Sports Fic: Five Bowl Games ...
Jan. 1st, 2009 05:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
namasteTitle: Five Bowl Games House And Wilson Missed And One They Didn't
Author: Namaste
Summary: House and Wilson have a habit of watching the New Year's bowl games together – most of the time.
"Oh look," Wilson said, "a Michigan team is sucking again.
"Michigan State," House said. He opened the bag and dug down into the dip. "There's a difference."
"Yeah, I guess you're right." Wilson nodded. "After all, Michigan State actually won a few games this year."
Capital One Bowl, 2009
Wilson had just put the standing rib roast in the oven when he heard the rap of wood on wood at the door.
He pulled the door open. House stood in the hallway a moment, his coat half unbuttoned, breathing heavily. He had his left hand braced against the doorway, and his right hand gripped the cane tightly.
"This better be worth it," he said. He steadied himself and finally stepped inside the apartment. "This building isn't cripple friendly."
Wilson waited while House passed through the living room to the couch, dropping heavily onto the cushions. He knew the steps leading to the front door were steep and painful for House. He'd thought about moving ever since he moved in. But Amber had loved the place. If she'd thought about the steps at all, she'd probably thought they'd provide some kind of protection from House.
After she died, Wilson had tried not to think about House at all, but had found himself thinking of the steps as some kind of a moat, and just by being there in Amber's apartment he could pull up the drawbridge and surround himself with her, and keep House out.
But now House was back, and the steps were still there. Wilson told himself that House had managed the stairs when he wanted to – when he was stalking Amber, or when he wanted to prove a point to Wilson.
Someday, Wilson told himself, when he was ready to leave Amber's ghost behind, he'd move again, and when that time came, he'd find someplace without stairs, someplace House could feel at home too. For now, though, all he could do was make the trip up and down the stairs worth it.
He handed House the remote for the plasma TV, then headed for the kitchen. "Trust me," he said.
*****
Rose Bowl, 1995
"Blow 'em off," House said. "You'll have more fun with me."
Wilson looked up at him from his spot on the locker room bench. The new lab coat with his name stitched on the pocket and a PPTH identification card on the collar hung in the locker behind him.
"I just got this job," Wilson said. "I'm not going to blow it in my first month."
"They're not even going to notice," House said. "Everyone else will be out of town or too hung over to care."
Wilson shook his head and leaned down to tie his shoes. House had been the one who told him there was an opening in the oncology department at PPTH, the only bright light he'd seen during that God awful conference. House had told him not to mention his name during the interview, but Wilson had, and had seen the way the department head's eyes had narrowed, and how he'd marked something on Wilson's file.
Wilson had gotten the job anyway, along with a warning that he should keep away from House.
House hadn't given him any choice, had shown up on Wilson's first day, telling him that Wilson owed him lunch.
"After all," he'd said, "if it weren't for me, you'd just be the newest bitch on the cell block."
"Shh." Wilson had looked around the cafeteria, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to House.
When the holiday schedule was posted, Wilson hadn't complained that he'd pulled duty on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.
"Not your holiday," House had said, but then he'd looked to the next week. "New Year's? Who'd you piss off to get stuck with that?"
He'd continued pushing for Wilson to play hooky ever since.
"Rose Bowl," he'd said. "It's tradition."
House had ended up on call on New Year's Eve, and with an emergency call from a guy in kidney failure that kept him there half the night. He was changing into his jeans and a coat when Wilson showed up to start his shift.
"No one's going to die during a bowl game," House said. "They'll never know that you're not there."
Wilson stood and slipped on his lab coat. "I will."
*****
Capital One Bowl, 2009
Wilson checked on the roast, then picked up a potato and started peeling it. He could hear House switching channels one after the other – football, then a commercial, then the end of the Rose Bowl Parade, then football again, then a different bowl game.
"Why not go for the 50 inch screen?" House yelled across the room. "You've got the space."
"You've got a 19-inch piece of crap and you're going to bitch about my 42-inch high def?"
House grunted, changed the channel again. Wilson figured House would settle on a game once the pain level dropped again and he didn't need the distraction.
*****
Orange Bowl, 1998
"You're an idiot."
"So you've mentioned." Wilson put one more file in his briefcase, then snapped it closed.
"You really think you can save your marriage just by hanging out with Bonnie's family on New Year's?" House sat on the edge of Wilson's desk, his arms folded across his chest.
Wilson shrugged. "Maybe," he said. "It won't hurt."
"Sure it will. Heartburn. I've eaten Bonnie's food before, remember?"
"Her mother will be cooking," Wilson said. He hung his lab coat on the rack and put on his suit coat, then grabbed his overcoat.
"Even worse," House said.
Wilson grunted. House was right. Maybe he could eat a sandwich before they left.
"It's a few hours one day out of the year," Wilson said. "It'll make Bonnie happy." He already wished the day was over, though. He'd rather be home, or at House and Stacy's place: football, beer – maybe some music if House was in the mood.
Bonnie's parents' house always felt cold. They'd sit in the formal dining room that was only used on the holidays, and eat dry turkey and mashed potatoes made from a box. Everybody would smile and be polite, and by the time dessert was served, he'd start wishing his beeper would go off.
"It'll be all right," Wilson said, and headed for the door. House followed him, and waited as Wilson turned off the light and locked the door behind him. "I'll survive."
House studied him for a moment. "You sure?"
*****
Capital One Bowl, 2009
House finally settled on the outdoor hockey game from Chicago. Wilson heard the announcers talk about how they'd built the rink at Wrigley Field, and listed the temperature and wind chill as the Blackhawks and Red Wings headed out to the ice.
House turned up the volume and the opening notes of "Oh Canada" boomed off the walls.
"Hey," Wilson poked his head back into the living room. "Turn it back down. I don't want to piss off my neighbors."
"I just wanted you to feel at home. Not like McGill is playing any bowl games today."
"Neither is Michigan."
*****
Sugar Bowl, 2000
By the time House let Stacy call Wilson, he was lightheaded and dizzy. He could barely stand, and he leaned heavily against Wilson on their way out to the car. Blood was already beginning to show through the towel wrapped tightly around House's forearm.
"Stupid," House muttered, as Stacy buckled the seat belt around him.
He propped his arm up against the window to try and slow the bleeding as Wilson walked around to the driver's side. Stacy hesitated for a moment.
"You don't have to come, if you don't want to," Wilson said. "This shouldn't take long." He saw House shake his head slightly, and Wilson got in the car and started the ignition. Stacy finally stepped back from the car, gave them a slight wave and headed back inside.
House let Wilson take the lead in the emergency room. They'd left his cane at home in the confusion, and he'd slid into the wheelchair without complaining. Wilson checked his complacency off on his list of symptoms of blood loss.
House lay back against the bed as they checked his blood pressure and pulse, as they started an IV to improve his blood volume and started stitching together the ragged cut that paralleled the radius. Wilson offered to do it himself, but House just shook his head and stared up at the ceiling and let his eyes close.
"He fell," Wilson said, noting the level of coumadin that House had been taking since the infarction as a precaution, and the glass that broke beneath him when he hit the floor.
It was relatively quiet in the ER, the lull in the rush between the New Year's Eve drunks and the New Year's Day dinner fights. There was a TV somewhere nearby, and Wilson heard the rhythm of sports announcers, but couldn't quite make out enough details to know what game was on.
House still had his eyes closed, but Wilson could tell from his breathing that he wasn't asleep.
"How are you doing?" Wilson asked.
House rolled his head toward him, and opened his eyes. "Don't know why I expected anything to change just because it's a new year," he said. "Still sucks."
*****
Capital One Bowl, 2009
Wilson had the potatoes ready to go, and the broccoli was washed and cut, ready to be steamed once the roast was done. He turned off the overhead light, grabbed two beers and the chips and seven-layer dip he'd made earlier.
He passed one beer to House and sat next to him. House tossed the remote onto the coffee table. He checked the score at the top of the screen: Georgia 3, Michigan State 0.
"Oh look," Wilson said, "a Michigan team is sucking again.
"Michigan State," House said. He opened the bag and dug down into the dip. "There's a difference."
"Yeah, I guess you're right." Wilson nodded. "After all, Michigan State actually won a few games this year."
*****
Gator Bowl, 2002
"Who goes on their honeymoon on New Year's Day?" House asked.
"People who get married on New Year's Eve." Wilson looked at himself in the mirror and straightened his tie. He and Julie had agreed to keep everything small. There were just a few people gathered in the living room of her parents house – mostly her friends and family, but his parents were there, his brother and his wife, and House had agreed to be the best man.
"Only because I get to make the toast," he'd said. Wilson had been trying, unsuccessfully, to avoid thinking about what House would say ever since.
"Your flight's not until six o'clock," House said. "You can still catch part of the game first."
"Who says that Julie and I can't figure out more fun and interesting ways to spend a few hours than watching a game with you?" Wilson raised his eyebrows twice.
"Visiting dying kids isn't what anyone would call fun."
Wilson sighed, turned back to the mirror, pushed his hair back from his forehead. He could see House behind him. House had put on a tie, and worn the shirt that Wilson had ironed for him yesterday, but his shoulders were slumped, and the suit coat seemed to hang off of him. Wilson wondered what House would do while he was gone, then realized that he'd been there, been within reach for House ever since Stacy left.
This time, House would be alone – for the first time in years.
"You got your prescription refilled, right?" Wilson asked.
"Like I'd forget that."
House moved across the room, out away from the borders of the mirror frame. Wilson heard the rattle of the pill bottle, and turned in time to see House swallow one down.
"You really want to do me a favor, bring me back something good from your honeymoon," House said.
"Like what?"
"You're going to Jamaica," House said. "You have to ask?"
*****
Capital One Bowl, 2009
"This game sucks," House said. He swallowed down the last of his beer. "Three lousy field goals through the first half?"
"It's a defensive battle," Wilson said.
"The only thing that's interesting is seeing the number of different ways that two teams can fumble one football." House picked up the remote and flipped the TV back to the hockey game just in time to see the Chicago and Detroit teams piling up on each other in a fight in front of a goal.
"Now this," he said, "is interesting."
"And your team's losing," Wilson pointed out.
"I'd rather lose than be bored."
Wilson grabbed House's empty bottle and his own and headed back into the kitchen. "If you'd put money on Michigan State, maybe you'd be more interested in the game," he said.
"I'm not that desperate."
"Twenty bucks," Wilson said. "It'll help to pass the time until the roast is ready."
"How long will that be?"
Wilson checked his watch. "A couple of hours."
House picked up the remote and switched it back to the bowl game. He took a look at the score – still 6-3, with Michigan State in the lead. He took a handful of chips and sank one into the dip. "Better make it forty."
*****
Outback Bowl, 2007
Wilson told himself he'd done the right thing. Any substance abuse counselor would have told him that too – that he couldn't help House, if House wasn't willing to help himself. But in the days after Christmas, he'd laid awake at night, unable to see anything but House's face in his mind, House's body on the floor.
He spent New Year's Eve alone in his hotel room, a bottle of Johnnie Walker on his table, two fingers of the whiskey in a glass. He'd finally swallowed it down all at once as the TV screen showed the ball dropping in Times Square, then turned off the lights and went to bed.
He'd thought about buying a cornish hen that would fit in the room's small oven, and thought about making a warm spinach salad and roasted sweet potatoes. But somehow he couldn't make himself care enough to make it to the store.
He stayed in bed through half the morning, rousing himself only long enough to read the paper and make some coffee.
The bowl games had already started by the time Wilson managed enough energy to shower and get dressed, and he tried not to think about what House would have said about the punt return that Penn State made in the second quarter.
When the pizza delivery guy showed up in the fourth quarter, he peered over Wilson's shoulder at the TV.
"Who's winning?" he asked.
Wilson shrugged and handed the guy a twenty. "Does it matter?"
*****
Capital One Bowl, 2009
"Now what's wrong?"
Wilson tossed the dish towel onto the counter, and took a seat on the couch again.
House had his hands over his eyes. On the screen, Georgia had just scored another touchdown. Wilson glanced at the score. Georgia was leading 17-6.
"The Big Ten sucks," House said.
"That's not exactly news, is it?"
"And you're trying to take advantage of a starving cripple by forcing me into a lousy bet."
"Right," Wilson said. "I've been pulling strings with the NCAA all year, just to arrange this moment in time for a lousy forty bucks."
He sat next to House. Michigan State took possession of the ball on their own 30-yard line. On the first play, their quarterback threw another incomplete pass.
"I hope you have more beer," House said, draining his bottle.
"Got some wine to go with dinner," Wilson said.
House glared at him.
Wilson rolled his eyes. "There's more beer in the fridge," he said. "Help yourself."
Michigan State scored four plays later, and Wilson watched House as he watched the Spartans decided to go for a two point conversion. House's eyes followed the ball as it snapped to the quarterback, then flew through the air into the end zone. It went high and sailed out of bonds. House shook his head and opened his beer.
"The Big Ten sucks," he said again.
Georgia took possession again, started the slow march down the field. Wilson let out a cheer when Georgia slid into the end zone, the score climbing in his favor 24-12.
"Hope you've got cash on hand," he said.
"Don't you trust me?"
Wilson looked at him. "Tens or twenties would be good."
House leaned to one side, and pulled out his wallet. "There are other games, you know," he said. He tossed two twenties on the table. "You could take the money and run, or -- " he put two more twenties on the table, "you could let it ride."
Wilson grinned. The roast would be ready soon – just in time for the start of the Rose Bowl. "You know," he said, "I'm feeling good about USC."
House leaned back and put his feet up on the table. "You'll be sorry."
Wilson put his own feet up next to House's. "You know," he said, "I really don't think so."
Author: Namaste
Summary: House and Wilson have a habit of watching the New Year's bowl games together – most of the time.
"Oh look," Wilson said, "a Michigan team is sucking again.
"Michigan State," House said. He opened the bag and dug down into the dip. "There's a difference."
"Yeah, I guess you're right." Wilson nodded. "After all, Michigan State actually won a few games this year."
Capital One Bowl, 2009
Wilson had just put the standing rib roast in the oven when he heard the rap of wood on wood at the door.
He pulled the door open. House stood in the hallway a moment, his coat half unbuttoned, breathing heavily. He had his left hand braced against the doorway, and his right hand gripped the cane tightly.
"This better be worth it," he said. He steadied himself and finally stepped inside the apartment. "This building isn't cripple friendly."
Wilson waited while House passed through the living room to the couch, dropping heavily onto the cushions. He knew the steps leading to the front door were steep and painful for House. He'd thought about moving ever since he moved in. But Amber had loved the place. If she'd thought about the steps at all, she'd probably thought they'd provide some kind of protection from House.
After she died, Wilson had tried not to think about House at all, but had found himself thinking of the steps as some kind of a moat, and just by being there in Amber's apartment he could pull up the drawbridge and surround himself with her, and keep House out.
But now House was back, and the steps were still there. Wilson told himself that House had managed the stairs when he wanted to – when he was stalking Amber, or when he wanted to prove a point to Wilson.
Someday, Wilson told himself, when he was ready to leave Amber's ghost behind, he'd move again, and when that time came, he'd find someplace without stairs, someplace House could feel at home too. For now, though, all he could do was make the trip up and down the stairs worth it.
He handed House the remote for the plasma TV, then headed for the kitchen. "Trust me," he said.
*****
Rose Bowl, 1995
"Blow 'em off," House said. "You'll have more fun with me."
Wilson looked up at him from his spot on the locker room bench. The new lab coat with his name stitched on the pocket and a PPTH identification card on the collar hung in the locker behind him.
"I just got this job," Wilson said. "I'm not going to blow it in my first month."
"They're not even going to notice," House said. "Everyone else will be out of town or too hung over to care."
Wilson shook his head and leaned down to tie his shoes. House had been the one who told him there was an opening in the oncology department at PPTH, the only bright light he'd seen during that God awful conference. House had told him not to mention his name during the interview, but Wilson had, and had seen the way the department head's eyes had narrowed, and how he'd marked something on Wilson's file.
Wilson had gotten the job anyway, along with a warning that he should keep away from House.
House hadn't given him any choice, had shown up on Wilson's first day, telling him that Wilson owed him lunch.
"After all," he'd said, "if it weren't for me, you'd just be the newest bitch on the cell block."
"Shh." Wilson had looked around the cafeteria, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to House.
When the holiday schedule was posted, Wilson hadn't complained that he'd pulled duty on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.
"Not your holiday," House had said, but then he'd looked to the next week. "New Year's? Who'd you piss off to get stuck with that?"
He'd continued pushing for Wilson to play hooky ever since.
"Rose Bowl," he'd said. "It's tradition."
House had ended up on call on New Year's Eve, and with an emergency call from a guy in kidney failure that kept him there half the night. He was changing into his jeans and a coat when Wilson showed up to start his shift.
"No one's going to die during a bowl game," House said. "They'll never know that you're not there."
Wilson stood and slipped on his lab coat. "I will."
*****
Capital One Bowl, 2009
Wilson checked on the roast, then picked up a potato and started peeling it. He could hear House switching channels one after the other – football, then a commercial, then the end of the Rose Bowl Parade, then football again, then a different bowl game.
"Why not go for the 50 inch screen?" House yelled across the room. "You've got the space."
"You've got a 19-inch piece of crap and you're going to bitch about my 42-inch high def?"
House grunted, changed the channel again. Wilson figured House would settle on a game once the pain level dropped again and he didn't need the distraction.
*****
Orange Bowl, 1998
"You're an idiot."
"So you've mentioned." Wilson put one more file in his briefcase, then snapped it closed.
"You really think you can save your marriage just by hanging out with Bonnie's family on New Year's?" House sat on the edge of Wilson's desk, his arms folded across his chest.
Wilson shrugged. "Maybe," he said. "It won't hurt."
"Sure it will. Heartburn. I've eaten Bonnie's food before, remember?"
"Her mother will be cooking," Wilson said. He hung his lab coat on the rack and put on his suit coat, then grabbed his overcoat.
"Even worse," House said.
Wilson grunted. House was right. Maybe he could eat a sandwich before they left.
"It's a few hours one day out of the year," Wilson said. "It'll make Bonnie happy." He already wished the day was over, though. He'd rather be home, or at House and Stacy's place: football, beer – maybe some music if House was in the mood.
Bonnie's parents' house always felt cold. They'd sit in the formal dining room that was only used on the holidays, and eat dry turkey and mashed potatoes made from a box. Everybody would smile and be polite, and by the time dessert was served, he'd start wishing his beeper would go off.
"It'll be all right," Wilson said, and headed for the door. House followed him, and waited as Wilson turned off the light and locked the door behind him. "I'll survive."
House studied him for a moment. "You sure?"
*****
Capital One Bowl, 2009
House finally settled on the outdoor hockey game from Chicago. Wilson heard the announcers talk about how they'd built the rink at Wrigley Field, and listed the temperature and wind chill as the Blackhawks and Red Wings headed out to the ice.
House turned up the volume and the opening notes of "Oh Canada" boomed off the walls.
"Hey," Wilson poked his head back into the living room. "Turn it back down. I don't want to piss off my neighbors."
"I just wanted you to feel at home. Not like McGill is playing any bowl games today."
"Neither is Michigan."
*****
Sugar Bowl, 2000
By the time House let Stacy call Wilson, he was lightheaded and dizzy. He could barely stand, and he leaned heavily against Wilson on their way out to the car. Blood was already beginning to show through the towel wrapped tightly around House's forearm.
"Stupid," House muttered, as Stacy buckled the seat belt around him.
He propped his arm up against the window to try and slow the bleeding as Wilson walked around to the driver's side. Stacy hesitated for a moment.
"You don't have to come, if you don't want to," Wilson said. "This shouldn't take long." He saw House shake his head slightly, and Wilson got in the car and started the ignition. Stacy finally stepped back from the car, gave them a slight wave and headed back inside.
House let Wilson take the lead in the emergency room. They'd left his cane at home in the confusion, and he'd slid into the wheelchair without complaining. Wilson checked his complacency off on his list of symptoms of blood loss.
House lay back against the bed as they checked his blood pressure and pulse, as they started an IV to improve his blood volume and started stitching together the ragged cut that paralleled the radius. Wilson offered to do it himself, but House just shook his head and stared up at the ceiling and let his eyes close.
"He fell," Wilson said, noting the level of coumadin that House had been taking since the infarction as a precaution, and the glass that broke beneath him when he hit the floor.
It was relatively quiet in the ER, the lull in the rush between the New Year's Eve drunks and the New Year's Day dinner fights. There was a TV somewhere nearby, and Wilson heard the rhythm of sports announcers, but couldn't quite make out enough details to know what game was on.
House still had his eyes closed, but Wilson could tell from his breathing that he wasn't asleep.
"How are you doing?" Wilson asked.
House rolled his head toward him, and opened his eyes. "Don't know why I expected anything to change just because it's a new year," he said. "Still sucks."
*****
Capital One Bowl, 2009
Wilson had the potatoes ready to go, and the broccoli was washed and cut, ready to be steamed once the roast was done. He turned off the overhead light, grabbed two beers and the chips and seven-layer dip he'd made earlier.
He passed one beer to House and sat next to him. House tossed the remote onto the coffee table. He checked the score at the top of the screen: Georgia 3, Michigan State 0.
"Oh look," Wilson said, "a Michigan team is sucking again.
"Michigan State," House said. He opened the bag and dug down into the dip. "There's a difference."
"Yeah, I guess you're right." Wilson nodded. "After all, Michigan State actually won a few games this year."
*****
Gator Bowl, 2002
"Who goes on their honeymoon on New Year's Day?" House asked.
"People who get married on New Year's Eve." Wilson looked at himself in the mirror and straightened his tie. He and Julie had agreed to keep everything small. There were just a few people gathered in the living room of her parents house – mostly her friends and family, but his parents were there, his brother and his wife, and House had agreed to be the best man.
"Only because I get to make the toast," he'd said. Wilson had been trying, unsuccessfully, to avoid thinking about what House would say ever since.
"Your flight's not until six o'clock," House said. "You can still catch part of the game first."
"Who says that Julie and I can't figure out more fun and interesting ways to spend a few hours than watching a game with you?" Wilson raised his eyebrows twice.
"Visiting dying kids isn't what anyone would call fun."
Wilson sighed, turned back to the mirror, pushed his hair back from his forehead. He could see House behind him. House had put on a tie, and worn the shirt that Wilson had ironed for him yesterday, but his shoulders were slumped, and the suit coat seemed to hang off of him. Wilson wondered what House would do while he was gone, then realized that he'd been there, been within reach for House ever since Stacy left.
This time, House would be alone – for the first time in years.
"You got your prescription refilled, right?" Wilson asked.
"Like I'd forget that."
House moved across the room, out away from the borders of the mirror frame. Wilson heard the rattle of the pill bottle, and turned in time to see House swallow one down.
"You really want to do me a favor, bring me back something good from your honeymoon," House said.
"Like what?"
"You're going to Jamaica," House said. "You have to ask?"
*****
Capital One Bowl, 2009
"This game sucks," House said. He swallowed down the last of his beer. "Three lousy field goals through the first half?"
"It's a defensive battle," Wilson said.
"The only thing that's interesting is seeing the number of different ways that two teams can fumble one football." House picked up the remote and flipped the TV back to the hockey game just in time to see the Chicago and Detroit teams piling up on each other in a fight in front of a goal.
"Now this," he said, "is interesting."
"And your team's losing," Wilson pointed out.
"I'd rather lose than be bored."
Wilson grabbed House's empty bottle and his own and headed back into the kitchen. "If you'd put money on Michigan State, maybe you'd be more interested in the game," he said.
"I'm not that desperate."
"Twenty bucks," Wilson said. "It'll help to pass the time until the roast is ready."
"How long will that be?"
Wilson checked his watch. "A couple of hours."
House picked up the remote and switched it back to the bowl game. He took a look at the score – still 6-3, with Michigan State in the lead. He took a handful of chips and sank one into the dip. "Better make it forty."
*****
Outback Bowl, 2007
Wilson told himself he'd done the right thing. Any substance abuse counselor would have told him that too – that he couldn't help House, if House wasn't willing to help himself. But in the days after Christmas, he'd laid awake at night, unable to see anything but House's face in his mind, House's body on the floor.
He spent New Year's Eve alone in his hotel room, a bottle of Johnnie Walker on his table, two fingers of the whiskey in a glass. He'd finally swallowed it down all at once as the TV screen showed the ball dropping in Times Square, then turned off the lights and went to bed.
He'd thought about buying a cornish hen that would fit in the room's small oven, and thought about making a warm spinach salad and roasted sweet potatoes. But somehow he couldn't make himself care enough to make it to the store.
He stayed in bed through half the morning, rousing himself only long enough to read the paper and make some coffee.
The bowl games had already started by the time Wilson managed enough energy to shower and get dressed, and he tried not to think about what House would have said about the punt return that Penn State made in the second quarter.
When the pizza delivery guy showed up in the fourth quarter, he peered over Wilson's shoulder at the TV.
"Who's winning?" he asked.
Wilson shrugged and handed the guy a twenty. "Does it matter?"
*****
Capital One Bowl, 2009
"Now what's wrong?"
Wilson tossed the dish towel onto the counter, and took a seat on the couch again.
House had his hands over his eyes. On the screen, Georgia had just scored another touchdown. Wilson glanced at the score. Georgia was leading 17-6.
"The Big Ten sucks," House said.
"That's not exactly news, is it?"
"And you're trying to take advantage of a starving cripple by forcing me into a lousy bet."
"Right," Wilson said. "I've been pulling strings with the NCAA all year, just to arrange this moment in time for a lousy forty bucks."
He sat next to House. Michigan State took possession of the ball on their own 30-yard line. On the first play, their quarterback threw another incomplete pass.
"I hope you have more beer," House said, draining his bottle.
"Got some wine to go with dinner," Wilson said.
House glared at him.
Wilson rolled his eyes. "There's more beer in the fridge," he said. "Help yourself."
Michigan State scored four plays later, and Wilson watched House as he watched the Spartans decided to go for a two point conversion. House's eyes followed the ball as it snapped to the quarterback, then flew through the air into the end zone. It went high and sailed out of bonds. House shook his head and opened his beer.
"The Big Ten sucks," he said again.
Georgia took possession again, started the slow march down the field. Wilson let out a cheer when Georgia slid into the end zone, the score climbing in his favor 24-12.
"Hope you've got cash on hand," he said.
"Don't you trust me?"
Wilson looked at him. "Tens or twenties would be good."
House leaned to one side, and pulled out his wallet. "There are other games, you know," he said. He tossed two twenties on the table. "You could take the money and run, or -- " he put two more twenties on the table, "you could let it ride."
Wilson grinned. The roast would be ready soon – just in time for the start of the Rose Bowl. "You know," he said, "I'm feeling good about USC."
House leaned back and put his feet up on the table. "You'll be sorry."
Wilson put his own feet up next to House's. "You know," he said, "I really don't think so."