Day 9: Game Day (Sports)
Yelling Won't Make Them Play Better
"Come on! Block it! It's a straight shot! You don't need to move! No, don't go ri - no!"
As Chops' cries dismally echoed in the interns' lounge, the puck slipped through the goalie's legs. It thrust the netting backward, scoring for the other team. An eruption of cheers and jeers bellowed. The sportscasters shouted at such a rookie mistake, one of them unable to withhold a swear not safe for television. Chops jumped to his feet, fists clenched like many audience members. A strangled groan escaped through his clenched teeth. But as quickly as his jaw-dropping shock came, a wave of morbidity washed over him, and he slumped into the couch, head in his hands.
He peered at JT through his fingers. "This can't be real. Man, tell me I'm dreaming. Pinch me if I am. I wanna wake up from this nightmare."
Snickering, JT crossed his legs and patted his shoulder. "Well, if I did, then I'd be a dirty liar. Gotta say I didn't expect such a mighty rotten play, though. The goalie was slower than a snail."
Chops raked his fingers through his hair. The hockey game was not going as he expected. His favorite team was losing against their rivals. With two goals against them, zero on their side of the board, and time dwindling to mere minutes, Chops slouched into JT's lap. He didn't bother asking, simply throwing himself into his amused boyfriend's body, his expression twisted in a scowl.
"How'd he miss it? How?" Chops tossed his hand at the television. "It was in front of him! It was like he deliberately went right to let that goal sail in!" He dragged his hands down his face, stretching his skin. "I swear, someone is paying him to play so poorly. There's no other explanation."
JT hummed. "I reckon that'd be true. I ain't never seen a man dodge a puck he's supposed to catch."
"Exactly!"
Chops popped upright as the round started. The players clashed again, hockey sticks flying. They darted across the ice, Chops carefully following their movements. Bodies crashed together, and the puck soared, skidding like a smooth rock on serene water.
He loved hockey, lived for it. It was his sport, and he was the best player out of the interns. He had dreams of being a professional if his idealistic hope as a successful guitarist didn't pan out. But he tended to take the game a little too seriously, earning confused glances from his fellow interns sprawled out in the lounge. He felt their gazes on him and didn't care. He had claimed the television for the big game, adding a bowl of salted popcorn and pretzels set up on the coffee table for himself and JT. (Anyone could have joined them; he welcomed most companionship, but it seemed his behavior might have spurned others from claiming a seat, not that he minded when he was still friends with them, charmingly personable as he was.)
It was better that way. He had his opinions, and he needed them said. JT was always willing to watch with him, listening and agreeing. And it wasn't as if JT didn't know how to play ice hockey. Chops would've said he was possibly, nearly, potentially as good as he was at being a goalie. JT tried denying it, his bashfulness never entirely leaving him, but Chops knew otherwise when they played together through their childhood.
"Oh, he's takin' a shot! He's gonna-!" JT pursed his lips, the rival goalie swatting the puck halfway up the rink. "Um, I should've bit my tongue." He whistled, long and slow. "Sakes alive, pardner, this game is a brute. If you had your druthers, you'd be scorin' goal after goal."
Cracking a smile, Chops whisked himself upright. Muscle memory informed his movements. The puck was moving toward the rival goalie. Grasping his invisible stick, he jerked it low. Had a real puck been in front of him, it would've sliced behind the goalie and into the net.
But as he said what he'd do, the rival goalie caught the puck. Chops frowned, eyes narrowing on him. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and lacing his fingers by his chin. As the rivals scored another goal, he squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he had the show pony's foresight to avoid witnessing such a massacre.
JT rubbed Chops' shoulder, clicking his tongue. He took off his hat and placed it over his heart. "My God, Chops, they're gettin' slaughtered out there like a herd of hogs."
Chops' hand crashed into the snack bowl. Grabbing a fistful of popcorn and pretzels, he crammed the salty treats into his mouth. He hardly chewed, swallowing after a few bites and practically choked. JT pounded on his back, dislodging it, and Chops gulped it back down. Suffocating was a better sensation than watching the final few seconds pass on the clock and the rival team skating across the rink, pumping their fists, victory assured.
Groaning as if his soul was leaving his body, Chops flopped onto JT. He clung to him, unashamed of who stared at them. He buried his face in the crook of JT's neck, breathing in the scent of straw and old leather.
"If you were in there, you would've whooped 'em good," JT whispered, humor in his tone.
Chops closed his eyes. "You know I would. I wouldn't let any shot get by me, or I'd be the one making every goal."
He heard JT mercifully changing the channel. Applause was swapped in exchange for rapid bursts of conversations and sound effects. As he settled on what sounded like an animal documentary, the whinnying of a horse and a gentle voice providing commentary confirming Chops' suspicions, JT hugged him closer. Even with the eyes on them, the faint trickle of embarrassment creeping down Chops' spine, the calming circles being rubbed into his back melted away his stress from the game.
"At least we still got our snacks?" JT offered, the horses galloping through a grassy plain when he looked up.
And with a sigh, Chops grinned, mumbling the horses were more coordinated than the hockey players.
