Open Your Eyes [3/3]
Part 2
14.
Ford's a good kid, so John doesn't want to believe it when Lorne pulls him off to the side one day before practice and tells him, quietly, that he thinks Ford may be doing steroids.
It's pretty much the last news John needs to hear right now, when they're so close to the playoffs. Ford's important to the team, important to their chances of making it to that championship game, but more than that, John actually likes the kid, and hearing that he's started with the stupid, illegal shit is not comforting in the least.
It's not like he can just let it go on and not do anything, but he doesn't want to kick the kid off his team, either. He spends the next ten minutes staring at the wall, considering his options, before Ronon comes to find him. They have practice, after all.
---
John spends practice watching Ford, trying to figure it out. It's true, that Ford's gotten better this year, much better, but he's never been first string before, either. John knows that once you hit that point, people expect you to step up or get out, and John knows from experience that pressure can be a surprisingly good motivator.
He watches as Ford runs past Miller and Stackhouse without even breathing hard, shit-eating grin visible even through his face mask. Ford's always had potential, and it's almost like he's fulfilling it, but there's just that bit of doubt, that this isn't entirely because Ford's been eating his Wheaties. Ford's fast and he's strong and he's aggressive in ways he wasn't before, and fuck, John really doesn't want to believe it, but there's a possibility, and he has to know the truth.
At the end of practice, he calls Ford into his office. Ford's smiling as he comes in, but it fades when he sees the expression on John's face.
"What is it, Coach?" he asks.
John resists the urge to rub his face with his hands. "Close the door," he says. When Ford's done with that, he looks a little scared, though he's trying to hide it. "How have you been doing, lately?" John asks, trying to keep his tone as neutral as possible.
Ford shifts back and forth on his feet. "Good, sir. Cousin's getting married."
"That's nice," John says. "When's the wedding?" Ford doesn't seem calmed down at all by the small talk; he just gets more tense.
"January," he says, and John can see that he's not doing any good by drawing this out.
"I heard you've been doing steroids." He lays it out on the table, because this isn't the sort of thing you dick around about.
Ford's expression manages to go from "scared" to "terrified" to "defensive", and that's pretty much all the confirmation John needs. Fuck. "Look, Coach," Ford says, "I need them, okay?"
And no, it's not okay. It's nowhere near okay. It's in another fucking galaxy from okay. "You're going to have to say that again, and this time, it'd be nice if it made sense."
"We're this close to the playoffs. We can do it this year, I know it," Ford says. He starts pacing, short, frustrated steps. "Maybe we could've gotten this far with out it, but if we want to win State, I can't be off my game."
John sighs. "Ford..." He wishes he'd gotten Teyla to do this, instead. She's always been better with the "talking to players" thing.
"This is my decision," Ford says, and he's getting really angry, now. "You don't have to let anyone else know, just forget this conversation ever happened."
John lets his expression become more serious. "I can't just sit back and ignore this. You know that." He leans forward in his chair so that he's looking Ford in the eyes.
That seems to get Ford focused. "You're just going to have to admit that I'm right, Coach," he says, before he turns and leaves, letting the door slam behind him.
---
When John gets home, he's pretty much just trying not to go insane, so he ends up playing LEGO Star Wars on Rodney's PS2 (which has somehow semi-permanently attached itself to John's TV) until his thumbs start cramping up. That's right around the time Rodney shows up, anyway, complaining loudly about the stupidity of students who not only cheat in class, but also cheat in class badly.
It's nice, letting Rodney distract him. Rodney's good at that. But the Ford thing's still gnawing away at him, so he accidentally blurts out, "One of my players is doing steroids and he's refusing to stop," while Rodney's taking a break for air between his rants on food selection in small towns and the need to drive everywhere in small towns. That stops him dead in his tracks.
"Um, okay?" Rodney says. He looks confused, and John just wants him to say something, anything, to make everything okay again.
But he knows Rodney better than that. "Nothing," he says, waving it off. "Never mind." For a moment, he wonders what Melanie would have said, which is not really fair to either of them, since they're not alike, and there's no real reason they would be. She probably would have said all the right things, that this was going to be okay, that he'd figure something out, and it would have been nice to hear that, but it would have also been far less honest in the long run.
Rodney actually looks hurt, which John wasn't expecting. "Look," he says, turning away so he doesn't have to meet John's eyes, his hands oddly muted. "I have it on the opinion of many ex-girlfriends and ex-boyfriends, not to mention my sister, that I'm really bad at this sort of thing, but I have no idea what to say in these sorts of situations, and when I try, I invariably get it wrong, so could we skip the part where you don't speak to me for days and go straight to the part where you dump me because I don't understand you? That way we can save both of us the time and the energy."
John loves the sharpness of Rodney's brain, the way it can connect things snap, snap, snap, but Jesus, they were jumping a little ahead of themselves here. "Are you breaking up with me?" he asks.
There's a defiant lift to Rodney's chin. "No. You're breaking up with me."
It's surprisingly easy for John to reach out, let his hand rest on the back of Rodney's neck, let his thumb rub the soft skin there. "No, I'm not," he says, and he can feel Rodney relax, ever so slightly, under his palm.
---
15.
He talks to Teyla about it next, because she's the obvious choice. She knows Ford better than he does, and she's better at talking to people about stuff in general. He'd be stupid not to tell her. John manages to catch her during the school day, which is kind of rare. She occasionally runs the gym classes, teaching self-defense and reffing for basketball games, but she's in her office during fifth period when he tracks her down.
"Ford's been doing steroids," John says, running a hand through his hair. "And he wants me to let him stay on them."
Teyla frowns. "That is not good news."
"No, it's not," he says. "I can't just let him fuck himself up like this, and I can't do this to the team. We deserve to win fairly. We've come too far to start cheating now."
"But?" Teyla knows him surprisingly well.
"But he's important to our offense, and I don't want to lose him." There's all this frustration that's beginning to build up in his system, because there are too many ways this thing could go, and all of them are bad. But Teyla's good at this thing. She understands people, such as they are, far better than John does. She should know what to do.
There's a moment where she watches him, carefully, and her expression is sympathetic. "If he is truly unwilling to change, I do not think it would be beneficial to keep him on the team."
"But--" John starts, since he knows all these arguments backwards and forwards. He could argue that they should stick Ford with the peewees for a week if he had to.
"It is not my place to make the final decision," Teyla says, cutting him off. "It is yours." She raises an eyebrow, and John knows that he's not going to get more out of her, so he leaves, dignity still mostly intact.
---
Next up is Ronon. He's in the locker room, checking over the equipment, making sure it's still good, and he doesn't look surprised when John shows up, which means that Teyla's probably talked to him about it already.
"I think we should bench him for a few games. Maybe get him to change his mind," he says, when John asks. "Teyla's right, though. It's your call."
"Okay," John says. And that's that.
---
John figures he's got until the end of the week to make his decision, so he starts running ten times around the block instead of the usual five, mulling things over in his head, making the same arguments to himself, over and over and over again, not getting anywhere. He eventually decides that he's not cut out for this responsibility shit. Football, he can handle. This sort of thing? Not so much.
---
Thursday afternoon, John calls Ford into his office again, and this time, he comes in with his eyes dark and his face set. Awaiting judgment. John does his best not to sigh.
Ford starts before John can say anything, though. "You need me like this." There's an utter certainty in his voice that John's not sure he can shake. But he has to try.
"You're hurting yourself, and you're hurting this team," John says, and Ford's expression doesn't change. Fuck.
"We're one game away from the playoffs, Coach. You need me if we want to beat Wraith this year. You know that." There's not even the slightest waver in Ford's voice as he says it.
John gives in to the urge to rub his face. "Not like this. It's not worth it if we win like this."
"This is my choice, Coach," Ford says, again, like John doesn't actually have any say in this at all.
"Yes, it is," John says. He looks Ford in the eye. To his credit, Ford doesn't flinch. "You're off the team if you don't go straight."
The silence practically echoes in the room. Ford's eyes flick off to the side for a moment before the focus on John again. "So that's it, then?" he says. "I guess I'm off the team."
His hand lingers on the doorknob, as he's leaving, like he thinks John's going to change his mind at the last minute. But John's not, so he stays quiet as Ford pulls the door open and stomps out, stays quiet long after Ford leaves.
---
There's fallout. Holy shit, is there fallout.
The details of why exactly Ford is leaving remains between the coaching staff and Ford, because even Ford knows better than to brag about his drug usage to the press, and they make a joint decision not to tell anything to the team. If Ford wants to tell them, he can.
Of course, this means rumor, wild speculation, and hastily flung accusations from just about everyone. Ford was good. Ford was one of the best. And now everyone wants to know why he's leaving so close to the playoffs. Kavanaugh's the worst, of course, coming up with everything from swelled egos to mysterious illnesses, pretty much to the point where John can't listen to the radio anymore. Elizabeth's probably the best, backing off when it's clear that it's team business and that she shouldn't get involved.
The team is the most excruciating, because they know John and Ford had two conversations before Ford quit, and that Ford had not looked pleased when he left either time. He's pretty sure most of them blame him for Ford's decision to leave, and it doesn't help that they're right. When Teyla makes the announcement, the entire room sneaks glances in his direction, most of them suspicious and accusing.
But John's willing to deal with it. He knew this was coming when he made his decisions, and he's willing to face the consequences.
---
16.
There's a gaping hole where Ford used to be, and everyone knows it.
Cadman's been moved to playing Ford's old spot, but she's still clinging to her old habits, still needs to relearn the plays from a new position. Edison is stepping up, nicely, as the new wide receiver, but it's not the same. He's slower, not quite as on top of things. There's still enough resentment on the team that John's beginning to feel seriously at odds with his offense. Anything John wants to say to Cadman has to go through Lorne, Griffin mutters under his breath a lot, and Bates looks pissier than usual.
They beat Manaria by the skin of their teeth, Sherman sacking the Manarian QB into their own endzone for a safety in the last quarter. It means that they're going to playoffs, which helps lift spirits, at the very least. The Wraith still have an undefeated season, and that doesn't seem to be changing anytime soon, so it looks like they're going straight to the championships for the eleventh year running.
He and Rodney are hesitant around each other, too careful, and John hates the way Rodney occasionally bites back his words when John's around. It's just so unnatural it freaks John out. But when they watch Blade Runner together, Rodney doesn't stiffen when John lays his head on Rodney's shoulder, and it's totally worth the crick in John's neck later when Rodney's arm goes around his shoulder, holding him closer, as Roy Batty says, "All those moments will be lost, like tears in the rain."
---
The carnival comes into town one empty Friday between the regular season and playoffs. It looks plain in the light of day when John passes it in the morning, bare gray metal and hulking machines, but John still feels the thrill of anticipation.
John's always loved carnivals. They're bright and they're fun and they usually have ferris wheels, one of John's most favorite inventions ever. He went to his first one when he was five, barely old enough to remember, but his mom had held him on the carousel and his dad had bought him cotton candy, and he'd gone every year afterward, right up until he left for college and right after he started coaching. He's always loved the cotton candy, the stupid games, the even stupider prizes, the smell of popcorn and fried dough. There's just something about it all that never fails to make him feel impossibly young, impossibly happy.
At dusk, he leaves Rodney in the teacher's lounge grading tests, heading out to the field when the sunset is painting the horizon pink, gold light catching in the clouds.
It's not that busy, still just beginning to fill with people, and John spends his time wandering, not doing much of anything. He's mostly just watching, feeling, experiencing, because this makes him feel part of this moment. This time, this place.
The carnival doesn't really come alive until night falls, when the lights gradually come on in sections, one by one. By the end everything glows, incandescent against the blue-black of the sky.
He's about to take his chances knocking down milk bottles when he hears a familiar voice, and when he turns, Rodney's standing next to a blonde-haired, obviously-pregnant woman holding the hand of an equally blonde-haired daughter. They look like they might be arguing about something, similar expressions of exasperation on their faces. Rodney has a half-eaten bag of cotton candy in one hand, and John sneaks up to steal a handful. "Didn't expect you to be here," John says around a mouthful of pure sugar.
"Well, I didn't expect to be here, and also, hey!" Rodney says, getting even more annoyed, but his companion looks amused.
"Hey, you must be Coach Sheppard. I'm Jeannie Miller. Formerly McKay," she sticks out a hand, and the smile on her face is knowing in a way that makes John want to freak out a little. "This is my daughter Madison."
John shakes her hand and smiles pleasantly. "Nice to meet you both."
Jeannie's smile gets a little more dangerous. "Could you watch my brother for me? He's beginning to get really annoying," she says, sugary sweet. "Thanks."
"Oh, come on," Rodney says, shoving the last of cotton candy into his mouth. "You're the one who dragged me out here." But by then she's already gone, lost in the throng of people, moving faster than anyone who's that pregnant should be.
John just grins at Rodney, because he's just so happy to be here, right now, together. "C'mon. We should go on the ferris wheel."
"Oh, no, no, no," Rodney says, his eyes going wide. "There is no way I'm going on that death trap. My brain is way to important to risk on foolish joyrides, and my acrophobia will act up, and--"
John lets himself grab Rodney by the wrist even though they're in public. Someone could see them and take it for what it really means, but it's worth it for the way Rodney bites his lip, the way he actually starts looking a little conflicted. "C'mon," John says again. "It'll be fun."
"Fine, fine," Rodney grumbles, giving in, and John half-leads, half-drags him toward the center of the carnival.
It's a good wheel, lights outlining the spokes as well as the rim, and John thinks it's got to be visible from miles away. Rodney looks a little unsettled as they get strapped in and their gondala starts moving upwards, and one of his hands gets a death grip on John's thigh, just above the knee. "I hate you, Sheppard," Rodney mutters, but then, they're at the top, stopping so the next passengers can get on.
John's never been on a plane, never gone flying, never could justify the expense, but he thinks it could be like this, the sky infinite around you, only barely tethered to the earth. It's windy up here, quiet. They're high enough up that the light of the carnival doesn't dim the light of the stars, and they go on forever and ever, as far as the eye can see.
Rodney's fingers have loosened, and when John looks at him, his head is tilted upward, his expression wistful. "I wanted to be an astronaut when I was younger. Well, after the whole piano teacher debacle anyway." He smiles, warm and earnest. "I wanted to go to the stars."
And Jesus, there's something about the way he says it, not hiding anything, and John kisses him as their gondola lurches forward, bringing them closer to the ground. It's public and obvious and it might as well be a fucking press release, but he doesn't care, because he can see that Rodney, in his backyard with a telescope and a brain full of ideas, looking up at the sky and dreaming, dreaming of going up there.
There's a sudden stop, and the world comes rushing back all around them. John pulls back, a little breathless, a little giddy. They're in full view of the line for the ferris wheel, and John can see a couple of his players staring at them, looking both amused and surprised.
It's Cadman that they hear as they step out of the gondola. "Way to go, Dr. McKay!" she yells, teasing. "Finally managed to bag the Coach, huh?"
Rodney sputters, but John feels freer than he's ever felt before in his entire life, and when he puts his hand on Rodney's shoulder, leans into Rodney's body, gives Cadman a knowing smirk, it feels like nothing and everything at the same time. "You trying to imply something, Cadman?" he drawls, clearly joking, and he's missed this, being able to talk to his team.
"Of course not, sir," she says, and John doesn't believe her, but that's okay.
---
17.
Weirdly enough, no one seems bothered by the whole coming out of the closet thing. John does get a few, "Seriously, Dr. McKay?" non-conversations that he's glad he doesn't have to go through ever again. Kavanaugh doesn't even mention it at all, which John thinks is nothing short of miraculous.
Something smooths out between John and the team, too, and that's good, that's fucking essential, because they have their first playoff game this Friday, and they really have to get their shit together. Cadman's not forgetting where she has to be during the plays, Edison's less hesitant, and people seem less confused when they don't see Ford's number on the field. They're better, but John can only hope that they're good enough.
The Gordonville Vipers are a mean team, in the same sort of mold as Genii, ruthless and fierce. They like their trick plays, fakeouts, reversals, and when that doesn't work, they go for sheer brute force.
But John thinks they can win this. They just have to want it badly enough, and he's pretty sure they do.
---
Their first game in the playoffs goes like this:
They win the coin toss, and it's Bates who catches the kick. They make it down to the fifty before Bates gets tackled for their first down, and they make another twenty yards before Griffin bites it on a fourth down. It's like a repeat of their game against Manaria, just with their offense somewhat less pathetic this time. John makes sure Teyla chews them out, but there's only so much she can do.
Their defensive line plays a good game, though Sherman does miss a tackle because of some pretty beautiful footwork by the Gordonville quarterback. Their offense still doesn't quite manage to match them. Edison's not running his patterns fast enough, which means that Lorne's occasionally throwing into empty field, and Cadman doesn't have the raw strength to push through the defensive line in the same way that Ford could. Lorne's trying to pick up the slack, even running the ball in for a touchdown after an option, but he's only one player, and there's only so much he can do. They need more people supporting him and they're not. John tries not to yell at them too badly, but they're all just the slightest bit off, and they can't do that kind of shit in the playoffs.
In the second quarter, Stackhouse lets the Vipers' fullback through because he's going after their tailback, and they go into the second half tied seven to seven. John gets Lorne to say some stuff about pulling together as a team during halftime, and it may or may not work. John's not entirely sure.
There's a critical moment at the end of the third quarter, where they're on their third down, and somehow the snap ends up going over Lorne's head, but he manages to get hold of it before pitching it to Cadman, who's coming up behind him, and even though she only makes it three yards, it's enough for a first down. It's not much, but John thinks that maybe it's a sign. They're beginning to pull together as a team again, beginning to figure out how to go on without Ford.
The play after that, Lorne manages to hit Edison as he's going down the left side, scoring another touchdown. There's some more life in the team after that. Gordonville seems to get desperate, ratcheting up the number of penalties called against them. Cadman almost looks like she's going to get into a fight at one point after a beefy Gordonville linebacker grabs her facemask, but Bates pulls her back, and they go their separate ways.
Griffin scores again on a clean lateral from Lorne, and they're feeling comfortable after Hermiod nails a field goal, right up until the Vipers try to make a last minute comeback in the fourth quarter, but their touchdown in the final seconds of the game is invalidated due to an offsides call, and John breathes a sigh of relief. Given enough time, given enough practice, maybe they'll be able to pull this off.
---
18.
It's weird, because even though John had always rationally known that it was possible that they could make it to the championships, he'd never really believed that they'd make it this far.
They're playing at the top of their game, so much so that John's a little worried that they're going to burn out at some point, but they practically waltz through their next two games against Hallonia (the one that John remembers as "the game where Rodney pissed John off by ogling their blond principal after the game") and Geldar (the one that John remembers as "the game that Rodney dragged Radek to, despite protestations that he had to visit his girlfriend who worked for the math department at Atlantis U"). It's almost a little anti-climactic, but all of a sudden they're going to the finals.
He finds it a bit hard to believe that this is actually happening, that they're the same team as the one that lost out to Dagan at the beginning of the season, that John's actually had a hand in getting them here. Sometimes, he sits his office and stares at the tree of playoff games, blinking until he can be sure that "Pegasus" isn't going to disappear from that one slot in the middle, right across from "Wraith".
---
He and Rodney are doing surprisingly well. John's still not quite used to the fact that he can kiss Rodney goodbye after their morning coffee in the teacher's lounge (though Rodney has installed a coffee maker in John's house for the weekends), that he can imagine licking Rodney's neck while they're out at dinner and not need to hide that at all, that it feels okay to want Rodney, even though he's a guy, even though he's Rodney. Despite his job, John gets itchy with too many people in his personal space, but Rodney's managed to become one of the few exceptions. John thinks he's pretty okay with that.
When Rodney says that Jeannie wants to invite John over for dinner, John doesn't panic, but it does bring back some pretty horrific memories of that one time he spent Christmas with Melanie's parents. Jeannie was probably less fussy about her plants than John's in-laws were, but you never knew when it came to this sort of thing.
He makes sure to wear his best suit and brush his hair into something that could almost be considered acceptable, and when he shows up, Jeannie's husband is the one who gets the door.
"Caleb," he says, shaking John's hand. "They're in the kitchen right now, but I would probably wait in the dining room until they stop trying to kill each other."
Pretty much everything John knows about Rodney and Jeannie's relationship has come from Rodney himself, but even that is enough to convince him to avoid the kitchen at all costs. It's hard to ignore the yelling, though.
"You really haven't thought this through, have you, Mer?" That's undeniably Jeannie, too female to be anyone else.
Then there's Rodney in full-on argument mode. "It's not like I planned for it to happen. It just sort of did. And it's not like I'm not a genius. I can figure something--" John blinks as Rodney steps into the dining room, a bowl full of pasta in hand. "--oh, hey, John." He looks really uncomfortable for a second, but then he's distracted as Jeannie comes in carrying a plate of vegetables.
John doesn't get a chance to ask, and maybe he shouldn't pry, but there's a low-grade uneasiness to Rodney all night. John does his best to let it go.
He discovers that Jeannie's really awesome, full of interesting anecdotes about growing up as the genius sister to an even more genius brother. He'd never heard about the non-working model of a nuclear weapon that Rodney made for a science project before. Or that thing with April Bingham and the mono. And when Rodney gets too uncomfortable, they talk about Jeannie, the boy in her stomach (Caleb hadn't wanted to know the gender, but Jeannie did), the classes she's been taking toward finally getting her Ph.D. at Atlantis University, the way she dropped out of her Masters program to have Madison.
Madison herself is ridiculously cute in the way kids can be when they're not making you want to kill yourself. John hasn't thought about having kids since Melanie, but looking at Rodney's niece, he's beginning to wonder. He gives her half his desert (mostly because it's some kind of gross non-dairy, vegan ice cream) and grins at the bright smile on her face.
He decides he likes Rodney's family. They're pretty cool.
---
Rodney walks John out to the driveway, and it's really dark, even with the porch light turned on.
"Look, John," Rodney starts, and his face is backlit by the house. John can't quite read his expression. "Jeannie's going to be going to be taking her job back after winter break, and I have a class I'm supposed to be teaching in the spring, and research I need to be getting back to, and..." His hands flutter nervously, twitchier than usual.
John feels a queasiness in his stomach that reminds him too much of the moment right before Sarah Cameron, the love of his seventeen-year-old life, said that she wanted to start seeing other people. "And you're leaving," he says. Rodney's never talked much about his life in Canada after they started dating, and John's never stopped to wonder why that was. He probably should have been. He definitely should have been.
Rodney's head turns to the side, giving John a clear profile of his face. "Yeah, well, it's more like, I wasn't really ever planning on staying, but then, things turned out differently than I thought they would, and I just want you to not hate me for this."
His voice gets strained at the end, in a way that John's chest hurt, so John just says, "I don't hate you." It's one of those things that John should have known, should have thought about. Rodney had pretty much told him the deal the first day they met, but sometimes, it's too easy to forget the things you don't want to hear.
"You could come with me," Rodney says. "Canada's, well, Canada, but it doesn't actually get that cold, and the people are actually nicer, for the most part, and while my house isn't that big, it's definitely bigger than yours and I just don't--" He cuts himself off, and John wishes he could see more than the outline of Rodney's face.
The offer's tempting, so tempting, but it's not something John can just do. He's got something here, in this town. He can feel it. "No," he says, and he swears he can almost see Rodney's face fall, and fuck, he needs to get out of here right now. "I'll see you later, Rodney," he says right before he drives off, trying for indifferent but missing by a mile.
---
After that, Rodney doesn't show up at their usual places, and John hadn't quite realized how everywhere Rodney was, most of the time. When John steps into a quiet faculty lounge, sits on empty bleachers, plays Soul Caliber 2 against the computer and not another person, he notices.
Everything feels distant, like it's all been shifted two feet to the left of where John expects things to be, and he's sure it shows. But the team still runs the plays he calls, he still gets up every morning and goes running, and they still get ever increasingly closer to that one final game. He needs to focus, needs to get this thing done.
It's easier to throw himself into the football, fill his mind with plays and strategies and team stats. He watches game tapes until his eyes are so tired they can't focus on the screen, watching and rewatching them because you really do see something new each time. Occasionally, he sleeps in his office, which makes his back ache in weird ways all day, but it's still easier than going home at times. He works on writing new plays, something he's been half-assing all season, but now that he has the time, he might as well.
He's expecting the intervention days before it actually happens, Ronon and Teyla cornering him in his office and asking him very earnestly if everything's going okay.
"I could beat him up," Ronon offers, like they're actually in high school instead of just coaching at one. "Wouldn't be too hard."
Teyla smacks him on the arm, and John finds himself grinning almost against his will. "I'm fine," he says, because even though he's not, he thinks he will be.
"Are you sure?" Teyla asks, and even though she looks like she doesn't quite believe him, he thinks she'll let it go if he asks.
It would be easier if Rodney was just a jerk, if John didn't know that he genuinely cared. It would make him easier to write off, easier to push away. "Yeah, I'm sure," he says.
---
The problem with the upcoming game is that the Wraith Devils are the sort of team that's just so good, it's hard to think of any way they can win. They're big, they're strong, and they're fast. The Atlanteans can't match them in any one of those things, so they have to be smarter, John has to be smarter.
Wraith are coming into this undefeated as usual, ready to add this year to their ever-growing list. They've been pretty close to unstoppable so far, moving through defensive lines like they're water, shutting down offenses without even breaking into sweat. Their starting quarterback, Michaels, is sharp on his feet, fast and strong, and their coach, Coach Queen, is eerily good at calling the right plays. It's going to be tough to take them down.
But they're not actually unstoppable, John knows. Pegasus will just have to prove it.
---
19.
The night before the game, it rains in buckets, loud enough that John can hear it against the roof of his house. He could pull on a rain coat and head out to the field, but he knows for a fact that Rodney won't be there, waiting for him, and it wouldn't be the same, without him.
He tries the living room, but the rain rattles against his window, there's a crack of thunder overhead, and he can't find that place inside himself where it's quiet, where everything makes sense.
---
He's at the pep rally before the game when he runs into Ford, or to be more exact, Ford comes and finds him. John's mostly hiding at the edges, the best place to avoid people, since he's not up for much talking or chatting or even smiling and nodding. But Ford searches him out, approaching him despite the fact that John just really wants to get out of here as fast as he can.
"Coach," Ford says. They haven't seen each other since that showdown in John's office, but Ford's not looking anything like he did then. There's no anger this time, just something else that John can't really describe. "I just wanted to say, good luck out there."
It's not said with any bitterness, just complete honesty, and there's the Ford John remembers, the one that could have been with them right now, as they're going to the most important game of their lives. "Thank you," John says.
Ford cracks a hesitant grin at that. "I've been thinking a lot about what you said, Coach. And I was wondering, if I'm clean in time for next season, would you be willing to let me come back?" He looks really nervous, like he knows it's a long shot, but he's willing to give it a chance, anyway.
John considers for a moment before responding. Yeah, it was a dumbshit thing to do, but John's pretty sure that Ford's not stupid enough to try it again, and he's always liked the idea of second chances. "We could always use another good tailback on the team."
Ford's grin turns blinding. "Thanks, Coach," he says, before he runs off.
John watches him go and thinks that this week hasn't been a total wash after all.
---
The State Championship game goes like this:
When John steps out onto the field, it hits him all at once. The roar of the crowd, the cheerleaders on the sidelines, the rush of his team all around him, the smell of freshly cut grass, the barest hint of breeze. They're at State; they're playing at State, and John feels something tight in his chest.
Rodney's here, probably, next to his sister and his niece, muttering about the lights, the seats, the food, and it's strangely comforting in a way John didn't think it would be. If nothing else, John can give him one hell of a game before he leaves.
Lorne's smiling as he comes back from the coin toss, so they must have won it, but then everything goes downhill from there. Wraith's defensive line batters their offense pretty good, and John's fuming as they lose the ball at their own thirty when their line breaks and Lorne gets blitzed.
He yells himself hoarse when their defensive line collapses in on itself, letting the Wraith tailback into their endzone without even trying to slow him down.
John makes sure to grab Stackhouse by the mask after the offense takes the field. "What the hell was that?" he asks, not bothering to hide the anger. "You're at State. Act like it."
Stackhouse twitches a little and nods. "Yes, sir."
Ronon gives a John a level look before nodding at the bench. "I'll talk to them." John has to admit, even though Ronon doesn't say much, what he does say is pretty damn effective.
The defense gets their shit together after that, managing to hold the Wraith offense off, even though John can see they're wearing down, inch by inch. Sanchez lets their quarterback through once on a sudden reversal, which nets him another talk with Ronon, and John's just barely manages to keep himself from going over there himself. Their offense goes nowhere, getting beaten back down after down, and even Hermiod can't make the kick from behind the seventy. John just grits his teeth and digs his fingernails into his palms. It could be worse; they could be losing ground, but John's going a little crazy with frustration. He can't let it get to him, though. He can't lose focus now.
In the second quarter, the Devils make a break for the endzone on their third down, and John's already planning out the lecture he's going to give during halftime, which starts with, "You have to stop sucking," and ends with, "No seriously, stop shitting around and play some goddamn football." But then Sanchez is there, out of nowhere, making the tackle, stopping them barely a yard away from the line, and it's such a close call, the refs have to bring out the tape measure. When they find him a few inches short for a first down, John only just manages to keep himself from hugging Ronon, who's grinning, a little crazily, but John knows that, knows exactly how he feels.
They still haven't scored by the time they reach the end of the first half, the score 14-0, and it doesn't look like they're going to in the future. They've been throwing everything they've got at these guys, and they're still going nowhere.
During half-time, John tries his hand at the inspiring speech thing again. When he stands up in the front of the room, it's silent, and he has dozens of expectant faces in front of him, waiting for him to speak. "We can win this," he says. "I believe we can win this. There is no way we have gotten this far only to roll over and die just because Wraith expect us to or because the media expects us to or even because most of the people out there expect us to. It doesn't have to end like this." It almost hurts, saying it, because he feels every word. "Now let's go out there and win." He sees the resolve on their faces, stronger now than before, and John feels a strange surge of pride. This is his team. "Faster, farther, higher," he yells.
And his team echoes it back, louder, fiercer, better, and John knows he'll never forget what it was like to be right here, right now. There's a new life to the team in the second half, but the Wraith haven't gotten any less tough, so they're still having a rough time. John's almost worried that the team's going to lose heart, that they're just going to give up and give out, but then, with two minutes left in the quarter, Miller makes a beautiful interception, stepping neatly in front of a Wraith wide reciever. He goes down seconds later, but it's an opening, one they didn't have before.
John calls a time out and gets the offense together along with Teyla, who has spent the game looking mildly annoyed, which for her is about the equivalent of anyone else running around and breaking things.
"What are our options?" John asks them, because he's running out of ideas at this point.
Cadman shrugs. Lorne frowns. Griffin stares at his shoes. Edison stares at the stands. Teyla, at least, has the decency to pretend she's competent. "There is a play we can try. It is very risky, but I believe that it is worth the attempt."
John's pretty sure he's willing to give anything a chance at least once, and heck, everything else has been falling apart. "Let's do it," he says.
They stack their receivers on the right side, leaving Lorne without much cover from the Wraith defensive backs, but they only need a few seconds to pull this off. At the snap, the receivers sprint downfield to the endzone, running their patterns, and John's resisting the urge to jump up and down, he's so nervous, but it works as expected. The defense races to cover the receivers, meaning that they don't notice Cadman on the left side of the field, running a short hook pattern, so when Lorne fires the pass at her, she's wide open. And when she charges into toward the endzone, the Wraith are scrambling to catch up. She goes down near the line, and it's a terrifying sight, five huge linebackers piling on top of her, but when they get up, she's definitely in, ball still huddled to her chest.
The cheer that goes up is almost explosive when the ref raises his arms, and John just wants to hug Teyla, because seriously, they've finally scored. For a brief moment, he imagines Rodney out there, cheering, bright smile on his face, but then he tamps it down. He doesn't need the distraction right now.
But then Cadman's getting up too slowly, left hand hung awkwardly at her side, and a medic, Dr. Keller, is rushing out to the field. John follows close on her heels, because fuck, this is one of his players, and he needs to be there.
"Hey, Coach," Cadman says as Dr. Keller leads her off the field and looks over her hand. Her face has gone a little white, and there's a jerkiness to her movements that John's not used to seeing, but other than that, she looks fine.
"Looks like she's got fractures in her middle and ring fingers," Dr. Keller says, pressing against them lightly. "Not entirely sure, but I think they're pretty clean breaks. You're lucky."
Cadman looks more irritated than in pain, and John has no idea how she pulls that off. "Can I play?"
Dr. Keller frowns, clearly not fond of the idea. "I think it would be better if you didn't, but if you have to--"
"Just do it," Cadman hisses, and she taps her foot impatiently until Dr. Keller's done taping her fingers.
"Go easy on that hand," Dr. Keller says. "I mean it."
Cadman just grins brightly, though it's strained around the edges. "Where do you want me, Coach?"
John's tempted to bench her, but he knows what it would mean if he forced her to sit this one out. "I'll let you know," John says, slapping a shoulder.
The defensive line manages to stop the Wraith counterattack, and with five seconds left in the quarter, Hermiod manages a field goal from the thirty, which means they've got a chance. A slim one, but it's still a chance.
The fourth quarter goes the same as the second, though, scoreless with no chance of gaining ground. Cadman's still playing well, but she's not quite as together as she usually is, and John's watching the numbers count ever so slowly down to the end of the game. The season's been good while it's lasted, and at least, no one can say that didn't put up a fight. They can come back next year, better, smarter, stronger. Heck, no one even expected them to get this far in the first place. It's been a pretty impressive run.
But then, with twenty seconds on the clock, the Wraith quarterback fumbles the ball after taking the snap, and their offensive line breaks just enough to let Sherman through to pounce on it before the QB manages to get a hold of it again, and John's blinking a few times, because he must have dreamed that; there's no way that actually happened.
He calls a time out, and pulls Lorne off to the side.
"We've got one shot at this," John says, trusting Lorne to know what he's talking about.
Lorne nods, mouth set. "Yeah."
"Can you throw that far?" John asks.
Lorn shrugs, looking comfortable and not as stressed as John would be if his coach had just hinged a last play on him. "Pretty sure, yeah."
"Good man," John says, patting his shoulder. And that's that.
John tries to project effortless cool as they line up, as Lorne screams the final play, as Bates makes the snap, but he's pretty sure he's failing at it as Cadman and Edison sprint for the endzone. His breath catches in his throat as Lorne pulls back and throws the ball in a perfect arc, sailing through the air until it lands somewhere in the mass of people running down the field.
But then Edison's holding the ball aloft with one hand, spiking it into the ground as the ref makes the call.
Holy shit. They won.
They won State.
If John thought the crowd sounded like an explosion before, they sound like a nuclear meltdown now, and John's almost dizzy with the feel of it. He can't quite believe it, can't quite wrap his mind around it, and, Jesus, it leaves him drained and wired at the same time, like all the energy's trapped beneath his skin. They've won. They've won against the team no one could beat, and they're here, right now, celebrating because they've won State. They're going home as State Champions.
The team's whooping and hollering on the field, knocking each other over in their enthusiasm. The cheerleaders are doing their victory routine, bodies spinning through the air. The crowd is even more alive than they were before, still cheering, moving in shifting patterns of color. Teyla is smiling brightly and giving Ronon a brief hug, looking happier than John's ever seen her.
John just stands where his is, taking in everything around him, not joining in the festivities, but part of them all the same.
---
20.
He finds Rodney's car in the driveway when he gets home from the supermarket on Sunday, and Rodney himself is sitting on his front stoop, a hand propping up his chin. He looks miserable in the way John feels whenever he thinks about Canada or elite universities with world-class physics programs, and the mean part of John is glad.
"Um, hey," Rodney says, looking nervous and tense. "Look, I know you probably don't want to have anything to do with me, and I've been informed many times by my sister about just how shitty my timing is, and maybe this is just too little, too late, but I just wanted to let you know that I'm not actually going back to Canada next semester. Oh, and that was a good game on Friday, with, you know, the winning and all."
John tries to fight down the hope that's lodged itself in his throat. "What?"
Rodney starts talking faster than normal, which is actually something of an accomplishment, and John lets himself watch the movements of his hands, the line of his jaw, because he's not sure when he'll get a chance to again. "Well, Atlantis University is trying to improve their physics program -- which, I must say, is probably one of the worst I have ever seen -- so they're building a shiny new lab and offering me a job."
"And you're taking it?" It's far too early to think about Rodney moving in, because there's no reason to believe that Rodney's staying for John. Maybe he just wants to get to know his niece and nephew better. Maybe he wants to make up for all those years not talking to Jeannie.
"Well, yeah," Rodney says in his 'duh' voice. "Haven't you been paying attention?" He starts sounding a little more hesitant. "I also figured that it makes more sense for me to stay in Pegasus, since the commute isn't too bad, and I already know where everything is, but my sister's place is entirely too crowded, and I was wondering if maybe you'd--"
"Yes," John says, cutting him off, because of course, yes.
A smile breaks out across Rodney's face, and John's missed that, missed him. "Really?"
"Yeah," John repeats, and then they're pulling into a hug, Rodney's arms wrapped tightly around his ribs, and he can't believe his fucking luck, because he's getting everything he's ever wanted, everything he didn't know he'd ever want.
---
Their practice on Monday is low key, relaxed, since the pressure's off. They've won big. The season's over. It's pretty much all about having fun now. They play a few scrimmages, and if Lorne's passes are a little sloppy, if Miller's letting people through like he's a door, if Griffin's slower than usual, John's willing to let it go. They deserve it. The weather's cold and clear, and everything's bright, bright, bright. Winter's coming soon, but right now it's still fall, and John intends to enjoy it.
Afterwards, John starts cleaning up his office. It's kind of fallen into a giant mess over the season, mostly because he's got other things on his mind when he's in this particular room, and he's never gotten around to straightening it out. He has the time, now.
His assistant coaches stick their heads in before they head home, and John's going to miss this, the way they pull together to go after that next win. But he's going to see them around, make sure to have dinner together every now and again. Plus, there's next season to think about.
"Good season, Coach," Teyla says.
"You didn't suck," Ronon says.
John's still smiling long after they leave.
---
He ends up back in Elizabeth's office the next day, still a little flush with victory. It's amazing to think of how far they've come, how much they've accomplished, since that first meeting he had in this room.
"Coach," she says, smiling. "Congratulations. You've had an amazing season."
"Thank you, ma'am," he says.
"As you know, your contract with the school district was only for one year, but I do believe that we are going to extend it for another five if you're willing to sign on for that long." There's a hint of doubt in her voice, like she doesn't believe that he wants to stay, and maybe in the beginning, he might not have, but he's discovering that he loves this place, that he loves this team, and John knows that he belongs here.
"I'd love to," he tells her.
---
Epilogue
One night, John rolls over and pokes Rodney in the ribs.
"We won State," he whispers, unable to keep the giddiness out of his voice.
"Jesus Christ," Rodney mumbles into the pillow, eyes still closed, "that game was two weeks ago. If you ever say that again, I will kill you, and they will never find the body."
John isn't too bothered, because seriously, they won State. Rodney's grouchiness is no match for that high. So he just curls into Rodney's body, mouths "We won State," against his shoulder, and grins until he falls asleep.
FIN.