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Jean-Paul and Bobby | Backdated to 7/23
Bobby teaches Jean-Paul the finer points of basketball. Jean-Paul teaches Bobby the finer points of messing with your opponents.
"He shoots, and he - well, okay, he doesn't score, but he hit the backboard, ladies and gentlemen! Let's hear it for Number 9!"
Providing his own cheers, Bobby raced after the ball. Granted, playing basketball with someone would've been more fun, but this would do. For now.
"You could stand to raise your standards." The dark-haired kid that had wandered into the gym sounded more conversational than critical, but unimpressed either way.
"Probably," Bobby admitted. He retrieved the ball and turned to look at the newcomer. Older, dark haired - and very obviously unimpressed. Whatever. "On the other hand, if I raise my standards? I don't get to do the crowd cheering, and I do that really well."
"Maybe you should try just doing the cheer-leading part," the newcomer suggested. He nodded toward Bobby's shorts. "You've got the legs for it, non?"
"Well, I've always thought so," Bobby observed. He glanced down at his legs appraisingly, then back up at the other guy and grinned. "On the other hand? I'm not really a skirt kind of guy."
"Details, details." The kid looked the court over with a critical eye. "So how do you play?"
"Badly," Bobby deadpanned. He paused, though, and eyed the other kid curiously. "Hold it, are you serious?"
He folded his arms over his chest. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"Because I thought everyone learned basketball in school?" The guy had an accent, though, so maybe not in France? "I can show you, though, if you want. But like I said, I kinda suck."
"I haven't had much conventional schooling the past few years. So take a shot."
"Right then." Bobby assumed his best "instructor" face and held up the ball as Exhibit A. "This...is a basketball. Note the brownish color and spherical shape." He turned the ball over a few times in illustration. "The object of the game is to take the ball across the court and throw it into the hoop." He grinned and gestured towards the hoop in question. "Not like what I did."
The kid gave the court another skeptical look. "I suspect there are more rules involved than that."
"Well, yeaaaah. But I figured I'd start you off with the basics," Bobby countered.
"So I assume the objective, be there more than one person on the court, is to prevent this?"
"Right. So, I take the ball, dribble it - because you can't just hang onto the ball, you have to bounce it - and try to get it to where I have a decent chance of throwing it into the basket. You try to block me and get hold of the ball. Without, y'know, actually smacking me or anything, because that would be bad." Bobby gave the other guy an appraising look, then grinned. "Got it?"
"I should think so." The kid gestured to the court. "After you."
"Yessir!" Inexpertly, Bobby began dribbling the ball up the court. There was a reason, he mused, that he normally stuck to baseball when he could. Still, the other guy hadn't ever played. At least he stood a chance.
The other kid watched him for maybe two seconds, then darted in and stole the ball out from under his hand. His dribbling wasn't actually that much better than Bobby's but his coordination was definitely smoother.
"Oh, I call foul!" Bobby protested, trying not to laugh. He moved in front of the other guy and waved his hands in what he hoped would be a distracting manner, even if it didn't succeed in getting him the ball back.
His protest only got him a flash of mischievous blue eyes and a cocksure grin.
"Do more than talk." The new kid dodged around him (traveling by any definition!) and darted toward the hoop.
Bobby grinned, concentrated, and the ball acquired a layer of snow.
"Calisse!" Just because the cold didn't seem to harm him these days, that didn't make it any more pleasant to put his hand to put his hand into something slick and wet! He skidded to a stop and tossed the damn thing away... right into the hoop.
Bobby's laughter, which had begun with the other guy's exclamation (he wasn't sure what it meant, but he was guessing something like 'Oh fuck' in French), cut off as his jaw dropped. "I think I've been duped," he complained. Honestly, a basket on the first try? No way.
"It would serve you right, shithead." The kid gave him a dirty look. "But that was reflex, not training."
"There are basketball reflexes? How did I not get basketball reflexes?" Bobby grumbled as he went over to retrieve the ball, then turned and grinned. "Besides, you said to do more than talk."
"So I did. But I'll keep this in mind if you ever want to learn skiing."
"Hold it, you can ski?" Poised to start dribbling, Bobby pulled the ball back in against his stomach, wrapping his arms around it to protect it from the other player. "I need to learn that. Badly. It goes with the whole Ice-Man thing."
"Oh, yes?" The kid gave him a considering look. "You seem more the snowboarding type, maybe? But I could show you that too."
"Snowboard, definitely," Bobby confirmed. He could hold his own on a skateboard, it couldn't be that different. "You do both?"
"Oui. I prefer skiing but snowboarding has more 'cool' factor, and endorsements go where the eyeballs are."
"Endorsements? So you do it like, professionally?" Bobby frowned and eyed the other guy consideringly. There was something familiar... "Were you in Sports Illustrated a while back?"
"During the last ski season," the kid said. "Jean-Paul, if you were trying to remember the name."
"I don't think I read the article," Bobby admitted, quirking a crooked smile. "I just remember seeing the picture, and something about Canada's hopes for the Olympics. I'm Bobby, by the way. Bobby Drake."
"You should have read it, Bobby Drake. It probably made a couple of my rivals shit a brick." Jean-Paul's smile had gone wicked.
"Any particular reason?" Bobby retorted, with an evil grin of his own. After all, this sounded interesting.
"No one likes getting their ass kicked by a kid three years younger than they are with hardly any formal training. Less so seeing him lauded for it."
"My heart bleeds for them. Really. Just...blood, all over," Bobby countered. Making know-it all's squirm? Never a bad thing. He gave Jean-Paul a hopeful look. "Do you have a copy I can borrow?"
"Not here. I've been keeping a relatively low profile. But it is probably easy to find online."
"I'll look." Bobby grinned and started dribbling the basketball once again. "Right after I finish kicking your butt at basketball."
"Well, since use of powers is now fair game..." Jean-Paul stole the ball out from under Bobby's hand in a flash, flew up to the hoop, and dropped it neatly in. "Bring it on."
"He shoots, and he - well, okay, he doesn't score, but he hit the backboard, ladies and gentlemen! Let's hear it for Number 9!"
Providing his own cheers, Bobby raced after the ball. Granted, playing basketball with someone would've been more fun, but this would do. For now.
"You could stand to raise your standards." The dark-haired kid that had wandered into the gym sounded more conversational than critical, but unimpressed either way.
"Probably," Bobby admitted. He retrieved the ball and turned to look at the newcomer. Older, dark haired - and very obviously unimpressed. Whatever. "On the other hand, if I raise my standards? I don't get to do the crowd cheering, and I do that really well."
"Maybe you should try just doing the cheer-leading part," the newcomer suggested. He nodded toward Bobby's shorts. "You've got the legs for it, non?"
"Well, I've always thought so," Bobby observed. He glanced down at his legs appraisingly, then back up at the other guy and grinned. "On the other hand? I'm not really a skirt kind of guy."
"Details, details." The kid looked the court over with a critical eye. "So how do you play?"
"Badly," Bobby deadpanned. He paused, though, and eyed the other kid curiously. "Hold it, are you serious?"
He folded his arms over his chest. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"Because I thought everyone learned basketball in school?" The guy had an accent, though, so maybe not in France? "I can show you, though, if you want. But like I said, I kinda suck."
"I haven't had much conventional schooling the past few years. So take a shot."
"Right then." Bobby assumed his best "instructor" face and held up the ball as Exhibit A. "This...is a basketball. Note the brownish color and spherical shape." He turned the ball over a few times in illustration. "The object of the game is to take the ball across the court and throw it into the hoop." He grinned and gestured towards the hoop in question. "Not like what I did."
The kid gave the court another skeptical look. "I suspect there are more rules involved than that."
"Well, yeaaaah. But I figured I'd start you off with the basics," Bobby countered.
"So I assume the objective, be there more than one person on the court, is to prevent this?"
"Right. So, I take the ball, dribble it - because you can't just hang onto the ball, you have to bounce it - and try to get it to where I have a decent chance of throwing it into the basket. You try to block me and get hold of the ball. Without, y'know, actually smacking me or anything, because that would be bad." Bobby gave the other guy an appraising look, then grinned. "Got it?"
"I should think so." The kid gestured to the court. "After you."
"Yessir!" Inexpertly, Bobby began dribbling the ball up the court. There was a reason, he mused, that he normally stuck to baseball when he could. Still, the other guy hadn't ever played. At least he stood a chance.
The other kid watched him for maybe two seconds, then darted in and stole the ball out from under his hand. His dribbling wasn't actually that much better than Bobby's but his coordination was definitely smoother.
"Oh, I call foul!" Bobby protested, trying not to laugh. He moved in front of the other guy and waved his hands in what he hoped would be a distracting manner, even if it didn't succeed in getting him the ball back.
His protest only got him a flash of mischievous blue eyes and a cocksure grin.
"Do more than talk." The new kid dodged around him (traveling by any definition!) and darted toward the hoop.
Bobby grinned, concentrated, and the ball acquired a layer of snow.
"Calisse!" Just because the cold didn't seem to harm him these days, that didn't make it any more pleasant to put his hand to put his hand into something slick and wet! He skidded to a stop and tossed the damn thing away... right into the hoop.
Bobby's laughter, which had begun with the other guy's exclamation (he wasn't sure what it meant, but he was guessing something like 'Oh fuck' in French), cut off as his jaw dropped. "I think I've been duped," he complained. Honestly, a basket on the first try? No way.
"It would serve you right, shithead." The kid gave him a dirty look. "But that was reflex, not training."
"There are basketball reflexes? How did I not get basketball reflexes?" Bobby grumbled as he went over to retrieve the ball, then turned and grinned. "Besides, you said to do more than talk."
"So I did. But I'll keep this in mind if you ever want to learn skiing."
"Hold it, you can ski?" Poised to start dribbling, Bobby pulled the ball back in against his stomach, wrapping his arms around it to protect it from the other player. "I need to learn that. Badly. It goes with the whole Ice-Man thing."
"Oh, yes?" The kid gave him a considering look. "You seem more the snowboarding type, maybe? But I could show you that too."
"Snowboard, definitely," Bobby confirmed. He could hold his own on a skateboard, it couldn't be that different. "You do both?"
"Oui. I prefer skiing but snowboarding has more 'cool' factor, and endorsements go where the eyeballs are."
"Endorsements? So you do it like, professionally?" Bobby frowned and eyed the other guy consideringly. There was something familiar... "Were you in Sports Illustrated a while back?"
"During the last ski season," the kid said. "Jean-Paul, if you were trying to remember the name."
"I don't think I read the article," Bobby admitted, quirking a crooked smile. "I just remember seeing the picture, and something about Canada's hopes for the Olympics. I'm Bobby, by the way. Bobby Drake."
"You should have read it, Bobby Drake. It probably made a couple of my rivals shit a brick." Jean-Paul's smile had gone wicked.
"Any particular reason?" Bobby retorted, with an evil grin of his own. After all, this sounded interesting.
"No one likes getting their ass kicked by a kid three years younger than they are with hardly any formal training. Less so seeing him lauded for it."
"My heart bleeds for them. Really. Just...blood, all over," Bobby countered. Making know-it all's squirm? Never a bad thing. He gave Jean-Paul a hopeful look. "Do you have a copy I can borrow?"
"Not here. I've been keeping a relatively low profile. But it is probably easy to find online."
"I'll look." Bobby grinned and started dribbling the basketball once again. "Right after I finish kicking your butt at basketball."
"Well, since use of powers is now fair game..." Jean-Paul stole the ball out from under Bobby's hand in a flash, flew up to the hoop, and dropped it neatly in. "Bring it on."