#friendly wager

[kiddiescribblinz]

BRAP!

[hazz-matt]

money is down on italy or spain for the world cup. 

[seattlish]

Washington Senators got five on it

Senators Murray and Cantwell, both lady Democrats from the Evergreen State, are making tomorrow’s big game against the New Orleans Saints a liiiiitle more interesting. If the Hawks win (which they will) Senator Mary Landrieu (D-LA) will be sending charbroiled oysters and Abita beer over to our Senators. We won’t even jinx it to talk about the other outcome, but let’s just say it also involves the sending of Washington oysters and beer. Ugh, we’ve said too much.

Anyway. The Senators then proceeded to talk very polite shit about each other’s oysters, with Murray calling the gulf oysters “well-seasoned” and Landrieu saying our oysters “do not compare” to the Louisiana bounty. This is obviously not true.

May the odds always be in our favor, and the oysters always in our mouths.

[myaddblog]

First meal in Frankfurt... yeah sounds healthy for German eating, but my buddy Larry and I have this friendly wager on who will be in better shape in one month's time for his wedding.  It's simple, our suits don't fit.

And if anyone is curious, there's no such thing as a friendly wager... I'm going all out.

[ourhousemadeofpaperr]

Friendly Wager: Gareth Bale

Thanks to the anon for the suggestion :)

            The alcohol stopped burning about eight shots ago for Miranda. From the moment she woke up, she knew she’d end the night in some poorly lit bar, drinking alone. The bartender had more than once, advised her to slow down, but she kept ordering refills; as soon as one glass was thrown back, she expected another to be waiting. The ache in her forehead had long faded with the constant supply of tequila flowing. She couldn’t determine left from right, and she loved it.

            “Is this seat taken?” A guy asked kindly, patting the seat next to her. Slowly, she turned to see who had addressed her. Although the edges of her vision were blurred, his fact remained undistorted. She recognized it was Gareth Bale. She pushed an ice cube around her mouth with her tongue and shrugged her shoulders. He laughed to himself and pulled his sweatshirt over his head, tugging his shirt with it. Miranda’s curious eyes took in the patch of stomach that was exposed. She couldn’t hide her smirk in time for him to miss it, which only made him smirk as well. The bartender took Gareth’s order and left the two alone.

            “If you don’t mind me asking miss—“

            “Two rules…” She slurred. Gareth rested and elbow on the bar and wrapped his hand around his chin. “One, if you have to stay ‘if you don’t mind’ I probably will. Number two, don’t call me miss.” She tossed back another shot. “Bartender, can I get another?” She pointed to her shot glass, earning her a loud groan from the bartender. Gareth laughed into his sleeve.

            “You know, you are a very nice man.” Miranda complimented the worker. He seemed to not care about her opinion; he slammed a new glass in her face and filled it only half way up. “Never mind you ass. There goes your bloody tip!” She faked a British accent, horribly at that. Gareth offered the bartender an apologetic shrug before looking back to the obviously drunk girl beside him.

            “What is your name?” Gareth asked, tasting his beer. He seemed not too happy with it and pushed it away from him.

            “Miranda, Miranda Presley.” She smiled in mock happiness and began to chew on another chunk of ice. “I would ask yours, but I already know it.” She admitted.

            “Oh really? Do tell me who you think I am.” That smirk came back.

            “You sir, are Gareth Bale: Tottenham's winger. Or wanker, whichever you prefer.” She seemed pleased with herself to know him. She looked into her now empty cup of ice and frowned. Gareth nodded in surrender and laughed a little. “And if you aren’t him, then you could pass as his twin. But the chances of that are…” She waved her hand around.

            “I am Gareth Bale, you got me.” He confirmed. The bartender came back and gave Gareth a new bottle of beer. “Thanks mate.” He tilted his head towards her empty glass, which the bartender refilled begrudgingly.

            “Your accent is weird.” Miranda commented, shifting in her barstool.

            “My accent is weird?” He playfully pretended to be offended. “Your accent is the weird one, let me guess, American?” He teased. He was probably used to hearing American fans talk.

            “Oh, cute and funny. I sure am lucky.” She joked.

            “Don’t forget charming.” He joked.

            “A regular prince charming.” Miranda muttered.

            “What, don’t believe me? I’d bet you anything that by the end of the night, you go home with me.” Miranda normally loathed guys like Gareth; the smug tools who thought all girls worshiped him. But she hated losing a bet almost as much. Gareth remained relatively quiet after that, allowing Miranda to complain about her day. Her luggage had been lost and she was going to be stuck without her belonging for almost a week. She was in London on vacation with her friend, but the two had gotten in a huge fight earlier and decided to stay in different hotel rooms to calm down; which is what brought Miranda to the bar.

            “If it makes you feel better, love,” He started, watching her scrunch her nose at his use of love, “I had a bad day as well.” Miranda waited for an explanation, although she wouldn’t remember it in ten minutes. “I was horrible at practice today.”

            “Performance anxiety? Low stamina? Or just lack of know how?” Miranda offhandedly teased. Before he spoke, Gareth realized she wasn’t talking about football anymore.

            “None of those. Just an off day.” His eyes locked onto hers as he finished his third beer. “Trust me love, my performance, stamina and amount know how—as you call it—are just fine.” He ordered her another shot and she fought back a smile. The ice was slowly sobering her up, and a small part of her was enjoying Gareth’s company. If he was drunk, he didn’t seem to show it; his words were comprehendible and thought out, unlike her slurred blunt ones. He seemed to be aware of everything around him.

            “I’m sure they are.” Miranda offered, drinking her shot. “I need to leave.” She mumbled, pushing her empty glasses away from her. Her feet and head felt like they were made of concrete as she slid out of her chair. When she pulled out her wallet to pay, Gareth shook his head.

            “On me. love.” The bartender’s eyes rolled, he didn’t care who paid, as long as someone did.  “Which is exactly where you’ll be in twenty minutes.” He whispered in her ear. Miranda shook her head as she poorly attempted to pull her coat on. Seeing she was clearly struggling, Gareth just sat and watch.

            “You wanna help a girl out, love?” She mocked his endearing nickname and flailed her arm around. Finally, he also slid off the stool and helped her into her jacket. “That must have been hard for you, putting a girl’s clothes on instead of ripping them off.” Gareth laugh filled the bar. He wrapped an arm around her waist and led her to his car.

            “Wow, you actually think you’re going to shag me don’t you?” She felt like a cartoon character using the word shag. Gareth seemed amused at her use of British lingo and slammed the door once she was in the passenger seat. Her eye darted around the interior of the car; it was clearly expensive, the leather seats were more than likely heated; the dash was made of solid wood with gold accents.

            As Gareth climbed in beside her, Miranda felt her eyes begin to close. Gareth rested a hand on her knee and would occasionally squeeze to keep her awake. He must have squeezed her a dozen times; the ride felt never ending as the two rode through the city. Nothing outside looked familiar to Miranda, but then again she had been in town a little more than ten hours.

Gareth must have been feeling generous, for Miranda fell asleep for a couple minutes. When she woke up she was lying on a sofa in a strange house. She sat up but instantly regretting her. The throbbing in her head was much worse than before and everything around her was spinning.

            “I’d lie down, love, if I were you.” Gareth emerged from thin air and offered her a glass of water. “Exactly how many shots did you have again?” Miranda’s eyes adjusted to the light and she was able to open the fully. She forgot Gareth’s question completely when she looked at him. He must have taken a shower while she was napping; his hair and shoulders were still damp and a pair of jersey shorts hung low on his hips.

            “It’s not polite to stare, love.” He joked, seeing her eyes lock onto his chest. “Although, I cant blame you.”

            “You sure are cocky…” She mumbled, rubbing her temples. “Dear God, I hurt everywhere.” She strained to roll her shoulder and stretch out. “This couch is shit.”

            “That is true, but I figured you waking up in my bed wouldn’t have turned out so well.” He admitted with a slight nod. He had a point. “Although, you did keep repeating, I want to be in your bed, about a thousand times on way up the stairs. For a drunk girl, you have excellent walking abilities.” Miranda’s cheek felt a little hot with embarrassment, but she refused to let it get to her.

            “Where are we, exactly?” She asked.

            “Um,” He turned to face her, resting the small of his back on the television console. “We are at my house?” He seemed confused by her line of questioning. Miranda’s eyes rolled, clearly she guessed that.

            “Never mind, just help me up.” She raised her hands for his assistance and rested her feet on the carpeted floor. He smiled, but obliged. With a sudden—but gentle—pull she was standing up. “Ow,” She groaned, pushing on the sides of her head. Without thinking, she titled her head forward, resting it on Gareth’s bare chest. When her skin collided with his, she pushed back and sucked in her bottom lip; a nervous habit.

            “It’s okay, love.” He smiled, looking down at her. Miranda was frozen; if she moved, she ran the risk of falling over. Gareth’s eyes raked over her face and most of her upper torso, lingering a little too long on her chest. She coughed back a witty retort and let him have his moment. One hand was supporting her back while the other was setting against her hipbone. There was a moment, where Miranda thought he was going to swoop down and kiss her. But minutes pasted and her lips were not touching his.

            “You’re welcome to stay here tonight, if you choose to. If not, I’ll call you a cab.” Gareth offered, hands still on her. She nodded and pursed her lips a little, giving her the appearance of a pout. “Don’t be sad love, the sofa won't miss you too much. Plus, my bed’s a lot softer than that sofa.” Miranda shoved his lightly away, but he barely budged.

            “Whatever, listen to me you touch me at all, I’ll break your fingers.” She warned, moving toward the staircase.

            “Whatever you wish love.” He said. “Oh, by the way I won our little wager.”

            “Wager?” She leaned an elbow on the railing.

            “I bet that you could come home with me, and here you are on my stairs. I never said you'd shag me, you just assumed that.” He smiled proudly and brushed his fingertips on her skin as he past her. Miranda didn’t move until Gareth was at the top, looking down at her. He tossed her a mischievous smirk before disappearing into his bedroom. Miranda felt her jaw hang open slightly. She hated to admit it, but he had won the bet.

            “Touché.”