Disclaimer: All publicly recognisable characters are owned by their respective owners. Any Original characters and plot are mine.
Prompt:Tank
A single word meant to inspire immediate thought. Write what your imagination dictates.
Prologue
The sold out theatre is silent. I watch as he bends to break off for the final frame decider of this World Snooker Championship, a look of pure concentration on his face. I look on with the rest of the audience in rapt fascination with the game before me. Everyone knows how important this is to him. The past few years have seen him rise to heights uncharted by any other snooker player and seen him careen back to Earth, tank on the most public stage of his sport. I haven't seen him in person for years, yet his untameable copper locks, piercing green eyes and defined jaw with a days worth of scruff show him to be the same man I once knew.
He's known as the best in the sport at hiding his emotions, never buckling to pressure or showing the strain, yet as I sit here I can see him fiddling with his bow tie, his tell, showing those who know him best just how much this means. They play a series of excruciating safety shots, waiting for each other to make a mistake and provide an opportunity, but my eyes never leave his form in his lucky blue waistcoat, determined not to fail. Finally he's presented with a chance and he approaches the table, potting a long red with ease, positioning himself nicely on the black. The audience can only look on as he makes his way around the table, without a care in the world, blocking out the distractions of the cheers as he pots frame ball and continues towards a century break. Still he doesn't acknowledge the crowd, continuing to a cool 147 maximum, leaving him with two prize funds to collect.
By the time he has finished I and the entire crowd are on their feet, whooping and howling at the most surprising victory in the history of the game. The referee and his opponent, James Turner, approach and shake his hand in congratulations and still he fails to acknowledge the crowd or show any sign of celebration. He simply dismantles his cue, putting it away before removing his bow tie and opening the top button of his black shirt so he can breathe again. I know he hates those things, but the rules are there for a reason, and he always told me the integrity that comes with the sport of Snooker is what kept him interested. Unlike other victors no family rush in to greet him, just his ageing coach offering a firm pat on the back.
"'Bout time he lived up to his potential" the Canadian voice beside me declares over the applause, and I am drawn back to why I'm there; to do my job. No, I am not there for him. That's not my right anymore. It hadn't been for a very long time.
"So this is your second World Title and you've had quite the journey in between times. Anyone you'd like to thank for getting back to this point?" The crowd quieten as the BBC sports presenter Hazel begins the obligatory post match interview with the victor.
"I just want to congratulate James on such a tight match, it was really a challenge to beat him. And I'll just thank anyone who's helped me get here, they know who they are." His response is short, I know he hates talking to the press and is just trying to get it over with as quickly as possible. He offers his trademark crooked grin in compensation for not offering more verbally and the crowd react with cheers as he knew they would, affectively ending the interview. I can't help the chuckle and shake of the head that escapes at this.
"Yeah, the lad has always been good at getting the press off his back. He can be a clever guy sometimes." My companion offers me a sardonic grin as I nod in polite agreement, once again trying to get my brain back into working mode. It's him I'm supposed to be observing, not the champion. Yet still my attention is drawn back to centre of the theatre where the prizes and trophies are being handed out. Aro Volturi, head of the World Snooker Association has a tight smile plastered on his face as he hands over the trophy. The feud between the two well known amongst followers of the game, making his win all the more satisfying. I can't help but be proud of his win, no matter our history, and wonder briefly if I'll be able to congratulate him myself, but shake the idea as I remember my place. He won't want to see me anyway. I wouldn't want to even know I was here if I were him.
The press take pictures as he poses with the trophy, before he holds it up to the crowd, finally seeming to celebrate his victory. Then as if in slow motion, yet too quickly for me to turn away I find myself staring in to the depths of those bottomless green orbs. I gasp, unsure of what to do when he simply cocks an eyebrow at me questioningly before moving to my companion and inclining his head. I glance to the side to find him smiling at me knowingly. Unsure if this was set up by my companion off his own back, by the champion himself or just coincidence of one thing I'm certain; Edward Cullen had found me and it's time I face the consequences.
A.N This little story should update every few days, using the WitFit prompts, alternating between the past and present.
Snooker is a cue sport popular here in the UK. I don't intend to get particularly technical with the knowledge, if anyone has specific questions feel free to ask. Snooker players are required to wear a waistcoat and bow tie when playing. A break is the number of points scored by a player without missing, matches are scored in frames. Each frame is a clearance of the table and the number of frames played in each match increases as the tournament goes on. The World Championship happens annually in The Crucible theatre in Sheffield, England.