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This conversation is set somewhere during late season 5 or early 6 (doesn't really matter when...), long before the Doyle saga. After a couple of heavier conversations, this one is a touch more light-hearted.

To those who have left suggestions for conversations, I assure you, I am working on them!

Happy reading =)

"Whereas fanatic is usually a pejorative word, a fan is someone who has roots somewhere." – Simon Kuipers, Soccernomics

"You've really never watched it?" I ask incredulously.

"Why would I?" Morgan asks, as if the very suggestion is preposterous.

"It's the most popular sport on earth!"

"Statistically speaking, the final is the most widely viewed televised event in the world," Reid adds, a grin spreading across his face as he spouts off facts.

"No way that's true," he says in disbelief. "Millions of people watch the SuperBowl."

"True, but not as many as the World Cup. This year's SuperBowl had an overall viewership of 154.3 million, while the last World Cup final in 2006 was watched by over 715.1 million people, worldwide. Over the course of the tournament it's estimated to have had over 26.29 billion unique viewers."

"Have you ever watched it?" he asks, turning his attention to Reid.

"Well, no. But I'm not athletic!"

"Rossi, my man, I stick to the real football," he says, turning his attention back to me.

"You mean American football?" I say, failing to hold back the disdain in my tone.

"Yes, I mean American football. Also known as just plain ol' football. What you're talking about is soccer."

"Then why do they mainly use their hands in this "football" that you speak of?" Emily asks from a few desks over, her attention finally drawn away from her paperwork and onto our discussion.

"Why do you insist on calling it "football" when everyone else refers to it as soccer?" he asks, ignoring her question.

"Actually, most nations around the world refer to it as football or some variation of that, depending on their language. Further, the sport's international governing body is FIFA - Fédération Internationale de Football Association. North America, specifically the U.S. and Canada, is somewhat unique in its tendency to refer to it as soccer. Although the history behind the name is widely disputed," Reid supplies.

"Plus that name actually makes sense. They use their feet to kick around a ball. Foot… ball. See, makes sense!" Emily says with a cheeky grin on her face.

"Whatever," he grumbles as he shoots a glare toward her.

"Well, the final of this year's World Cup is this Sunday, and you're all more than welcome to join me in watching," I say, bringing the discussion back to the reason I'd brought it up in the first place.

"I'm in!" Reid says enthusiastically. "I've never watched a World Cup final… Or any football at all, actually."

"I'm in, so long as you're cooking," Garcia calls from across the room at the coffee maker. "I'll let JJ know as well."

"Emily?" I prompt.

"Sure, as long as you supply the alcohol," she says with a grin.

"That I can do. Morgan, you in?"

"I don't know-"

"Oh shut up, you. He's coming," Emily says as she swats his arm.

"But I-"

He stops his sentence as he meets her glare.

"Right, see you there."

"Mudgie! Behave yourself," I scold the over-excited Labrador currently attacking Emily with affection, and resting his front paws on her as he jumps up, greeting her at the door.

"It's fine, Dave," she says as she chuckles and scratches behind his ear. "Here, I brought some leftover paella. Mostly because I can't stand to even look at it anymore."

"Paella?" I ask, as I take the container from her.

"It's a traditional Spanish rice dish. One of my favourites, but there's a limit to how much of it you can eat," she explains quickly, turning her attention back to Mudgie who has now flipped onto his back on the ground. She obliges him, crouching down to spoil him with a belly rub.

Leaving a very content Mudgie with Emily, I make my way to the kitchen to put away the container and get drinks for us.

"Red or white?" I call out.

"Whichever pairs with what we're eating," she calls back, and I can't help but smile. There is something to be said for a person who chooses their wine based on the food to be consumed, rather than their personal preference. I sometimes forget she was raised on fine-dining, and not the hot dogs and burgers most American kids grow up with. Then again, her childhood certainly doesn't fit the mould of your typical American kid.

Opening up a bottle of red, I pour out two glasses and hand one to her as she enters the kitchen, Mudgie not far behind.

"Thanks," she says, accepting the glass. Closing her eyes, she brings the glass to her nose and inhales deeply, a wide smile spreading across her face. "Mmmm. Fantastic."

I grin in reply, "I know. Simply divine. Wait until you have it with the fresh focaccia al rosmarino and pizza margherita I'm making, it brings the flavours to a whole other level."

"I can't wait."

Mudgie begins pushing his snout against her leg, seeking more attention.

"Mudgie," I scold, shooting a disapproving look at him.

"Aw, c'mon Dave. Quit being such a hard-ass," she says, a mischievous twinkle flashing in her eyes. "Poor Mudgie. Left all alone while we're away catching the bad guys. Bet you just want some love, yeah?"

He barks loudly in response. I swear he understands everything we say. At her request, he sits down obediently, his tail still wagging quickly, clearly happy to please someone willing to shower him with attention and affection.

"Does he do any tricks?"

I shrug, "Sometimes. He's pretty stubborn most of the time and does whatever he likes."

"So he takes after you, then," she says, an eyebrow raised. She turns her attention back to Mudgie, "Shake a paw?"

He lifts his paw and places it in her hand, his eyes clearly twinkling with happiness at the attention.

"Roll over?"

He rolls back and forth a few times before sitting once more. She turns to face me once more, "Stubborn, eh?"

I shake my head, "He must like you."

"Guess so."

"So, are you here to actually watch the game, or just to piss off Morgan?" I ask.

"While that's definitely a worthy reason for coming, I actually happen to have an appreciation for football."

I raise an eyebrow in question.

"I've spent a good portion of my life in European countries, how can I not?"

"I suppose. Which was your favourite?"

"Does my answer have an impact on whether or not I get more wine?"

I laugh, "No, Bella. No strings attached on this one."

"In that case, I've always loved France."

"Your grandfather retired there, right?"

"Yeah. I spent a lot of time with him on the French Alps as a kid. But Paris is amazing; it's such a romantic city."

"I never took you for the romantic type."

She shrugs, "The city itself has this…feel to it. When I was a kid it always felt like magic could happen there."

"What about Italy? You spent some time there as a kid, right?"

"Yeah, when I was a teenager."

I nod in recognition as Matthew Benton comes to mind. "Do you think you'd ever go back there?"

"Honestly, I don't know. While I have a lot of happy memories there, not all of my time there was sunshine and roses," she says, her eyes becoming thoughtful as she's no doubt thrown into some memories.

I shoot her a sympathetic look, "Of course. But you shouldn't let your childhood and your past dictate where you go. Guide you, yes, but not dictate."

"Right… my childhood," she says quietly. It almost seems she is trying to convince herself that that's what she was talking about. "Anyway, I'm pretty happy here in the States now, so maybe I'll keep my worldly travels to a minimum for a while."

"And we're happy to have you here," I say, raising my glass. She smiles, we touch our glasses together, and enjoy a gulp of fine red wine.

An hour later my house is filled with friends, and, if I'm being honest, family. With kickoff only a few minutes away, I watch as Emily explains the basic rules to Morgan.

"Okay, so they play 2 halves that are 45 minutes each, right?" Morgan asks, his brow furrowed in concentration.

She nods, "Yep. And if the game is tied at the end they'll play 2 periods of extra time."

"What happens if nobody scores in that time?"

"Then it'll go to penalty kicks."

"And they only use their feet, right? The whole time, I mean."

"For the most part. The goalkeeper can use his hands inside the box, and players will throw the ball from the touchlines to put the ball back into play. But the rest of the time it's all feet."

"How tight are the uniforms?" Garcia asks.

Emily makes a noise of amusement, "Not overly… sorry PG."

She frowns, "What am I doing here then?"

"Rossi's supplying the food. And alcohol," she says as though it were just a matter of fact. She pauses for a moment, considering something. "Oh, and sometimes the players will trade shirts after the game."

"I'll give you the food and alcohol, but so what about the shirts?"

JJ smiles knowingly, "Well, in order to trade, they have to remove their own first…"

"OH! I knew I liked soccer," she says, a grin spreading across her face.

"Baby girl, behave, there are kids around," Morgan says, shooting a quick glance to Henry and Jack who are settled on the ground, their eyes taking in pre-game celebrations on the large TV.

"This is me behaving," she says seriously. Morgan shakes his head in response.

"How do you know about all of this?" Reid asks.

"Football, sorry, soccer," she corrects herself, shooting a pointed glare to Morgan. "Is pretty much a religion in Europe. It's hard to avoid it when you spend any amount of time there. Especially Italy. Even if I did try to avoid it, an understanding of it is inevitable."

"And you played in college, right JJ?" Reid asks, swinging his attention to the blonde.

"Yep. I don't think I've ever been in better shape than those 4 years."

"You're an FBI agent, though!" Garcia says.

JJ just shrugs, "Yeah, but it's a different kind of fitness for the job. When you play, it's everything. Your diet is specially geared toward your game and practice schedule, your classes are rearranged to make sure you can make all the games and training sessions, there's a dedicated physiotherapist, strength and conditioning coach, and speed trainer assigned to the team, and the fitness training outline would put Morgan's workouts to shame."

Morgan grins, "She's right. College athletes are crazy fit. Before I blew out my knee I was probably more fit than I am now."

Emily rolls her eyes, "Your humility could use a bit of a work out."

"You're just jealous."

"Of what? Having to do 1000 sit-ups a day to maintain that? I'll take my significantly less hardcore, but still sufficient workouts, thanks."

"Less hardcore? I've seen your workout regime, it's pretty intense. Especially when I'm around," he taunts.

"You're imagining things, Morgan."

"Nope. You always work that little bit harder when I'm working out in the gym at the same time. Trying to impress someone, Princess?"

"No, but the real question is why you're watching me do my workouts," she fires back. Her expression conveys a message of "go ahead and try to worm your way out of this one".

"Uhh-" he stutters, trying in vain to get himself out of the hole he'd dug for himself. "I'm a profiler, I'm paid to analyze human behaviour."

"Of criminals, not colleagues. Now spill. Have you been watching our raven-haired beauty working out? Is there something you'd like to admit, my Chocolate Adonis?" Garcia asks, wagging her eyebrows.

"No! I- Uhh- It's hard to ignore the only other person at the gym at 5:30 in the morning."

"5:30? AM?!" Garcia shrieks.

"You're surprised? It's the only time we can fit in our workouts with this crazy schedule of ours. Plus, if his training schedule during college was anything like mine, he's probably used to early morning training," JJ says.

Morgan nods in agreement.

"Okay, soccer star. Who's gonna win then?" Morgan asks, thankful to direct the conversation back to the day's events.

JJ shrugs, "I honestly couldn't say. I'm so out of touch with the soccer world these days."

"What about you, Miss Football Expert," he asks, turning his attention back to Emily.

She pauses for a moment to consider, "Well, neither team has ever won the World Cup, and both were pretty successful in the group and knock-out stages. But I didn't get a chance to watch either play other than highlights from a couple games…"

"Oh, come on Princess. Put your money where your mouth is. Who's gonna win it?"

She glares at him for a moment before responding, "Spain. Too much attacking prowess for the Dutch to handle, I think. I'm guessing it'll be a tight game though. Probably go to extra-time, and only a goal or two to decide it."

"Is that so? Well I happen to think the Dutch will win," Morgan says, his competitiveness getting the better of him.

"Care to make a wager on that, Agent Morgan?" Emily asks, her own competitive nature flaring up.

"$100?"

"Nah, that's too easy. Coffee and breakfast for a week," she amends.

"Okay, and a day's worth of consults," he adds.

"Coffee and breakfast for a week, a day's worth of consults, and Wednesday's lunch," she says, upping the ante.

He appears to consider the terms for a moment before adding one final thing. "And tickets to a live sporting event."

She raises an eyebrow, "You know, D.C. has a local footy team…"

"And a local football team too," I add.

"Fine. Loser buys coffee and breakfast for a week and Wednesday's lunch, does a day's worth of consults, and buys tickets to either a D.C. United game or a Redskins game. Deal?"

"You've got yourself a deal, Princess. I look forward to my coffee tomorrow."

"That's funny, because I'm looking forward to enjoying a rather expensive lunch on Wednesday, courtesy of your wallet."

I share a look with Hotch and shake my head knowingly – those two are far too competitive for their own good. But I must admit, watching them is entertainment in and of itself.

"Kids, behave," I chide. "The game's about to start and the food's ready."

She is grinning widely, and his scowl could strike fear into small children.

"I can't believe they lost! They had all the momentum."

"Nonsense. The Spanish had it under control. But what I think is more significant here is that you enjoyed the game," she says, rubbing some salt in his wound.

"Hardly. Nothing beats watching my Bears in the NFL."

"Admit it – you had fun."

"Did not."

"Did too," she says, sticking her tongue out at him in a very immature fashion.

"Kids! Don't make me ground you," I scold. "Morgan, we all saw it – you enjoyed yourself today. Admit it, football isn't as bad as you thought."

He exhales in frustration, "I guess it wasn't so bad."

Emily grins at his admission, "I'm thinking Spanish sounds good for Wednesday's lunch. I know this great little place that's not too far from the office."

She strides toward the front door and grabs her coat. Morgan begins muttering under his breath about how he doesn't like Spanish food, but I reach out and grab his arm to stop him, "At least the company will be good."

He flashes a wide smile, "That it will, Rossi."

I walk him to the door, and find Emily just on her way out. "Thanks for the paella."

"Thanks for hosting this little viewing party," she says.

"Drive safely, Bella."

"I will. But who knows what Morgan will do in his despair over losing our bet," she says with a wink, and sticking her tongue out at Morgan once more. "I'll let you know when I'm free to go to that footy match."

"Get out of here Princess, before I say something I'm gonna regret."

"Bye boys," she says in a sing-song voice.

"That woman is crazy," Morgan says as he shrugs on his coat.

"Maybe, but she's certainly something," I say.

I'd love to hear your thoughts if you have the time. I appreciate reviews more than you know.

And as a final note, for those who might be wondering: the statistics Reid cited are actually fairly accurate as far as I can tell (seriously, I did some research and everything).