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"Adam, we are gonna do this."
Patrice has her phone out, pointed at Adam like a weapon with her lips drawn tight and pale. Joe sent out the ice bucket challenge that afternoon in a text with the video attached, and Patrice began exploding roughly four seconds after it'd gone out.
"Oh, God," Adam grumbles, phone case squeaking in his hand. Because of course they are. There is no such thing as backing down in Patrice's world, and especially not if it's for children or charity. With Joe's gauntlet down, it's a given.
And, well. There's no way he's going to get away with just giving a nice, fat donation now because as far as Patrice is concerned that's the easy solution, which is roughly equivalent to the coward's way out.
"Don't you get it? Joe call us out, and we gotta do it." She looks a little crazy eyed. A lot crazy eyed, actually, considering that she started the conversation by jumping him out of fucking nowhere. Arms tight around his neck and almost strangling him with her frighteningly intense enthusiasm.
He thinks it's enthusiasm. Hopes.
"Why are you so into this?" Adam tries to wriggle away from the grip that is rapidly threatening to cut off his air supply.
She lets go, sudden enough that he stumbles a bit, and gives him a look. "Well, because it's Florida, and it's August?" She lifts her hair off her neck and fans at it dramatically.
". . . Great point." Jonathan's been begging for a buzzcut all week, and Adam'd be happy to oblige if he wasn't positive he'd regret it the second it was done. Jonathan's been woefully into the floppy hair trend lately, which agonizes Patrice and confuses Adam to no ends. It's apparently great for him at school, and not so great in the humidity where his hair starts resembling some sort of pedigree dog.
"An' also Joe called me out, so. . ." Her arms drop to ready, hip cocked and staring at him like she's sizing him up, like she used to when he was coming in for a shot in practice. It's a challenge; it all flows the same for her. Even the anonymous internet must know that backing down was never an option. It's why Joe did it, after all. Once he called Patrice out ALS research was going to benefit one way or another. "It's a real good cause."
And hell, it's his name in the throw down, too. "Let's do this."
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"I wanna do it!"
"Really?" Adam drops the buckets onto the lawn, eyeing his youngest. Callan's nodding fast, eyes huge.
"Yeah! C'mon, papa! Please? Mitchell did it!"
"I don't care." Patrice drops the bags of ice next to the bucket, nearly smashing Adam's toes in the process. He would love to think it was an accident. "If you wanna do it, that's okay."
Adam suspects that it's more about Callan wanting to look cool online than any actual desire to participate, but as long as he doesn't run and goes along with the plan it's all good.
Three sets of eyes roll towards Jonathan, who's sitting in the adirondack chair with his sunglasses pulled low. He waves his phone at them and mumbles, "I'll just film it, thanks," in a way that manages to cram lofty superiority and absolute embarrassment into five words. It's quite impressive, actually.
Adam can already tell that adolescence is going to be a real ball of laughs for all of them.
He turns his attention to Patrice, her white polo shirt and grey plaid shorts. She catches him looking, particularly at the short sleeved, collared and, above all, white shirt and guesses immediately where he's going next.
"Of course I am gonna change." Patrice has always had one of the best implied 'you fucking idiot' looks he's ever seen, and it's only gotten better with practice. She waves her team track jacket to emphasize the point. "But no one better make comments about my tits anyway."
Adam gives her a look.
She sighs, zipping it up to her chin. "Calice, I hate the internet."
Adam kisses her on the forehead, which only makes her grump out an irritated 'haruuumph' sound, and a string of half affectionate curses under her breath before pulling him in for something a little more real.
Jonathan makes a theatrical gagging sound from his chair.
"Someday, I am gonna kill that kid," she laughs, pushing Adam away with one hand on his chest.
Adam splashes water into the buckets, just a few fingers to give the ice float room. "I think Callan has dibs."
Their boys are such boys. "No doubt. Okay, boys! Now or never!" Patrice's whistle punctuates the sound of her knife slitting the ice bags open.
"Okay, okay." Jonathan sits up straight, points the phone at them while Callan scurries to squeeze between them.
There's no missing it; Patrice's shoulders are set, rolled back to her spine like a challenge, and her eyes are glittering and shining with adrenaline. She's excited for this, and she's gorgeous.
Adam may be a little biased, though.
"Go."
She grins at the camera, bright and cocky. "Hello, I am Patrice Roy, and this is Adam Foote. We got the ALS Ice Bucket challenge from Joe Sakic." Callan starts waving, suddenly a little shy, and manages to introduce himself as ". . .'m Callan," prompting Jonathan to call out, "Louder, Dorkbag."
"I'm Callan!" he snaps, glaring at his brother who's snickering quietly behind the screen. "And you're dea—"
"And now it is time for ice, I think." Patrice lifts her bucket with both hands, the floppy plastic folding up and forming a pitcher shape between her arms. "I call out Tim Army, Pierre Lacoix, and Mario Tremblay." There's no missing the snarl that passes for a smile as she finishes her list.
Callan grabs half of Adam's, scooting close until he's smooshed up against Adam's side while he adds, "I'm sending it to Scott Parker, Ryan Wilson, and Claude Lemieux."
"Okay." And while Patrice starts to lift hers Adam and Callan grip the bucket between them and heave, water and ice making an arc through the air and hitting home hard enough to splash her hair back away from her face. Patrice doesn't yelp, but it's a near thing, a strangled sounding growl in her throat as she blinks her eyes open, droplets sticking to the white-blonde lashes.
"Oh, snap," Jonathan crows, finally getting out of his chair to zoom in on his mom's face.
A piece of ice drops from Patrice's hair onto her shoulder, where it melts slowly. For a split second the look on her face is pure, unadulterated rage, shifting into a smirk so fast it's possible the camera doesn't even catch it.
"Oh, it is on."
She pounces on Adam faster than a slap shot, spilling some of the bucket on her own feet as she lets go to lock her elbow around his neck, dragging him face first into what's left of her ice. When he pulls to stand up she lets go and he takes the bucket with him, ice slaloming down his spine and making his body erupt in goosebumps.
Callan and Jonathan are laughing like jackals when Adam pushes the bucket off of his head, Patrice doubled over and shaking.
"Papa, your face," Jonathan manages, seconds before Callan shoves a handful of ice chips down the back of his shirt.
"That's for calling me 'dorkbag', Dorkbag!" he crows, and somewhere in the ensuing scuffle Jonathan's phone gets dropped, recorder still running.
Patrice picks it up a few moments later, thumbing the recording to 'off' before wiping the screen with the free edge of her towel.
"Are you actually posting that?" Adam asks as she messes around with the phone.
"Nah, ALS needs the donations," she decides, holding it up to him. "But I sure as shit just sent it to Joe."