Who's gonna

[deelaundry]

Who's going to write the House football AU where Cuddy is head coach/General Manager/VP Football Operations and House is the Offensive Coordinator ("The offensive Offensive Coordinator," notes Wilson, who's in charge of Special Teams the defense but always seems to end up helping out with the offense, and is the de facto Quaterback Coach). Foreman is the quarterback who's got his eye on coaching; Chase is the offensive lineman who spent a few years on defense before deciding to return to House's fold; Taub's the center kicker (credit to Namaste); Thirteen's a running back. Nobody can figure out how Thirteen got that number - it's supposed to be for quarterbacks or kickers but then again Thirteen is kind of mysterious.

Comments

[namasteyoga.livejournal.com]

You're going to have to beta, y'know. (Dear God, I've already started.)


The training field was a joke. An airplane hangar would have been an improvement -- a big dirty gray metal sided building in the middle of an industrial area. Only the cars set it apart from the rest of the trashed out warehouses in the area: a tricked out Hummer, a couple of baby Jags, a Mercedes or three. A vintage Mustang vied with a new Ferrari for the best looking cars on the lot. If he was forced to choose, Taub would have picked the Mustang.

But Taub wasn't being asked to choose. He wasn't being asked to do much of anything these days. He knew that at his age, he should be happy just to get a call to fill out a roster at all, even at a joke of an expansion team like this one. He parked his Porsche next to a Volvo -- the Porsche Rachel had insisted on buying for him after he signed his contract with Seattle. That contract had been four teams and three years ago, but the Porsche was still with him. So was Rachel, and that surprised him more than anything else that had happened.

Taub grabbed his bag from the trunk and headed inside.

"Crap," he said when he walked through the doorway.

This shithole was worse than he'd imagined. Sodium lights shone down on a worn out artificial turf that made Taub's knees hurt just to look at. There were low structural beams holding the roof up. He'd have to shank every kick to one side to avoid getting the ball caught up in them and ricocheted out in every direction.

He dropped his bag on the concrete floor. "Crap," he said again.

"It gets worse," came a voice from the benches to Taub's left. "You haven't even seen the locker room yet."

"Can't be worse than the Giants' practice field," Taub said.

"Hundred bucks says you're wrong."

[deelaundry.livejournal.com]

YAY! I will definitely beta!