FIC: loosening my grip on Bobby Orr [rookie blue, sam/andy]

[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—?”

“Nope.”

“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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[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

(This MAY be the most fun I've had in a while. Just saying.)

And okay, she maybe, kind of, accidentally gets into the game then. It's the freaking Senators they're thumping, and whatever, she's already the queen of denial. She can work it.

So when the smokers behind them start singing "Three Cheers For Ottawa", loud and off-key, aping Adam Sandler's growl, Andy joins in. She just-- didn't know kids still knew that song, is all. By the time they're at the second chorus - they think they have a shot-awa, they must be smoking pot-awa - the entire section's joined in, screaming.

"Man," Sam says when she sits back down (into the curve of his arm, dammit). "I'd hate to see you during playoffs."

And because Andy feels good - her throat's sore and she's flushed and one of the smokers just gave her a thumbs up, team spirit dude - she grins. Says, "Yeah, I'm definitely super rude." Which-- whoops. Probably that has some implications now.

(Christ, and she was worried about the KissCam.)

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

So the buzzer goes off for the end of the second period and people file out on either side of them (freakishly fast, Andy thinks, even that slow-as-molasses couple from earlier seem to have found some secret reserve of speed, for all the good it does her now) and then they're the only ones left in their row. "You hungry?" Sam asks, taking his arm off the back of her chair, stretching a little--and shoot, it's cold in here, she really doesn't remember it being so cold in here before. "You wanna get another beer?"

Actually, she sort of wants onion rings, and what she should really do is go find a snowbank to stick her face in until she's thinking like a rational human again--but when she opens her mouth to tell him one or possibly both of those things, what she hears herself say is, "Nope. I'm good. We can stay here."

"Oh yeah?" Sam raises his eyebrows like he does when he thinks she's full of shit, that little grin. "You good?"

"Yup."

Sam nods slowly, still grinning, and she just--she's not entirely sure what they're talking about, anymore. "Okay, McNally," he tells her finally, and a minute later his arm lands back behind her chair.

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

And yep, they are very alone. Very, very alone. (Like, did everyone need to pee? Seriously?) Down below, the zambonis fire up, a good clean strip of ice along each side of the rink. Andy runs a nervous hand through her hair (only whoops, yeah, that's his arm).

"Okay, maybe, like, some onion rings," she says, just to kill the silence, except she really only says about two of those words, because boom, kissing.

This is really starting to send the wrong message.

At least it isn't her fault this time (she thinks, she thinks, if his hand on her jaw is any indication)-- but the part where they don't stop, and they don't stop, and then she hums a little bit and Sam leans, like, completely out of his chair to get at her mouth? Yeah, that part's kind of her fault.

There are fifteen minutes between now and the start of the third period. Possibly Andy's in some sort of trouble here.

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

She's totally going to stop him.

Like, any second she is.

Because this is not a date, okay?

One top of which somebody is totally going to come back any minute with an armful of popcorn and see them groping each other like teenagers, her fist opening and closing in the hair at the base of his skull (she scratches a little, just really lightly; he growls a sound she feels more than hears and oh, huh, it's possible she'd like to know how to get him to make more sounds like that).

Seriously, though: not a date.

Andy means to tell him that like three different times but she keeps getting distracted, is the problem: the scrape of his stubble at her jawline, the fingers of his free hand kneading, not entirely gently, at the muscle in her thigh through her jeans. Crap, she wants to climb him--crap, she wants to climb him, there you go Toronto, she said it, cue the falling balloons.

Sam bites her bottom lip, smirks at her, smoothes it over with his tongue.

This is terrible.

Andy scratches at his nape one more time.

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

The embarrassing part is, he's the one who finally stops it. All those good intentions-- only then it's five minutes in and she's got two fingers under his collar, edging towards three, weighing the merits of tilting her head back (the night of the blackout; his mouth on her neck-- and wow, she is sure remembering a lot of details now, huh), and he pulls back. He pulls back. She chases after his lips for a truly humiliating two seconds.

"Excuse me."

And oh shit, right, other people. Sam's already half-standing to let them by (and Andy is not, absolutely not, going to check the front of his jeans for any-- no. Nope. No way.) She pushes herself to her feet. Pulls on her "good morning, random citizen" smile from traffic duty.

(And whoops, okay, those are some shaky knees she's got going on there. Wonderful.)

"Thank you, dear," one of the women says. Andy nods back weakly. Her smile feels stretched, swollen - she resists the urge to touch it, fuss with her hair and smooth down her jeans. It's like both beers have hit her at once - both beers, and then some.

"Sit, McNally," Sam says, a finger in her belt loops. So. She sits.

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

"You all right?" he asks when she's back in her chair, and she snaps out a "Yep" more loudly than is really called for. It's just--she really, really doesn't want him to get the idea that he somehow kissed her into a stupor--the smirking alone, his stupid face, ugh, she'll never live it down.

"Okay," he says, like she's hilarious--and yup, there it is, it's already starting. "Wait here." Sam climbs right over her to get out into the aisle, his long legs warm against hers. Andy mutters something non-committal.

When he's gone she puts her feet up on the seat in front of her and leans forward, elbows on her knees and forehead against her fists. Maybe Sam has like a two-second recovery rate, but she is...more riled up than is appropriate for the cheap seats, okay, her whole body humming in a way that isn't totally unpleasant. Andy shifts a little in her chair.

She's still sitting like that when he comes back a minute later, pressing an icy water bottle against the back of her neck by way of hello. And whatever, that's really sensitive skin at this particular moment; she almost jumps out of her chair and falls to a violent, icy death.

"Relax, McNally," Sam tells her, handing her the bottle, smiling blandly. He got onion rings, too, is the thing. "You looked dehydrated."

Andy glares at him a little, but she takes the water and drains two thirds of it in one long gulp, fully aware of the fact that he's watching her do it.

(She lets him look.)

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When she finally has to breathe, he's looking at her like he does (mouth slightly open, stupid half-smirk twisting his lips on one side, eyebrow cocked).

"You good?" His voice is horse. Like maybe he wanted to split the water bottle or something. Oh well. His fault, really.

"Yep. Yeah. Good. Great. Just, you know, watching the game." Her hand gestures towards the ice and good God, could she please just stop with the words already. She's now demonstrated fully that her brain functions seriously decline when his lips are involved. Great.

"Okay." Like he doesn't believe her but is going to play along anyway. He sits down, sets the thing of onion rings in between them on the armrest, and she thinks it's a good thing there's an oily and battered barrier between them now. Something else to stop her from kissing him again, since clearly common sense has deserted her.

It's just...he's a good kisser is all and now she can't help but think about it. She fiddles with the water bottle. Upside down, right side up, upside down, right side up. Notices the water turn to bubbles in the plastic. Before she can turn it again, Sam snatches it away. She gapes at him. Like he stole her toy or something.

"What? You weren't drinking it." He uncaps the bottle and drains the rest in one gulp. Yeah, definitely rude.

But now there's a little water trailing down the corner of his mouth and, yeah, she's basically done for.