SOME KIND OF DISASTER ─ oliver wood

[ 041 ] put your curse in reverse

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
put your curse in reverse

WHEN SHE MET OLIVER on the pitch, the sky was only a glimmer away from daylight, dusted with the silver-blue promise of rain in the afternoon, and Oliver had instantly swept her into a rough, wildfire of a kiss that felt heavier than usual. Sawyer didn't mind it, maybe even liked the little bit of abrasion, but she also got the sense that one kind of trouble was dogging at his ankles. They pulled away with bruised lips and hazy eyes, and Sawyer pinned him with a searching look but Oliver's gaze was a thunderstorm.

"Hi." Oliver said, slightly out of breath, his hands still on her waist. "Sorry. I just—"

"Don't do that," Sawyer said, tugging at the string of his grey Puddlemere United sweatshirt, unable to shake the warmth from her face. "Don't apologise for that. Tell me."

Oliver shook his head. "Let's just run first." He affected a mask of perfect composure that was entirely unconvincing because Sawyer knew every iteration of his face just as well as she knew her own, and plucked Sawyer's water bottle out of her hands and set it down on the bench next to his.

Throughout the run, his head didn't seem to be unburdened any more than when they'd first began. Something was wrong. Whatever it was that was bothering him hit close to home. Few things bothered Oliver. Outside of Quidditch, Sawyer could count on one hand the number of things he cared about. They ran their laps in silence, and the bad weather looming over Oliver's head hadn't dissipated by the time they stopped back where they'd started. Oliver went straight for his water, and Sawyer sat down to stretch out.

Lifting the bottom of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his face, Oliver didn't even notice that Sawyer was openly staring at his toned midriff. Maybe he really was distracted today.

Tossing his empty water bottle to the ground in manifest agitation, Oliver let out a slow exhale. "Yesterday, I got a letter from Harrison St. John. The... the scout from Puddlemere United. Apparently a few scouts attended the Gryffindor vs. Ravenclaw match last month—" which Gryffindor had won by a landslide— "and they want me on their reserve team. It's not that glamorous, and I did get letters from other scouts from other professional teams to start on the lineup, because they like how I play, but Puddlemere United's been my dream for years. I mean, it's also the most obvious choice since they're pretty superior. I haven't told anyone yet, because I haven't accepted the invite. Well, anyone else except my dad."

A month and a half into the semester, a handful of seventh year Quidditch players had started receiving letters from the scouts of professional teams, offering them a place on the draft. Last week, Marcus got a letter from the Falmouth Falcons, but he'd declined the invitation, claiming that they weren't that good, and he only wanted the best. Sawyer hadn't gotten one yet, but she didn't think it'd matter. Quidditch wasn't her end-all-be-all. Even though she wouldn't hate the idea of being drafted, too. That, and she'd only looked at professional teams in passing, caught snippets about aforementioned teams from conversations her friends held and all the games that Oliver raved about, but not in enough detail to formulate a whole opinion on them, which meant she couldn't make her decision without more research. But, then again, she still hadn't received an invitation from any professional teams, so she didn't have to think that far ahead.

Sawyer wanted to congratulate Oliver. It was what everyone else would do, and it was an occasion for celebration, since not a lot of players had the same privilege. But the way he'd mentioned that last part about his father, and the way his jaw tightened like he was about to lose a match, made Sawyer think twice. She held her tongue and let him continue.

"I wrote him, and I said—" Oliver swallowed, crouching down to sit beside Sawyer, his expression twisted up, his voice scraped rough with some unshackled emotion— "I said that I was going to accept the offer to be on PU's reserve team. Even if I won't get playing time until the coach decides to take me off the bench. But my dad wrote back, and I thought... I don't know what I was expecting from him, really." Visibly worked up, his chest rose and fell rapidly, and the lines of his face seemed to sharpen now. Bitterness was evident as he propped his arms over his knee and stretched one leg out. "He's always been so... I don't know. He's just never cared about the things that I cared about." A dark look flickered over his features as Oliver wound a hand into the grass and ripped a chunk out with the sharp jerk of his wrist as his voice turned to iron. "He asked me why I wasn't good enough to be on the lineup. He said, maybe it's time I start looking for a real, more stable career."