Chapter Text
Marvin huffs as he scans over the large computer screen. He’s a solid 3 sentences into this article and has already given in to boredom. The small cubby around him seemed to tighten with the tension of the upcoming deadline. He knew his boss had given it to him deliberately, a punishment of sorts due to his recent tardiness, among other things. He leans back in his chair, taking the weight off his shoulders and allowing his body to slouch inwards. He usually wouldn’t allow his posture to falter in the workplace, deeming it unprofessional and seeing it as a flaw, however, just from seeing the dark circles under his eyes, one could infer that the man was in dire need of a rest.
His attention drifts from the screen and across his workspace. It was a monotonous area. Where one would usually place mementos and photos of family, his desk contained 3 things; a stationary rack, a company stress ball, and a pile of papers, deadlines all nearing yet none placed in the ‘DONE’ pile that he had laid out in a simple system.
“You okay Marvin?” A young woman pokes her head around the side of the cubby, frowning at the unusual sight. He opens his eyes to face her. Along with her concerned frown, she is wearing an orange floral shirt and high-waisted black trousers. She steps inside the cramped space.
“Hey Charlie. I’m fine, just tired.” He shrugs offhandedly.
“You sure?” She steps over and rubs his back supportively. “Ford seems to be on your back at the moment.”
“Yeah, but nothing’s new there. The guy’s had it out for me since the Warriors rant. It’s not my fault their playing was that bad, how does he expect me to word it?!” He cries exasperatedly.
“Any other way. I think you wrote it in the worst way possible.” Charlotte sighs impatiently for her friend. They had had this conversation too many times. “You know we’re supposed to be unbiased, Mavin, and you decided to do that by, what, losing half our audience?” She lifts an eyebrow.
Marvin huffs defeatedly and turns back to his computer. Clearly no one was on his side in this scenario. A brief silence falls over the office as the two voices stop conversing.
“How’s Trina?” Charlotte inquires, trying to keep the conversation going.
He subconsciously straightens at the mention of her name, shoulders stiffening. “Fine. Why?”
Charlotte answers defensively. “Nothing. Just wondering how she’s handling all these late nights.”
“She’s fine. I’m sure she enjoys some quiet time without me if anything.” He chuckles dryly. It was the truth. They spent so much of their time these days arguing, with so little energy left to spend time together like they used to.
“I’m sure she misses you. Maybe you shouldn’t go home so late today. The boss wouldn’t mind.” Charlotte advises gently.
“Maybe.” He mumbles half-heartedly. The truth was, although he had to stay late so often these days, he preferred it. He’d rather stay out late at work than go home to his dysfunctional family, basking in the tension that never left the air and pretending everything was alright. So as he replied to his friend for the last time, he knew it was a lie.
Charlotte says her goodbyes and returns to her desk, allowing Marvin to suffer his writers block once again in silence. Just as he begins typing a new sentence, he feels a presence enter the area.
“Wright, how’s the latest Mets piece going?” His boss’ booming voice echoes through the small space and jolts Marvin up in his seat.
“Uh…Good. All good. Almost done.” He lies quickly, changing his screen to avoid getting caught.
“Good man. Get it to me by 5.” Ford gives him a hard slap on the back. Marvin tenses. “I appreciate it. So thought I’d give you our latest basketball article, for your efforts. It’s an interview piece, tomorrow, and you’re my first choice.”
Marvins heart leaps at the idea. He hasn’t been able to do an on-sight interview in months, usually stuck with the leftovers of crappy stats and constant baseball news. He hated baseball. Now he’d finally get to do a basketball piece after all the overtime and hard work. It sounded too good to be true.
“Of course! Thank you so much, sir, I’d be honoured.” Marvin smiles graciously and genuinely at the man for probably the first time. He had never been this rewarding towards him.
“Perfect. I’ll send over the details tomorrow morning but just a heads up, the article will be focussing on the Golden State Warriors, and you’ll be interviewing their top player, Whizzer Brown.”
His heart sinks. The Warriors. Whizzer Brown. His mind floods back to previous events from months ago; their losing game, the bitchy article, his suspension, the bosses’ threats of firing him. He hated Golden State, found it impossible to write anything nice. Anyone but that team. Anyone but him.
Ford walks out but then stops in his tracks, turning back to look at him. “Oh, and Wright?” He starts, an edge seeping into his tone.
“Yes?”
“Don’t screw it up this time.” He says warningly.
Marvin sinks defeatedly into his seat as the man turns the corner. This isn’t a reward. It’s a punishment; a test of his competence. And this time he’s at risk of getting fired. How could he even pretend to like Whizzer Brown?
After hours of agonising about the following day, Marvin convinces himself that tomorrow couldn’t be that bad, that anything was better than baseball pieces. He manages to distract himself with his work and crams everything until the last minute before officially publishing his Mets piece.
...
For once, Marvin returns home on time.
“Marvin! You’re home early.” Trina hums in that sing-song way of hers and she gently leads him through to the kitchen. She’s wearing a frilled pink apron, smudged in sauce.
“Dinner’s almost ready, Jasons upstairs doing homework.” She holds her arms out and brings him in for an intimate hug. Marvin awkwardly wraps his arms around her, leaning his bottom half away as he avoids her apron on his perfectly clean suit. It had been spotless for 8 years, and he didn't intend to change that. She gives a quick peck on the cheek and then lets him go. When he draws back to face her, he swears he could see something behind her expression, a mask she let fall for a second before her usual sunny disposition takes front again.
Trina grabs some oven mitts and opens the oven door, pulling out a tray filled with a roast chicken and assortment of vegetables.
“Jason! Dinner’s ready!” She hollers out through the house. As loud as the woman tried to be, her voice always came out as timid and she was unable to yell at such a volume to get their sons attention. Although Marvin was sure Jason wouldn't hear it if a bulldozer ripped through the house.
Marvin takes the following silence as a sign to do his usual due diligence and get his son. He trudges up the stairs and places his briefcase down at the bedroom door. He glances inside his son’s room before stepping in and announcing himself, knocking politely. He didn't need to look to know what he was doing. As predicted, Marvin walked in to find Jason sat cross-legged on his bed, hunched forward and eyes focused. His bottom lip hung open softly and twitched occasionally as he talked to himself. His hand hovered above the board with a black rook clutched carefully.
“Hey, Jason, you okay?” Marvin starts carefully. He knew his son’s mood was always hit or miss and had learnt to be more careful when approaching him during a game.
“Mm.” Was the only sound to exit the boy’s mouth. He didn't move from his position, didn’t look to acknowledge his father above him. Marvin sat down gently at the end of the bed. He reached over and rubbed his son’s knee in an attempt to gather his attention. A calculated gaze covers his face, any and all expressions hidden beneath it. His hand twitches and rests by his side as his eyes scan over the board.
“Dinners ready.” Marvin announces slightly louder at the lack of reaction. “Your mother wants us downstairs.”
Jason moves his hand across and finally places the rook, swapping it with the white knight. He clutches it in his hand for one tiny, victorious second before dropping it into a pile where the other half of the game pieces lay. He then begins to shift the board, turning it around where it lay. Marvin places his hand down warningly on top of his sons, stopping him from doing so.
“Just one more minute!” Jason whines.
Marvin sighs and says, “No, buddy, you can’t. You don’t wanna upset your mother, do you? Come on, you can play again right after dinner.” He promises pleadingly.
Jason huffs, irritated, and gets up, storming down the stairs. His flash of fury leaves Marvin alone as the dust settles.
Dinner comes and goes in a whirl, the family’s usual habits of eating in dead silence, the only sound filling the room being the clinks and scrapes as Jason hurries to finish his food. Marvin and Trina look at each other helplessly, and before they know it their son has run back upstairs again and locked himself away. Marvin gratefully finishes his food and places their plates on the side of the sink, leaving Trina to clean them and abandoning her upstairs.
The evening continues to dredge by, and every waking hour makes Marvin regret his choice to not work late. He is in the bedroom now, he had just tucked Jason in and was now relaxing on the bed, legs outstretched. Most nights like this were followed by glancing over his work for the following day, but tonight Marvin deliberately avoided doing so, the imminent arrival of the next day looming over him, never far enough away. He instead opted for a novel.
He plucks the book from his bedside table and opens it to the bookmarked chapter. Except, he is unable to read properly as he feels his wife’s eyes bore through his skin. After a few minutes of flicking through pages and calculatedly scanning his eyes back and forth, Marvin finally turns to face her. Their eyes meet and he gives his wife the ‘go ahead’ look to allow her to speak her mind.
“Should we put a record on?” She asks tentatively.
“Sure.” Marvin shrugs. He briefly watches as she excitedly exits the room before settling back into the book. She saunters back in with a sleeve in hand, hidden strategically behind her nightdress. Marvin didn’t like surprises. He tries his best to ignore as she leans down and places it in the player, adjusting the needle and hitting play. Soon, the small room fills with the sound of Marvin Gaye’s ‘Sexual Healing’.
She begins to sway in front of him, moving in time with the music. Her face is bright, and she puts up a cheerful front as she dances, lost in the rhythm. Marvin can tell she is looking for his attention, though, and the free look is purely for show. As he doesn’t give her what she wants, Trina’s movements become more dramatic. Marvin digs his face deeper into his book, cringing internally at the sight. And although he is completely disinterested, suddenly the words seem to take centuries longer to read over.
Soon enough, Trina impatiently makes her way towards him, fed up with him playing hard to get. She saunters over and begins to climb on the bed, crawling her way towards him in a ridiculous attempt at seduction. The words don’t even register in his head anymore, mere writing on paper, no meaning behind anything. She reaches his legs and pushes her way between them, crawling over until her body lays shy of Marvins own. He still ignores her. He can feel her on top of him, every part making contact and her body heat suffocating. He doesn’t want to look up anymore. She hums lazily along with the lyrics, her eyes burning through his skin. He can feel the smirk that tugs on her lips.
“Marv?”
“Hm?” He responds, detached.
“You came home earlier today.” She states.
“So?”
“Sooo, we got Jason in bed on time. And now we get more time together.” She slurs out, insinuation behind every word.
He shuts her down sharply. “I’m reading.”
Trina takes this rejection by gently running her hand up and down his body. He shivers at the contact but is unaffected. “Wouldn’t you rather stay up a bit-“
He cuts her off. “I need to get an early night, actually. I have an interview tomorrow.”
He gently rolls her off him, trying to make his physical rejection subtle as he cannot handle another argument tonight.
Trina sits up properly and recovers from his curt interruption, closing her agape mouth. “You didn’t tell me about that. You haven’t had an interview in ages!”
“Yeah, and now I do, so I can’t mess it up, and I need to get there on time.”
Marvin attempts to end the conversation there, not in the mood to speak any more. He reaches over and snaps his bedside lamp off. He slips his bookmark back in and then places the novel on the tabletop. Trina’s side of the room is still lit by the dull lamp on her table. He slinks under the sheets and rolls around to face away from it, the residue of backlit light suddenly turning off as he does so. As they settle in for the night, Marvin thinks he can hear Trina whisper a small ‘sorry’ to his back, into the darkness of the night. But it could have been his imagination.
...
The following morning goes by in a rush. Marvin wakes up early and slips out of bed as to not wake Trina. He quickly gets changed and calls his boss for the details. He grabs an apple and a notepad as he rushes out the door, just before his wife would begin to wake up.
45 minutes later, he arrives. He takes a deep breath and pushes his way through the double doors. The smell hits him before anything else. That familiar musk that every sports place seemed to home. It threaded its way through his lungs and threatened his own masculinity, every atmosphere a constant reminder of his own failure in sports. Marvin was always more talented in the writing department but found his physical inabilities to be a constant weight of disappointment to himself and his parents.
His lacquered shoes clack down the empty hallway. Headshots, medals, awards, and other achievements line the walls. A man walks through the main set of doors at the end and walks up to meet Marvin in the middle of the hallway. He’s wearing a pinstripe suit with a distinct golden tie matching the teams’ colours. His clothes are perfectly fitting if not a little dishevelled from rigorous movement. His dark hair is neatly swept back, and a forced smile makes its way to his lips as he greets Marvin.
“Hey there. Marvin Wright, is it?” He outstretches a hand.
Marvin firmly takes it and shakes up and down again, stern and simple, a movement he had done many times. “That’s me.”
Neither take the time for usual formalities or small talk, instead the man leads him back through the doors he had arrived from, and through to the backrooms of the small stadium.
“I’m Sal Runnel, the manager here.” He explains on the way over. “We just finished up training, I’ll fetch Brown from the change rooms for you.”
They step into the stadium, Marvin smelling the fresh spring blooms in the breeze and feeling the warm air surround him. They stop outside doors labelled as change rooms, and Marvin watches as Sal goes in. The doors lazily swing shut, and he deliberately averts his gaze and ignores the curious feeling inside that urges him to take a glance inside. Noise bubbles from within the doors, the excited chatter and playful chuckles of bonding teammates.
Marvin is left alone in the silence of the outside. He feels awkward and outcast, shifting his weight from foot to foot and glancing at his surroundings to pass the time. The sun shines out on the paved court, the fresh paint reflecting brightly as it’s covered in the dew of the morning air. It’s tempting, the atmosphere in this place. Its seating area is modest- a few rows of crappy plastic seats encircle the court- but Marvin still revels in the fantasy of what the place would look when full, a couple hundred cheering, devoted fans filling every seat.
He is ripped from the fantasy as the doors quickly creak back open. Sal is back, and he is dragging a tired and slightly grumpy Whizzer Brown behind him. The tension is high, and Marvin feels slightly uncomfortable to seemingly be the cause of whatever scuffle just happened between the two. Whizzer has obviously just showered, his hair glistening and dripping wet while his clothes shoved on in an obviously rushed fashion. Sal has his shirt twisted into his hand and roughly pushes him forward and lets him go.
“He’s all yours.” He says calmly to Marvin, nodding them off as he walks off in the opposite direction.
“Thanks...?” Marvin mumbles, unsure of how to respond.
Now left alone with Whizzer, he faces off the man. He seems to be deliberately avoiding eye contact, obviously still stuck in whatever argument he just had with his team manager. He’s wearing his usual black sporty sneakers, paired with black short shorts and a ‘WHAM!’ shirt. Water drips from his dark hair and seeps into the white t-shirt, rendering the affected parts see-through. It was odd to see the man in front of him and in casual wear, after so long of seeing him on his small television screen at home.
“Hey. Marvin Wright, nice to meet you.” Marvin extends a hand. He isn’t particularly thrilled to be meeting the guy, but he figures if he feigns interest that the interview will pass quicker.
Whizzer ignores his hand and quirks an eyebrow, finally meeting his eyeline. “Marvin Wright, eh?” He draws out every syllable as if his name were a riddle, a trick question. His voice comes out slightly croaky and rough around the edges. “So you’re the ‘Warriors' losing game’ writer, huh?” The sass laden in his tone cuts through Marvin.
His heart drops as he realises that this isn't going to go as smoothly as he had hoped.
“Uh, yeah…sorry about that.” Marvin mumbles quietly, eyes falling to his feet.
“Let’s just get this over with.” Whizzer huffs impatiently, leading them out of the darkened area.
At least they agreed on something.
Soon they find themselves situated back inside the front building, in a small filing room covered from wall to wall in messy filing cabinets. A desk sits in the middle, separating the two men who are sat either side of it. Marvin flips open his notepad and glances over the set list of questions. After a second of debating how to start, he feels Whizzers eyes boring into his head, so he decides to just start with the first one.
“How does it feel to get the first win of the season?” He asks flatly.
“Wow, creative question, give me a while, I’m gonna have to think that over.” Whizzer rolls his eyes pointedly.
Marvin looks up from his paper to frown at the man. “Can you not? I don’t want this to drag on any more than it should.”
Whizzer sighs in contempt and stares up at the ceiling as to avoid eye contact. “It was good. A close game, I won't deny that, but I felt we played well. I'm proud of how we held ourselves throughout, even if there were some flaws in the second quarter. I think it always gives the team a boost of confidence when we can start on such a high note, it definitely brings the spirits up.”
He sinks down into his chair and throws his legs up onto the desk between them. His muscular legs are flaunted in Marvins’s face, an awkward view now showing further up his already too-short shorts. Marvin avoids looking, grimacing in disgust at the man’s blatant rudeness and egotistical fuelled confidence to laze so much in the presence of a man he had just met. He straightens his own posture more than usual to combat the discomfort he feels, scribbling notes down to distract himself.
“And how did you communicate with your teammates after that second quarter? What changed about the way you played and how did you decide what strengths to play to?”
“What’s it to you? You’re probably just going to twist my words and back up the fact that we’re a “messy excuse of a team” that’s “unable to work together”.” He waves aggressive air quotations with his hands as he speaks. It was clear Whizzer had obviously not just skimmed the article.
“Can you please stop talking about that?” Marvin snaps impatiently.
“You’re the one that wrote it.” He says flatly, eyes narrowed out and boring into Marvins’s skull.
Marvins eyes stumble over the man’s face, unable to hold proper eye contact with his beady brown eyes. Their unspoken fight for dominance ends with Marvin awkwardly staring back down at his page. “How did you communicate with your teammates in the second quarter, what changed about the way you played and how did you decide what strengths to play to?” He repeats sternly.
Whizzer rolls his eyes and thinks for a minute. “We huddled up and I pointed out a couple of our flaws and how to fix them. It was nothing new, just a reminder. Wilson's throw tends to be off when he gets too confident and shoots from too far out, Jenkins struggles with the defence and isn't rough enough with the opposition sometimes, Foreman can miss some passes is he's too busy shaking off or faking out the defenders. I think having them aware of the common mistakes they make really helped to improve their game and strengthen the power we already had against Utah."
He speaks confidently and passionately, not one word untrue or exaggerated. Mavin settles slightly in his chair, the discomfort in the air somewhat faded. Whizzers sincereness was almost refreshing for him, ignoring how blunt he was.
Whizzer eyes up the man in front of him as Marvin scribbles some notes in shorthand. He had slightly ruffled curly hair, the ends reaching beyond his ears. Dark skin encircled his eyes, bags that seemed to darken as he frowned. Although his head was somewhat unkempt, his suit was perfectly ironed and fitted to him. Whizzer imagined him living in it, never taking the thing off and peacocking around in it as if it were his most prized possession. He smiled rudely at the image.
Marvins voice breaks through his thoughts. “Are there any personal improvements you feel you’ve made since last season?”
Whizzer remembers where he is and shakes the thought away. “Nothing specific really, just non-stop practicing, with friends and teammates. It usually helps to find myself and my current abilities and then to be able to apply that on the court with my team. I’ve also improved as a leader and I’m better at making objective judgements for the sake of improvement.”
Marvin scribbles his pencil a couple times and moves on.
“And what routines do you practice in your free time to stay fit?”
“I practice every day, run and work out.” Whizzer lays out simply.
Marvin looks up. “Is that it?”
“Yeah, what else do you want? What- are you trying to get in shape or something?” Whizzers snaps sarcastically, eyeing up the man. “Cause from the looks of it, I’d say you could actually use some exercise.”
Marvin tries his best to ignore the obvious attempt to rile him up and keep his focus down on his notepad. His face seethes with red in embarrassment.
He doesn’t look up. “How do you feel about your upcoming game against the Lakers?”
“Why should I tell an egotistical snob-nosed journalist like you?” Whizzer continues to provoke.
“What is your problem?! Are you always this rude to people?” Marvin snaps finally.
“No, just the ones that write shitty reviews about me.” Whizzer snorts scornfully.
Marvin raises his voice and spits out, “I meant every word. You’re a shit team with an even worse leader. I think you’re the most incompetent, immature man I’ve ever met, and I hate your guts.”
Whizzer jumps in at the chance to fight back. “And I think you’re an insecure old man that hides behind his computer screen all day and bitches about sports because he’s too lazy and decrepit to get off his own ass and play, himself.” His head and hands move excessively as he speaks and he dramatically overenunciates every word.
“I have nothing to be insecure about and I’m not hiding.” Marvin bites back bitterly.
“I don’t think a stable person acts this way, so what is it? Unhappy marriage? Unstable kid? A job you hate?” Whizzers voice is raised but his demeanour remains calm. He reads the man before him like a book. “It’s always one of those with your type.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Whizzer ignores the question with a roll of his eyes and draws his focus away from Marvin and to the wall behind him as if he had lost interest.
“Why should I trust you to be the one to write about our team after what happened last time?” He asks, “I mean, you just called us a ‘shit team’, for Christ’s sake. I don’t think you’re mature enough to write anything nice about us.” He rolls his eyes.
Marvin struggles as the tension of the fight dissipates, and he remembers how important it was that he got along with Whizzer .
“No, look, I can do it. Let’s move on to the next question, I’ll show you.” Marvin says urgently. Whizzer continues to avoid his eyeline and holds his head high pettily. When Marvin doesn’t get the response he expected from the other man, he resorts to more desperate measures.
“I’ll get fired if I don’t do this.” He admits shakily.
“And you think I care? I’d happily walk out now and let that happen. Karmas a bitch.” Whizzer retorts, sitting up threateningly. A gleam of excitement seems to run across his face as he attempts to get more of a rise out of the man.
“No, please.” Marvin begs. “I need this.”
Whizzer stops in his tracks to take in his words. “Oh yeah?” he sinks back into his chair comfortably. “How bad?”
His casual amusement only fuelled Marvins’s distaste to the man. “What do you want?”
Marvin frowns as a mischievous grin forms on Whizzers lips. He can see as the cogs turn in his brain, undoubtably thinking up the most torturous blackmail possible.
Finally, Whizzer decides, “I want all writing privileges on this, and I want you to send me the final copy so I can review and edit it to my liking.”
Marvins eyes widen and he smirks slightly at his forwardness. “That’s not happening.”
“Then I guess I’ll be going.” Whizzer shrugs casually, slowly getting up to leave, watching the man like a hawk as he waits for him to intervene.
“I have enough here to scrap out an interview.” Marvin argues. It’s his last resort.
“I won’t let you publish it. You don’t have my permission. If you do try anything, I’ll sue.” Whizzer crosses his arms testily.
Marvin raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “Oh really?” He asks.
“Try me.”
A silence falls over the two men as they are unsure of what to say next. Whizzer remembers what he was doing and continues to stand up out of his seat and leave.
“Wait.”
Marvin calls defeatedly as Whizzer reaches the door handle. Whizzer looks down and smirks to himself as the man fell into his lap, doing exactly what he planned on. He slowly backs up and turns to face him, still holding himself between Marvin and the door in a non-comital way.
“Yes?” He inquires, feigning innocence.
Marvin huffs. “If I send you the article I’ve done, you have to promise not to mess it up or falsify any of that shit. And I still need to get the last look over it.”
“Why, don’t you trust me?” Whizzer pouts mockingly.
“No.” Marvin responds darkly. “Do we have a deal or not?”
“Fine, yes we have a deal.” Whizzer says, sitting back down in his seat, gesturing at Marvin to continue the interview process. “Oh, also, you have to buy me a drink.”
“What?! Why?” Marvins’s face dropped at the idea of spending extra time with the man he had learned to loathe even more in person.
“All this talking, it’s making my throat dry.” Whizzer waves his hands over his face dramatically, faking a hurt look on his face. “That’s on you, you owe me.”
Marvin sighs. “Fine. Why not. One drink” he says strictly.
Whizzer repeats him coolly. “One drink.”