Disclaimer: I do not own HP, I do own this plot (or the lack thereof).
Not beta read.

The Tornadoes' victory party was in full swing despite the late hour. Bottles of beer and Firewhisky were still passed around enthusiastically, only adding more to the inebriation of the players and their guests. The witches and wizards even managed to drown out the ear-splitting music with their spontaneous bouts of singing and chanting. This had been the moment the team had worked hard for the whole year, and they intended to enjoy every minute of it.

Marcus Flint, since a year the captain for the team, stood leaning against the wall and uncaringly watched his teammates break down his father's pub. Not that it mattered, old man Flint was trying his best to keep up with the youngsters around him and didn't shy away from bellowing i'My boy, my boy's a champ!'/i.

And he felt like one, too. Marcus didn't think that he had stopped grinning like an idiot since the moment de referee had blown the final whistle hours ago. Victory tasted as sweet as he had always imagined it would, and he for one savoured every second of it. That's why he didn't need to drink to enjoy the rush; the triumph of crushing and humiliating Puddlemere was enough for him.

His teammates started their chanting again, this time praising their newest Chaser, Katie Bell, who almost singlehandedly had ensured a win on points alone. Chucking Davey Jones in favour of a second string player at the start of the season last year had been a risky move at best, one that had been overanalysed in the Prophet and Quidditch International and had been thrown in his face after the first two matches they had lost. However, he had pushed, and it had paid off in the end. Tutshill Tornadoes was League Champion for the first time in over a decade, and that's all that mattered.

Bell, as befitted a champion and true supporter, wore her Tornadoes jumper and Muggle jeans. Blue streaks of paint covered her cheeks and the tips of her hair. The messy bun on top of her head bopped up and down as she chucked down a pint in one go under the encouragement of the others. Marcus had expected her to pass out hours ago considering the rate she was drinking. But, like in Quidditch, she had proved that she was quite capable of holding her own.

The group erupted in cheers and claps when she proudly held up her empty tankard and let out a loud belch. That's what Marcus liked about her; on the surface, she fooled everyone with her sweetness and politeness. However, as soon as you got to know her better, little Bell turned out to be as bad, sometimes worse, than the men in her team were.

For the first time that night, Marcus' grin faltered when he saw some bloke vaguely recognised from their Hogwarts time put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to him. It disappeared altogether when Bell pointed at her cheek, demanding a kiss from the stranger.

Marcus couldn't hear what she was saying, but he imagined it to be something in the lines of i'kiss the champion'/i. He had used that line himself on several occasions, after all.

When Bell dragged the man by his arm through the door outside, Marcus abruptly came down from his high. The knots in his stomach tightened. He refused to call it jealousy because that would imply that he cared for her. She was his teammate, and he was her Captain. Their relationship, if you could speak of one, was strictly professional. Nothing more, nothing less.

Still, as he chanced a quick glance through the grimy window, denial didn't make the strange feelings in the pit of his stomach go away. Seeing Bell wrapped up in another man's arms, watching the stars, only intensified those feelings.

"Bugger."

With a deep sigh, Marcus turned around and marched straight to the bar before his buzz wore off completely. He didn't want to think about Bell or who the stranger was to her. Deep down, he had fooled himself into thinking that she might have had those tingly feelings as well. Her kissing him after the game was nothing more than Bell expressing her happiness, Marcus realised. He must have imagined that the kiss lingered a little longer than was appropriate. And her kissing the corner of his mouth instead his cheek was a because she had aimed wrong, he reckoned.

As his father slid him an overflowing tankard, eyeing him worriedly, swallowed the lump in his throat. He was acting like a fool, he quietly reminded himself. So, he plastered that silly grin from before on his face and held up his tankard in cheers.

Tutshill was League champion, and that's all that mattered.

Fin