FIC: Going to Kansas City - 1/1, NFL RPS, PG, Tom/Matt C/Matt L
Title: Going To Kansas City
Author: idiosyncratic & azewewish
Fandom: NFL RPS
Pairing: Tom Brady/Matt Cassel/Matt Leinart
Rating: PG
Word count: 1605
Summary: Tom's knee is healed, so what does that mean for Matt after an amazing season?
Disclaimer: Fiction, folks. But if you believe this really happened, I've got some prime real estate I wanna sell you… The only true things about this are the date itself and the actual trade.
Author's Notes: The 22nd Day of Christmas for zortified because she gets the love.
(02/27/2009 - Boston)
Matt looks up from the paper with a fond smile as Leinart comes stumbling into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and naked, and makes his way to the coffee pot. "Good morning, sunshine."
Leinart grunts in response, and drops to the chair at the table next to Matt, cradling his mug with both hands. "It's unnatural to be up this early."
"It's 9am," Matt cheerfully points out. Fucking with Leinart when he first wakes up is one of his little joys.
"6am West Coast," Leinart argues. "Which my body is still on."
"You've been here for almost two weeks. That excuse is so tired."
"Hmph." Leinart takes another noisy sip of his coffee. "See if I make you breakfast now."
"You will, and we know it." Matt says with a grin, as his phone starts to ring. He glances at the caller ID. It's David.
For a long second, Matt just stares at the phone. Then he reaches for it, feeling like the world's shifted to slow motion. "Do me a favor," he says, sliding the bar to answer the call, "go get Tommy."
Without a word, Leinart stands up and heads out of the kitchen. Matt takes a deep breath, tells himself that the call is good news, then presses the icon to put the call on speaker. "Hey, man, what's up?"
"Matt, my man, how you doin'?" There's a faint echo to David's voice, so Matt knows he's on speaker as well. And he doesn't even need to ask why. "Listen, I didn't wake you, did I?"
"No," Matt says, looking up as Tom slides into the room on socked feet and wearing nothing except his jogging shorts. He's clearly just out of the shower because his hair is wet and plastered to his skull. He's followed closely by Leinart, who's pulled on a pair of pajama pants. "I've been up for a while. Hey, David...is this a private conversation?"
"No, no, not at all. Hey, Tommy, how you doin'?"
"I'm good," Tom replies, looking at Matt as he drops into the chair to Matt's left. Leinart takes the one to Matt's right and buries his face in his coffee mug. "Everything good?"
"Yeah, yeah," David replies, and Matt can hear him rattling papers. There are a few quiet murmurs in the background. "Everything's great. Listen, Matt, I know you've heard all the rumors, and we've told you everything that's been going on."
Matt nods, then clears his throat when Tom takes his hand. "Yeah, it's been a crazy few days, huh?"
"That's one way to put it," David laughs. "You know, Josh wants you bad, but Xanders isn't playing ball. Not that anyone's surprised, right? Anyway, listen, we've got a solid offer on the table, and I think it's a good one. A damn great one, actually."
An offer... Matt clamps down on Tom's hand, and tries to quell the nerves. Coach and Mr. Kraft wouldn't send him any place they didn't think he could flourish. He holds onto that thought as he clears his throat and says, "Alright, tell me."
"The Chiefs want you. As soon as Scott went over there in January, he's been pressing Bill to get you. They want you to be their franchise guy."
The Chiefs? Of all the teams... Matt turns a startled gaze to Leinart, who's grinning so hard he looks ready to bust, then over to Tom, who's smiling encouragingly at him. "They do?" he asks - it's all he can think to say.
"Hey, Matt, Scott here," Pioli says, and that's one mystery down about who's on the call with them. "I hope you'll consider the deal. We want you in Kansas City with us for a long time."
"They're a good team, Matt," Belichick chimes in, in his usual gruff voice. "They're young, but they've got a lot of talent, and you'll do well with their style of offense. We'd obviously love to keep you here in New England with us..."
"But I'm expendable since Tommy's knee is solid," Matt finishes. "I get it, Coach. And thank you for putting me in a good position and with a team that wants me. I appreciate it."
"We're not sending you alone, either," Belichick says. "Vrabel's going with you."
"He is? Well, at least I'll know someone, right?"
"That's the spirit," David says, and Matt can hear Scott chuckling on the other line.
"Vrabel's just icing on the cake, someone to help groom our defense," Scott says. "It's you we want, Matt, I'm serious about that. The front office is already working on what they want to offer you, but we're talking five, six years here easy."
"Can I, uh, ask," Matt starts, then pauses to lick his lips. Leinart's still grinning like a fool, and Tom's just watching him with a calm, pleased expression. "Can I ask what I'm worth?"
"Matt, Matt," David starts, but Belichick cuts him off.
"We get a second round pick," Belichick says, and it's clear he still wants to be completely open about this.
A second round. Laughter wells up in Matt's throat and he swallows hard. Atlanta got more than that for Schaub, and he doesn't have the experience that Matt does. And he'd gone solo. "Second round," Matt manages to say, seeing Tom shaking his head. "That's not bad."
"It's damn cheap is what it is," Belichick says. "You're worth a first round, easy, or a couple second rounds, but I wanted the best possible fit for you, so we're doing Scott a favor."
"And we appreciate it," Scott chuckles. "You know it won't be forgotten."
"I know."
"Thank you," is all Matt can say (again). "I won't let you down, Scott."
"I know you won't," Scott says. "Now we'll let you and Tommy get back to your day. David'll fill you in on all the details and when you need to report and all of that. We're just happy to have you on board."
"Thank you." He feels like a parrot. "And thank you, too, Coach. It's been, uh..."
"I know, son," Belichick says. "You know you're welcome here anytime. The Patriots will always consider you family."
"I know," Matt says, around the sudden lump in his throat. "I'll, uh, talk to you later, David."
"You got it."
Matt presses the end button and sits back, feeling like he's been put through the wringer, and he hasn't even moved. "I'm getting my own team," he says, and he can hear the note of wonder in his voice. Then the lump comes back. "I wish my dad was here to see this."
"He knows," Tom softly says.
"My own team," Matt repeats, his brain struggling to process the words, the concept.
"They've got a good system in place, and Scott's making some moves that'll benefit you," Tom says, lacing their fingers together. "He was willing to give up a lot more to get you, but Coach wasn't worried about getting rewarded. He just wanted to put you in a good place." He pauses, then grins. "Mr. Kraft wants to keep you, y'know, but he approves of the deal. Said that he knows Scott'll take care of you right."
"Did he?" Matt rubs his eyes and tries to breathe, taking a long moment to regain his control. "That's, um...fuck."
Tom's laugh is soft and low as he wraps Matt in a tight hug. "So fucking proud of you," he whispers in Matt's ear. "They came to us. Coach wasn't shopping you yet."
Matt nods and holds tight to Tom, feeling Leinart's hand come to rest on his back, moving in slow circles. His own team. For all his talk about wanting it, deserving it, he hadn't expected it to come this soon. "Kansas City," he manages, after a moment, and his voice is thick. "It's halfway across the country."
"I know," Tom replies, all seriousness now. "And I was thinking when we get back from our vacation, we can visit, take a look at some apartments for when you have to report, maybe look at some houses for after you've signed the contract. And Kansas City's not really that far."
"At least it's not the Jets," Leinart snorts, and Matt can't help the burst of laughter that escapes.
"Hey, Tommy did promise to still support me even the Jets did come knocking."
"Yeah, but I never promised to," Leinart points out, then pulls Matt in for his own hug. "Proud of you, babe," he says, echoing Tom. "You're gonna knock 'em dead in KC. The AFC West isn't gonna know what hit it."
"Hopefully," Matt replies, then lets out a high laugh. "Holy shit. My own fucking team. I, uh, I gotta call Mom. And Jackie and Jussy and..."
"Go." Tom shoos at him. "Tell the fam, make your calls."
"I'll start breakfast. Tommy can supervise," Leinart grins, then presses a swift kiss to Matt's lips. "Go make your calls so we can celebrate."
Matt lifts an eyebrow. "This celebration better include lots of sex."
"That's what I said, isn't it?"
Matt just rolls his eyes and scoops up his phone before dropping a quick kiss on Tom's lips. "Try to make him behave."
"No promises," Tom says. "Now go."
Matt's fingers are already moving over his phone before he's out of the kitchen. His mom should already be up, and he just hopes she's had her coffee. Or at least has it in front of her. He paces the living room as the phone rings, able to hear snatches of Tom and Leinart's conversation as it drifts from the kitchen.
His own team.
Author: idiosyncratic & azewewish
Fandom: NFL RPS
Pairing: Tom Brady/Matt Cassel/Matt Leinart
Rating: PG
Word count: 1605
Summary: Tom's knee is healed, so what does that mean for Matt after an amazing season?
Disclaimer: Fiction, folks. But if you believe this really happened, I've got some prime real estate I wanna sell you… The only true things about this are the date itself and the actual trade.
Author's Notes: The 22nd Day of Christmas for zortified because she gets the love.
(02/27/2009 - Boston)
Matt looks up from the paper with a fond smile as Leinart comes stumbling into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and naked, and makes his way to the coffee pot. "Good morning, sunshine."
Leinart grunts in response, and drops to the chair at the table next to Matt, cradling his mug with both hands. "It's unnatural to be up this early."
"It's 9am," Matt cheerfully points out. Fucking with Leinart when he first wakes up is one of his little joys.
"6am West Coast," Leinart argues. "Which my body is still on."
"You've been here for almost two weeks. That excuse is so tired."
"Hmph." Leinart takes another noisy sip of his coffee. "See if I make you breakfast now."
"You will, and we know it." Matt says with a grin, as his phone starts to ring. He glances at the caller ID. It's David.
For a long second, Matt just stares at the phone. Then he reaches for it, feeling like the world's shifted to slow motion. "Do me a favor," he says, sliding the bar to answer the call, "go get Tommy."
Without a word, Leinart stands up and heads out of the kitchen. Matt takes a deep breath, tells himself that the call is good news, then presses the icon to put the call on speaker. "Hey, man, what's up?"
"Matt, my man, how you doin'?" There's a faint echo to David's voice, so Matt knows he's on speaker as well. And he doesn't even need to ask why. "Listen, I didn't wake you, did I?"
"No," Matt says, looking up as Tom slides into the room on socked feet and wearing nothing except his jogging shorts. He's clearly just out of the shower because his hair is wet and plastered to his skull. He's followed closely by Leinart, who's pulled on a pair of pajama pants. "I've been up for a while. Hey, David...is this a private conversation?"
"No, no, not at all. Hey, Tommy, how you doin'?"
"I'm good," Tom replies, looking at Matt as he drops into the chair to Matt's left. Leinart takes the one to Matt's right and buries his face in his coffee mug. "Everything good?"
"Yeah, yeah," David replies, and Matt can hear him rattling papers. There are a few quiet murmurs in the background. "Everything's great. Listen, Matt, I know you've heard all the rumors, and we've told you everything that's been going on."
Matt nods, then clears his throat when Tom takes his hand. "Yeah, it's been a crazy few days, huh?"
"That's one way to put it," David laughs. "You know, Josh wants you bad, but Xanders isn't playing ball. Not that anyone's surprised, right? Anyway, listen, we've got a solid offer on the table, and I think it's a good one. A damn great one, actually."
An offer... Matt clamps down on Tom's hand, and tries to quell the nerves. Coach and Mr. Kraft wouldn't send him any place they didn't think he could flourish. He holds onto that thought as he clears his throat and says, "Alright, tell me."
"The Chiefs want you. As soon as Scott went over there in January, he's been pressing Bill to get you. They want you to be their franchise guy."
The Chiefs? Of all the teams... Matt turns a startled gaze to Leinart, who's grinning so hard he looks ready to bust, then over to Tom, who's smiling encouragingly at him. "They do?" he asks - it's all he can think to say.
"Hey, Matt, Scott here," Pioli says, and that's one mystery down about who's on the call with them. "I hope you'll consider the deal. We want you in Kansas City with us for a long time."
"They're a good team, Matt," Belichick chimes in, in his usual gruff voice. "They're young, but they've got a lot of talent, and you'll do well with their style of offense. We'd obviously love to keep you here in New England with us..."
"But I'm expendable since Tommy's knee is solid," Matt finishes. "I get it, Coach. And thank you for putting me in a good position and with a team that wants me. I appreciate it."
"We're not sending you alone, either," Belichick says. "Vrabel's going with you."
"He is? Well, at least I'll know someone, right?"
"That's the spirit," David says, and Matt can hear Scott chuckling on the other line.
"Vrabel's just icing on the cake, someone to help groom our defense," Scott says. "It's you we want, Matt, I'm serious about that. The front office is already working on what they want to offer you, but we're talking five, six years here easy."
"Can I, uh, ask," Matt starts, then pauses to lick his lips. Leinart's still grinning like a fool, and Tom's just watching him with a calm, pleased expression. "Can I ask what I'm worth?"
"Matt, Matt," David starts, but Belichick cuts him off.
"We get a second round pick," Belichick says, and it's clear he still wants to be completely open about this.
A second round. Laughter wells up in Matt's throat and he swallows hard. Atlanta got more than that for Schaub, and he doesn't have the experience that Matt does. And he'd gone solo. "Second round," Matt manages to say, seeing Tom shaking his head. "That's not bad."
"It's damn cheap is what it is," Belichick says. "You're worth a first round, easy, or a couple second rounds, but I wanted the best possible fit for you, so we're doing Scott a favor."
"And we appreciate it," Scott chuckles. "You know it won't be forgotten."
"I know."
"Thank you," is all Matt can say (again). "I won't let you down, Scott."
"I know you won't," Scott says. "Now we'll let you and Tommy get back to your day. David'll fill you in on all the details and when you need to report and all of that. We're just happy to have you on board."
"Thank you." He feels like a parrot. "And thank you, too, Coach. It's been, uh..."
"I know, son," Belichick says. "You know you're welcome here anytime. The Patriots will always consider you family."
"I know," Matt says, around the sudden lump in his throat. "I'll, uh, talk to you later, David."
"You got it."
Matt presses the end button and sits back, feeling like he's been put through the wringer, and he hasn't even moved. "I'm getting my own team," he says, and he can hear the note of wonder in his voice. Then the lump comes back. "I wish my dad was here to see this."
"He knows," Tom softly says.
"My own team," Matt repeats, his brain struggling to process the words, the concept.
"They've got a good system in place, and Scott's making some moves that'll benefit you," Tom says, lacing their fingers together. "He was willing to give up a lot more to get you, but Coach wasn't worried about getting rewarded. He just wanted to put you in a good place." He pauses, then grins. "Mr. Kraft wants to keep you, y'know, but he approves of the deal. Said that he knows Scott'll take care of you right."
"Did he?" Matt rubs his eyes and tries to breathe, taking a long moment to regain his control. "That's, um...fuck."
Tom's laugh is soft and low as he wraps Matt in a tight hug. "So fucking proud of you," he whispers in Matt's ear. "They came to us. Coach wasn't shopping you yet."
Matt nods and holds tight to Tom, feeling Leinart's hand come to rest on his back, moving in slow circles. His own team. For all his talk about wanting it, deserving it, he hadn't expected it to come this soon. "Kansas City," he manages, after a moment, and his voice is thick. "It's halfway across the country."
"I know," Tom replies, all seriousness now. "And I was thinking when we get back from our vacation, we can visit, take a look at some apartments for when you have to report, maybe look at some houses for after you've signed the contract. And Kansas City's not really that far."
"At least it's not the Jets," Leinart snorts, and Matt can't help the burst of laughter that escapes.
"Hey, Tommy did promise to still support me even the Jets did come knocking."
"Yeah, but I never promised to," Leinart points out, then pulls Matt in for his own hug. "Proud of you, babe," he says, echoing Tom. "You're gonna knock 'em dead in KC. The AFC West isn't gonna know what hit it."
"Hopefully," Matt replies, then lets out a high laugh. "Holy shit. My own fucking team. I, uh, I gotta call Mom. And Jackie and Jussy and..."
"Go." Tom shoos at him. "Tell the fam, make your calls."
"I'll start breakfast. Tommy can supervise," Leinart grins, then presses a swift kiss to Matt's lips. "Go make your calls so we can celebrate."
Matt lifts an eyebrow. "This celebration better include lots of sex."
"That's what I said, isn't it?"
Matt just rolls his eyes and scoops up his phone before dropping a quick kiss on Tom's lips. "Try to make him behave."
"No promises," Tom says. "Now go."
Matt's fingers are already moving over his phone before he's out of the kitchen. His mom should already be up, and he just hopes she's had her coffee. Or at least has it in front of her. He paces the living room as the phone rings, able to hear snatches of Tom and Leinart's conversation as it drifts from the kitchen.
His own team.