Adorn- Chapter 6
Summary: Basketball. Hoop. Trinket. Which one is out of place?
Haymitch had been shooting hoops in the Training Center’s gymnasium for a little under an hour. His accuracy was off today, but any random passerby wouldn’t have been able to tell.
The gym was deserted. Everyone was probably out on the town or anxiously waiting by their television sets to see any updates on the tributes. This marked their first day of training. The idea brought moths to Haymitch’s stomach, but it wasn’t enough to weaken his game by its lonesome. Effie’s tape had been the thing to tip the scale.
He was so conflicted. There couldn’t be anything wrong with disagreeing with the exploitation of children’s brutal murders; yet, something told Haymitch that it would land him in a world of trouble if he acknowledged his opposition, even in the “privacy” of his own quarters. And why was he so against it? Contrary to popular belief, Capitols had hearts. If the Games were inhumane, many would have stepped up to end them before his time. Right?
Breathing heavily, Haymitch placed his hands on his hips, watching dejectedly as his basketball was deflected by the rim of the hoop. He’d felt that one coming on, just as he’d felt the dozens of misses before it. Normally, he would stop, take a breather, and get back to it later. But this was his distraction.
“This is the perfect time to ask you for a 1-on-1.”
Haymitch rolled his eyes and turned to face Chaff, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Makes you a wuss if you can’t beat me when I’m at my best.”
“It doesn’t matter when I beat you. It matters that I do beat you. Who cares about the technicalities?” Chaff hummed, inching closer to his friend. “Where are the kiddies?”
“Training.” He studied the other, wondering whether it’d be a wise idea to tell his second-best confidant, next to the Avoxes, about Trinket’s Games and his feelings toward the whole ordeal now that he’d watched them. Ultimately, Haymitch refrained. It was too early in the morning to toss complicated questions at anyone.
Chaff made a beeline for the hoop and snatched Haymitch’s bouncing basketball out of the air. “Are you still full of optimism for those training scores?” He dribbled as he spoke, between his legs, in front of them—just showing off.
“Hey, it’s out of my hands, man. The girl can use a knife; the boy can hit.”
Chaff snorted. “Lovely.”
“Yeah, whatever, bro.” Haymitch set his hands on his kneecaps, bending down and peering up at Chaff. “You gonna check the ball or what?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” replied Chaff, with an electrifying grin.
It was a dirty game—dirtier than usual. Chaff caught a whiff of Haymitch’s passive aggressiveness with every bit of trash talk, and, eventually, it rubbed off on him.
“You’re a little quiet over there,” Chaff mocked, as he removed his shirt and carelessly tossed it aside. “Is this shot for the Avoxes, then?” Haymitch was losing by a whopping ten points. It was only notable because the men had seldom been separated by more than seven points on a bad day in the past. Be that as it may, Haymitch wasn’t intent on losing heart anytime soon.
Alcohol. Playing basketball, especially when he was pissed off, was the equivalent of drowning in whiskey.
He charged forward, dribbling the ball as he went, and knocked Chaff down on his way to the net. Chaff fell on his rear, and he grit his teeth as he tilted his head back, watching Haymitch soar over his head and dunk the basketball. Haymitch hung there for a moment, and then he released his grip on the rim, landing on his feet in a crouched position. He spun around, slowly. By the time he was facing Chaff, the other had assumed his standing position again.
Instead of, “I’m sorry”, which, admittedly, was an unlikely phrase to come from Haymitch Abernathy, of all people, in itself, the blonde spat, “So, how was she?”
Chaff needed a minute or two to mull over the question before he understood its full meaning. He scowled, leaning down to pick up the ball, which had rolled in his direction after Haymitch had abused it. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, let me get this straight. You nearly dislocated my ass bones for a district girl?”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me. I’m her escort,” scoffed Haymitch.
“In which ways?”
“Will you shut up?”
“Will you get it together?” Chaff tossed the ball in Haymitch’s direction. It collided with his chest and made his breath catch in his throat, but Chaff did not relent. “This is year one. You can’t start feeling things for your meal tickets, man. I never meant for you to get your heart involved in this thing when I insinuated that you should get with her.”
“I haven’t gotten with her.”
“And neither have I. Alright?”
Meekly, Haymitch nodded, caressing his burning chest. “You win,” he mumbled, after a while.
“You’re damn right I win.”
The clicking of heels interrupted the solemnity of the moment. Effie Trinkett had entered the gymnasium, clad in a dress that was practically made of ruffles. The Capitol women would love her. Haymitch wrinkled his nose in disgust.
“Were you ever planning on helping me devise an approach to get us sponsors?” She hissed. Chaff pursed his lips, directing his attention to Haymitch, as well.
“I think you know the answer to that question.” He paused, meeting Chaff’s gaze. “No.” Haymitch dragged the “o” out theatrically, eliciting a chuckle from his friend.
Her mouth was agape. “How do you expect them to win if you don’t intend on working to ensure that it happens?”
“Easy. I don’t expect them to win.” Chaff cackled at that, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Haymitch shrugged. “Face it, Trinket. Twelve doesn’t have a chance. And it’s all thanks to me: daddy’s angel. Remember that?”
“Go to hell.” Although it wasn’t ladylike, it made her feel fierce. Effie stormed out of the gymnasium, determination and persistence at the forefront of her mind.
The men continued their game. Chaff won.
Crying wasn’t Effie’s forté, especially when it came to crying at another’s shortcomings. So, when she returned to the penthouse directly after her altercation with Haymitch, she didn’t cry. There was no reason to. He’d been a lost cause from the very beginning. Now that she thought about it, it was probably for the best that he didn’t properly insert himself into his role. From the start, Haymitch had operated as a jinx. Perhaps she could bring her tributes to victory all by herself. Increasing Haymitch’s involvement would only decrease Katniss and Peeta’s time in the arena.
Seneca had taught her to think that way—strategically, logically. She missed him every waking minute, though memories of him and her yearning for his presence was stationed towards the back of her mind these days. After all, it was crunch time. Could she do this alone? Could she do this without him?
She had to. If she wanted to make him proud beyond the grave, she had no choice. Because, had it been the other way around, Seneca wouldn’t have quit fighting for her district and its tributes until they won or he was forced out of his position, by murder or promotion, whichever came first.
Effie lifted one of the frames she carried with her almost everywhere from her bedside table. In the photo, a beaming, clean-shaven Seneca Crane had his arm draped around her shoulders. She was wearing a denim jumpsuit that he’d bought her for good fun (because she loathed denim) as a belated birthday present. There was a hint of affectionate annoyance in Effie’s gaze, as she glare-stared up at Seneca, her cheeks taut. Portia had opted to take the picture while Seneca held Effie down, but, to everyone’s surprise, she didn’t put up much of a fight. The sloppily written text in the bottom corner of the photograph read: Crane and Trinket, 3rd year. Go 12! It was his handwriting. She pored over the words for longer than was healthy.
Then, she sobbed.
Dinner was an uneasy affair for Haymitch that night. Trinket wasn’t paying him any attention, not even the negative kind, and it irked him to wonder what exactly she had under her sleeve. What if whatever it was put him in bad standing with his father? He was much too prideful to simply apologize and ask her about the sponsor thing. Haymitch resolved to let fate control their situation, for now, not that it calmed him one bit. He tried not to look at or listen to Effie, instead focusing more heavily on the children than ever. Katniss and Peeta enthusiastically informed their mentor and escort of their training accomplishments, from Peeta’s painting to Katniss’ skills with tying vines and such together. It went in one ear and out of the other.
Perhaps to solidify his lack of perceived interest in his tributes’ welfare, Haymitch scheduled a 1-on-1 basketball session with Chaff the following morning. Again, Effie interrupted them, except this time she was sporting a more casual look, both in her attire and her expression. The hem of her pantsuit scraped the court as she bent over to pick up Haymitch’s basketball, which had gone astray.
“You came back to get an earful, did you? I didn’t peg you for that kind,” Chaff teased, his face drenched in liquid; Haymitch’s own wasn’t much better.
“No,” Effie responded, simply. “I came to play.”
The men exchanged an incredulous look, and then Haymitch straightened up. “I don’t have time for this, Trinket.”
“You don’t have time for a lot of things, Abernathy. Just play me. You already see me as a terrible opponent. Take the win.”
Haymitch sized her up, crossing his arms as he did. “And what do I get out of it?”
“I won’t bother you with Games stuff for the rest of our time here.”
“Interesting. And if you win?”
“You’re obligated to help me out with Peeta and Katniss. Deal?”
Haymitch pulled Chaff aside and they whispered to each other for a couple of minutes. When they separated, Haymitch shot her a grin. “Deal, sweetheart.”
She was much better than he’d imagined. Of course, he’d significantly underestimated her, but that was beside the point. Effie Trinket was the scam artist that sat on a bench at the park, near the basketball court, and had some confident idiot choose her as the “weak link” that would partner up with his opponent for a 2-on-2 game. Only, she was the polar opposite and she’d most likely wind up beating them to a pulp.
Haymitch was a formidable player. Initially, he’d been going easy on her; however, Effie quickly proved that she didn’t need any favors from the likes of him. They trailed each other in points so closely, switching the lead every few shots, that it was almost the equivalent of a Chaff-Haymitch game. Chaff served as the referee. As the game grew more intense, people crowded into the gym to watch the game progress. Haymitch could’ve sworn he saw a watchdog or two weave their way through the multitude of people. Cameras flashed at all angles, catching shots for stories that were, for the time, without headlines.
In the end, Haymitch won by two points. He threw up his arms and allowed Chaff to lift him onto his shoulders, as he roared gutturally in response to the crowd’s thunderous applause and cheers.
Effie didn’t so much as scowl when Haymitch attempted to rub his win in her face while the throng of spectators dispersed. “That’s not the reaction I’d expect when I clearly let you win,” she said, in a singsong voice. “See you at dinner.” She practically skipped out of the place, expertly dodging reporters on her way.
Bemused, Haymitch twisted around to face Chaff. “Did she—?”
“She’s totally bluffing.” Even so, Chaff’s reassurance sounded slightly patronizing.
The reporters swarmed to Haymitch’s side, asking him questions about his “relationship” with Effie Trinket. He vehemently denied any romantic involvement between them. The next day, the papers said differently.