Chapter Text
The thing is, David doesn’t want to care. He’s never been to this fucking bar before, he doesn’t know anyone on this makeshift team apart from Stevie, and he knows for a fact that there’s a very adorable, probably very sleepy husband waiting on a Facetime once he gets back to the hotel room that he should much rather be getting to.
Somehow, though, he’s found himself being invested in this shit. With Stevie’s alarmingly encyclopedic knowledge of most sports, his own expertise in art, entertainment, and history, and the combined general knowledge efforts of the three people they’ve found themselves seated next to that David still can’t attach names to, they’ve been doing pretty fucking great. They’d said yes to the host going around trying to gather participants for a one-off trivia game on a whim, their only motivation being the promise of a free round of shots for the table, and now they’re here, however many rounds in, apparently in the lead.
And no matter how stupid David thinks this is, he now wants to win.
They’re down to the final round, and David is practically jumping out of his seat in anticipation as he waits for the short guy with the mic to read the questions. The man smiles at the crowd, apparently reveling in the general air of anxiety wafting off of everyone (or maybe it’s just David), and sighs a content, little thing before he speaks.
“For 3 points: Name the year the Toronto Maple Leafs last won the Stanley Cup, the acting team Captain at the time, and the name of the Arena in which they won.”
Stevie lunges for the pen immediately, scribbling something onto the piece of paper in front of them in a haste, before halting all of a sudden.
“1967,” she says, “the Leafs last won in 1967, against Montreal, at The Gardens.”
“Okay, and the captain?” Mark/Mike asks, far too loud, and the girl sitting next to him (Sonya?) punches him on the arm in indignation.
David likes her.
“I can’t - I know the answer to this,” Stevie exclaims, “I’m just blanking!”
Stevie taps her pen against the paper a number of times, agitation clear, and David watches the other three members of their team stare at her, clueless as to an answer.
“Didn’t you all grow up here?” he asks them, “How do none of you know?!”
“Sorry, dude, never cared to find out about shit that happened in 1967,” the person whose name David definitely knows starts with a C says, shrugging. “Guess two out of three is good enough?”
“No,” David replies firmly, and thinks, tries to carefully recall if he’s ever heard his hockey-obsessed in-laws say anything about the Leafs last Cup win. He’s vaguely aware of time running out, but the stress induced by any time limit fades to the background as he racks his memories. For a second, the name Neil Armstrong comes to him, but he dismisses it immediately. Right decade, wrong event. He thinks of the conversations between Marcy and Patrick that he’d sat through, discussing analytics and past athletes and team records. He thinks of the posters in Patrick’s old room, recalls the one right above his desk, of a bunch of guys holding up a giant silver container-shaped award of some sorts, of Patrick excitedly telling him that they’d won it led by…
“George,” David says, all of a sudden. He turns to Stevie. “George something?”
“George Armstrong,” Stevie gasps. “David, yes!” he scribbles her answer onto the sheet immediately, dropping the pen and waving her arms in front of her in anxiety, or excitement, or both, and beams at David as the timer goes off. “How’d you know that?”
David shrugs. “Patrick has a poster in his room at his parents’.”
Stevie’s smile widens impossibly more and she nods, bringing a hand up to squeeze at David’s arm for a moment, and they drown themselves in the sounds of buzzing excitement that flutters around the bar.
“If we win this,” Sonya(?) says across the table, “I am going to kiss this Patrick person.”
“Good luck trying to get him to look at anyone that isn’t this idiot,” Stevie replies before he can answer, throwing a finger up to point in his direction, and if he blushes, well, he can blame it on the unruly amount of alcohol in his system.
The host gets back up to the front of the room, smile still plastered on his face and mic in hand. He clears his throat once, twice, and nods to no one.
“With three points this round, and a total of fifteen, your trivia winners tonight are…”
David holds his breath. Stevie’s arm comes back up to squeeze at his shoulder.
“... Quiztina Aguilera !”
Their table erupts into cheer, and maybe David’s screaming, maybe he isn’t, but all he’s aware of is that he’s jumping up and pulling Stevie into his chest, squeezing her shoulders and pulling her into him like he’ll fall if he ever lets her go, and laughing. He feels Stevie squeal something as she squeezes back, tighter still, screaming and reaching out for high fives towards the rest of their team as she lets go.
It’s stupid, and dumb, and means absolutely nothing beyond a free drink and minimal bragging rights.
David feels like he could fucking fly.