DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING!
SECOND CHANCE
CHAPTER 1: DAVIS'S CALL
"Wood, please! We can work something out!"
Oliver Wood, reserve Keeper for the Quiddich team of Puddlemere United, bolted from the Lost Angeles office of his agent, Jake Moore.
"Like bloody hell!" the native Scotsman spat, throwing the frightened front desk receptionist a dirty look. Reaching the spinning-door, the twenty-year-old Keeper spun around, facing his agent.
"You can tell of Puddlemere United to stick that extension up their arse," seethed Woods who, to his knowledge, had never been this angry in his entire life. "I'm through with 'em!"
Seeing as how his client was an unrestricted free agent and was not breaching his contract, Moore could only watch helplessly as Wood exited the building.
"How could they do this to me?" Wood demanded to no one in particular. It was illogical, insulting in the highest degree. He, Oliver Wood, youngest Keeper to play for a pro Quiddich club, ranked third in Quiddich Now's Top Ten Keepers of the Century in his second year as a professional and voted Hottest Quiddich Player of the Year twice by Witch Weekly. It doesn't take a genius to add it up: mad talent plus good looks equal a very marketable athlete, which, in turn, lead to riches and popularity to both the aforementioned athlete and his team.
Oliver Wood was no genius, but he knew better than to sign such a degrading extension. Not including the fact that the coach wanted to bench him, the team Captain, but to offer a contract that was barely higher than the minimum pay for a professional Keeper to a Keeper that ranked third Greatest Keeper of the Century and first in the current league…
By the time Wood closed the door to his apartment complex, it was already a quarter past nine. Upon stumbling into the living room, the star Keeper collapsed onto his sofa. It was downer days like these that stained his upbeat life.
'I can't deal with those gits,' thought Wood, his face buried in the maroon-colored cushion. He pushed himself into an upright position. Coincidentally, or through Divine intervention, the thought irrelevant at this point, Wood found himself face to face with the framed picture of the House Quiddich Finals in his seventh year. He'd looked so happy, smiling from ear to ear without a care in the world. The Oliver in the picture had his arms around an equally ecstatic Katie Bell.
'Katie…why is it that I think of you so?'
With that final thought, Oliver Wood drifted to sleep, dreaming of a certain Chaser of his.
The next few days were hectic, to say the least. The news that Oliver Wood had refused to sign with of Puddlemere United traveled like wildfire. The result? Lunch dates with team reps every day for the next two weeks, fan girls at every restaurant, gym, bookstore, sweets shop, shoe store, movie theater, any place in the city, pleading for photos, autographs, photo autographs, and reporters at every corner asking the same question, "What team are you signing with?"
All this, in a city occupied mostly by Muggle.
Wood shuddered at the thought of returning to London, the most magic populated city in the world.
Wood sat at the classy café, his eyes glazed. This team rep was especially conversational, covering the advantages of joining her team, the role he would play, and occasionally throwing in sexual innuendos.
'Where's that damn waiter with the check?' Wood thought, groaning inwardly as the rep of the Paris Perroquet, Joan, started blabbering about the nearby attractions.
"Nightcluubz," she said huskily. "Of course tu an inturnashinul zelebrity like yoo, zis ez a necessity. I will gladly zhow yoo around, monsieur."
"I'm not a big fan of 'em," Woods replied gruffly, hoping Joan can take a hint. He was wrong.
"Yoo luuk zike a beech kind ze guy. I can get in tooch with a good freund of mein, a zeal eztate azunt. She could zhow yoo some manshunz along ze sea brim.
'Like hell, you insufferable – yes! The check!' Woods cheered mentally.
"I'll get it," he said quickly, cutting Joan off as he handed his credit card to the waiter.
"Ez luunch over already?" Joan asked ditzily. (A/N: Derived from the noun, ditz. Not a real word.)
'Of course it's over!' Wood screamed mentally. 'It's already 5:00!'
"I would love to stay and chat," lied Wood, a fake and painfully executed smile etched on his face, "but I have business to attend elsewhere."
"I'll bee in tooch, monsieur Wood," Joan crooned, blowing him a kiss goodbye.
"Thank Merlin that's over," breathed Wood. He was in the safety of his Mercedes S600.
Oliver had never taken Muggle Studies at Hogwarts and regretted not doing so. Though he preferred the wizard lifestyle to the Muggle's, there were some liberties that he thoroughly enjoyed. Liberties like his luxury sedan. It was not that he couldn't Apparate; he just found driving a more enjoyable and smoother ride.
About seven minutes into the ride, Wood's cellular phone started ringing. It was another Muggle device that Wood has grown accustomed to using. It just seemed so much more convenient than owl post. He switched the answer option to speakerphone, deciding against answering the call manually. It was already bad enough that he was being tailed by every black and white Crown Victoria within a three-block radius that were just waiting for him to exceed the speed limit, run a red light, or fail to wait three seconds at every stop sign, but to be caught with a cell phone in his hand? He might as well burn the ol' red, white, and blue, don a Klansman uniform, and chant, "Hail Hitler." That way, the judge won't give him that incredulous, Mister-Hollywood-can't-you-find-some-other-way-to-feel-important- than-by-talking-on-a-cell-phone look.
"Hello?" answered Oliver, checking his rear view mirror for any sign of a Crown Victoria.
"Woody, that you, mate?" came the voice of Roger Davis, a Hogwarts graduate and member of the Ballycastle Bats.
"Davis. What's up?" Wood had nothing against Davis. He respected him as both a friend and an opponent.
"Hold on. Let me three-way Flintstone."
Oliver heard another 'beep' before hearing the former Slyterin's voice.
"Wood, Davis," said Marcus Flint, a member of the Falmouth Falcons.
Oliver Wood and Marcus Flint went back a long way. They were – unbeknownst of everyone outside their circle – very good friends. They battled on the Quiddich pitch like sworn enemies, but once the equipments were off, they were friends again. Their relationship could be compared to that of Larry Bird and Magic Johnson, who were professional athletes of a Muggle sport that involved an orange-colored ball and a hoop with a net.
"Okay, Davis, why did you call us?" growled Flint, who sounded like he just got up.
Oliver was curious as well.
"Well, being the pompous celebrities you two are, you've probably haven't checked your mailbox in a while."
"Hey, if anyone's pompous, it's got to be –" Oliver stopped mid sentence, cursing himself out. He had totally forgotten about their fallen friend, Cedric Diggory.
The three-way conversation came to a complete standstill. On the other line, he could hear one of his two friends muttering under his breath and the other breathing heavily.
"He was a good bloke," said Davis, finally breaking the silence. "But he wouldn't have wanted us to be uncomfortable talking about him. Now, where was I?"
"At the point where you're bitchin' about not getting any quality time on the field…" offered Flint.
"–Or in the bedroom," added Wood in an undertone.
"Hark who's talking. I don't remember Slytherin winning the Cup when you were Captain," defended Davis, choosing not to respond to Wood's comment.
"Don't be mad at us because you suck," sneered Flint, causing Oliver to laugh on the other line. Davis growled, but decided against arguing.
"Anyway, being the upstanding, not to mention attractive (at this, Oliver rolled his eyes) bloke that I am, I've taken it upon myself to tell you two that we've been offered jobs at Hogwarts."
"WHAT!" Wood's S600 came to a screeching halt before a busy intersection. He'd not been paying attention to the road and noticed the traffic light had turned red at the last second.
"Yeah. Some undergraduate training program," said Davis from the other line. "Kind of like a second chance to go to Hogwarts, you know? They chose me to be a private tutor."
"Merlin have mercy on whomsoever has you as a tutor," Flint muttered.
"So how about you, Wood?" Davis asked, completely ignoring the former Slytherin Quiddich Captain. "Interested?"
"You know," said Oliver. "This might be the most bloodiest brilliant idea you've ever had!"
"Wood, are you high on pixie dust or something?"
"You're a free agent too. Think about it, Marcus," said Oliver. "A chance to get away from the bloody media. Honestly," he added, chuckling. "I'm sure even you, the whore of publicity that you are, didn't enjoyed being criticized by Witch Weekly because of your mustache. Plus, in shifty times like these, the safest place to be is at Hogwarts."
Oliver could mentally picture a sullen faced Flint.
"You're right, Wood," he admitted. "But what's wrong with my mustache?"
"Now that that's settled," Davis continued, ignoring Flint's question, "you two should get goin'. Oh, and don't worry," he added. "I've already signed you both up." Davis hung up before hearing the string of curses from the other two lines.
"Git," muttered Flint.
"Could be interesting," said Wood, "Hogwarts, you know."
Flint hung up, still swearing under his breath.