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chapter three: team corporate sellouts

a/n:

rory's ability to eviscerate grown men but her inability to talk to kids her own age is so brilliant.

tw(s) -- some one-off mentions of bad things and potentially bad french (pls correct me)

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Don Tibbles picks Rory up from Connie's house early the next morning.

She thanks the girl's parents for letting her stay the night, tells the girls she'll see them later, and then finds herself in a limousine, sat between two security personnel and directly across from the man who, once upon a time, might have been important to her life.

"Is this necessary?" She tries not to make eye contact with the men sitting on either side of her. "This level of security?-- What do you think it's going to happen at the games?"

"Your father demanded it." Is all Don says.

He shrugs his shoulders afterward and wipes his hands like Pontius Pilot to say that it's out of his control.

Rory stares at him. Blankly.

It isn't a secret to her that the Myrtles hate Don Tibbles. In fact, it's quite infamous, the kind of feud that has sold its fair share of articles, think pieces, and student-made documentaries promoted by a throbbing vein in her father's head and his shaking fists--

If she had to pinpoint it, she was seven when she realized the man who used to take her and her nannies out to dinner became enemy number one. However, according to Oliver Myrtle, it had been when she uttered her first comprehensible sentence. He tells everyone he meets that will listen that Rory, sitting on his lap in a room full of businessmen and little lines of white powder, had raised her big blue eyes and said, with her whole chest:

Fuck Don Tibbles.

(Rory, knowing her father has a tendency to lie, doubts the truth of that statement. She does, however, find the utter drama of it amusing.)

"What?" Rory's nose scrunches up. "Does he think that we're the Kennedys? No one wants to shoot him that badly."

The look of doubt that crawls across the face of his former friend makes her lift a brow.

"How's the team?" Don changes the topic, handing her a granola bar from the mini-fridge.

"They're cool. Mostly nice so far, even if I'm me and they're them."

Rory dedicates a lot of attention to getting the wrapper open without getting stray bits of granola everywhere. He, meanwhile, doesn't say anything -- just stares at her as if he's expecting more from her until she looks up, triumphant in her endeavors, and catches him.

"What?"

"That wasn't exactly what I was asking, dear-- "

"Oh, I know." She takes a bite of her snack. Mrs. Moreau had insisted that she at least eat a little something before she left, so she isn't very hungry. "You wanted me to spy on them."

Don sputters. "What? No."

"You do. You want me to be your rat."

"Lola--"

"I'm not going to do that. Not for you."

"But you'd do it for your father?"

Rory smiles, then, and all the words she can't and won't say bulge in her cheeks, "You have no idea what I'd do for my father."

The words make the man pause.

"But, even then, I won't betray my team. You know how we are about loyalty to our own, don't you?"

He fidgets with his tie, swallowing thickly, as she takes a slow, purposeful bite of her granola bar.

"Lorelei, I wasn't-- I didn't-- Please, don't assume I have bad intentions. We're friends, you and I."

"We aren't friends. You're just some dude who regrets pissing my dad off."

"That's-- a fair assessment." He titters a laugh. "I can't say you're wrong."

"That's because I'm not."

"Right. You aren't."

"So, why am I here anyway? Why'd you pick me up?" She changes the subject, giving him no room to even catch his breath.

Perhaps, on a sub-level, she feels a little guilty. Whatever Don Tibbles did to her father is ancient history -- it all, in a sense, predates her, seeing as she can't quite recall when they stopped being friends. But, she knows this man better than he thinks she does. Men like them, her father and Don and everyone who works with them, don't deserve kindness.

Besides, she finds it so much easier to be the little girl wearing her father's shoes than Lorelei Myrtle, the teenage heiress who can't talk to kids her own age.

"You and your coach are going to be doing a preliminary photo shoot."

Oh.

Yeah.

"What for?"

"Hendrix wants Bombay to be the face of the brand while the games are happening, and including one of you kids is going to give it a more... wholesome... feel. And who better to do it than you, my goddaughter?"

A beat.

"My dad was the only one who signed your consent forms, wasn't he? 'Cause he wants me to do PR?"

"...Yes. Yes, he was."

•─────────•❋•─────────•

Her face still caked with the makeup from her photoshoot and a plate full of food she won't eat on the table in front of her, Rory sits at a table in Tibbles office with the rest of her team and watches the man bounce, excited, from one foot to the other. He has some big thing to unveil -- something to do with the large, sheet-covered object over in the corner -- but she couldn't care less. She just sips at a juice box and picks at her cuticles, choosing to ignore the fact that Dean has slung an arm over the back of her chair, and that Averman seems to have an endless supply of jokes about the Tommy Hilfiger sweater she's wearing.

"So, as you all know, this time tomorrow, you'll be in Los Angeles-- courtesy of Myrtle Enterprises and their private jet."

"Thanks for that. Really. It just helps me so much." Rory gives a sarcastic thumbs-up as everyone's eyes flit to her.

Adam breathes a laugh and averts his gaze.

"But, before you go, I have a few surprises for you."

"More surprises than Meal Ticket over there having a private jet with her name on it?" Jesse gestures to her with his thumb.

Fulton mouths 'meal ticket?', his brows furrowed in confusion. Dwayne shrugs from across from him but Luis pats his back sympathetically.

"Why don't you back off, Jesse?" Connie fires back. "I think it's cool."

"It's actually my grandmother's name, by the way. The boat is named after me."

Jesse smirks as she smiles, sarcastic, and bats her eyes at him.

"Settle down." Bombay hums around a mouthful of food, speaking to them like they're a group of wiley kindergarteners. "Listen to the man."

"Thank you." Don says pointedly before walking to the elephant in the room and wheeling it around his desk.

Most of them watch him with bated breath. Rory chews on her straw.

"Three, two, one-- Ta-Da!" With a flourish, he pulls the sheet off.

She lifts a brow.

It's a man-sized mock-up of a Wheaties box but, instead of Bruce Jenner taking front and center, it's them. Astonished sounds echo throughout the room ("wow!", "that's awesome!", and "do you see that!".) Rory looks at it for a long time, an arm crossed over her chest, with narrowed, scrutinizing eyes.

"Hey, y'all, that's us!" Dwayne calls a few seconds after everyone else reacts and gestures to the picture for emphasis.

Fulton is quick to mock him. "Duh, whaddya know?"

They laugh at Dwayne's expense and he frowns.

"Goldberg's eyes are closed." She informs the man, pointing when Don looks at her, confused.

"What?" He turns back to it and starts to check it over fervently. "Goddamnit!"

"You'll get more pictures, Mr. Tibbles." MacKay soothes him.

Meanwhile, Dean whispers in her ear, "You're a bitch."

Pulling his arm from around her shoulders, he flashes her a grin as he leans forward in his chair and starts picking at his lunch.

"An incredibly muted reaction from Miss Myrtle-Carrington." Averman uses a sports announcer voice. "Care to comment? Is this not your first time on a cereal box, Lorelei?"

That, too, garners scattered laughter from their teammates. She sits back in her seat and hums.

"I don't do cereal boxes, Lester. I do local newspapers, scant TV interviews, and the occasional magazine cover."

"Oh, really? Are there at least posters of you in all your glory?"

"Not yet." She says daringly, head tilted to the side. "An ex did have a paparazzi picture of the two of us blown up to epic proportions via Xerox, though, so if you want to count that..."

Before Averman can comment, and she can tell that he really wants to comment, Connie has absolutely lit up.

"What kind of picture?"

"A walk along the Seine kind of picture."

The girl swoons and Rory smiles.

After muttering to himself for a bit, Don finally calls their attention back to him. "Well, anyway-- Today, it's a Wheaties box. Tomorrow, it's video games, action figures, lunch boxes. The sky's the limit!"

Wheaties boxes, action figures, and lunch boxes make sense, sure, but video games?

How much is their company betting the games will do?

"Now, just to make sure that everybody knows who you are-- try on these."

He holds up this busy, patriotic jersey covered in all sorts of patches and Rory grimaces.

"Brought to you by those wonderful people at Hendrix, for all your hockey needs." Tibbles continues, showing off the gigantic logo on the sleeve of the jersey. "Fulton, there you go. Coach. C'mon everybody, take your own. I'm not gonna give 'em out to everybody."

Rory stays seated as the majority of her teammates rush out of their chairs to fish through the box for their jerseys, a manic, bewildered smile blooming across her face.

Oh.

Oh, her father was going to lose his mind, alright.

She's going to be wearing Hendrix's name, and he's going to have an aneurysm.

The adrenaline rush that comes with the feeling of what is her first taste of rebellion (even if it's not anything she had control over) simmers down considerably when she sees Charlie. Their captain is still in his seat, too, and he stares at the new jersey in his hands with this look of utter defeat on his face.

Rory frowns at the sight and gets up to talk to him, only to get distracted when Kenny tosses her number forty jersey directly at her face.

"Ow?"

"Sorry!" (He doesn't sound very sorry.)

Averman shuffles over and stands next to her, nudging her with his elbow to draw her eyes away from the forlorn boy in the corner.

"So? How are we feeling about this new outfit change?"

Her gaze flickers down. Averman is number four.

"It's... interesting."

"What? Are red, white, and blue not your colors? Do you have no sense of patriotism?"

"My dad and grandpa are both British," She hums, "and my mom's French. I have triple citizenship."

Averman falters slightly. "Wait, really?"

"Mhm."

"I couldn't tell."

"I was raised by American nannies, so, no accents in sight-- can definitely speak more motherland acceptable French than a Québécois, though."

"Really? Do it. Hit me."

"You speak French?"

Adam answers before he can. "He doesn't."

"Hey, man, I know some things!"

"Really?" The blond crosses his arms over his chest. "What do you know?"

"Uh... Voulez-vous coucher avec moi? I heard it in a song, once."

He says it so proudly, hands on his hips and head held high, that she has to laugh.

"Oh, C'est pas le couteau le plus affûté du tiroir, is he?"

That's directed to Adam who promptly shakes his head.

"No. No, he isn't."

"What? What did I say?"

Clapping the redhead on the back, Rory steps away to go talk to Tibbles, who stands in front of his Wheaties box with a scowl.

"What did I say?" Averman repeats himself, looking to Adam for help.

"Dude, you just asked her to sleep with you."

All the blood rushes to his face.

•─────────•❋•─────────•

With how nice the weather is, Ms. MacKay decides to hold their first class outside, on a bank of a lake that she doesn't know the name of. The whole team is wearing the gaudy, patriotic sweatsuits but Rory, who sits between Averman and Dwayne, has opted to leave the sweatshirt unzipped (rather than completely forgo it like Dean, who admitted to wanting to show off his tattoo.) Her head tips back as she leans away from the group, savoring the sunlight and the breeze that rolls off the water after spending the past few days in a cold rink.

And she stays that way, smiling at the sky, until the tutor starts to talk about Ancient Greece. That's when she starts to actively pay attention.

History has been and will always be her favorite subject.

"Ancient Greece was the beginning of western civilization." The woman hums, pacing before the children. "See, in Greece, they didn't have professional sports or Wheaties boxes. So, the athletes competed for another reason-- anybody?"

(A kind teacher with an agenda? Well, that's always a sight for sore eyes.)

"Falafels." Goldberg answers seriously.

He's met with vague annoyance, laughter, and, even, a 'you wish' from Connie. Rory, who's pretty sure falafels are a Middle Eastern thing and not a Mediterranean thing, turns to Averman with a confused face. He shrugs with a sigh.

Charlie raises his hand while they're all distracted.

"Charlie?"

"Pride." He says, wistful and sad.

Rory finds herself frowning again.

"That's right." Miss MacKay smiles. "The various city-states waved their flags and wore their home colors proudly."

She, for a moment, wonders what real pride feels like.

"Did America always dominate?"

Rory's attention quickly lands on Fulton. He's confident in his question until the team starts to groan at him in the same way they groaned at Goldberg.

Dean staunchly defends him.

"Dude, white people didn't know where or what America was until hundreds of years after Greece got squashed off the map."

MacKay smiles at her. "Yes, that's right, Lorelei-- America wasn't around back then, Fulton."

Fulton petulantly sticks his tongue out at her as the tutor moves on.

After class, Bombay picks them up in this white, top-down vehicle and tells them to skate behind them. He drives them down this remote street through the trees of the park, not too fast for them to catch up but fast enough that her legs burn. He shouts a chant into a megaphone and they repeat it back to him as they follow, weaving in and around each other as they go.

When a pebble gets caught in her skates, Rory stumbles forward. To steady herself, she grabs the nearest hand.

A hand that's attached to Lester Averman.

"Woah! Hey, are you okay?"

Her tired legs wobbling slightly, she nods and smiles at the boy. She holds both his hand and his gaze for a moment too long.

"Hey, uh, your hand is really sweaty."

She doesn't mean to say it but she does and she finds herself, for what feels like the umpteenth time in the past days, cringing.

"Yeah. Holding hands with a pretty girl will do that to you."

Flustered, Rory mumbles an apology and looks away.

She doesn't drop his hand, though.

She wouldn't want to fall if she trips again.

•─────────•❋•─────────•

That night, all of the team regroups in the private jet charter that houses her family's plane. Arriving far too early because of a scheduling error at the hands of Tibbles, they've been made to sit in a lounge off the main hangar until the jet is fueled up and ready to go. The staff, luckily, dotes on the tired and frustrated teenagers while they wait to fly out to California, and Rory watches her teammates pick at expensive food while restlessly bouncing her knee. She's trying to find a way to get Charlie by himself so she can have a quick talk with him that nobody else hears, but it's hard. He clings to Bombay's side like a needy puppy and Adam clings to him like an even needier puppy.

Getting him alone without raising suspicion feels more and more impossible the longer she ponders over it.

"So, you really just have a plane with your name on it?" Luis asks again, seemingly shocked as he leans toward her.

"Mhm." She answers noncommittally.

"Luis, her family's got stadiums with their name on them." Julie adds from across the room.

"It's, just-- that's insane--"

Charlie says something to Adam before he gets up from his seat and slips out.

"I'll, uh, be right back, okay?"

Luis nods, though slightly befuddled, and watches her get up and leave the room, too.

The darkness of the night and the muggy, summer air greet her as Rory lets the door to the air-conditioned lounge close behind her. Charlie leans on the building, bathed in the street lights of the parking lot, and he smiles at her when their gazes meet.

"Hey."

"Hey." She steps out of the way of the door and stands beside him. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, I guess." He shrugs.

"Well, you don't look fine."

Charlie smiles softly. "Has anybody ever told you that you're brutally honest?"

"A therapist or two." She chews on her lip. "I'm working on it."

He laughs quietly. Then silence washes over them.

"I just want to give you some advice because this is your first time being a corporate sellout."

"Huh?"

"You have to learn to cope."

"What do you mean 'corporate sellout'? What do you even know about being a corporate sellout?"

"Everything. We're all corporate sellouts. Every last one of us-- there's, like, three generations of my family that haven't had to work for a single thing that we've got."

Charlie stares at her like she's odd.

"There isn't a lot of pride in stuff like this, Charlie. You have to abandon your morals and squash," She makes a squishing gesture with her hands, "your feelings down, or else you'll be miserable this whole time, and it'll ruin the whole experience for you."

(Kill yourself or get over it.)

"And you're speaking from personal experience?"

"Yeah. I am."

He nods a slow, contemplative nod. "Okay. Thank you, I guess."

When Charlie slings an arm around her shoulders and pulls her into his side, Rory freezes up slightly, but ultimately lets him.

•─────────•❋•─────────•

a/n:

her relationship with each of the ducks is so special to me but the way that she and charlie are kinda parallels of one another makes me sick to my stomach.

comments and votes are super appreciated! they let me know that you guys like my writing and I cannot stress how much they motivate me to continue! thank you