The Adventures of Super Jock and Awkward Girl
A/N ~ Basically this is the chapter in which it gets good. Trust me. As always, I am English and hence mistakes are probably going to be made in the ways of American football. I really am quite the fool for setting this AU in a football-dominated America, but shut up. Don't forget to get involved with Reviews For More Braime! (In which you put 'Reviews for more Braime' at the end of your review and I give you a spoiler excerpt from a later chapter, about five lines long, depending on the length of review.) I love you, all of you who have taken the time to read this nonsense, I do, I do. Oh, and remember that interview in which Gwen said that Brienne would probably listen to thrash metal? Yeah, I took that to heart.
Coming Up… Jaime releases his frustrations on entirely the wrong person, Robert is kind of a dick because Cersei and Lyanna have broken him, everyone gets furious at one point or another, (except understanding fluffy rainbow cake Rhaegar), a hand is broken, and somebody's turned traitor for the Wall Academy Crows. (Which you actually won't find out about until next chapter.) Find out in The Adventures of Super Jock and Awkward Girl!
6.Game Time (Is Terrifying)
Jaime Lannister was sweating profusely, for some odd reason, which was utterly abstract and confusing for him, as he sat in solitude on the bench in the midst of the steamed-up locker rooms, waiting for… something. Jaime Lannister did not understand; Jaime Lannister was not nervous – he was the best freaking quarterback this damn school had ever seen, naturally! Jaime Lannister did not get nervous. He stared down at his bared feet, running a hand through his disarraying golden hair and shifting, sighing. First matches of the season were always guaranteed to be a bit intimidating – to the others, of course. Nothing intimidated Jaime Lannister. Jaime Lannister intimidated people.
Whilst the other members of the team were out, being drilled by the best young coach that Westeros High had ever seen – one Barry Stan Selmy, he'd been granted time to stay behind and take a breather – after all, he was one of the star players; exceptions could be granted for him (and even if he wasn't, he was Jaime Lannister; that meant certain rules didn't apply to him.) So, he stood himself up and closed his eyes, taking a momentary breath. Outside the locker room, beyond the hall, he could hear Lyanna Stark shouting, drilling the girl's team; they'd be playing the second match, after lunch. Though of course, their leader board starting point had everything to do with how well the guys team got along. And Lyanna Stark was going to kill them all if they made her girls look bad.
Though maybe, if they did do badly, it could be pinned on Lyanna fucking Stark anyway, for accidently getting herself lodged in Robert Baratheon's head. Which of course, could lead to conflicts between Rhaegar and Robert – Lyanna and Cersei clearly preferred Rhaegar to the poor fellow. Jaime had long since guessed that Robert and Cersei were done after Cersei tried to kiss Rhaegar at the diner that night. And, match-wise, it wouldn't help Robert, Rhaegar or Lyanna to have Cersei The Meddling Manipulating Moron herself prancing about (prancing prat) at the top of the pom-pom wielding pyramid.
So he rolled his eyes to the benefit of himself, and dug his hands into the pocket of his crimson Westeros Dragons tracksuit, fumbling for his locker key. When his fingers managed not to close around cold metal, and then again when he rifled through his other pocket, he began to fret, and quite considerably, too, stomach dropping and somehow fuelling the demented hammering of his (rib)caged heart.
Wondering (and pinning all his hopes on that wonderment) whether he'd perhaps unlocked said locker earlier and then left the keys somewhere, Jaime hastened to attempt to pull open his firmly-locked locker. Oh great. Selmy, Rhaegar and Lyanna are going to (attempt to) kill me (he'd like to see them try.). Well, really, it was just a bloody brilliant way to cap an equally crappy couple of weeks. Shitshitshitshitshit.
Jaime Lannister struck the locker door with all of his (considerable, if he did think so himself) might and ended up with a dent in his prized locker and a significant searing soreness in his fist. Stomach now roiling in something other than nerves, Jaime strode out of the locker room door, and glanced uneasily at the clock that hung, harbourer of his demise, in the corridor – the match was supposed to start in fifteen minutes. Oh, seven bloody buggering hells.
Taking off at a sprint down the fluorescent-lit corridor web, Jaime skidded to a halt before the coach's office, perhaps fastening all his hopes to the chance to talk his way into borrowing someone's Dragon kit, one of the subs maybe, or something, anything. Tyrion, although the most practised and adept, was not the only Lannister who could talk himself out of trouble. (Tyrion however was the most practised and adept since he never allowed arrogance and soaring self-esteem to clutter his progression – not that Jaime ever did, of course… He would resort to weaponizing words if he had to.) Chances of speaking to Selmy in private were shattered. Selmy was, of course, out giving the rest some kind of pep talk, no doubt.
But no, Selmy, Stark, Targaryen – they'd have a fit if they found out Jaime'd lost his locker keys, the locker keys to the locker than contained his only uniform. (Which was, you know, their problem, aside from the fact he'd be in the firing line. He'd been in the firing line before and lived.) (Of course, if he were anyone else he might be a tad concerned about perhaps being kicked off the team.) (But he was Jaime freaking Lannister, and hence, golden.) And then, a curious little voice in the back of his head sent forth a rather interesting (rather, infuriating) thought.
What if he'd not lost them.
And then it came crashing down onto him, realization deafening and clear and lucid; he knew exactly who would have stolen them, just to shame him, just to put him down. And Jaime took off running again, golden hair damp and disorganized, trainers squalling on the polished flooring. Following the ever increasing sounds of Lya Stark and company, the girl Westeros Dragons team practising and pepping, and whatever else they did. And he swore, fuming, fury burning up inside of him, sparks of rage kindling to a frenzied inferno as he grew ever closer to the perpetrator. He was going to destroy Brienne Tarth.
As, once more, his sneakers skittered to a screaming halt by the girls' training room, he found himself near trembling with budding ire. Inside, Lyanna Stark was making an impassioned speech that involved a lot of swearing and laughing and flamboyant, sweeping hand gestures, to a team that were half paying amused and admiring attention and half slipping whispers and notes and snores about. Maege Mormont seemed to be the first person to notice the breathless, red-faced (from fury, of course, not over-exercise) Lannister seething at the doorway. She motioned, and Lyanna turned to him, looking quite irritated at having her loud and gaudy speech interrupted. "Yes, Lannister?"
"I believe there's someone here I need to have a little talk with?"
Lyanna looked at him as if he were suffering some bizarre mental condition. "Dude, your game starts in like, ten minutes and you're not even dressed yet –"
"About that. Tarth –" He spat. "Might I speak to you out here for just a moment, please?"
Brienne, looking (pleasingly) exceedingly uncomfortable at the sudden dozen eyes on her, scowled at the floor. She muttered something about why. Enraged, Jaime just motioned furiously, and, reluctantly, Tarth rose and stumbled around the rest of the team. The moment she reached the doorway, Jaime's grip tightened around her wrist and yanked her (which was not an easily accomplished feat) out further into the deserted corridor.
"What, Lannister?" Tarth muttered, glaring daggers at him with those blue eyes.
"You know what!" Jaime snarled. "Give me my key back and then we can call it quits, okay?" He thrust his open palm out to her, glowering.
"What key? I didn't take any key, Lannister."
"You know you did, give it back because if I'm not out there in eight minutes, our team is going to fail. And if our team goes, so does your little team, got it? Give me the keys. Now."
"I don't have your keys, I told you." Brienne hissed. "Unlike some people, I'm no liar."
"So now you're calling me a liar?"
"Well, you're certainly not a truthful person, are you?"
"Like you're so perfect," He snorted and spat at the ground.
"I know very well that I'm not perfect, Lannister, you see, unlike certain people, I don't truly believe I am."
"We can do this later, I have a match to play!"
"Well then I'm afraid that I can't help you." Tarth insisted, with a fiercely defiant glance (down at her shoes.)
"Give me the keys, or I will make your life hell."
"Oh, I'm sorry, were you not already?"
"I need them."
"I don't have them."
"Jaime! On the pitch, now!" The familiar rumble of Coach Selmy as his footsteps thundered down the hallway collided with Jaime's violent rage. "We've been looking all over for you, Lannister, you've got less than ten minutes to be changed and be out there or we're putting in Reed, which will loose us the championship. Come on."
"I can't, Coach, this idiot's stolen my locker keys and –"
"This idiot is Stark's star striker. She'd have no reason for trying to sabotage our game. Tarth – you get back in there with the rest and you forget about this." Barry Stan ordered, and Brienne nodded, traipsing back in with the remainder of the female Westeros Dragon team. Jaime seethed, enraged. Oh, she'd have plenty of reasons for sabotaging his game, and the bitch gets off, scot-free. "Now, Lannister, you get to our spare kits, you get your ass out there, and you win us this game! Understood, quarterback?"
"Understood." Jaime spat, tearing off down the hallway, still cursing Brienne Tarth.
And after a whirlwind changing, leaving his tracksuit flung haphazardly over a bench, Jaime arrived out on the churned pitch two and a half minutes before the game kicked off. Just long enough to go, aching and panting, to stand by Baratheon, who, with an inquiring look (which, Jaime thought lacked his usual coarse laugh) Jaime ignored, still unfortunately wallowing in pity and rage. Cersei, with the rest of her idiot cheerleading squad, from the sidelines, granted him several dirt looks. And yet his bitterness was a rather profitable factor, as it turned out, because he could express his rage on the football, and on the opposing team – Wall Academy Crows – 's players. And the adoring cheers of the Westeros High crowd, and the intermingling chanting of the (if irritating) cheerleaders spurred him onward. The sprint to and from locker room beforehand, however, had already tired Jaime out, which meant every push of his football boots against the churning, muddy ground send blazing pain lacing up his muscles. Ignoring of the aches, Jaime fought on, furious, and all but crawled (of course, he didn't resort to crawling yet. He still had some dignity and some reputation to cling to.) to the benches pitch-side at half time, grappling for a water bottle and draining it within seconds, coolness soothing his inflamed, papery throat, plastic crunching beneath his dirtied grip. He tossed the empty bottle aside, panting, lungs revelling in each breath. It felt so good just to sit down. Rhaegar came staggering over, clapped him, winded and wheezing, on the shoulder.
"Well played out there, boys," He puffed. "At the moment we're tied. Neck and neck. Everyone clear on the stance for the second half? Trant? Lannister? Barathe – where's Baratheon?"
Jaime turned, mud-beaded, sweat-drenched dulled-golden hair whipping his stinging face. Robert was indeed gone from the sidelines. Not good. Half of the pre-planned strategy depended on Robert's unflinching (though of course, Jaime thought, not Jaime Lannister Standard) talent. Rhaegar repeated his inquiry after Rob, volume markedly increased, and Jaime found himself frowning and shaking his head along with the team. Though pallid sunlight streamed down through the most emaciated, sheer smearing of gauzy clouds, the September winds obstinately thrashed both Dragons and Crows alike, referees and substitutes, crowds and cheerleaders. Cheerleaders. Jaime turned, still grappling to calm his erratic heartbeats, to see, indeed, the head Westeros High cheerleader gone from their squadron. Catching Ashara Dayne's eye, Jaime mouthed a frowning where's Cersei? To which she shook her head, shrugging. This couldn't be good.
"I – I'm just going to the guy's room." Jaime declared, standing on pain-softened legs, and before Rhaegar or Selmy had time to respond, he'd, agonizingly, fled for the double-doors beneath the bleachers, flying into the corridor maze, where he followed the expected, swelling voices of his sister and Robbie Baratheon.
"Why the hell would you tell me that, you stupid cow, you knew –"
"Don't you dare talk to me like that! I didn't know anything about your little plan –"
"Oh, of course not –"
"Why would I try and wreck a match, you know my cheerleading career would be dragged through the dust and –"
"Quiet woman, would you let me speak for one moment –"
Jaime rounded the corner onto them, both looking rather furious and rather flustered, for some obscure reason. Cersei was standing, looking for all the world as if she were about to slap Robert (she had assumed the pre-slap stance; a stature that Jaime had observed countless times growing up with the woman), who was wild-eyed, and looking somehow as shifty and anxious as he was irate. They both turned to look at him with fire in their eyes. "Will either of you care to explain to me what's going on?"
"No." Cersei muttered immediately. "Half time'll be over all too soon. I'll leave you to explain your pathetic little slip up, shall I, dear Robert?" She spat with a grimace over her shoulder as she strode firmly out, wreathed in thunder. Robert watched her go, and then turned back to Jaime, with a hopelessness about his expression.
"What?"
Robert shifted, looking at his feet. "Ah, you see Jaime, I don't know if the bitch told you, but she tried – tried, mind you, thank the heavens for Lyanna Stark – to get off with the Prince the night of our date. And I naturally had to get back at her, for humiliating me…" He sighed heartily. "I could've sworn she'd let slip something about you having her locker key, and I thought it might be funny if she was late for the match because she couldn't get to her cheerleading outfit…"
Realization was dawning on Jaime Lannister, a dark, dark dawning (that made it hard to restrain himself from flying at Baratheon).
"And then you turning up late, in that spare kit… I'd got the wrong keys, I knew it, and I felt awful – I feel awful, Jaime – and… Look, it's hardly my fault! I just wanted to give her a little taste of the embarrassment she gave me, gives me, constantly, and, in fact, it might not even be an honest mistake, she could've just mentioned the keys if she was mad at you, or –"
Oh no, it wasn't to do with Cersei, Jaime knew – although the witch would do everything along those lines, and had done, in the past – she'd have no reason to be upset with him. It was after she'd had her little brawl with Brandon's sister that he and Tyrion had hacked her Facebook and invaded her privacy and blah blah blah. He understood. He understood completely. Just as he was opening his mouth, Coach Selmy came jogging in, looking exasperated. "How many times today Lannister, out on the pitch, Baratheon, go, go!"
They followed their coach, the coal-haired and the gold, seething and avoiding one another's gaze, and Jaime, kindling his fury into energy for the game. Their teammates were already jogging out across the grass when they joined them, and when the whistle sounded, along with the conflicting screaming of the chattering, grumbling crowds, and the tuneful chant of (crazy) cheerleaders, Jaime let rip. He bowled through huddles, he kicked, he grabbed, he spat. And when, still neck and neck some time later, exhausted, dehydrated, furious (furious at Cersei, furious at Robert, furious at Lyanna and Rhaegar for being so happy together, furious at himself, for some abstract reason, for taking it out on Tarth), it came down to him, gasping, long, Robert, a little away from him, grappling with a Crow, and the ball, hurtling towards him.
In the black uniform of the Wall Academy Crows, some big hulking brute blocking him lunged for it, precisely the same time as Robert Baratheon, as golden quarterback Jaime Lannister. The three squirmed along the muck, as sharp whistles blew, and something heavy, too heavy, crashed down onto Jaime's outstretched right hand, as it slipped through the churning mud for the ball, as Robert's violent, coarse cries of 'We're on the same team, relent, Lannister,' and 'let me, you golden haired shit,' pounding through his aching skull, and the heavy thing was too heavy, far too heavy, and his fingers were splaying out through cool, soothing mud beneath it's bulk, and he could feel the bones snapping and breaking and his hand falling limp and the bruises blossoming along his bone, and somehow, distantly, he could hear someone screaming, strident, squalling, agonizing screams, and somehow, distantly, he knew it was him.
And then his vision went fuzzy, and blue, blue like the sea at the edges, and then the edges crumpled and folded in, and everything was black.
A/N ~ Basically, the reason all my updates are so sporadic is that we're moving soon, and I have little internet usage. So, whenever I can, I'm attempting to upload a few chapters at a time, just to keep y'all going. Won't be able to post for a week after this chapter, unfortunately - but fear not! I will not disappoint (I hope.)