A/N: This idea came to me while actually watching the game portrayed in this fic: the 6th game of the Stanley Cup Finals between the Detroit Red Wings and Pittsburgh Penguins, June 9th, 2009. I thought it would be fun to imagine how Dr. Cox and JD would be viewing it. I took notes and partially wrote as I watched the game, and edited in more content afterward. JD's POV. As always, reviews are awesome.

Warnings: Higher than usual rating due to sports-induced man-cussing. (Much of what Dr. Cox says was actually uttered while we watched the game tonight.) Very hockey heavy. Non-fans might not enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Addendum: I was anticipating this game to be the series clincher, but alas, there's another one on Friday. So I'll be writing that one up too as a sequel. Have fun and chat at you again then.

Disclaimer/Confession: I really, really, ree-heeeeelly want to like the Red Wings, but I've always hated Chris Osgood. I used to play goalie in college and have always looked up to Martin Brodeur and Marty Turco. Hope some of that registers with someone out there. Oh, also, I don't own Scrubs, or anything NHL related.

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My Cup Half Empty

"Sorry! Taken!"

I'd already fended off three people from the barstool next to me in a matter of a minute and a half. This latest guy shot me a look and took what appeared to be the second-to-last seat in the bar, which made the spot next to me all the more coveted. I didn't know how much more I could take. The television blared, and people were starting to crowd around the bar in hopes of getting a good vantage point. Sports fans are crazy, apparently. But I knew that already, because the person I was waiting for could be called the epitome of crazy. The Crazitome. The Epitazy. Eh, sorry portmanteau words, you're not helping me out tonight.

But I didn't have to wait any longer, because the door to the bar banged open. It was a very tired looking Dr. Cox, sporting jeans, sneakers and an oversized hockey jersey, number 24. He'd had a long shift and wasn't even sure he'd be able to make it to watch the game, but he'd apparently pulled some strings. He even had managed to bring a spare jersey for me, which he chucked at me from across the room. He pretty much flew over to me, sitting down and immediately taking a swig of the open bottle that was waiting for him.

He reached over and clinked his bottle to mine before I had a chance to react. "Cheers, Newbie. What do we have?"

I pulled on the jersey and tried to sound knowledgeable. "The ugly, hairy men in black and white got the pucky past the really giant man in red and white. The crowd seemed to think that was good!" Nodding sagely, I took a sip of my beer.

"Damnit!" growled Dr. Cox as he banged his fist on the bar. It startled me and I splashed a little. "Osgood's no good in Pittsburgh. Looks too tight. He's gotta loosen up."

I snickered to myself. No good Osgood. I filed that away for potential future use.

Regaining my composure, I offered, "I know we're cheering for the red and white guys. I was just joshin' ya. And the giant guy in the huge kneepads—"

"Osgood," reminded Dr. Cox.

"Right right, Osgood. He's doing great! The other team's been all around him all inning long, and they've only scored once!"

Dr. Cox sighed. "First of all, they're periods, not innings, Michele. And second, the other team swarming around Osgood means the Wings' defense is crap tonight. They're playing sloppy, I can see that already. This isn't going to end well." He polished off his first beer in a hurry and motioned for a second. Just as he was about to take a drink he slammed the bottle down and groaned in harmony with several other of the bar patrons. "Damnit, fool, sit your ass down on the bench! Don't take a shot unless you mean it!"

I shuffled my feet a bit and stared at the television. Someone in red and white had the puck, and he smacked at it with his stick. The puck went flying towards the net, but didn't go in. I heard Dr. Cox sigh quietly, and I turned to look at him.

"They're playing desperate. Mark my words there, this will na-hawt end well." Dr. Cox frowned at the screen as his eyes followed the action. I wanted to learn more about the game, I really did. I wanted to care like he did, with his face all scrunched up in concentration, as though he could will the players to pull off something spectacular. The corners of my mouth twitched as I envisioned a gargantuan, white-bearded Dr. Cox looming over a hockey arena, zapping the players with lightning bolts like Zeus toying with his minions.

I snapped out of it when Dr. Cox spat out, "Bah, pansy ass check, you can hit harder than that!" So much rage. He whirled on me, eyes blazing. "Well what're you staring at, Newbie? Game's up there." He gestured with his beer towards the television, and went back to watching.

I wish I'd kept his attention for about five more seconds, because then he exploded, along with much of the bar. Just about everyone was screaming at the television, either in relief or pure hatred. I'd missed what happened, but the slow-motion instant replay saved me. One of the guys (Wings, I guess?) had the puck and was moving it back and forth towards the goal. The whole thing was absolutely mesmerizing. Chips of ice flew from his heels, his face contorted in concentration. The guy in front of the goal was a moving wall, sliding backwards along with him. Then the Wing took hold of his stick and flicked his wrist just so and sent the puck flying towards the net. My breath caught in my throat, and at that moment I knew I wanted to learn everything about this game. A huge moment for me! I, John Michael Dorian, was actually interested in a real sport. I could feel a fluttering in my chest, like a new love blossoming. But just as soon as it had begun, my love was crushed. The puck hit the post and ricocheted away from the goal. I felt like I was floating above myself, watching me watching the game. My eyes were as wide as they've ever been, my mouth hanging agape. I watched my own fists clench as the puck hit the rear end of the man in the goal, and I heard myself utter a strangled sound of despair as he fell back onto the ice and sat on the puck, immobilizing it.

Dr. Cox voiced my squeaking much more eloquently. "Aaaaand that was your opportunity to tie up the game, for fuck's sake! Jesus, that was almost gorgeous. Goddamn it, Fleury, goddamn it, you lucky ass WITH a lucky ass. Fuck." He looked at me and his expression changed from disgust to amusement. "You ok there, Newbie? Ya look like your puppy was just flattened by a steamroller."

I had to compose myself for the second time in as many minutes. I sniffed at his comment and tried to distract him. "I'm fine. Hey look!" I pointed as two players circled each other, looking like they were ready to rumble. One of them grabbed the other's helmet strap, but with their big fluffy gloves on it almost looked like a sweet moment. "Aww, that's cute! That Holstrom guy's pinching his cheek! Get 'im, 'Strommy! Pinch him good!" I guffawed at my own ridiculously awesome sense of humor but was cut short by a searing glare from Dr. Cox. Apparently he didn't share my opinion of the hairy tough man cuteness.

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So apparently there are these long breaks in between inn— err, periods, which enable you to 1) listen to old washed up hockey players talk about the young burly hockey players, B) watch replays of all the most exciting things that had already happened in the game, and III) get totally schnockered. We were half-heartedly doing the first two but well on our way to the third.

"Eh, I can't watch anymore," Dr. Cox mumbled tipsily, draining his fourth? Fifth? "Every clip is either a replay of the Pens' goal, the non-goal by Shoulda Stayed in Sweden Zetterberg, or a massively crushing hit on one of the Boys. So now I'm going to pretend to be interested in what you're doing there with your… whatever the hell that is. And you're going to entertain me. Go."

Woo! Time to impress my mentor with my superbad mad tech skillz. "Well, I'm so glad you asked, Dr. Perry!" I giggled. "I'm using my iPhone to browse the interwebs! Thousands of people are chatting on Twitter about the hockey game right now. It's amazing how information just flows, flows, flows like beeeeeer!" With that I tipped my beer skyward and took the last sip. Mmm. The mana of the Gods. "Annnnyway, everyone's tweeting about the Red Wings, but nobody is posting anything about the Penguins! Oh wait, here's one person… Oh, they're not talking about the Penguins the hockey team, they're talking about the gay penguins in Germany who adopted an egg! They linked a picture, let me just click that and… OH MY GOODNESS! Oh, it's so fuzzy and grey and cute! Aww jeez, I don't think I can take any more cuteness WHEEEEE!" And with that, I teetered right off my barstool and onto the floor, laughing.

I looked up to see Dr. Cox looking down at me, smirking. He tossed another beer at me, which bounced off my forehead and landed on my stomach. "That's just super. Now get your ass back up here, Lauri. Third period's starting."

The next few minutes were a blur of crappy shots, botched checks and Dr. Cox ranting at the television instead of me. Maybe it was the alcohol, but he was really getting into the technical aspect of the game, trying to explain to me on a third grade level the nuances of hockey. I had a really nice buzz going. Dr. Cox was acting – dare I say? – fatherly. And I think I was actually learning something, despite the thick layer of bubble wrap that I imagined must be surrounding my head. It was going rather nicely. At least it was, until…

"Oh my GOOD GOD why was nobody covering that jackass?! Come on you, guys, pull your heads out!" Dr. Cox screamed along with several other bar patrons. The Red Wing players drifted dejectedly across the ice as the thousands of fans in the grandstands twirled their stupid little white twirly things. Aww, who am I kidding. I wished I had a twirly thing. I twirled my empty beer bottle on the countertop, spinning and spinning it. I felt dizzy and sick. I wished something good would happen. I hoped for a miracle. I looked up at the television and prayed briefly to the hockey gods for something good.

The hockey gods must have realized they'd converted me that day, because they answered me twofold. My first response came in the form of a goal. Saint Draper to the rescue. I could watch the replay of his rebound goal all day. The second came when Dr. Cox, on a hockey fan's high, actually clapped me on the shoulder in celebration of the goal. I could feel the warmth pouring out of him, and when I looked at him he was truly, genuinely smiling at me. I felt like my chest was going to burst at that moment.

Dr. Cox turned back to the screen, eyes glimmering. "This is it, Newbie. This is where they turn the game around."

And they almost did. As horrible as the Wings had played in the first period, they had come back somehow and were beginning to dominate their foes as the minutes ticked down towards zero. A rough crosscheck by a Penguin resulted in a power play. A high sticking on Saint Draper resulted in another one. A dog pile formed in the Penguin's net as the players attempted to either shove the puck across the goal line or keep it out. I was actually able to follow the plays despite my inebriated state. It was more intoxicating than the alcohol itself, and soon I was cheering and groaning (appropriately) along with the rest of the crowd. I was one of them. I belonged.

Then, suddenly, it was over. Patrons of the bar dragged themselves out, grumbling to each other. Amidst their foul language and lamentations, I expected Dr. Cox to be growling the loudest. But I was shocked when I looked at him.

He was grinning. A huge, full-on, dazzling grin. His eyes were shining.

"Wha?" I slurred incoherently. "We lost. Why're you happy?"

The laughter that gushed forth was like music. "Closest game yet this series, Maxime. Each game so far's been dominated by the home team. If the Wings could come back that strongly after being down by two… imagine what they'll do on Friday when they're at Joe Louis? Joe Louis is the goalie killer, y'know. And I could stand to be rid of one more gangly, stubblefaced, foofyhaired kid." He knocked back the last of his drink, tossed some cash on the bar, and made to leave.

I opened my mouth wordlessly. Finally I unfogged enough of my brain to utter, "Well, will I see you then… then?"

Dr. Cox turned back to me as he reached the exit. "Better believe it. That cup is ours." The door swung shut behind him, and quiet settled over the bar.