Hockey Fever
Disclaimer: I do now own the X-Men. They belong to Marvel Comics. Nor do I own the NHL teams mentioned. They belong to the NHL.
First round. . .
The pizza was on its way and the beer was cold and waiting. Logan was in place in front of the television, remote control in hand, feet perched on the edge of the coffee table. He didn't care what was on and who wanted to watch it. For the first time in two years, there was going to be playoff hockey.
He settled back as the pre-game show came on, scowling when he saw Bill Clement, Keith Jones and Ray Ferraro come on screen.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, get to the game already. . ." Logan muttered, stuffing the remote control under his cushion. He reached for a bottle of Molson, popped the top and pushed the bucket of ice and beer back under an end table by the couch so it wouldn't be seen.
The opening face-off was coming, and he couldn't wait to see Calgary hand Detroit their walking papers.
Second round. . .
Two weeks later, the conference semi-finals were beginning. Again, Logan was settling in for a night of hockey. This time, he had competition. He frowned, eyeing Jubilee, Rogue and Kitty. The three were clearly not happy. Jubilee had her arms crossed, tapping a flip-flopped foot in annoyance. Rogue had her hands on her hips and one eyebrow cocked and Kitty was just staring at him.
"What?" Logan asked, wishing they would just leave.
"Like duh. The 'American Idol' final is tonight. You watched your stupid hockey every night for two weeks and you can must move now," Jubilee answered.
Logan's eyes grew cold. "I was here first," he said. His voice was low and menacing. No teeny bopper show was going to come between him and the quest for Lord Stanley's Cup, especially when Edmonton and Calgary were still left. He was hoping for a battle of Alberta in the conference finals, but pushed the thought from his head.
"But you've like. . .had the television for two weeks. Give somebody else a chance," Jubilee said, starting to get desperate. She glanced at Kitty, who was now looking at the floor, and Rogue was looking thoughtful.
"Why don't you go watch the game at a bar?" Rogue offered. It was all she could come up with on short notice.
Logan finally dragged his attention away from first seconds of the game, again scowling.
"I'm going to count to three. And when I get to three. . ." he said, standing.
"One. . ."
The girls didn't move.
"Two. . ." with that, he popped his claws.
For one moment, the world stood still. Everything stopped. Then, he was greeted with the reward of barely stifled screams and running.
Smiling to himself, Logan rewarded himself with a slice of pizza and sat back down to enjoy the game.
Another two weeks later. . .
The remote control was tucked into Logan's back pocket. The beer was sitting out in the open, and the pizza already eaten. The Battle of Alberta was about to begin, and he felt no pity for anyone who wanted to try to take the television away from him, common area or no.
A little on the sly investigation proved there were several televisions in the mansion, all hooked to cable, for use, with permission. And since he didn't have a television in his room, it was allowable to use the one in the common room. First come, first served, according to the professor.
In Logan's mind, the matter was settled, and everyone could have their common room back. Just as soon as the conference finals and Stanley Cup finals were over. He just failed to mention that could be another three weeks at least. . .
Game 1, Stanley Cup Finals, Calgary Flames against the Montreal Canadiens
Five minutes until game time. Logan could hardly contain his excitement. No beer, no food, and the remote control was safely put away. He was fidgety, tapping a booted foot on the floor with his other leg resting on the coffee table.
Please let no one bother me, he thought. Two Canadian teams have not made it this far in years. . .
Unfortunately, it appeared the hockey gods weren't listening. Scott came stomping into the common room, looking back over his shoulder at Jubilee, Rogue and Kitty.
Logan didn't look up. "Sit down shut up or I gut you," he said.
Scott turned pale, hesitating only a second, then sat down, ignoring the annoyed squeals from the girls. One look from Logan and they were off, leaving the two men in silence, the only sound the sounds from the game on the television.
Twenty minutes in, a commercial break finally allowed some verbal communication.
"Make it fast Scotty," Logan said.
"The girls wanted me to stage an intervention on their behalf. . ."
"They can have the TV back when the finals are over. Not until. Now, do you have anything else to say? If you want to stay, stay. But if you do, shut up."
Like everyone else suddenly offered an out over the past few weeks, Scott left, bowing out ungracefully. Logan allowed himself a grin when Scott tripped over the end table by the other couch, crashing to the floor.
Six days later. . .
Logan ignored the angry stares from the girls, the frown on Scott's face as he walked toward the common room. He was smiling, which made the scene all the odder. The finals were over, but they didn't know that. Calgary swept the Canadiens in four, winning their first Stanley Cup since 1989. He was a proud Canadian, a hockey fan, and a son of Alberta. If they didn't get it, that was their problem.
The girls were two busy fighting over the remote control to see Logan climb on his motorcycle outside. He was taking off for a few days.
Alberta-bound, he was headed for Calgary. And a party with an old friend. He was going to sip from the Stanley Cup, come hell or high water.