Printer Friendly Version ] [ Report Abuse ]
<< >>

Olive Wood: A Guide to Falling in Love by FWHPObsessed
Chapter 8 : On Unfortunate Complications, Goalposts and Being Civil
 
Rating: MatureChapter Reviews: 3


Font:  
Background:   Font color:  

Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognise. Zilch. Zero. None.




Just another stunning banner by shudder @ tda:


On Unfortunate Complications, Goalposts and Being Civil:

I am innocently surprised at myself. While I expected my heart to be pumping in my chest, my forehead to be sweating and to be stuttering over my words I seem to be perfectly fine. My smile as I enter the room is genuine and relaxed. My handshake is firm and not in the least bit sweaty and my greeting is smooth and pleasant on the tongue.

I happily blame Louis.

Across the desk from me is Marie Lochner. A well-known retired Beater for the Chudley Cannons, who got knocked out of the competition four years ago by a Bludger to her batting elbow. The woman who took my father's place as Manager two years previously. She has sandy blonde hair and rectangular glasses over hazel eyes. Her hair holds only a few visible strands of grey.

Next to Marie is a man I have known my entire life. A man who is like an uncle to me. Marley Trent, a Wizard from the small country of New Zealand with a touch of Maori blood in him and a slightly receding hair line. He gives me a huge grin as I sit down and proceeds to squirm in his seat excitedly. For a man in his mid-forties he has the energy of a twelve-year-old and perhaps that's why we get along so marvellously. He's probably the best person I could hope to ever be my coach.

“It's nice to meet you Olive, how have you been today?” says Marie sweetly, shuffling some papers.

I try not to look surprised at her question. “I've been good thank you, how about you?” I say it a little sourly, but my voice is innocently soft. This makes Marley chuckle quietly.

“Stressful day, stressful day …” her voice mumbles away momentarily before she snaps back to her senses and reinforces her words. “So Olive, I see we tried to recruit you when you were at Hogwarts, but you turned us down. Why was that?”

I answer perhaps a little too instantly. “Well, you see I've always wanted to play for the Holyhead Harpies,” I say solemnly, grimacing at the name. “But they never tried to recruit anyone at Hogwarts because they wanted a more experienced player and so I thought I'd just try later on if they still didn't have a Chaser. When I got to the interview they told me that they had just got a new player, so …”

Then of course that bitch – cow – whore – slut – (what ever you want to call her) Anna Parkinson walked out of the office smirking and boasted about how fun it would be playing for the Holyhead Harpies, and any desire to play on that team was wiped from my mind.

I don't feel like I need to go into specific details.

“So you went to your second option?”

I cringe and glance at Marley nervously. He smiles encouragingly and I feel my anticipation of answering fade away. “Yeah, my dad's always wanted to me to play for Puddlemere and it's always been my second favourite … honestly, I just want to play Quidditch, I don't care what team I get into.”

It is half the truth and half a complete lie. I could not stand being in the Chudley Cannons or some sort of barn house, nobody team.

“Well said, Olive,” says Marie nodding slowly and jotting something down. “Look, it's been a long, hot day and I'm sure you're dying to get home, too, so I'm going to make this as quick as possible. Our previous offer still stands, we realise you'd want to try out for you're favourite team before going to the next and trust me this sort of situation happens more often than not. There's no doubt you've got the skills to be in the reserve team,” my heart jumps at the compliment, “but we still require you to come to the try-outs tomorrow as we've got some other strong contesters and I'm sure you understand.” Marley gives me a huge grin and a thumbs up that suggests he knows I'm going to make it on the team. It seems to go unnoticed by Marie. “And of course we'll be choosing based on talent, not on how long we've known someone.” I'm guessing it didn't pass by unnoticed.

“Of course,” I say, giving Marley a joking glare. He grins his contagious smile back.

“Great, we'd like you to be there at ten thirty, but the actual trials will start at eleven. Is that good with you?”

“That's perfect, thank you,” I smile politely and stand up after her. We shake hands quickly and she leaves, I'm guessing to let me talk to Marley.

“Olive!” he greets properly, once the door snaps shut behind Marie. He claps me on the shoulder and gives me a one armed hug. “You're so on the team!” He almost yells and jumps up and down.

“I didn't hear her implying anything like that.” I comment, punching him in the shoulder.

“Wow, Olive, I haven't seen you in so long! You're so old now!” he says, ruffling my hair in a way that makes me grit my teeth uncomfortably.

“I am not old!” I exclaim, flattening down my hair aggressively and letting him lead me out of the room as I do so.

“What I meant is you look great, love,” he says soothingly. “Very mature.”

I turn and raise my eyebrows at him. He attempts to look at me seriously for a second, before we both start laughing.

Me? Mature? He's got to be kidding.

“What is she doing here?”

I can tell the words are directed at me and the voice does sound strangely familiar. It's the memory of Al's voice that tells me who is behind me. I beam and turn to see him. His black hair is ruffled up and there are beads of sweat on his forehead. It's the fiery hazel eyes and turned down lips that ruin his image. There's no one around but me, him and Marley and I don't understand who he was asking the question.

“Talking to your imaginary friend, Potter?” I sneer, behind me Marley shifts uncomfortably. He can probably feel the rivalry in the air.

With his face emotionless he ignores my comment, a little too smoothly for my liking. “What are you doing here?” The words are cold, hard and hinting at annoyed which is exactly what I want to hear.

“Now, now, no need to be so harsh,” I step closer to my pray and regret it once his overpowering height becomes more exaggerated. “What with the pleasant dinner we had the other night …”

Pleasant, as in accidentally knocking blood red wine onto his 'girlfriend's' bright yellow top.

Extremely pleasant.

“I asked you a question, Wood.” he says with clenched teeth.

“And I don't intend to answer, because if you don't know why I'm here then I am seriously going to doubt your mental capabilities.” I am basically rolling in the glory that comes with Potter's expression. It's priceless. He glares at me before looking up at Marley.

“Please don't tell me she's trying out for the team tomorrow.” he moans, sounding uncannily like a spoilt brat I know.

Yes, I'm thinking of Luke.

Luke's never looked so sexy in a sweat-soaked, vivid-green singlet, though.



I did not just think that! I did not!

“Yes, she is,” says Marley defensively, putting a soft hand on my shoulder. “What do you have against Olive, James?”

Great, talk about me like I'm not standing right in front of you.

I roll my eyes.

“She's a bitch,” he says shrugging, looking like he expects Marley to have the same opinion.

My hands curl into fists. “And you're an arsehole, glad we've got that sorted out.” I say enthusiastically, before turning back to Marley. “He hates me because I was Quidditch captain for Slytherin when I was in fifth-year and he only got captain when he reached seventh-year.”

“Slither-in?” Marley stares at me like I'm the crazy one. “You were the captain for Slither-in?”

“Slytherin.” Potter spells out. “It's the Dark Wizard house at Hogwarts. Wood was in it and I was in Gryffindor – and that is not the reason I dislike you!”

“Slytherin is not the Dark Wizard house! It was, a long time ago. It doesn't choose people like that any more, it's about cunning and the lengths people will go to get what they want.”

“And now you want play for Puddlemere United?” he asks, disbelieving.

“Do you think I'd deliberately come to this club just to fuck you off?” I ask sceptically, even though I knew he played for Puddlemere when I decided on it. He gives me a look that suggests he thinks exactly that. “Then you need to deflate that huge head of yours, Potter.

“Fuck you!” he snarls before storming out of the room at the sight of my amused expression.

“That was …”

“Pleasant?” I suggest, straightening out my t-shirt.

“I was going to suggest interesting, but if pleasant's your description …” says Marley, a small frown on his face.

I laugh. “After two years it's still unimaginably fun to get under Potter's skin.” I recoil at Marley's disapproving glare. “I'm just kidding.” I add weakly.

“No you're not. Please don't piss off my players, Liv, knowing James he'll go all technical on us and try and find a crack in his contract that gives him the right to deny you a position on the team. He won't find any, of course, but he's gonna be damn right nasty to work with for a couple of days until he's got over himself.”

“You don't need to start that yet, we don't even know if I'm going to get on the team.”

I am going to get on the team.

“Don't be stupid, Liv. You'll get on the reserve team.” he says, patting me on the shoulder and making me stumble a little with the force of his hand.

“It all depends on tomorrow.”

 

*

 

“OK, so this is how it's all going to go.” begins Marley in a voice I will later associate with his coaching-face. We're sitting in the locker room. There's five of us and Marley. The man standing behind him, introduced as Graham Kilt the teams captain, is staring each of us down. Probably marking down physical qualities for Chasers. The blonde girl sitting at my left is positively shaking. Her face is red and she's biting on her lip. Giving her a quick one-over as we got changed into the practise gear I noticed she seemed more like a Seeker's build. Skinny and tall with long arms. On the left of her is a tank, muscular man I recognise as being a few years older than me at Hogwarts. He played for Ravenclaw when I was captain. I immediately remember his skills and I perk up, knowing he looks like a better player than he actually is. On my right is my real competition. Andrew McLaggen, a wind-swept, good-looking guy in my year from Gryffindor. Like James, another rival captain. The moment I realised it was him we sized each other up. Now, we're both relaxed, knowing that the only competition is the other, knowing that we're better than the other. He's a fantastic player and I know, if anything, he's the one I need to keep an eye on.

“We'll start with a simple warm-up.” Marley continues. “You'll run a few laps, then pass the Quaffle around just to get yourself in Quidditch-mode. You're going to have to concentrate one hundred percent on Quidditch. If I see you flirting with someone, talking to someone about something that's not Quidditch related then you will be asked to leave. When you're on this pitch Quidditch is the only thing on your mind.

“After that we'll give you five chances to score. It's not about how many goals you get in, you need to remember that. It's about your technique, how you make your way up the pitch, how you can trick our Keeper and the way you throw the Quaffle. After that we'll have a break in which you'll get a drink and we'll discuss placements for each of you on the team. Then we'll split you up into pairs and we'll play a full game with one pair, then swap you and play another one. Remember, this is about your technique's and what we can make of them. It's not about scoring the most goals or being on the winning team.”

Being the captain of Slytherin and playing for an actual club are two very different things, I can already tell which is harder. In Hogwarts when you have try-outs you choose Chaser's on the amount of goals they score, Keeper's on the amount of Quaffles they block, Beater's on their accuracy and the power of their hits and Seeker's on the time they take to catch the Snitch. At Hogwarts they have captains. Here, the captain is the man who develops a relationship with each player, they cheer their players on during the game and is like an assistant to the coach. The coach is the person who teaches the players tricks, who decides on the drills at practise, chooses the players on their technique's and doesn't actually go out on the field. Here, they have proper reserve teams.

“If you four will follow me,” suggests Graham, standing up from his bench and ushering for us to do the same. “I'll give you a proper look at the pitch.”

They all stand up and follow him out eagerly, me, not so much. Heading towards the changing rooms they had a quick glance at the pitch, but then Marley was talking and they didn't have time to really look around us. Inside the locker room McLaggen had asked if we could have a better look after we had got changed. Now, here we are, in one of the most spectacular stadiums and my favourite place in the entire world – after Hogwarts, of course.

It's a huge stadium, rows and rows of seats surround the whole thing and high above are eight floating rooms connected to the abundance of seats below only by twisting black staircases. The pitch is made of grass so thin and green that when you step on it your feet almost positively sink into the ground. The reason, as my father had long ago told me, was so that Seeker's had a harder chance of taking off, therefore giving the Snitch a better chance to escape. The thing I love the most about my beloved stadium are the hoops. They're made entirely of bronze. Apparently for my (our) third birthday I requested that for my present I wanted to make the hoops out of gold. As it was a tad overpriced, my dad chose the next best thing: bronze.

Yes, I know. Perhaps it was a little extravagant.

I can tell the rest of the wannabe Chaser's are amazed by the scene around them, but to me this has always just been the place I grew up in. I spent my entire childhood in this place and now I'm going to spend as much of my future as I can in this place. It's not even a question. It's a matter of my career. I am not going to let any of these people beat me onto this team, even if I have to pull a few muscles or dislocate a few shoulders to do it.

I wonder how I ever thought that I wanted to play for the Holyhead Harpies. I would walk into the stadium and see their plain stainless steel goal posts and take off on their crisp, hard ground and realise I had made a mistake ever joining their team. I no longer feel a burning hate towards Anna Parkinson for stealing my place. In fact the next time I see her I'm going to go straight up to her, shake her hand and thank her. The look on her face will be marvellous to see.

“OK guys, so you're going to be running with the rest of the team,” says Graham, running one hand through his curly, bouncy auburn hair. “Because for them this is a practise, too. For the next five weeks we have practise once a week. Practise starts at eleven thirty every single day it's scheduled for. After those five weeks we have it twice a week for eight weeks and then after that we have it three times a week until the season starts.”

“Then do we have it four times a week?” asks Blondie, her bottom lip quivering at the thought.

“No. This season all our games are scheduled on Thursday, because of that we don't want our players practising on Friday so we have it on Saturday instead.” Blondie seems horrified at the thought and Graham's lip curls. “You don't need to start worrying unless you get on the team, so I suggest you all forget about it.” Across the other side of the field the actual players begin to run, Graham nods at someone who from a distance looks like Marie and turns back to us. “Five laps and don't over-exert yourself. It doesn't look like far, but it is a long run.”

I disagree. It looks really far and Quidditch pitches are not exactly small. Back at Hogwarts I was the one telling the team to do laps and cutting mine short to yell at the slowest runner. It doesn't help that I've most likely gotten soft in the stomach area since it's the Summer holidays. It takes me a second to realise it's not the Summer holidays any more, since I've been kicked out of school and thrust into the real world, where holidays are non-existent unless it's Christmas. The British like Christmas.

The others are off a few seconds before me and I start too slow since I'm hungrily thinking about Christmas pudding. Blondie slows down a little so I can run with her, we don't talk as her breathing is already getting heavier and I don't want to strain her or force her to make conversation. Slytherin or not, I like my competition standing on two feet. After the first two laps, Blondie falls behind and I end up catching up to Ravenclaw, we both stay silent and at the same place, McLaggen a few metres ahead. A few fit-looking Quidditch players pass us despite being half a lap behind. I notice Blake Weber, a tall, sexy Slytherin a year ahead of me at Hogwarts. The flash-back of a broom closet snog flits through my mind as he turns back to look at me curiously. It's not long before Potter catches up to me.

“Nervous, Wood?” he asks, running backwards in front of me. “I'm not sure that extra bit of belly fat is going to help you today.”

“Wow, your insults just get better and better every day.”

“How long did it take you to come up with that one?”

“And we have more examples.” I gesture like I'm talking to a non-existent audience.

“Well done, Wood.” he says at my response. “Quick, sharp and idiotic. Your comebacks seem rather similar to your Quidditch skills, don't they?”

I roll my eyes and ignore him, he chuckles at my silence and continues ahead. Ravenclaw falls behind as someone calls out “Kane!”

At the end of my third lap, Marley smiles encouragingly and someone smacks into my back.

“Woah!” I say as my breath gets knocked out of me and I stumble forward, but continue running.

“Sorry, Ollie,” says a voice I instantly recognise, but can't put a name to. Until I remember there's only one person I know who calls me Ollie. Jake Zabini, my ex-boyfriend with messy brown hair and equally as brown skin. He's of a strong build and I can see his muscles rippling through his white singlet as he runs beside me. Apparently it's too hot for him to wear his Puddlemere robes. I silently agree, mainly because I prefer the sweat-soaked see-through version of a white top.

“Jake!” I squeal, resisting the urge to throw my arms around his neck and continue running awkwardly.

“Wow Ollie, you still look as stunning as ever.” I blush and give him a look that suggests he should actually look at me before he compliments me. “I'm not kidding, sweaty face – displayed legs, all of it. Your hair's grown.”

“Special Weasley Wizard Wheezes product – y'know what, you're not so bad yourself. I guess I'll have to thank Puddlemere for that.” I say, looking him up and down in a revealing manner.

“Sorry, I didn't catch that!” says Jake, sticking his ear out for me to speak again.

“I said:” I repeat, my words louder and clearer. I always seem to have a problem with mumbling when I'm breathless and running. “You're not so bad your–” I stop at his amused expression and cocky grin. Trust him to want everyone to hear me telling him he's hot. I devise an evil plan of my own. “If you think I'm going to sleep with you again, Jake, then you're downright wrong!” I say the words loud enough for most people to hear, but not loud enough to be considered yelling or unnatural. It causes quite a few head turns ahead and a suspicious glance from Marley on the sidelines.

Jake just laughs. “Good recovery, Olive,” he compliments, not in the slightest bit perturbed by the attention I just brought him. “But now everyone thinks we've slept together.”

I pause, about to mouth my thought out response, but changing my mind. “Well that backfired on me perfectly.”

He laughs and bats a bug away and we continue the rest of our laps talking about what we've been up to since school finished. I skip telling him any details about the previous week, except moving in with Al. He tells me he's waiting for the welcoming party invite. Like I'm going to have another one this year. He reaches his half of the field and I run the last lap slowly, heavily exhausted. I arrive around the same time as McLaggen, following his suit and stretching my legs and arms. Ravenclaw arrives next and Blondie about five minutes later. I try not to grin at her exhausted composure. I've always been rather fit as my dad's always drilled Quidditch into me since Luke despises the sport, but today I feel positively sluggish. It's good to know that even with a pack of extra belly fat, I can still run five Quidditch pitches faster than Blondie.

“Right, so has everyone stretched?” I nod and Marley takes it as a yes from everyone. “OK, so now we're starting the scoring part of your try-outs. You'll start at that end of the the pitch and fly all the way to that end of the pitch.” I look up and see there are people demonstrating. “We're going to have our reserve Beaters up there. One will be trying to hit you with the Bludger, while the other will be blocking you from it.” I watch as Jake smacks a Bludger away from a speeding Terri Hawke. Potter's unfortunate best friend. “And then we'll have our reserve Keeper try and block your shot.” Hawke took a shot at the left hoop and a skinny girl with gorgeous, long, brown hair easily blocked it. “Cherry would you like to go first?”

I almost snorted. What kind of name was Cherry?

Cherry mounts her broom gracefully and takes off in seconds, speeding off to one end of the pitch. Her first attempt is cringe-worthy and the second not much better. While graceful at the beginning she seems to have lost it the higher she gets and always manages to tilt her broom too far in one direction. She also throws slightly to the left and they're always easily blocked. On her fourth attempt she gets a goal in with the help of Jake who accidentally knocks the Bludger towards the Keeper. After her fifth try Marley blows his whistle and she returns to the ground.

McLaggen goes next, flying superbly as always. He shoots through the air, body pressed low against the broom to create maximum speed and as he passes the Beaters he barely flinches. He throws the Quaffle with unbelievable strength and precision, scoring one – two – three times. Failing on his fourth attempt because he had to dodge a rogue Bludger. On his last go he fumbles with the ball and it rebounds off the edge of the bronze hoops instead of soaring through.

And suddenly Marley is gesturing for me to take my turn. Heart pumping in my chest I mount my broom and fly into the air. All of my practised strategies gone from my mind. I take two deep breaths when I reach my desired height and suddenly I'm moving.

I speed through the air, flat against my broom, Quaffle tucked tightly under my arm ready to be released when needed. The wind and the stadium and my thoughts whip by, forgotten as I lose myself in my sheer speed. I focus only on the hoops ahead of me and fake right only to throw in the middle, the Keeper misses by an inch and my heart soars. The next three goals are simple – easy really – they come completely naturally and it's only on the fifth throw that the Keeper predicts my move and saves the goal. I come back to the ground beaming and ready for whatever they throw at me next.

After Ravenclaw scores twice we have a break where the higher-ups have a discussion and us four relax with a glass of water and a juicy apple. Ravenclaw and Cherry talk while McLaggen and I sit in stony silence, trying to obliterate the other with our glares.

The thing about a Quidditch pitch is that it takes away everything that's not to do with the game. All of your complicated shit that goes on behind locked doors, those dare I say it: emotions running through you, they all disappear until all you can focus on is winning and playing to the best of your ability. There's a sort of magic in it that takes away all your problems when you enter and hands them back once you leave, so all you can focus on is what it happening in front of you.

It's the reason my dad and I love it so much. It's an escape from the real world.

Once they finish talking a game begins with both Cherry and McLaggen playing on the reserve team. Neither of them play better than expected and once the allotted twenty minutes is up both McLaggen and I are smiling to ourselves.

The Chaser's consist of me, McLaggen and Potter, which I don't find very amusing as Potter is obviously rooting for his old pal McLaggen. The game goes by quickly with the other team almost always in possession of the Quaffle and I manage to intercept a pass from Hawke and begin speeding toward the goal posts. Two Chasers are ahead of me ready to block my chance and I only just manage to dodge a Bludger when I realise what I have to do to get on the team.

There is no way I can make the shot and I haven't got one in during the whole game so far. McLaggen has gotten in three, but he has also had five chances to pass the Quaffle to me and let me take the shot and he hasn't passed it to me once. So that's how I know what to do next, that's how I know that if I let my competition get the goal, I will get onto the team.

The Quaffle goes to McLaggen and he scores.

The position goes to me and I am on the team.

 

*

 

After a few of well deserved glasses of expensive Champagne later Marley and I sat in his small office in the club house giggling about something or rather. The actual team had only just finished their practise a couple of minutes earlier, but I had not been required to practise too (Marley's excuse to have a good glass of Muggle alcohol). I'm relaxing in one of the chairs in front of Marley's desk, tilting it back and stretching my legs over the wood when the door opens.

“Hey.” says a familiar voice.

My feet come off the desk and there's a snap as the chair legs collide with the ground. I turn to see Potter looking at me, not Marley and then I turn back, alarm in my eyes as Marley stands up, mumbling something about more wine and disappearing through the door that leads him to his cellar.

I gulp. “If you're here to torment me than you are seriously low.” I say, noticing my voice sounds slightly tipsy.

“I'm not here to torment you,” he says softly, taking the seat beside mine and following my gaze out the window and at the pitch.

“Then why are you here?” I sigh, taking in his smell of cologne.

“To say sorry,” he says, leaning back his head to look at the roof. “For what I said yesterday, I was being a real dick. And congratulations for getting on the reserve team. You've got some skills, Wood.”

“You're not so bad yourself,” I comment with a small smile on my face. “Thanks and don't worry about yesterday, I was being a dick too.”

He laughs softly. “Right. So seeing as we're going to be playing Quidditch together do you reckon we might be able to be frie– acquaintances?”

I ponder how I should respond for a couple of seconds, deciding I just wanted to play Quidditch and not worry about anything else during that time. “Sure, I mean it's got to be good for the team, right?”

“Exactly, we can't go on hating each other for the whole season. Maybe the casual insult here and there, it's not like we have to be close … just civil.”

“You have a deal, Potter.” I say, turning to him and giving him a look I can't explain. Our eyes lock and he squints at me.

“Deal.”

He sticks out his hand and we shake on it. I turn back to the window and laugh.

“Oh Merlin, we were just being civil weren't we?” I moan, brushing my fringe away.

“Bloody hell, I think we were!” he exclaims, his voice distasteful.

We both turn to the other and share bewildered looks.

“Excuse me while I Scourgify my hands.” I say, making a show of getting my wand out of my pocket.

“Careful it doesn't backfire there, wouldn't want to make your face worse than it already is,” drawls Potter.

“You are such a moronic brat!” I exclaim, turning to look at him with disgust, but not bothering to clean my hands.

“And you're a cow, we know.” replies Potter smoothly. “You know I'm not so sure this is going to work, Wood. I can already see you checking out my abs.”

“Am not!” I almost yell, tearing my eyes off his shirt. “I was looking with disgust at the Gryffindor emblem!”

“Sure you were,” he says, rolling his eyes with a cocky smile playing on his lips.

“I understand Spencer's sacrifice,” I say, turning and nodding to myself. “Poor girl, imagine having to put up with your ego for more than an hour!”

“Slipping back into tradition, Wood. I though house no longer mattered now that we're out of Hogwarts.”

“House always matters, Potter. Slytherin's hate all the other houses. Hufflepuff's love everyone. Gryffindor's hate us. Ravenclaw's think they're too good for everyone else.” I shrug. “It's how it always been, even after Hogwarts. Why do you think Rose's dad hate Scorpius'?”

“Other than the fact he's a cowardly Death Eater?” he asks sourly. “But that's not how it is any more, Wood. I mean look at your group! Three Slytherin's, four Gryffindor's and a Ravenclaw. It goes completely out of tradition.”

“That's exactly what I mean, it's horrible. The generalization that goes around houses. The stereotyping. It's completely unnecessary, yet we still do it!”

“Wood,” says James, so softly I'm not really sure it came from him. “Have you spoken to Rose?”

“Er–” I say, slightly surprised at the extreme subject change, but it's enough for him to get it.

“I saw her the other day and you would have hated it.” he says sadly, his eyes on the ground. “I don't say this because I care about your friendship, I say this because I care about Rose: I think you need to talk to her.”

A wave of hard cold dread sweeps through me. It's been coming for a long time; this moment. The moment I have to choose between facing up the consequences of my actions or running for hills. The moment I have to choose if I want to be friends with Rose or if she's not worth realising how horrible I truly am. It's that last thought that shakes me and I see that if I'm ever going to grow up I have to face this first.

“OK.”





Authors Note: So, what did you think? Definitely a filler; I know. I wrote it a while ago so I'm not exactly sure what to think any more, but hopefully it was up to standards. What do you think of the ending? Looking forward to the next chapter? - there's lots of Rose and a little bit of Hugo if that helps and it's an extremely big one for Olive's character I think. Anyways.... Review?'s are lovely :D

Preview: 

“You didn't come, Olive.” he says loudly, letting each syllable stab me personally. “She expected you to be here, crying, apologising, begging on your knees for her forgiveness the day after everything was revealed, but you didn't come. I don't think she's going to forgive you this time. You've really messed up now. You've been treading on thin ice for a long time and it's finally starting to crack. She's not going to trust you ever again. You've truly lost all respect she ever had for you.”

Despite his harsh words I completely agree.


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Favorite |Reading List |Currently Reading

<< >>


Review Write a Review
Olive Wood: A Guide to Falling in Love: On Unfortunate Complications, Goalposts and Being Civil

Review

(6000 characters max.) 6000 remaining

Your Name:
Rating:

Prove you are Human:
What is the name of the Harry Potter character seen in the image on the left?


Submit this review and continue reading next chapter.
 

Other Similar Stories

No similar stories found!