Oliver Wood (olliewood_) wrote in finnigans_rpg, @ 2015-09-07 01:16:00 |
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Entry tags: | character: oliver wood, status: complete |
RP: Before the Interview
Who: Oliver Wood
What: Introspective moment before an interview
Where: Undisclosed studio
When: Saturday afternoon, Sept. 5, 2005
Rating: 'NSFW - Language'
“Mr. Wood!” A pretty blond witch chirped as she opened the door to Oliver's dressing room, a slight flush on her face. “They're nearly done setting up. Do you need anything else?” Oliver looked around the plush waiting room, stocked full of various snacks and drinks as requested in his contractual rider.
“No, I'm quite fine, thanks.” He flashed the practiced, polite smile, and stood up from the squashy couch. The girl nodded, closing the door behind her and Oliver let out a deep sigh. Another day, another interview. He grabbed a bottle of cheap liquor hidden in his bag, taking a long swig without even bothering to reach for a glass, watching as the bubbles float to the surface. It burns a lot as it goes down his throat, but it feels good. Burning is a good thing. Burning means he's still alive. Burning means that he can still feel, although he knows if he keeps drinking like this, in an hour or so, he won't. Placing the cap back on the bottle he stuffed it into his bag. It would be enough to get through the interview.
Settling heavily into a chair placed before a handsome vanity stand, Oliver stared at his reflection. The make-up team hadn't need to do much, though they made his skin noticeably smoother, coated his his lashes in mascara ('to make your eyes stand out!') and styled his hair into a casually tousled look. He snorted slightly with disdain, leaning forward to rest his forehead against the mirror.
“How did we get here, huh?” A wry smile spread across his lips following the rhetorical question. Sure, he'd always felt more at home in the air than on the ground, but that wasn't quite the right answer. Oliver Wood loves Quidditch, that is for certain. He lives and breathes the game: the pre-dawn practices, rigorous training schedules and developing new plays proved that. But what Oliver Wood wasn't sure of, was why he really loved Quidditch in the first place. From the first moment his father had taken him on a broom Oliver was hooked. ”Daddy, I never want to stop flying.” His very serious five-year-old self had said, not realizing the importance of those words. Ever since childhood Oliver wanted to be the best above all. To be recognized; to be looked up to as a role model; to not have to settle on being just 'the middle child'; to never have anyone doubt him or his abilities.
Quidditch had nearly killed him a few times and caused him to not live in reality. But what was reality? Oliver couldn't remember. His whole life had been about that damn sport. The youth leagues where he was showered with praise from coaches, to Hogwarts where other students always wanted to be seen with him, and now to the professional ranks, where he'd moved from a reserve keeper to one of the most popular current players in Britain. If he thought back to the time when this all started and looked at the present Oliver would probably laugh, but the current Oliver doesn't understand the flow of time anymore; time seemed to move at an unusual rate ever since the war with him being stuck firmly in one place while the events of his life unfolded before his eyes. Oliver often felt like a spectator looking through a foggy glass window. Things only came into focus during Quidditch.
I guess I should work on that play Grant wants, Oliver thought, checking his watch. No sense in wasting idle time. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a small scratch pad and a quill, as well as the bottle of liquor. And no sense letting you go to waste either. He gripped the slender neck of the bottle, taking a long swig to calm his nerves. He wouldn't allow himself to get too drunk, that could make him act off during the interview, and he can't afford to do that. Correction; his management wouldn't allow that.
---
"What if I stopped playing?" He asked his management, once, years ago. A storm raged outside the office, and all of them were in a gloomy mood. He was angry, tired of being pushed and pushed like a machine with too little grease, tired of being tired, tired of knowing that he was only as good as his flying. ”I'm not some fucking product, Glenn, I'm a person. Did you forget that?” He demanded of his manager. Glenn didn't even look at him – ignoring Oliver completely and looking over a contract instead. ”Fuck the interviews. Fuck the stupid product placements. Fuck the smiling and waving and photo-shoots and the manufactured pleasantries. I don't want to be Puddlemere's Lockhart.” The rest of the management team nervously looked between the two. Mari, Puddlemere's PR director, nervously suggested that they just finish recording the advertisement the following day. Somewhere in the background one of the directors discreetly turned a page in the latest issue of the Weekly. The silence seemed to drone on for an eternity broken by Oliver's growl of wordless frustration and smacking the documents from his manager's hands. Glenn raised his cold, gray eyes to look at the complaining athlete.
”What would you do then, Oliver?” The question echoed off the rich walls long after it had been asked. ”Do you know why you play the game?” He didn't wait for an answer. ”Because it's the only way you know how to live. You're an extraordinary player and you could be one of the best, but your talent is nothing unique; it would be nothing to train up another one of you.” Glenn paused. “What you do have that is unique is your ability to connect with people. You're approachable, you're friendly, you have marketability across the board and that will get you further than your 'talent'.” If you're unhappy, then leave, there are plenty of empty moors..”
Oliver never brought up the subject again.
---
The alcohol had a pleasant, dulling effect on his senses and he rest his head on the scratch pad covered with half-scribbled plays. Oliver wanted to toss the whole lot in the trash can, hide under his bed and forget about being a Keeper, because it shouldn't have to be this hard. Because this new play scheme should have been finalized days ago, if he wants his teammates to know the moves for finals, anyway; and because Glenn will have his head tomorrow if they still don't have at least an idea for a new line of defense. The team has things like deadlines and matches and press events to worry about, and they don't have time to wait for fickle things like inspiration.
Oliver hated the business side of Quidditch almost as much as he hated these interviews. He knew the questions they would ask: Why did they lose in such a close match? Do you think your injuries from the London attacks have affected you? How are you feeling about this anniversary of the war?Anyone special in your life? He closed his eyes and tried not think about it. That's not what he should be thinking of; he should think about the matches. Thinking about the team. Thinking about how his beaters worked in such perfect unison with each other, how expertly his chasers threw the quaffle, and how that beautiful cohesion between the team was the only thing that mattered in the world to Oliver. Puddlemere is his only home and his heart and the rest of the world is a cavern full of shadows and if he takes one step outside – surely – surely he would fade into nothingness.
The chipper Production Assistant returned to Oliver. Walking down the hall his chest felt tight with knots. He sat down at a small table with three witches, who squealed and gushed over him. All that hard work for short phrases of gratitude He thought while smiling and politely flirting with the hostesses. It's worth it, it's all worth it. For the team... for me. Nevermind all the years that he wasted nursing this strange emptiness and overwhelming obsession to the game; nevermind all the years he knew he'd still waste trying to satiate that obsessive desire. It's easier to smile into the camera when you're the face of a successful Quidditch team with adoring fans and a favorite for the British National Team. After all, when Oliver is not busy hating his overwhelming obsessive behaviors, he passes time by hating his mediocrity.