These Games We Play
Summary: Where Sarada is a pro at Carrom and her parents her sore losers.
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Game night, was a budding tradition. For the past few weeks, every evening, after dinner, Sarada would set up a Carrom board and challenge Papa to play. At first he'd looked dubious, but after hearing Mama's challenging, flippant, "He might suck at it," he'd accepted graciously.
And so, game night, had become a common place tradition, of sorts. It was a time of family, trust, camaraderie, mutual trust—and unequivocally, a challenge, a call to arms, not with one another, but against. It was a showdown of epic proportions. Failure was not an option.
As Sarada watched Papa aim carefully, back hunched, arm angled for a particularly tricky strike, she felt the blood pump in her hands. This was the last piece. If it hit the hole, Papa would win. That was unacceptable. "Just do it, already!" she snapped.
On the other side of the table Mama waited with bated breath, brow furrowed, mouth tugged in an urforgiving snarl. Sarada always knew she was a sore loser. She was hoping Papa would miss the piece.
And frankly, so was she. She had become an unexpected pro at this, and she knew every time she smirked smugly at her parents, they bristled. It made her giddy.
Papa, flicked the striker. It struck its mark—but alas, luck was not on his side that night. As the mark whizzed to the hole on the opposite side of the board, it slowly lost its velocity, and stopped about two inches from its intended destination.
There was a pause, then Mama grinned. "Hah!" she laughed, and smacked Papa on the back. Papa doubled over, but caught himself before falling face first on the board.
Sarada leaned back on the floor and gave Papa a smug look.
Papa sulked.
"My turn," she said sweetly, then twined her fingers over her head, arched her back and let out a series of crackling pops. She shifted a little, stretched her arms out to the piece she was to strike, calculated the angle, the acceleration and the speed, took a deep breath and struck. It whizzed past the mark, connected with the side of the board, then doubled back and hit the last piece which angled back and whizzed into the nearest hole.
"YES!" Sarada cried, pumping a fist in the air, "Who's your next Hokage?" she asked her parents in a complacent, holier-than-thou voice.
Both of them bristled.
"I am," she smiled, satisfied.
Papa sighed, looked at Mama helplessly. "How?"
Mama looked back, smiling and just as bewildered, "I think the more appropriate question is, when,honey?"
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fin