicking. Bergkamp, in the seat in front of him, gritted his teeth and pointedly ignored him. He had the look of intense calm on his face that they usually only saw three seconds before Wenger subbed him off so he couldn’t pick up the red card he was asking for.
Ljungberg shook his head.
‘Cesc, stop that,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a headache.’
There was a moment of dead silence. Ljungberg sighed and bit his tongue.
I’m fine. No really, totally fine, he didn’t say to Wenger and the entire team. Sorry. I know I let everyone down. I’m sorry. He didn’t say that either.
‘Everyone’s just a little bit on edge,’ Wenger said. ‘It’s a big game. Not so big as Wednesday’s, but big enough.’
There was silence. Right that moment, it felt like the biggest game of the season. Nothing depended on it, not really, not yet. But it still mattered, at the level of gut instinct.
‘Here we are,’ said Wenger as the coach juddered to a halt. Fabregas pressed his nose up against the window.
‘It’s a sports centre,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘I thought you were joking about the extra training.’
Wenger quirked an eyebrow.
‘I never joke,’ he said.
They piled out of the coach, and followed Wenger into the building. The place was deserted.
It was a sports centre, yes. But the sport in question wasn’t football. Brightly coloured lights flashed everywhere, and tinny pop music blared.
‘Oooooh,’ said Cole with a grin. ‘Bowling!’
Reyes frowned. ‘Bowling?’
‘You know, bowling,’ Cole said. ‘You role the ball at the skittles, try and knock them all down.’ His eyes shone like a kid on Christmas morning. ‘I’m good at this!’
‘We went bowling for his birthday, once,’ Pires said. Henry chuckled at the memory.
‘He beat us all hollow. It was embarrassing,’ he said. Cole laughed.
‘Robert bowls like he dribbles,’ he said. ‘The ball kinda veers crazily from side to side and then stops somewhere unexpected.’ Pires punched him affectionately on the arm. ‘Titti, on the other hand…’
‘Thierry tends to make it bounce,’ Pires sniggered.
‘I’m scared of dropping it too near my feet,’ Henry admitted. ‘I saw a kid break a toe like that once. Can you imagine that? Out for six weeks cos of a bowling accident.’
‘Last thing we need,’ Pires agreed.
‘It’s not going to happen,’ Wenger said. ‘Take your shoes off.’ He’d already stepped out of his own.
‘You’re going to play?’ Fabregas said.
‘Of course,’ Wenger said.
‘Cool!’ Reyes said.
‘I think…’ Pires said with a raised eyebrow.
‘I think we’re going to watch,’ Henry finished for him. ‘Besides, I’m sure the shoes won’t come up big enough.’
‘That’s no excuse,’ Cole complained. ‘They even have shoes big enough for Sol.’
*
‘Strike!’ Cole crowed. Reyes, who was losing, shook his head disgustedly.
‘How do you do that?’ he said. Cole put an arm around his shoulder.
‘Sometimes it helps if you pretend they’re people,’ he said.
‘Uh?’
‘Look. See that one in the middle there?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘That’s Van Nistelrooij.’ Cole swung his arm and the skittles came tumbling down. ‘And that,’ he said, ‘Is Van Nistelrooij spitting mud. With a bowling ball up his…’
Reyes was impressed.
Once he’d knocked down several uppity Spanish strikers and the entire Chelsea defence with the heavy balls, he found that not only did he feel considerably better, he also wasn’t losing anymore.
*
Henry and Pires had disappeared.
Ljungberg wondered vaguely where they’d got to as he watched his ball skid down the alley and into the gutter without hitting a single skittle. He’d feel better about losing so abysmally if he was in good company. The flashy lights were really distracting him, streaking across his vision, but there was no way on earth he was going to admit that.
Bergkamp scored another perfect strike. Ljungberg went and sat down next to him, made some half hearted crack about being a striker. Bergkamp looked at him hard, and Ljunberg had to bite his tongue to keep from apologising again. Bergkamp touched his arm, and didn’t ask him if he was alright, which was a good thing because he probably wouldn’t have been able to answer.
He shook his arm free and headed to the bathroom. Henry and Pires stared at him, looking slightly guilty, as he opened the door. He smiled at them, splashed his face with water, and walked back out again.
It wasn’t until a few moments later that he thought to wonder what they were up to. He briefly considered going back in to check on them, and then decided he’d rather not know. Still, the idea made him smile.
Feeling considerably more cheerful, Ljungberg stepped out onto the alley, slipped, and sent the ball flying down the gutter. Again.
Wenger, watching, shook his head thoughtfully.
Reyes caught the look and frowned.
‘Ashley says it helps if you think they’re people,’ he said to Ljungberg.
It didn’t help. The only person he could think of that he hated that much at the moment was himself.
‘Thanks,’ he said anyway, and smiled.
Reyes came and sat down next to him.
‘Where did Rob and Thierry go?’ he asked after a moment.
Ljungberg shrugged. ‘Well, the entire point of this exercise was to relax. I guess they’re… relaxing.’
Reyes shook his head.
‘You should try that sometime,’ he said. Ljungberg sniggered, and Reyes looked confused.
‘I meant it euphemistically,’ Ljungberg explained. Reyes didn’t look any less confused. ‘Oh, never mind.’
‘Do you mind losing?’ Reyes asked after a moment.
‘Of course,’ was Ljungberg’s automatic response. He shook his head. ‘Not bowling. Not really. I know I could beat Rob if he was man enough to play.’
Reyes grinned.
‘It’s just that everyone’s looking at me,’ Ljungberg continued in a small voice.
Reyes didn’t know what to say to that. He was guilty as charged. Not because he was waiting for Ljungberg to screw up, but simply because the curve of his back and shoulders made kinda nice watching, even if the bowling technique wasn’t so hot.
‘People are worried about you,’ he said.
‘Exactly.’ Ljungberg shook his head. ‘I wish they wouldn’t.’
‘You shouldn’t look so mopey then,’ Reyes said.
‘I can’t help it. It’s my natural expression. And I prefer to think of it as pouty.’
Reyes started losing on purpose after that. Ljungberg was sure of it.
Fabregas looked delighted – he seemed to see it as something of a competition between the two of them. Reyes smiled indulgently at him, revelling a little in not being the baby of the group. His own private competition was with Ljungberg, and he wasn’t quite sure of the rules, only that he wasn’t going to let him finish last.
*
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not gay. Although the new boys are considerably more slashy than the oldschool team.
AN: Yeah, they really did go bowling in preperation for the Chelski game. Also, in case you're not an obsessive Arsenal fan it might help to know Freddie's currently ill with migraine.
The final scores of the bowling match were, according to the Sun:
Ashley Cole -194
Dennis Bergkamp – 146
Patrick Vieira – 142
Kolo Toure – 138
Manuel Almunia – 125
Sol Campbell – 117
Cesc Fabregas – 112
Arsene Wenger - 110
Freddie Ljungberg - 78
Jose Reyes – 72
This one's for
pink_potato who gave me the idea.