Even during the off season, there were very few days when Puddlemere United didn't have practice. Of course, with Oliver as the coach, that could be expected. No one dared complain: they'd all heard the "If I could play a match while my life was in labour, you can bloody well practice even though it's March" speech one too many times. Although the current competition was "unofficial", everything having to do with Quidditch was official in Oliver's book, and he wanted to win regardless.
After an admittedly tough practice (they did have an "unofficial" match coming up), Oliver stayed back at the pitch an extra hour to fly on his own. Flying was therapeutic to him in the same way that some people find bubble baths or spa visits. When he finally hit the showers and got dressed, he was more relaxed then when he had left home, despite the amount of yelling he had done at practice that day.
He entered the house with a smile on his face, dropping his bag to the ground and kicking it out of the way. The fact that the kids hadn't come running at the sound of the door told him that they weren't home, or at least weren't inside the house. "Hey." He said, leaning down to press a kiss to his wife's lips. He dropped to the couch next her, one arm draping around Penelope's shoulders. The fingers of his other hand rubbed the blanket in her lap. "Good, it was good. I almost killed half of my reserves, but other than that it was good. How was yours? You feeling any better?" He was referring to the fact that she had complained of being nauseas the past few days. He looked slightly concerned as he tucked that stubborn lock of hair back behind her ear.