FICLET: "Not Yet Cooked"
16/9/09 11:40![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bronze_ribbonsTitle: Not Yet Cooked
Author:bronze_ribbons
Fandom: Tennis RPF
Characters: Roger, Mirka, Rafa
Wordcount: 617
Disclaimer: Fic is fictional. No malice intended, no profit expected.
Rating: worksafe
Notes: Originally posted to LJ's fedal_slash comm (locked). I'm essentially on a hiatus from fic-writing until mid-February, but it would appear that I had some USO angst to get out of my system.
When Roger arrives at his suite in Genova, there is a beribboned basket overflowing with pasta sitting on the coffee table. At first glance, he assumes it's a "welcome to Italy" present from the hotel or an ITF rep or one of the Davis Cup sponsors; it's Mirka's gurgle of laughter that brings him over for a closer look.
She hands him the card, smirking:
Roger rolls his eyes at his wife. "When it's not you, it's him. Can't a guy have an off day without either of you rubbing salt into the wounds?"
Mirka grins, showing Roger the jar of Italian sea salt she's pulled out of the basket's depths. Roger mutters, "You two think you're so funny."
"Whatever it takes to poke you into playing smarter," Mirka shoots back. She affectionately, lightly bops Roger on the nose with her fist. In spite of himself, Roger's scowl instantly dissolves into a giggle.
"I hate you," he says.
"Of course you do," Mirka replies. "Just remember, before you know it, the twins will be old enough to watch."
She doesn't add, I didn't bear two babies for them to watch you serve like a schnitzel. She doesn't have to. Roger simultaneously rolls his eyes and mimes the twisting of a knife in his gut. Mirka cheerfully scoops up the basket and heads out of the room, tossing Roger's phone to him just before she glides through the door.
Roger dials Rafa's number.
"Hola."
"Noodle?"
"Nicer than 'mashed-potato-brain,' no?"
"I seem to recall that the same guy beat you too."
"Believe me, Mirka no let me forget. She send me business cards."
"She. . . business cards? Um, what did they say?"
"Cards are fine. They are amazing - they match my yellow shirt. I like them a lot. But Mirka, her note. . ." Roger hears the rustle of Rafa rummaging for the note. "Ah, here it is. Mirka, she say, 'If you're going to play that far behind the baseline, you should introduce yourself to the linespeople properly.'"
"Ouch."
"You tell me. Xisca give me box of breath mints with same message."
"We never should have let them meet."
Rafa snorts. "You really think we ever had say in that?"
"No, of course not." Roger heaves a sigh of resignation. "How's your ab?"
"Same as yesterday," Rafa answers, gloomily. "Not helped by someone playing like noodle."
"Who in the world did you learn that from?" Roger demands. "Novak?"
"No, Dudi. His fans, some of them yell 'You noodlenick!' when he lose to Kevin Kim."
Roger really is tired. He's not feeling up to explaining Yiddish invective to Rafa, and Spain is supposed to win this weekend. Besides, he doubts Rafa will be hearing "nudnik!" directed at any of the Israelis during the tie -- if Polaris World is like any of the other Spanish stadiums he's played in, any non-Spanish cheering will be easily drowned out by the home crowd.
"You practice today?" Rafa asks.
"Have a heart," Roger says. "I got here an hour ago."
"Already an hour before you call me?"
"Had to settle the twins first. You know that."
"Was joke. You know that."
Roger scrubs at his face with his right hand. "I know. Too defensive."
"Yes, you were. Next time, show up to match with better plan."
"Next time, show up to the match, period. I don't want to read 'I wasn't really there' in your blog ever again."
"Next time I send wet noodle if you play like one. The better for Mirka to beat you with."
"Next time, get to the damn final so I can beat you."
Roger can practically hear Rafa's smile.
Author:
bronze_ribbonsFandom: Tennis RPF
Characters: Roger, Mirka, Rafa
Wordcount: 617
Disclaimer: Fic is fictional. No malice intended, no profit expected.
Rating: worksafe
Notes: Originally posted to LJ's fedal_slash comm (locked). I'm essentially on a hiatus from fic-writing until mid-February, but it would appear that I had some USO angst to get out of my system.
When Roger arrives at his suite in Genova, there is a beribboned basket overflowing with pasta sitting on the coffee table. At first glance, he assumes it's a "welcome to Italy" present from the hotel or an ITF rep or one of the Davis Cup sponsors; it's Mirka's gurgle of laughter that brings him over for a closer look.
She hands him the card, smirking:
You play like a noodle yesterday. - Rafa
Roger rolls his eyes at his wife. "When it's not you, it's him. Can't a guy have an off day without either of you rubbing salt into the wounds?"
Mirka grins, showing Roger the jar of Italian sea salt she's pulled out of the basket's depths. Roger mutters, "You two think you're so funny."
"Whatever it takes to poke you into playing smarter," Mirka shoots back. She affectionately, lightly bops Roger on the nose with her fist. In spite of himself, Roger's scowl instantly dissolves into a giggle.
"I hate you," he says.
"Of course you do," Mirka replies. "Just remember, before you know it, the twins will be old enough to watch."
She doesn't add, I didn't bear two babies for them to watch you serve like a schnitzel. She doesn't have to. Roger simultaneously rolls his eyes and mimes the twisting of a knife in his gut. Mirka cheerfully scoops up the basket and heads out of the room, tossing Roger's phone to him just before she glides through the door.
Roger dials Rafa's number.
"Hola."
"Noodle?"
"Nicer than 'mashed-potato-brain,' no?"
"I seem to recall that the same guy beat you too."
"Believe me, Mirka no let me forget. She send me business cards."
"She. . . business cards? Um, what did they say?"
"Cards are fine. They are amazing - they match my yellow shirt. I like them a lot. But Mirka, her note. . ." Roger hears the rustle of Rafa rummaging for the note. "Ah, here it is. Mirka, she say, 'If you're going to play that far behind the baseline, you should introduce yourself to the linespeople properly.'"
"Ouch."
"You tell me. Xisca give me box of breath mints with same message."
"We never should have let them meet."
Rafa snorts. "You really think we ever had say in that?"
"No, of course not." Roger heaves a sigh of resignation. "How's your ab?"
"Same as yesterday," Rafa answers, gloomily. "Not helped by someone playing like noodle."
"Who in the world did you learn that from?" Roger demands. "Novak?"
"No, Dudi. His fans, some of them yell 'You noodlenick!' when he lose to Kevin Kim."
Roger really is tired. He's not feeling up to explaining Yiddish invective to Rafa, and Spain is supposed to win this weekend. Besides, he doubts Rafa will be hearing "nudnik!" directed at any of the Israelis during the tie -- if Polaris World is like any of the other Spanish stadiums he's played in, any non-Spanish cheering will be easily drowned out by the home crowd.
"You practice today?" Rafa asks.
"Have a heart," Roger says. "I got here an hour ago."
"Already an hour before you call me?"
"Had to settle the twins first. You know that."
"Was joke. You know that."
Roger scrubs at his face with his right hand. "I know. Too defensive."
"Yes, you were. Next time, show up to match with better plan."
"Next time, show up to the match, period. I don't want to read 'I wasn't really there' in your blog ever again."
"Next time I send wet noodle if you play like one. The better for Mirka to beat you with."
"Next time, get to the damn final so I can beat you."
Roger can practically hear Rafa's smile.
