Para su disfrute...parte dos de Interfering Sport
Sorry, I try to practice Spanish every now and then lol I'm considering a minor in it for my second degree.
Anyway. Part 2 - Final part, as promised :) Thank you Unknown289, Essence of Lily, Loslote (who reviews like all my stories :D ), and EbonyK for your reviews on the first part :) Hope you like!
You haven't seen him in three years. Three whole years. Sure, there have been letters, but everyone knows the real thing is so much better.
Your schedules just never matched up. His downtime was when school and exams and Quidditch were picking up, and then when you were finally free, Puddlemere was back to practicing five days a week and studying formations and strategy the other day and then a game on the last day. And you tried to save as much money as possible while in school, but it was never enough to get a ticket to a Puddlemere game.
So you have to wait until you graduate and get a job and two paychecks later you are sitting at the next Puddlemere United game. You haven't quite figured out how you're going to actually see Oliver after the game – you can only imagine the security the players have – but you are certainly going to try your damndest.
You watch him soar out onto the pitch with his teammates and he looks so amazing. You glance down at yourself – you are a little more dressed up than someone should be for a Quidditch game, and you have on make-up and heels, for Merlin's sake. You look like a girl. Angelina and Alicia would be so proud.
You have to swallow the fear that threatens to overwhelm you – the fear that he's moved on or that he will look at you and see you completely different and realize his feelings are gone or changed or not what they were three years ago. Yours haven't changed – if anything, they've intensified which, let's face it, is just plain crazy considering you haven't seen him in three years and only exchanged maybe thirty letters that whole time. It sounds like a lot, but his were always brief and always left you in a terror of him writing out of pity instead of love.
The game is over – Puddlemere wins – before you can collect your thoughts and then you are moving mechanically down the stairs, following what seems to be a herd of annoyingly shrill, over-enthusiastic fangirls as they head (you hope) towards the locker rooms or anywhere near the Puddlemere players.
And they do – you breathe a sigh of relief – they lead you straight to where the team, in all its sweaty, stinky, muddy glory is signing autographs and posing for pictures as fast as they possibly can. You see Oliver – your heart skips a beat, he's even taller and has some stubble on his chin that just looks rough and wonderful – signing and laughing away. He turns to scan the crowd one more time as the team is shepherded towards the locker rooms by coaches and he sees you. Your heart skips another beat – you think you might faint – and he smiles and your heart just stops. You pause for a moment to wonder if getting involved with this man is going to cause you chronic heart problems and then he mouths wait here and you decide you don't care.
The other girls gradually filter away, and you park yourself leaning against the opposite wall. Security wizards keep a close eye on you like you might suddenly go berserk and try to bust into the locker room. The idea is appealing – the thought of curses if you do is not.
An hour passes, then an hour and a half, and finally you slump down to the ground, convinced that there is another way out of the locker room and Oliver told you to wait here so he could make an escape and avoid you altogether.
As time hits a second hour and keeps moving, you sigh and begin to pick yourself up off the ground wearily. So much for seeing Oliver. The security wizards tense but you just shrug at them and turn to walk away.
You've made it halfway down the hallway when he's running after you, hollering your name for all he's worth. You turn and he skids to a stop in front of you and you have to resist the temptation to just jump into his arms – amazing, muscular, tanned, perfect arms – since you can't help but think he doesn't want you there.
He apologizes furiously – team meeting, setting practices, tradition of drowning myself in the shower – and asks if you want to go get something to eat. You agree quickly – and then tell yourself to not seem so bloody eager – and start to turn back around.
But then he spins you back to him and wraps him arms around your waist and snogs you like he did that night on the Quidditch Pitch at Hogwarts. And you're in heaven until he pulls away, blushing so hard he resembles the very Quaffle he kept out of the hoops all night. Then he's mumbling random things – don't want to rush…still love you…sorry if I misread…wanted to see you so much over last three years…maybe I should just go – and stepping backwards from you slightly.
You have to close your jaw because did Oliver Wood just use the L word in reference to something other than Quidditch?
He's still stepping backwards, the bloody idiot, and you have to almost chase him down and this time you do jump into his arms and snog the breath out of him and then murmur your own randomness back.
Afraid I lost you…not rushing anything…wish I could have been here sooner…
I love you too.
I'm actually fairly happy with how this second part turned out :) This was originally supposed to be just a longer one-shot, but I decided on impulse to chop it up and this was the result. Hope everyone enjoyed. If you did, you know how I want to know!
Review! Much love (: