milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Bill is downstairs after some breakfast. He sits down at the counter, and before he can even ask, Bar provides him with a loaded plate; eggs, bacon, sausage, hashbrowns, a short stack of pancakes, a cup of coffee and orange juice.

Bill grins at the offering, and is about to say thank you when a newspaper appears. Looking at the front page headline his smile falls.

Mardi Gras in Miami

It's not really the headline, but the part underneath that tells how the Saints defeated the Colts 31-17 in the Superbowl that's just killed his good mood.

Bill lifts the paper and shakes his head.

"Aw, c'mon, no. I didn't even know they were playin'."

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Her lips curve into a small smile when they reach the inlet a few minutes later.

She pauses to toe off her shoes, welcoming the feel of soft, sun-warm sand beneath her feet, and peels off her jacket.

He waits until they find a spot, then sets down the tote bag and tugs off his hoodie.

"S'beautiful out," he says, looking out at the water, then turning his gaze to her. "Beach is nice, too."

She spreads out their towels, ignoring the warm flush spreading through her that has nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the look in Bill's eyes.

"Charm's not going to help you catch this," she says, taking the football from the bag.

"Well it's a good thing I don't need it, then."

He gives her a smug smirk, then walks down the beach to put some distance between them.

"You wanna set the rules? Even though I know you'll be breakin' 'em first chance you get."

Chuckling at his exaggerated swagger, she shakes her head.

"I'll let you do the honors, so I'll be sure to keep myself in line."

"Alright, we'll keep it simple t'try an' keep you honest."

He throws her a grin and thinks up a quick set of rules.

"First one to drop three loses. no dirty tactics like tryin' to distract me, an' um... loser gets a consolation prize."

"I think I can handle that," she says with a laugh, adjusting one strap of her camisole with her free hand. Her fingers slide to her nape to double-check the silky knot of her halter, and she takes a couple of steps back.

"Warm-up doesn't count," she calls, sending the ball toward him in an easy arc.

He nods in agreement, holding his hands out to catch the ball.

"Just lemme know when you're ready for the real thing."

He sends the ball back with the same kind of high, soft arc.

Her muscles loosen with every flex and release, and after a handful of passes, she catches the ball and cradles it between her palms.

"The question might be are you ready for the real thing?"

He rolls his shoulder; it's feeling good and he's ready for the game.

"Show me what you got."

"I've got skills you've never seen, sheriff."

She sends a satisfactory spiral his way, her attention subconsciously shifting to his shoulder.

Catching the ball neatly, he grins.

"You tryin' t'say I'm in trouble?"

He returns the ball to her in a good spiral, shaking his hands out to show he's ready for her.

"I'm saying -- "

She catches the ball, a soft puff of air leaving her lips as the leather connects beneath her collarbone.

"You shouldn't underestimate me just because I was never a quarterback."

She fits her fingers along the laces and releases the ball, glad to see there's no hint of wobble this time.

"Hey now, I said you'd make a good football player."

He catches the ball and sends it back, his chuckle taking some of the spin off of his throw.

"Just not as good as me."

She's laughing outright, and the ball nearly bounces out of her hands.

Two more back-and-forths, and Kate is the first to fumble, the ball landing next to her foot, spraying her ankle with white sand.

"So tell me," she says, grinning as she bends to scoop up the ball and fires it back, "how do I become as good as you, sweetheart?"

He grins when she drops the pass, holding up a finger to indicate the count of her drops.

He catches her return and holds onto the ball, tossing it to himself.

"Practice. Lots of it. An' skill." He spins the ball on his palm to show off--

"Y'gotta-- "

-- and, drops it.

He looks at the ball in the sand, and then back at her.

"That don't count."

Bemused, she rests a hand on her hip.

(Fair's fair; she'll let that one slide without argument.)

"Gotta what?"

He picks the ball up and gives an easy toss to her.

"Gotta uh, know your receiver."

He makes a quick substitution over what he was going to say, which was something or other about knowing your own abilities.

She catches the ball and arches an eyebrow in his direction.

"I'd say I know my receiver pretty well at this point."

In the biblical sense, even.

Grinning, Bill gives a nod.

"Well see there? You're on your way. Knowin' me is your best chance at gettin' good."

"Silly me -- I thought raw talent was the key."

Smirking, she sends a tight, fast spiral his way.

"Yep, silly you."

While he's teasing he miscalculates his catch. The ball skims his palms and shoots through his arms, hitting the sand behind him.

Looking behind him, then at her, he smirks.

"Wow, Kate, put some zip on that one, didn't'cha?"

She bites her lower lip to tamp down her grin.

"I'm full of surprises."

He gives her a mock suspicious look, then retrieves the football.

"Alright, so we got a tie now."

Sending a straight spiral her way, he's more focused this time on catching her return.

The leather stings her palms with every catch; after an impressive volley, Kate dives for a particularly tight pass, but it slips through her hands and she hits the sand with a soft oof.

She offers Bill a wry smile as she dusts off her hands and thighs.

"No taking it easy on me," she tells him, recovering the ball. "If you do, I'll know."