Who: Hockey and Figure Skating, short completed scene. What: Leaving for NYC. Where: Niagara Falls hotel room. When: Tuesday evening. Warnings: Language.
Hockey: He had mumbled something about Gatorade and family friendly images at his brother before continuing to converse briefly with Max. He wasn't quite sure when Figure Skating had left the bedroom, but there was too much going on in his mind for him to do much more than drag his suitcase out of the bed and start collecting his clothes. He couldn't believe that slut - he had forgotten her name months ago - had released those pictures, damaged his reputation, and jeopardized his career. Hockey wanted to punch someone, slam someone into the boards, even get into a screaming match with someone in order to to release his pent up anger, but he refrained from putting a fist through the hotel room wall; Max was always good for a screaming match and seemed to be in the mood to start one. It would take hours for them to reach NYC again, for Hockey to get that release, however, and, when his suitcase was packed, Hockey sank down to the edge of the bed, running a tense hand through his hair and glaring down at the carpet as if it was the cause of all his problems. The door to the bathroom opened; Hockey didn't look up. He almost didn't want to face Figure Skating again, now that his reputation was being trashed in every sportsblog across the country.
FS: For a long moment Figure Skating had stared at his brother's back, trying to puzzle out the connection between a sport's drink and family values until he had finally given up and read over Hockey's shoulder. The first thought that Figure Skating had was idiot; he was half-tempted to give his little brother hell for being stupid enough to let anyone take photographs in the first place and then keep them in the second, but a look at Hockey's shoulders, the set of them, the tension in his jaw that had a muscle twitching and Figure Skating slipped wordlessly away instead. The shift between genders is simple, no grabbing for power or population or aspect, it just is what it is: slipping out of one skin and into another, like a costume change between programs; the height thing, though, that's complicated. Jackson is over six feet and Sonja is barely above five, the first few minutes in the new body are always about vertigo - and clothes. She shrugged out of the jeans with a struggle and grabbed Hockey's shirt from where it was crumpled on the floor; it fit to the tops of her thighs, which was decent enough for Hockey when all of Figure Skating's dresses were buried in the mess of his - her - duffel bag. Carrying the jeans, she stepped out of the bathroom and padded silently to Hockey's side, waited for a moment for him to look up and ended up kneeling down instead to catch his chin in her hand. "C'mon, kiddo, it's not that bad. At least you kept your pants on."
Hockey: Hockey wanted to shy away from the hand cupping his chin, shy away or jerk his head sideways, but that instinct merely came from his desire for conflict, for violence, and he wasn't about to try to scratch that itch with Figure Skating. Especially not with a decidedly female Figure Skating; Hockey blinked several times and then let the corners of his lips quirk up. Jackson was mindblowingly handsome, Sonja was beauty personified and Hockey felt his mood improve just slightly as he leaned down to press a kiss to her cheek before offering her a hand to help her up, not that she needed it. "Just barely." He quipped weakly, the muscle in his jaw twitching yet again when his cell phone beeped, the notification tone reserved for Max. "My agent's throwing a hissy hit. Well, his version of a hissy fit, which can actually be rather terrifying. There's a reason he was known as L'Élan when he played for the Nordiques." The phone beeped again and Hockey groaned. "I have to head back to NYC. Hold a press conference and all that shit." His voice was strained, his body still tense; Hockey wished he was still playing so he could let all of his anger out on the ice instead of holding it in. "I figure we can keep the room, though. Come back in time for the weekend, for the final." Hockey frowned slightly. He hadn't even asked her to come with him yet and when he spoke again, his voice was rushed. "I mean, if you want to come with me. I told Max to bring over breakfast for three, but the two of us can eat the excess if you'd rather stay here."
FS: Figure Skating felt better for the kiss to her cheek, good enough to smile up at Hockey and to rest her hand on top of his and she stands up, a single, fluid movement that brought the top of her head to around Hockey's collarbone and - lovely as the view was - it was just a bit disconcerting to be eyelevel with his chest when she was used to comfortably resting her cheek on his hair. The height thing, it was always a bitch. She smoothed her hands over the cotton t-shirt, less to keep it place than to draw attention to wearing his shirt, as a distraction technique, she was felt pretty good about it. "Hey," her voice was soft while she slipped her arms around Hockey's waist and kissed the collarbone that was so close to her face anyway. "This is going to be fine, Hockey; you're going to be fine and Stanley Wayne is going to be fine and when I get my hands on the little bitch who started this she is very much not going to be fine," said with a smile, Figure Skating rubbed a small, pale hand down Hockey's stomach and across his hip, trying to soothe and reassure. "Of course I'm going back to the city with you. You think I changed on a whim? C'mon, let's get packed and to the car and - ah, I should probably find something else to wear. Or something to wear under this, one or the other." She flashed her little - younger brother a quick grin, gave her another peck on the chest and slapped his chest lightly as she peeled away to find her bag.
Hockey: Hockey briefly entertained the notion of letting out some of his excess energy by tugging his sister, so beautiful and tantalizing in one of his shirts, down to the bed. But Max was waiting and Hockey was probably too angry to trust himself in bed with someone he cared about so deeply. Still, he could wind his arms around her waist and knead at her lower back while trying to make sure his hands didn't slip lower. "Je sais." He murmured quietly before blinking; English, Hockey, English. "I know." He repeated, resting his cheek in Figure Skating's hair in a perfect mirror of the position they took when his sister was his brother. "I just... do really stupid things during the summer." Do really stupid chicks, was more like it, but Hockey refrained from voicing that little thought; instead, he slid his hands up his sister's back and if the movement lifted the t-shirt slightly, well, he couldn't be blamed. "Planning to quad on her face, are you?" He sighed lightly as his sister pulled away, the ghost of her touch lingering across his stomach and hip and his eyes lingering on her backside. Hockey coughed, darted his eyes away, and went to retrieve his laptop. "Well, you don't necessarily have to wear anything else, although if you stay like that, we might end up pulling over quite a few times." And there, there was that patented Stanley Wayne arrogant grin, shot at her despite the situation; it was surreal that Figure Skating could always cheer him up, whether the Canadiens had been kicked out of the playoffs or he was in danger of losing an endorsement deal.
FS: "Ohh, Hockey, that's French," Figure Skating teased as looked over her shoulder, smiling brilliantly before she bent to fish the women's jeans from the bottom of her bag; it might have been more lady-like to kneel, but it wouldn't have put nearly the same smile on Hockey's face. "And no, not a quad to the face. I'm - not even sure how you'd go about doing that. I mean - I suppose you could land a quad on someone's face but there's no way you'd be able to hang onto that landing, the blade would just... stick and the momentum from the rotations would have no where to go and it'd be just... messy. Now, a blade to the face? That is always doable and in style." She tugged at the jeans, pulling them past her thighs in a complicated dance that was ninety percent shifting her weight from foot to foot and ten percent undignified hopping that ended with skinny jeans done up like a second skin. For a moment she thought of grabbing the tank top she'd packed for her female body, but grabbed a belt instead and cinched it around her waist, over Hockey's shirt. Everything else - Figure Skating's jeans as a man and the clothes he'd worn - ended up in the duffel and the duffel ended up swung casually over her shoulder. She tilted her head to one side, replaying what Hockey said and smiled brighter as she stepped close to her brother again, resting her hands on his hips, "you know, me being so petite does come in handy for somethings; we can actually make use of the backseat without one of us risking a concussion." And if that didn't thoroughly distract Hockey, Figure Skating was all out of tricks. "C'mon, little brother, let's go rescue your reputation."
Hockey: "You're having breakfast with me and Max after our drive, French is a given." Smirking slightly, Hockey watched his sister bend over, the temperature around him dropping by a miniscule amount as he wished annoyances like vindictive puck bunnies and frazzled agents didn't exist. The smile just deepened as he packed away his laptop and made sure to unplug his cell phone charger from the wall. "Blade to the face, slapshot to the face, either or." He murmured, drawing closer to her again as he watched her struggle with the jeans, eyes lit with amused affection as he reached into the closet to take out the garment bag that held the Canadiens jersey he'd given her. Wedging the bag gently under his arm, he had a hand free to splay out between her shoulder blades, wanting to keep her close, wanting to draw this moment out so they could stay in the hotel room - a blissful place where responsibilities, performance, and family fucking friendly images were mere ghosts and the most important thing was making sure to stock up on the beer before game night - for just a moment longer. Hockey wouldn't, of course, say anything that sappy, however, and he just leaned down to press a light kiss to her lips, a kiss that lingered with a slight nip to her lower lip once her words registered. They could be late returning to NYC. Max would only yell a little bit. Regretfully, Hockey pulled away slowly with a smile that promised as least one stop on the drive back. "Mm, yes, such a worthy mission." He rolled his eyes slightly, inwardly bemoaning the fact that he had to rescue his reputation at all, but it was the nature of the beast, he supposed. With a last glance around their hotel room, he clasped the handle of his suitcase - it had wheels, of course; NHLers, when they even carried their own bags, had to save their strength for the ice - and they departed, heading toward a surly agent and an infinitely tedious few days of nothing but PR.