Two Left Footies


delia_icon.gif logan_icon.gif

Scene Title Two Left Footies
Synopsis Proof positive that godfathers rule the field when playing pretend princesses.
Date October 9, 2010

An Abandoned Soccer Field

The phone call from Logan wasn't entirely expected, there've been many times when people said they would call but never actually did. Delia's guilty of that quite a bit. Apparently, John Logan isn't one of those kinds of people. As promised a date was made to play football and having the grand fortune of winning quite a bit of money the night before, Delia bought herself a soccer ball.

At the moment, she is in an abandoned school field, attempting to bounce the ball off one knee repeatedly, like she's see in FIFA commercials. The most she's managed in succession is three.

Dressed in a pair of jersey sweatpants, a white t-shirt, and her usual gray hoodie, the redhead chases the ball across the field. That last knock to the knee hit a little too hard. She kicks the ball a few times, trying to get a feel for it. She's really not that good.

There is someone approaching now, sending glances over his shoulder as if maybe there would be someone around to see this. Maybe it would be a brunette with lovely bone structure, thin blades and lioness demeanor. Maybe rangy, lanky ginger Russian with the tiger-blue eyes, or the Jackie O spectacles pulled down a delicate nose bridge to send skeptical stares down the field. But there is no one, no one to witness Logan sink sneakers into soft grass as he pads over towards the spritely redhead chasing around the ball's haphazard skitter along the green terrain. He isn't in proper cleats, because he doesn't own any, anymore.

There is still a slacks like quality to track pants, off-black and water resistant, with the glimmer of yellow looping round the knees where partially obscured zipper implies removal of fabric to create shorts, but Logan wears them as they are. A clinging, royal blue sweater is zipped over grey wife-beater, and he stops to watch for a second.

"You're meant to kick with the in part've the foot," he calls out, by way of greeting. "The side."

The voice catches the young woman by surprise, enough that her kick goes off and she taps the ball with the tip of her shoe, sending it in a direction completely opposite the one she wanted. That is to say neither toward the Brit or even toward the goal. Ignoring the runaway piece of equipment, a bright smile appears on Delia's face as she raises a hand and waves her own greeting. "Hi Mister Logan," it's not quite sung, not wanting to offend him into leaving before the games begin. But there's the hint of a melody behind his name, at the very least a lilt in her voice.

A quick glance in the direction of the ball and she holds up a single finger, a silent bid for him to wait as she runs off to fetch it. It doesn't take more than a moment's jog to the side of the field before she's lobbed up the ball between her hands and trotting back in his direction.

Her shoes are a too bright white, Seinfeld variety of tennis shoe. Until today there hadn't been a mark on them. Now the bottoms have little grass stains from where she's skid, matching the ones on her knees and bottom from the times she's actually fallen. "Where's Cheza? Did you leave her at home?" the breathless questions are blurted rapidly as the blush forms on her cheeks and a large grin forms on her face. "Oh… uhm.. Sorry, I should have said how are you first."

"I'm fine," he says, moving up closer. 'Fine', for Logan, is upright, sober, no cigarette in hand and the remnants of a fist-shaped bruise on his mouth that smudges unnatural shadow at its down, arcing near his nose. Recent but not fresh and healing swiftly. "Cheza's currently on guard duty at the club. Watching the place for me while I play. Gives." Hands out, now, for the soccer ball, a vague V of palms tilted for the sky and fingers together, spade like. Splay for emphasis.

There is a small dimple developing in a halved smirk, the sort of smile when a joke gets broken. "And how're you?"

Delia's head weaves a little at an angle, furrowing her brow as she tries to get a better look at the bruise. She gets close enough to pass him the ball without throwing it, close enough to inspect the blemish before her baby blues skirt a glance into Logan's green eyes. A sole eyebrow raises into a sharp point questioningly, one that's punctuated by pursed lips. "Fine? I mean… I'm fine, I can't complain."

Her lips tick into a miniature closed lipped grin, a little bigger than Mona Lisa's but not by much. "So… are you going to give me a few pointers before we start or are you just going to wipe the grass with me?" This widens her grin but she ducks her head shyly to look at the ball instead of up at him.

That eying has him sweeping his tongue against the inside of his mouth, still broken from where skin had split against teeth in the split second crush of the punch, backing up with soccer ball acquired. Bits of wetter grass clings to it, but even with the film of earth-grime, Logan doesn't seem to mind dirt. Go figure. He tosses it a few inches in the air, catches. "I got punched in the mouth," he maybe unnecessarily answers her silent query, backing up some steps. "By an ex."

With barely a sound, the football lands on damp ground when dropped, Logan guardedly placing the sole of his sneaker on top sphere. "If you how to kick," and there is a slight demonstrate, the swift swing of a foot of an inset connection, ball bouncing off the side and rolling at a bounce directly for Delia's feet, "then the rest is 'istory. And years of practice."

Handwave. Whatever, years of practice!

"Oh — I.. oh.." There's not much the young woman can say to the reasoning behind the bruise except when giving a little grimace, she shrugs her shoulders and shakes her head. "Sorry… I've never really been in — never had an ex, that is." A single, gentle, huff of a laugh is given before she's looking down at the ground again.

The ball going directly toward her feet is repelled instead of halted when Delia attempts the earlier lesson about the inset of the foot. With a rubbery ping it rebounds back at an angle, somewhat toward him if he took a few jogging steps downfield. "Ah!" she voices in a somewhat breathy voice before making the half run herself. "Stay there, I'll get it!" Unless that was the signal to start the fun, in which case, the race is on.

Good call. Because it fuckn is!

Hopefully, the belated but certainly very present sound of Logan's feet tromping against the grassy ground is enough to spur Delia on, pursued by lanky Brit who could well run out of steam early enough for Delia to win the whole thing, but for now— for now he can sweep alongside her and deftly pluck soccer out of the trajectory of her kicking feet with his own, cutting across like a very daring driver passing a truck on the highway and veering off in a different direction.

All without touching her save for the rush of air of running by, the thump of shoe to ball as it skitters in renewed direction, Logan in pursuit of it. There's a goal over —-> there with weedings growing tangled around rusted, white painted piping, and it seems to be his vague course of choice.

There's a very girly squeal that echoes across the field as Logan nabs the ball and makes his way toward the goal. All Delia can do is charge after him and she's nowhere near as nimble in this situation as he is. It doesn't take her long to catch up to the blond man, though. Well within arm's reach, she could tackle him down but that's American football not football and cheating, at least in a situation like this, just isn't as fun (for her).

The attempt at a steal is made as the fiery redhead swipes a leg toward the ball. Not matching his skill, by far, she only manages to trip herself up and with a laugh, she stumbles along behind him once again. After regaining her footing, she begins to sprint, racing Logan toward the overgrown goal. Without being inhibited by the ball, she manages to reach it in time to pivot and cover, managing to act as forward and goalie all in the same play.

It helps, on account of having no team. There's a brief smile, breathy laughter by the time girl is staking out the goals, Logan slowing if not by much, a nudge of his foot sending the ball ahead of him by a few feet — all the better to get a run up. Picking up a sport again is not like riding a bicycle after prolonged absence, but there is some familiarity in the basic gist, and dusty practice in the simple movement. There is not the strength in it there could have been, which is either mercy of Delia, or maybe, just—

Not being as good. But it still sends the patterned ball up and off the ground, arcing to cleanly cut between the established posts, Logan's momentum slowing to watch how the next two seconds go down.

The graceful swan dive of the redhead as she leaps through the air toward the ball is sullied by nothing more complicated than the ball clearing the space between her hands. It bounces out of sight in a slow lob behind her, somewhere near the edge of the field. All of this plays out in slow motion for the goalie, only to draw forth a shriek when the ground gets much too close, much too fast. Before the Brit can say Bob's yer uncle, she's face down in the grass.

A gravely groan is all she can manage as she rolls onto her back and stares at the sky for enough time to recapture the wind that was taken away by her fall. This isn't a game that waits for injury, not hers at least, and as soon as she takes in her first large gulp, she's pushing herself up off the ground. "My turn…" she squeaks toward him with a grin that's used to mask the pain.

Easy laughter from Logan sounds compulsive, kind of catching, throaty with rasp. Things without affect from him have that leashless quality to it, but it's over by the time she's getting to her feet — she'll see him pause in his few steps forward to maybe help her up, call the game done, go for drinks~, but hey. His hands go up, palms to the sky and fingers curling in a gesture that quite clearly communicates bring it on, as he backs up, the opposite side of the field not terribly far on abandoned schoolyard stretch.

"See, I can tell you're new at football," Logan says, voice loud enough to carry to her. "That shoulda been your cue to start bawling your fucking eyes out and getting me red carded, somehow." Not that that's ever happened to Logan. Right?

The short jog to catch the ball is all that's needed to shake off whatever ails the young woman and soon, she's tapping the ball back toward the field proper with her toes. Delia runs, keeping just behind the ball as she makes a slow progression to the opposite end of the field.

Try as she might to keep a wide berth from Logan, the redhead's really no match for him when it comes to skill. As rusty as he might be, she's not even at amateur rank and it shows by her shoddy footwork with the ball. She comes up on him with a grin and a little shrug as she quips, "Bawling over a good game is for sore losers." When it comes to fun, she's never been one of those.

He gives her some space, reeling out terrain in front of her with a backwards jog, some youth in his step as opposed to a bored trudge, eyes more focused on the ball she's kicking ahead of herself than the girl. "Well that's good news for you," Logan quips, before closing in on her on a few loping steps forward, a foot out to try and heel it back behind himself but instead slipping it beneath his step. "Shit," is muttered, managing to end the scuffle with a sharp kick (as opposed to a sharp elbow).

It goes awry, angled off a fair distance as if to invite inevitable chase, the goals ahead. There's only a slight nudge of a shove, as instinctive as every other technique he knows, before Logan is taking off at a run for it.

The redhead's long legs carry her as swiftly toward the ball as Logan's do, all the while trading playful nudges and shoves until they reach their prize. Although he gets it first, she just manages to find a bit of an opening to kick it back against his legs in order to rebound it away. It's a good thing he's not bare legged, otherwise the hit might have stung.

It might have been a cheater's maneuver, but it gets a laugh and a whoop of joy. A couple of quick steps have her twirled in the right direction to run after the ball again. Punting the ball like an American football, she sends it careening down toward the other side of the field, much like his kick before only hers is a lot less controlled.

When the ball goes rolling up and rebounding from shins, there is a brief windmill moment of making sure his hands don't touch, as if there really were a ref to call him out on bad play, but by then— "Fuck," sounds at least good natured as Logan stops to squint after the careening sphere, sounding a little breathless despite the short minutes of gameplay. Zippered sweater is undone with a sound like an angry bee as the metal teeth come apart, giving Delia the chance to run ahead of him.

It's probably not good form either when his arm suddenly loops around her waist in midrun as he snags her from behind before she can really get momentum, a twist to the left in a mutual turn of bodies to have her staggering off leftwards. Logan's own departure is just as stumbling, near tripping over his own feet but managing to pivot, resume chasing down the ball, or attempt it. Hopefully no dying trying.

"Ack!" Squawks Delia as Logan twists her out of the way, the pounding of her footsteps behind him as she calls out ahead. "So not fair!" But then again, life isn't fair. She runs after Logan at full speed, reaching out for the wife beater just as he pauses to get the ball. A full bodily collision results in the young woman grappling the man to keep him upright while she falls, allowing him the chance to grab the ball and run.

Picking herself up off the ground as quickly as she can manage, Delia brushes herself off before sprinting after him. Judging by the smile on her face though, she's having too much fun running around to mind losing to the Brit.

As if forgetting her entirely, Logan's lithe form is taking off at a sprint across the field, and she can hear it from there, the connecting sound of his foot meeting the slowing soccer ball, giving it new life as it rushes passed the goal posts. Long arms go up in victory, his announcement of, "Two-nil!" echoing through the emptier space against the audio backdrop of the restless city. Then he folds over resting his hands against his knees to take a breath, his hand briefly clutching as if to check his right knee, massaging down towards the shin for a second or so. Straightening up, then, absently adjusting he sit of his clothes.

"Fuckin' hell, I need to quit smoking," is comment just loud enough for her to hear. It's a humidish day, which doesn't help the feeling like he's sucking air through a narrower pipe than his own throat.

Hands planted on his waist, he twists to look back at her. Shrugs partially bared shoulders. Sup?

A crooked smile and the shakes of her head is all Logan gets for his answer. Pulling off her hoodie, she ties it tightly around her waist before sauntering over toward the ball. This time, it takes a little longer for her to collect it, giving him ample time to catch his breath and slow down his heart rate. No good killing him before the world championship.

Delia's right leg juts into the air behind her to keep balance as she bends down to pluck the ball up off the ground. The midday air has warmed enough to dry the field and ball, allowing her enough of a chance to wipe the grass off before turning back to rejoin the game.

On the way back, she breathes out a long breath of air and her cheeks puff out to two rosy apples on each side of her mouth. "Hey, I won a bit of money last night at this costume party… Want to go get something to drink after this? My treat." The offer is made casually enough to allow no hurt feelings should he decline.

Own sweater bundled up into a fist, Logan is pacing to meet her by the time she's strolled back over, moving with deliberately leisure as if to make up for all that running around he was just doing. Eyebrows go up a fraction at the mention of costume party, but— considering the bruise on his face, he's not hasty in speaking of his own presence, or that he never saw her. Or recognized her. Not that his evening didn't finish rather early.

He's mimicking her motions, at that point, slinging the jacket around his waist to tie it off. "Is it?" he asks, as if that were the deal breaker. As with most facetious comments from him, it's dubious enough and dryly delivered enough that it's difficult to tell if he's joking. "There's a beer bar not a few blocks from here. They do wine too," is addition for her sake, a brief flash of a smile.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License