Santana sat back in her office, whipped out her cell phone, hit speed-dial, and waited.
She listened to the ringing emitted on speakerphone and waited until she heard the other person pick up. She didn't wait for any greetings before just launching into it.
"Hey, are you up for lunch today, Charles Xavier?"
Artie sighed on the other line. "Haven't we been through this already? I can't today. You know I can't."
"Right," Santana said, as if she'd just remembered. "You're going to be getting it on with little Miss Sugar." She laughed. "How could I forget? I went with you to pick out the condoms – ribbed for her pleasure, baby."
"Look, I can't talk right now," Artie said, sounding panicked. "I have to get ready for when Sugar gets here and I keep having to psych myself out…"
Santana sat up in her chair, leaning over her desk. "Listen, Wheels, it's going to be alright. You love her, she loves you – it'll be great. Just don't make her do all the work, okay?"
"A little insensitive, aren't we?" Artie sniped.
"Confidence is sexy, young padawan," she told him. "Own it. Own her."
"I'm trying - "
"Look, Brittany told me all about that one time she was really drunk and you guys had sex. I know what you're dealing with, FDR. You can't hide anything from Aunty 'Tana."
"Will you please stop calling yourself that?" he moaned. "Don't act like you weren't nervous for your first time with Brittany."
Santana scoffed. "What was there to be nervous about? That I was going to get her pregnant?" she joked.
He harrumphed into the receiver. "Being nervous is natural. You're supposed to feel that way, remember?"
"You're not a virgin teenager anymore, Artie. Don't be nervous. Be confident, be dominant. Women eat that shit up."
"Do they?"
"Look, if you wanna be extra sexy, do some push-ups before she gets there – assuming your arms still work," she teased.
He laughed. "Never been better. Does that really work? Is it for the nerves?"
"Hell no," she said with an easy laugh. "It's so you can look awesome."
"Do you do pushups before you and Brittany do the deed?" he asked.
"Nope," she answered. "I do jumping jacks. Naked."
"Don't you have any actual work to do?" he asked. "Why don't you take Brittany out to lunch and leave me to my business?"
"Well, with an attitude like that Mr. Snarky McHotwheels, maybe I will," she said. "And, just FYI, as the cheerleading coach, I'm left to my own devices until the designated sports period – seventh period. So I'm free for moral support all day long."
"I'll keep it in mind," he replied sarcastically.
"So if you reach that coveted moment you need a little motivation, you know who to call."
"I'm hanging up," he warned her.
She laughed. "Give Sugar an orgasm for me!"
Just then, Brittany burst into her office, looking extra delicious in an a-line dress with a jean jacket over it. Her blonde hair hung in curls framing her face and the finishing touch were these over-the-top heart-shaped earrings dangling from each lobe. Dragging behind her was the enormous stuffed bear, head bouncing with each step.
She set it down and leaned over the desk where Santana was sitting, letting her cleavage show a bit – as if she needed any more motivation. "Take me out to lunch?" she asked sweetly.
Santana broke out into a grin and leaned forward. "I'd love to."
"Oh, wait, before we go I brought you your present," Brittany told her, dancing a little on the spot from excitement. She held up a little pink back decked out with flowery tissue paper sticking out of the top in tufts.
Santana accepted the bag, but looked confused. "You didn't have to get me anything, Brittany. We agreed on no gifts this year."
"You already broke that rule with Sir Fluffs-a-lot," the other girl protested with an adorable pout. "Just open it."
Santana feigned a sigh and reached into the tissue paper. She pulled out a white cheerleading uniform trimmed in red. It said "Lopez" across the back with the number 23 – Brittany's favorite number.
"Wanky," she murmured, putting it up against her chest. She stood up and twirled around for Brittany. "So do you have a cheerleading fetish I don't know about?" she teased.
"Puh-lease," Brittany said with a grin. "You definitely know about it." She gave Santana a wink.
"I guess I'll just have to wear this sometime then," she purred, leaning closer to Brittany.
The blonde girl swayed a little bit side to side, holding her skirt in her hand as she did so. "Maybe tonight?" she asked, her voice dripping with suggestion.
Santana pressed a quick kiss to her lips. "Maybe," she agreed before leaning in for round two - one that would surely last for quite some time.
Quinn was all business now.
She'd pulled herself out of her Valentine's Day-related depression, put on her make up, tied up her hair, and put on her best business outfit – the light grey one with the tailored jacket and the matching pencil skirt. She was ready to go.
Dave was at her side as she gingerly sipped an iced tea and cut the chicken topping her salad into more and more miniscule pieces. His agent, a middle-aged woman whose blonde hair was streaked with white sat across from him, not touching anything that was set in front of her.
"So?" the woman asked Dave, leaning forward. "What was the decision?"
Dave looked around the upscale restaurant, making sure no one was listening. Most of the big names in the business came here to get a first class dining experience with an extra serving of privacy. They were in the outdoor gala, but the tables were spaced far apart and there were walls between each area made of leaves and ivy. No one would overhear them.
He took a deep breath before confessing, "They're letting me go."
Quinn and his agent took in a collective breath of air. They exchanged glances of dismay, but on the outside they held their cool façade, never even lifting a finger or giving away their inner panic.
After neatly folding her napkin and placing it on the table, Quinn was the first to speak. She was jiggling her stiletto-heeled foot under the table, but no one could see it.
"So we pursue another team," she suggested.
His agent chimed in, "I'm sure we could generate enough interest in you to have someone take a second look…"
"Maybe I'm done," he said calmly. Quinn could tell he'd been thinking this over for a while – perhaps since the big game and every day after that – and was only just voicing it now. "Maybe I should hang up the towel and call it quits."
"No," she rushed to say, placing a light hand over his. "Don't give up, David. This is your dream. It's worth fighting for."
"It was my dream," he corrected her. "I've had a long, fulfilling career," he told her, "I was lucky to get a break in this business - trust me, I know that - but maybe my time's run out."
"Look," his agent cut in, "You can still make this happen. Strictly speaking as a fan and not someone who makes a lot of money off of you, I know that you can go further. Don't give up now, David."
"A career isn't the only thing I want," he said to the two women. "I'm set for life now, but I'm alone. There's no one to share it with, you know? I want a relationship. I want a family." He was pleading with them now, looking for someone to second his decision and make him feel like it was the right one.
He wasn't asking for permission, he was looking for acceptance.
"You can have those things and still play football," his agent tried to tell him.
He shook his head. "You don't get it, if I show everyone the person that I really am, then no team will want me for sure."
Quinn piped up. "If you could just tell us what we were dealing with here - "
"I can't," he snapped. "Not yet anyways," he said in a softer voice. "But I'll let you know at the press conference later either way. I still have a lot to think about."
Quinn retracted her hand and sat back in her chair. "Okay, I have it all arranged at the office, all you have to do is show up. And I've already released a statement that it was a mutual parting between you and the Chargers."
"Great," he told her, sounding relieved. "That's great." He was silent for a few minutes, scraping his fork along the edges of his plate and rearranging his food into smaller piles. "Look, I have to go, but I'll call you before I leave for the press conference," he promised.
Then he got up without a word and left.
His agent looked over at Quinn, peering over the lenses of her glasses, looking older than she ever had before. "What the hell did he just tell us?"
Finn had grown quite friendly with his next-seat neighbor. These things tended to happen on fourteen hour flights. Coincidentally, the man – whose name, Finn learned, was Justin – had brought a pack of cards in his pocket and they were now playing their tenth consecutive round of Golf.
Finn was crushing him, 10-0.
"It's uncanny," Justin repeated. He shook his head as he flipped over his last remaining card to reveal a jack, which tacked on ten more points to his tally. Hint: the more points you had, the worse off you were. "How do you keep winning?"
Finn laughed as he gathered up the cards to reshuffle them. "Some people would argue that card games are the luck of the draw, but really they're all games of skill. It's all about reading your partner."
"Is that what you're doing?" Justin asked with a smile. "Are you reading me?"
"Ah, it comes with the uniform," he explained.
"Am I that obvious? And here I thought I was so subtle."
"It's not too hard to decipher - with a trained eye," Finn went on to say. "You may have perfected your so-called 'Poker Face', but I can still see your emotions. I can tell when you've picked a bad card and when you've found a pair." He split the deck in half and shuffled it again. "You also like to shit-talk."
Justin laughed. "So what else can you tell about me?"
"That you've just ended a serious relationship and because of that have acquired a distaste for certain romantically-centered holidays such as this one."
He stared at Finn disbelievingly. "There is no way you could possibly know that."
"Well, I suspected when you kind of totally flinched when the hostess wished you a Happy Valentine's Day and you declined her heart-shaped pancakes. And you've just confirmed it, so I do," Finn said. "So tell me about him."
"Him?" Justin repeated. "Now that's just being stereotypical," he said.
"No, that's knowing what to look for."
"That's impossible," the other man interjected. He lowered his voice, "My parents don't even know that."
Finn smiled and clasped Justin on the shoulder. "But I know that. And it's fine – it's all fine. So just tell me about him."
"Nothing to tell," Justin said, sitting back in his seat. "It's over – that much you've already surmised. He was, uh…He is sort of this popular, well-known guy. He wasn't honest about who he was. I was willing to come out to my parents because I thought he was "the one". But he was ashamed of me and told me it was over. He chose his career over me."
Finn nodded, contemplating Justin's story. He offered words of comfort, "He'll get over himself eventually. He'll realize he made a mistake."
Justin smiled weakly. "You don't know that, you don't even know me. For all you know, I could be this tremendous jerk who's been nothing but an asshole to his ex-boyfriend and deserved to get dumped. I could be the worst person in the history of the world and you would never know because we've only just met."
"But you're not," Finn replied with a shrug.
The other man nodded to himself. "But I'm not."
A/N: Yes, Justin is an original character, but I sort of kind of love him, so yeah (:
I'm really, really having fun with this story, you guys and I just hope it shows! Isn't it awesome how much each character just fits into this? I think it's - you guessed it - uncanny.
Review and leave me love :3
