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[personal profile] threeguesses
Title: loosening my grip on Bobby Orr
Word Count: 800+
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Disclaimed!

AN: I don't even know where this came from. Also yes, it is a personal goal of mine to title all Rookie Blue fics using Tragically Hip lyrics.

loosening my grip on Bobby Orr

“McNally!” Through the door as she’s zipping up her jeans, and crap, why is it always when she’s half-dressed that— “You’re a girl who can appreciate some hockey, right?”

Wow, okay, not where she thought that was going. Still, she’s glad it’s not like, paperwork or something. “Sir?”

“Hockey.” Oliver’s ducked his head around the corner now, a hand clamped firmly over his eyes. “You like it?”

Well. This is weird. Andy pulls a shirt over her head hastily. “Sure, yeah. Um. Why?”

“You better be sure,” Oliver says. “I’m not giving my ticket up to just anyone. Sam!” he calls over his shoulder. “McNally’ll go with you!”

Sam’s head appears next to Oliver’s, only he doesn’t bother so much with the hand-over-the-eyes thing (Andy does a quick pat-down and yep, her shirt is on, that’s some good news). “Better hurry up, McNally,” he tells her. “Got to beat the traffic.” A pause, then: “You know your thermal’s on backwards, right?” Both of their heads retreat before Andy can answer.

“Ok-ay.” Traci steps out from her hiding place behind the line of lockers. “That was—”

“Yep.” Andy pulls her arms out of the shirt, yanks the collar around viciously.

“You want to borrow a—?”


“Okay,” Traci says again, and reaches into her locker for her jeans.

All Sam says when she meets him by the truck is, “Ollie had to book a witness.” Then he’s swinging up into the driver’s seat, fiddling with the keys, so. Andy guesses she’s kind of committed here.

“Who’re we playing?” she asks finally, sliding in. Sam pulls on his curly Grinch smirk and oh, whatever, like she was supposed to turn down a free ticket. Preseason or no.

Only then: “We, McNally?” He shifts the car into reverse, a hand along the back of her seat. “You a Leafs fan?”

Perfect. He probably cheers for the fricking Bruins or something. (And she’s not a Leafs fan, actually, so much as she’s been brought up that way – a lapsed Catholic who knows all the words to the Hail Mary, none of the meaning. ‘Next year,’ her dad always said. ‘We’ll win the cup next year.’ Every year with exactly the same conviction.)

“This is our season,” she tells Sam, spreading out her fingers. “Straight to the top.”

“Yeah, right.” Still with the curly smirk and man, what is his deal. “You guys are going to be golfing.”

You’re going to be golfing.” And okay, that one doesn’t make that much sense. She flips on the radio.

He likes the Habs, as it turns out. Which—at least it wasn’t the Bruins. Andy supposes she can forgive that.

“My old man, you know,” he says. (They’re in the crush of people by the beer stand, and if he pays, it’s only because she can’t get to the counter in time.) Andy yawns, looks around. To this day, her dad still bitches about the switch to the ACC, says the Gardens were better, think of the heritage – and whatever, sometimes she agrees. All this state-of-the-art glass and chrome.

‘My old man.’ Yeah, she knows.

Still: “You aren’t going to cheer for the Sens, are you?” She wouldn’t be able to sit with him. One, because of the principle of the thing, and two, because man, would shit ever be thrown at them. Her hair does not need mustard in it, thank you very much.

Luckily, he gives her a look like she’s insane. “Not in a million years.” (Which is nice. Hockey values are important values and— wow, okay, seriously, she should not care about Sam’s values either way, back it up, McNally.) She takes a swig of her beer.

Their seats are in the nosebleeds, which Andy likes. Steep, and that swoop in her stomach every time she leans over.  The kids behind them smell like pot, smoky sweet. Andy’s beer is watery; it tastes like nostalgia. Her dad used to let her have sips, but only at the game. She would gulp it, like maybe if she used some up there wouldn’t be enough to get drunk off of.

We Will Rock You thunders over the speakers, the players converging at center ice. She’s 98 percent sure Sam knows this isn’t a date.

(Things which cause her to hold off on that last two percent: the beer-buying; his arm around her chair. Plus she has this lingering panic about the kiss-cam. Every time it comes on she goes tense, full body, and Sam smirks his stupid smirk.)

“Here we go,” he says. His knuckles brush against her shoulder. The ref drops the puck.
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