Fic: Headed to the Dance (Sports Night, Dan/Casey)
Title: Headed to the Dance
Fandom: Sports Night
Pairing: Dan/Casey
Rating: hard R for sex
Word Count: about 2,500
Spoilers/Continuity: March 2006, long after the show ends.
Summary: Every time George Mason University wins another tournament game, an angel gets its wings.
Disclaimers: Sports Night is the intellectual property of Aaron Sorkin, Touchstone, Imagine, and Buena Vista. This original work of fan fiction is Copyright 2007 Mosca and is protected in the USA by the fair use provisions of the Copyright Act of 1976 because I do not intend to sell it at any price. All rights reserved. All wrongs reversed. Still bitter about that clunked 3-pointer in the Elite Eight game.
Notes: Thanks to callmesandy and annavtree for beta reading. Written for sportsbackinsn, for which my prompt was the thing where GMU made it to the Final Four in the NCAA tournament.
*
One of the sacrifices you make when you pursue a career in sports journalism is, you never get to get drunk on St. Patrick's Day again. St. Patrick's Day is in the middle of March, and the middle of March is March Madness, so while the rest of New York is obliterating their minds on green beer and stumbling around in the cold, you are watching the George Mason University Patriots astonish themselves by kicking the shit out of the Michigan State Spartans, a little team your viewers might remember from last year's Final Four. You are rooting for the Patriots, because you are fond of underdogs, and because your Connecticut upbringing has taught you to instinctively root for teams called the Patriots. GMU is ahead from early on, beating the Spartans up from the inside, embarrassing them. "This makes me feel good about America," you say to Casey late in the second half.
"Why?" he says. "Because a relatively untalented team receives some good coaching and has a freak night of success? That should make you feel scared for America."
"And yet it doesn't," you say. "It makes me feel good."
"All right, Pollyanna," Casey says, and the game comes back from commercial so he has the last word.
Seven minutes later, the Patriots are hugging and shouting and you are jumping up from the sofa and pumping your fist in the air. "I feel so good right now, Casey," you say. "I feel so good about America, I could kiss you on the mouth."
"You're deluded," he says. "I'm gonna go look at clips of the Huskies game you made me miss."
"This was a better game," you say. "This was the kind of game that makes you feel good about America."
"This is me going," Casey says.
"What, you're not going to watch the Bradley Braves trounce Kansas with me?" you say, because it's that kind of night. A few hours ago, the Bucknell Bison treyed their way to a 59-55 win over Arkansas. It's a great time to be an American.
"No, and you're not kissing me on the mouth, either," Casey says.
"I'm not," you say. "I'm not but I would." You're almost comfortable saying that. Kim's been cracking wise about it for months, years really but more so lately. She thinks you should kiss him and get it over with, because then you'll realize you're not actually gay for him. She says that men can't tell the difference between love and lust, and if you kissed him you would see it. You asked her what would happen if you kissed him and realized you were gay for him, and she patted you on the arm and laughed.
"You wouldn't," Casey says.
"I would," you say. "Try me."
He comes back from the doorway he's been leaning against and grabs you by the collar and tries you. You push him off. "Those glass walls are still transparent," you say.
"You're a sorry excuse for an American," he says.
*
Two days later, it's mid-afternoon and Roy Williams is throwing a chair. You and Casey have been near each other more than you've been apart, and every second you're in the same room, you want to kiss him again. You want to hug Jim Larranaga and thank him for restoring your faith in his sport and your country, but Casey, you want to kiss, and not for any reason in particular. "Feeling patriotic yet?" you ask him.
"They played man-to-man against a bunch of scared freshmen," Casey says.
"This is the first time all season the Tar Heels have looked like freshmen," you say. "I say the freedom-fighting spirit of George Mason is working its magic."
"George Mason was a slave-holding plantation holder," Casey says. You wonder if he actually knows this, or if he's just figuring it's a safe bet.
"George Mason favored abolition and wouldn't sign the Constitution until the Bill of Rights was added," you clarify.
"Are you making that up?" Casey says.
"Have you ever known me to make up important facts about our Founding Fathers?"
He looks at you blankly but accusingly. He has a very square jaw. "You should come with me to the editing room," he says. You follow him, silently for the first time in your life. His jaw is very, very square. He shuts the door behind you and draws the curtains. Nobody ever draws the curtains. You sit down in the chair by the AVID and spin yourself slowly around and around. He grabs the armrest to cease your rotation and plants his knee between yours so he can lean forward and kiss you. This time, you don't push him off of you. He tastes like powdered cheese and hours and hours of basketball.
While he takes a breath, you get out half of the word "What?"
"Bradley beat Pitt," he says. "72-66."
"God bless America," you say.
"Bradley beat Pitt, and George Mason beat UNC," he says. "And this is what I always swore I would do if it looked like the world was about to end."
*
Bradley goes down to Memphis by sixteen sweet points, and for a precious day, it looks like order might have been restored to the universe. (Either that, or John Calipari is now running the universe.) You can't look at Casey without remembering his hand on your cock and thinking, how did it come to this? You remind yourself that it's just that Casey briefly believed that the apocalypse was nigh.
You know he's still worried about the end of the world because it's coming up on 7 PM and he's saying he wants to watch the Villanova game. "Nobody wants to watch the Villanova game," you say. "Current undergraduates at Villanova are going to be watching the Patriots of George Mason University prove that the United States of America are nothing to sneeze at."
"That may be true," Casey says, "but I'm a rebel."
"No, you aren't," you say. "You have been many things, Casey, but you have never been a rebel."
"I'm watching the Villanova game," he says.
"You might start out watching the Villanova game --"
"But I will also finish," he says.
Apparently, this has started to look intense, because Natalie cuts in. "I need copy on those ice dancers," she says.
"What ice dancers? Where?" Casey says.
"The ones who will be ice dancing tonight while GMU beats Wichita State and you two go celebrate by making out somewhere," she says.
"Nobody's celebrating by making out with anyone," Casey says.
"The editing room?" Natalie says. "Not soundproof."
"Doesn't matter," Casey says. "You know why?"
"Because you have no shame?" Natalie says.
"Because GMU is finally going to lose," Casey says.
"Not if I have anything to do about it," you say. "Is it the hot ones?"
"Who are going to beat GMU?" Casey says.
"No, the ice dancers," you say. "The ones you need copy on, Natalie. We're talking about the hot ones, right?"
Natalie seems totally unbothered by the whole gay aspect of this. Not that she ought to be. She's known you for a long time; the entire production staff has. They probably had this all figured out years ago, and what you're seeing as a surprise, they're seeing as inevitable. That won't keep Natalie from being embarrassed at hearing grunts emanate from the editing room (and who the hell installs an editing room that isn't soundproof, come to think of it) but it will make Casey's panicked secrecy kind of pointless. She thinks you're sweet. She needs the ice dance copy. The rest is all incidental. You're starting to think the universe is in pretty good shape after all.
A few seconds after Folarin Campbell's second 3-pointer, someone sends Jeremy to pry Casey away from the Villanova game. "They're going to win whether or not you watch them do it," you hear Jeremy say.
Following the Patriots' most decisive win of the tournament, you tell Casey, "Just because they won doesn't mean we have to, you know."
"That's the problem," he says. "I think it does."
"Because when you put it that way, it really makes me want to suck your dick," you say.
"Please say that one more time," he says, "only this time make it even louder."
"You know what's starting in about five minutes?" you say.
"Something else you're going to describe loudly?"
"Huskies versus Huskies," you say. "That's inherently exciting, we can't have sex yet."
You wind up on your knees in the men's room during halftime. After he comes, Casey says, "Shit, did you ever write that copy about the ice dancers?"
"You know, I think I just lost my faith in romance," you say.
"You just gave me head in the men's room because the George Mason Patriots made it to the Elite Eight," he says. "We are here and romance is way over there."
"This has nothing to do with the George Mason Patriots," you say.
He sets his jaw and stares over your shoulder for a moment. "So you wrote the copy?" he said.
"I refrained from mentioning that they're hot," you say. You kiss him so hard he has to grab the door of the stall.
*
He is right there with you to see UConn finally teach GMU the lesson they so richly deserve. This is how he puts it, and you scoff at him on principle. But Rudy Gay is sinking shots like he's bored, the Huskies are 12 points ahead, and you silently admit Casey could be right. As the second half begins, you drape your arm around his shoulder. Until the Patriots lose officially, you have the right to do this. He does not lift your arm off of him, suggesting that even he concedes this truth. You leave it there as Jai Lewis rebounds like a real basketball player, fighting the Patriots up to a tie, then a five-point lead, then back down to a tie when Denham Brown hits a layup at the buzzer. "Looks like you're going to have to put up with this all the way through overtime," Jeremy says.
"Put up with?" you say. "I'll have you know I'm an excellent --" But you have trouble finishing the sentence.
"Lay?" Kim offers. Simultaneously, Natalie suggests, "Boyfriend?"
Casey leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. You drop your arm to your side. "C'mon, Patriots," he mouths. You might be the only one who catches that, and it might be on purpose.
The Patriots keep missing their free throws, and each clunk goes straight to your heart. Still, the final seconds of the game find them two points ahead. You're generally against mixing religion and sports, but you say a little prayer when Brown launches a hail-Mary three-pointer. There's more at stake than a slot in the Final Four here. Denham Brown has no idea.
When he misses, Casey jumps out of his seat with an animal shout of jubilation, both of his hands high in the air. Everyone's shouting and hugging, in fact. You were ahead of the curve: when a team like GMU makes it to the Final Four, everyone feels good about America. Well, everyone except UConn fans.
Casey grabs your face and kisses you. "What can I say? You converted me."
"So," you say. "Men's room or editing room?"
"I hear the editing room's not soundproof," he says.
If you had a shot clock, it would still have a few seconds left on it by the time you have him backed up against the sink with his hands in your hair and his tongue in your mouth. Slowly enough to make a punctuation mark of each button, you open his shirt. "They're not going to beat Florida," you say.
"They just beat a #1 seed," Casey says. "They might take Florida. They might get to the Finals."
"They might," you say. "But I don't think so. I don't have a good feeling about it."
"Is this like your elbow that tells you when it's going to snow?" Casey says.
"No," you say. "This is just a hunch."
"What I'm trying to say is, Dan? Your hunches? Are right about fifty percent of the time."
"It's a strong hunch," you say.
"As strong as flipping a coin," he says.
"Will it matter?" you say.
"Will it matter as in will your hunch affect the outcome of an NCAA tournament game? No."
"No, will it matter as in --"
"As in?"
You bite his lip, and you run your hand down the front of his t-shirt. "As in."
"I don't know," he says. "Let's see if they win."
"They won't," you say. "America's just not that good of a country."
*
Your hunch is right. There's a glimmer of hope towards the end of the first half, but the Gators have figured out that they have to treat the Patriots like a real team. That might be the biggest compliment they can give, the development of a specifically anti-Patriot strategy of bedeviling them from beyond the arc. All through your post-game report, Casey cracks jokes about how George Mason's loss has taken away your faith in mom and apple pie. "Sure to be made into a classic feature film," you say grumpily. Jim Larranaga's not the only one seeing his romance come to a tragic end, but he's the only one who'll have it reenacted in a virtuoso performance by Ed Harris.
"Ed Harris?" Casey says during the commercial break. "I would have said Dennis Hopper."
"If it's Dennis Hopper," you say, "not so much with the virtuoso performance."
"What do you have against Dennis Hopper?" he says.
"What do you have against apple pie?" you say, and you're back on the air.
You get through the rest of the show, and you get ready to go home. "Where are you headed?" Casey says. His tone is noncommittal but not unkind.
You shrug. "Off to drown my sorrows. Any idea where the hardcore George Mason fans congregate?"
"I hear they're hosting a small shindig in my apartment," he says, like he's rehearsed the line.
"A shindig?"
"A very small one."
Together, you ride a very slow, very evergreen-scented courtesy car back to Casey's place. If there were a mood to kill, the driver's cell phone conversation in Urdu would be taking care of it. But the Patriots' loss, however inevitable and however improbably late in the tournament, has hit you hard. Each win was the kind of momentous event that could make a guy believe in something. And this loss, this reversal, is equally and oppositely momentous, the kind of event that can put you on a long, stinky ride to Casey's apartment and somehow make you not believe in even this.
But you go with him. His apartment is messy: a few dishes in the sink, a stack of magazines that has avalanched from the coffee table. He goes into his bedroom and takes off his clothes like he's getting ready to go to sleep. In the absence of urgency or sexiness, you observe things. Mainly, you observe that he's awfully hairy, and neither of you is getting any younger. You turn away from him and undress; you sit down on the end of the bed. He stands over you, naked, staring at a spot on the wall behind you, then leans forward slightly to put his hands on your shoulders. He runs one hand down your arm like he's searching for some hidden Braille message. He's still not looking at you.
You put your hands on his hips. He loses his balance and falls into you; you roll backward to catch him. Finally, he lets you meet his eyes. He smiles like he thinks you did this on purpose. And hey, maybe you did. He kisses you until you have to close your eyes, and you think, maybe it doesn't take a basketball team to make you want to believe in something.
Fandom: Sports Night
Pairing: Dan/Casey
Rating: hard R for sex
Word Count: about 2,500
Spoilers/Continuity: March 2006, long after the show ends.
Summary: Every time George Mason University wins another tournament game, an angel gets its wings.
Disclaimers: Sports Night is the intellectual property of Aaron Sorkin, Touchstone, Imagine, and Buena Vista. This original work of fan fiction is Copyright 2007 Mosca and is protected in the USA by the fair use provisions of the Copyright Act of 1976 because I do not intend to sell it at any price. All rights reserved. All wrongs reversed. Still bitter about that clunked 3-pointer in the Elite Eight game.
Notes: Thanks to callmesandy and annavtree for beta reading. Written for sportsbackinsn, for which my prompt was the thing where GMU made it to the Final Four in the NCAA tournament.
*
One of the sacrifices you make when you pursue a career in sports journalism is, you never get to get drunk on St. Patrick's Day again. St. Patrick's Day is in the middle of March, and the middle of March is March Madness, so while the rest of New York is obliterating their minds on green beer and stumbling around in the cold, you are watching the George Mason University Patriots astonish themselves by kicking the shit out of the Michigan State Spartans, a little team your viewers might remember from last year's Final Four. You are rooting for the Patriots, because you are fond of underdogs, and because your Connecticut upbringing has taught you to instinctively root for teams called the Patriots. GMU is ahead from early on, beating the Spartans up from the inside, embarrassing them. "This makes me feel good about America," you say to Casey late in the second half.
"Why?" he says. "Because a relatively untalented team receives some good coaching and has a freak night of success? That should make you feel scared for America."
"And yet it doesn't," you say. "It makes me feel good."
"All right, Pollyanna," Casey says, and the game comes back from commercial so he has the last word.
Seven minutes later, the Patriots are hugging and shouting and you are jumping up from the sofa and pumping your fist in the air. "I feel so good right now, Casey," you say. "I feel so good about America, I could kiss you on the mouth."
"You're deluded," he says. "I'm gonna go look at clips of the Huskies game you made me miss."
"This was a better game," you say. "This was the kind of game that makes you feel good about America."
"This is me going," Casey says.
"What, you're not going to watch the Bradley Braves trounce Kansas with me?" you say, because it's that kind of night. A few hours ago, the Bucknell Bison treyed their way to a 59-55 win over Arkansas. It's a great time to be an American.
"No, and you're not kissing me on the mouth, either," Casey says.
"I'm not," you say. "I'm not but I would." You're almost comfortable saying that. Kim's been cracking wise about it for months, years really but more so lately. She thinks you should kiss him and get it over with, because then you'll realize you're not actually gay for him. She says that men can't tell the difference between love and lust, and if you kissed him you would see it. You asked her what would happen if you kissed him and realized you were gay for him, and she patted you on the arm and laughed.
"You wouldn't," Casey says.
"I would," you say. "Try me."
He comes back from the doorway he's been leaning against and grabs you by the collar and tries you. You push him off. "Those glass walls are still transparent," you say.
"You're a sorry excuse for an American," he says.
*
Two days later, it's mid-afternoon and Roy Williams is throwing a chair. You and Casey have been near each other more than you've been apart, and every second you're in the same room, you want to kiss him again. You want to hug Jim Larranaga and thank him for restoring your faith in his sport and your country, but Casey, you want to kiss, and not for any reason in particular. "Feeling patriotic yet?" you ask him.
"They played man-to-man against a bunch of scared freshmen," Casey says.
"This is the first time all season the Tar Heels have looked like freshmen," you say. "I say the freedom-fighting spirit of George Mason is working its magic."
"George Mason was a slave-holding plantation holder," Casey says. You wonder if he actually knows this, or if he's just figuring it's a safe bet.
"George Mason favored abolition and wouldn't sign the Constitution until the Bill of Rights was added," you clarify.
"Are you making that up?" Casey says.
"Have you ever known me to make up important facts about our Founding Fathers?"
He looks at you blankly but accusingly. He has a very square jaw. "You should come with me to the editing room," he says. You follow him, silently for the first time in your life. His jaw is very, very square. He shuts the door behind you and draws the curtains. Nobody ever draws the curtains. You sit down in the chair by the AVID and spin yourself slowly around and around. He grabs the armrest to cease your rotation and plants his knee between yours so he can lean forward and kiss you. This time, you don't push him off of you. He tastes like powdered cheese and hours and hours of basketball.
While he takes a breath, you get out half of the word "What?"
"Bradley beat Pitt," he says. "72-66."
"God bless America," you say.
"Bradley beat Pitt, and George Mason beat UNC," he says. "And this is what I always swore I would do if it looked like the world was about to end."
*
Bradley goes down to Memphis by sixteen sweet points, and for a precious day, it looks like order might have been restored to the universe. (Either that, or John Calipari is now running the universe.) You can't look at Casey without remembering his hand on your cock and thinking, how did it come to this? You remind yourself that it's just that Casey briefly believed that the apocalypse was nigh.
You know he's still worried about the end of the world because it's coming up on 7 PM and he's saying he wants to watch the Villanova game. "Nobody wants to watch the Villanova game," you say. "Current undergraduates at Villanova are going to be watching the Patriots of George Mason University prove that the United States of America are nothing to sneeze at."
"That may be true," Casey says, "but I'm a rebel."
"No, you aren't," you say. "You have been many things, Casey, but you have never been a rebel."
"I'm watching the Villanova game," he says.
"You might start out watching the Villanova game --"
"But I will also finish," he says.
Apparently, this has started to look intense, because Natalie cuts in. "I need copy on those ice dancers," she says.
"What ice dancers? Where?" Casey says.
"The ones who will be ice dancing tonight while GMU beats Wichita State and you two go celebrate by making out somewhere," she says.
"Nobody's celebrating by making out with anyone," Casey says.
"The editing room?" Natalie says. "Not soundproof."
"Doesn't matter," Casey says. "You know why?"
"Because you have no shame?" Natalie says.
"Because GMU is finally going to lose," Casey says.
"Not if I have anything to do about it," you say. "Is it the hot ones?"
"Who are going to beat GMU?" Casey says.
"No, the ice dancers," you say. "The ones you need copy on, Natalie. We're talking about the hot ones, right?"
Natalie seems totally unbothered by the whole gay aspect of this. Not that she ought to be. She's known you for a long time; the entire production staff has. They probably had this all figured out years ago, and what you're seeing as a surprise, they're seeing as inevitable. That won't keep Natalie from being embarrassed at hearing grunts emanate from the editing room (and who the hell installs an editing room that isn't soundproof, come to think of it) but it will make Casey's panicked secrecy kind of pointless. She thinks you're sweet. She needs the ice dance copy. The rest is all incidental. You're starting to think the universe is in pretty good shape after all.
A few seconds after Folarin Campbell's second 3-pointer, someone sends Jeremy to pry Casey away from the Villanova game. "They're going to win whether or not you watch them do it," you hear Jeremy say.
Following the Patriots' most decisive win of the tournament, you tell Casey, "Just because they won doesn't mean we have to, you know."
"That's the problem," he says. "I think it does."
"Because when you put it that way, it really makes me want to suck your dick," you say.
"Please say that one more time," he says, "only this time make it even louder."
"You know what's starting in about five minutes?" you say.
"Something else you're going to describe loudly?"
"Huskies versus Huskies," you say. "That's inherently exciting, we can't have sex yet."
You wind up on your knees in the men's room during halftime. After he comes, Casey says, "Shit, did you ever write that copy about the ice dancers?"
"You know, I think I just lost my faith in romance," you say.
"You just gave me head in the men's room because the George Mason Patriots made it to the Elite Eight," he says. "We are here and romance is way over there."
"This has nothing to do with the George Mason Patriots," you say.
He sets his jaw and stares over your shoulder for a moment. "So you wrote the copy?" he said.
"I refrained from mentioning that they're hot," you say. You kiss him so hard he has to grab the door of the stall.
*
He is right there with you to see UConn finally teach GMU the lesson they so richly deserve. This is how he puts it, and you scoff at him on principle. But Rudy Gay is sinking shots like he's bored, the Huskies are 12 points ahead, and you silently admit Casey could be right. As the second half begins, you drape your arm around his shoulder. Until the Patriots lose officially, you have the right to do this. He does not lift your arm off of him, suggesting that even he concedes this truth. You leave it there as Jai Lewis rebounds like a real basketball player, fighting the Patriots up to a tie, then a five-point lead, then back down to a tie when Denham Brown hits a layup at the buzzer. "Looks like you're going to have to put up with this all the way through overtime," Jeremy says.
"Put up with?" you say. "I'll have you know I'm an excellent --" But you have trouble finishing the sentence.
"Lay?" Kim offers. Simultaneously, Natalie suggests, "Boyfriend?"
Casey leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. You drop your arm to your side. "C'mon, Patriots," he mouths. You might be the only one who catches that, and it might be on purpose.
The Patriots keep missing their free throws, and each clunk goes straight to your heart. Still, the final seconds of the game find them two points ahead. You're generally against mixing religion and sports, but you say a little prayer when Brown launches a hail-Mary three-pointer. There's more at stake than a slot in the Final Four here. Denham Brown has no idea.
When he misses, Casey jumps out of his seat with an animal shout of jubilation, both of his hands high in the air. Everyone's shouting and hugging, in fact. You were ahead of the curve: when a team like GMU makes it to the Final Four, everyone feels good about America. Well, everyone except UConn fans.
Casey grabs your face and kisses you. "What can I say? You converted me."
"So," you say. "Men's room or editing room?"
"I hear the editing room's not soundproof," he says.
If you had a shot clock, it would still have a few seconds left on it by the time you have him backed up against the sink with his hands in your hair and his tongue in your mouth. Slowly enough to make a punctuation mark of each button, you open his shirt. "They're not going to beat Florida," you say.
"They just beat a #1 seed," Casey says. "They might take Florida. They might get to the Finals."
"They might," you say. "But I don't think so. I don't have a good feeling about it."
"Is this like your elbow that tells you when it's going to snow?" Casey says.
"No," you say. "This is just a hunch."
"What I'm trying to say is, Dan? Your hunches? Are right about fifty percent of the time."
"It's a strong hunch," you say.
"As strong as flipping a coin," he says.
"Will it matter?" you say.
"Will it matter as in will your hunch affect the outcome of an NCAA tournament game? No."
"No, will it matter as in --"
"As in?"
You bite his lip, and you run your hand down the front of his t-shirt. "As in."
"I don't know," he says. "Let's see if they win."
"They won't," you say. "America's just not that good of a country."
*
Your hunch is right. There's a glimmer of hope towards the end of the first half, but the Gators have figured out that they have to treat the Patriots like a real team. That might be the biggest compliment they can give, the development of a specifically anti-Patriot strategy of bedeviling them from beyond the arc. All through your post-game report, Casey cracks jokes about how George Mason's loss has taken away your faith in mom and apple pie. "Sure to be made into a classic feature film," you say grumpily. Jim Larranaga's not the only one seeing his romance come to a tragic end, but he's the only one who'll have it reenacted in a virtuoso performance by Ed Harris.
"Ed Harris?" Casey says during the commercial break. "I would have said Dennis Hopper."
"If it's Dennis Hopper," you say, "not so much with the virtuoso performance."
"What do you have against Dennis Hopper?" he says.
"What do you have against apple pie?" you say, and you're back on the air.
You get through the rest of the show, and you get ready to go home. "Where are you headed?" Casey says. His tone is noncommittal but not unkind.
You shrug. "Off to drown my sorrows. Any idea where the hardcore George Mason fans congregate?"
"I hear they're hosting a small shindig in my apartment," he says, like he's rehearsed the line.
"A shindig?"
"A very small one."
Together, you ride a very slow, very evergreen-scented courtesy car back to Casey's place. If there were a mood to kill, the driver's cell phone conversation in Urdu would be taking care of it. But the Patriots' loss, however inevitable and however improbably late in the tournament, has hit you hard. Each win was the kind of momentous event that could make a guy believe in something. And this loss, this reversal, is equally and oppositely momentous, the kind of event that can put you on a long, stinky ride to Casey's apartment and somehow make you not believe in even this.
But you go with him. His apartment is messy: a few dishes in the sink, a stack of magazines that has avalanched from the coffee table. He goes into his bedroom and takes off his clothes like he's getting ready to go to sleep. In the absence of urgency or sexiness, you observe things. Mainly, you observe that he's awfully hairy, and neither of you is getting any younger. You turn away from him and undress; you sit down on the end of the bed. He stands over you, naked, staring at a spot on the wall behind you, then leans forward slightly to put his hands on your shoulders. He runs one hand down your arm like he's searching for some hidden Braille message. He's still not looking at you.
You put your hands on his hips. He loses his balance and falls into you; you roll backward to catch him. Finally, he lets you meet his eyes. He smiles like he thinks you did this on purpose. And hey, maybe you did. He kisses you until you have to close your eyes, and you think, maybe it doesn't take a basketball team to make you want to believe in something.