2025-01-12 - Sunday Shootaround

The weather is cool but the sun is bright and golden in the sky-- it's a good day to be outside. The telltale sounds of occupation tell anyone nearby that there's a player or two on the basketball court: squeaking rubber soles, the thudding bounce of the rubber ball, the occasional thunk of a ball hitting the backboard and a more regular swish of the same ball dropping through the silken cords of the net.

Brandon O'Donnell is outside shooting after his morning run, having already worked up a decent sweat. In his favorite grey Notre Dame hoodie and a pair of navy running shorts, he's working on up-fakes, pivots, turnarounds and fadeaways. Not for any serious reason, really, just for fun. He's not bad, but there's a hitch or two in his shooting form that says he's hardly a polished player either.

Nearby, his phone and a portable JBL-4 bluetooth speaker are working together to play a shuffle of recent upbeat, guitar-based tunes.

Alan has been out for a run, himself, and is passing by the court when he notices Brandon shooting hoops and drifts in to cool down, stretching a bit as he pauses and takes a long hit off of his water bottle before saying, "Fancy moves there, O'Donnell," in a lazily amused tone. "Gonna go out for the Globe Trotters if this stint as a knight doesn't work out?" He's very clearly just teasing, seeming in a good mood for being up at this hour. He'd worked a long night at the club the night before but seems to be doing fine regardless.

He's in a pair of black joggers with a dark green fleece over them and whatever else he's got beneath that. His running shoes look like they've seen a few miles of road.

Laughing as he hears his name and the good-natured ribbing, Brandon turns and slams the basketball into the court for a single, hard pound of unbridled enthusiasm. "Dude!" He uses the word as an exclamation point more than a greeting. "This is INSANE. I'm fucking WOLVERINE. Look at this!"

Inexplicably, Brandon pulls his hoodie off over his head and rolls up the left sleeve of his t-shirt. On his bicep there's a tattoo and... well, nothing really.

"Look at my bruise," he says excitedly, an amazed look in his blue eyes. But there is no bruise.

Alan wanders over, hands slipping into the pockets of his fleece as Brandon declares his superhero status. One brow raises curiously, a smile tugging at his lips. "Oh yeah?" And then Brandon's pulling off his hoodie and he asks, "Are we about to get a Deadpool and Wolverine moment here? Does that make me Deadpool?"

He looks down at the tattoo and says, "Brandon, I'm going to say this in the most gentle way possible but.. that's a tattoo."

"No, no, that's totally the point," Brandon says in a rush, at pains to explain something he's clearly struggling to actually... you know.. explain. "There's supposed to be a bruise here. Drea dumped me hard yesterday, I was sure it was broken so I went to the clinic and the nurse says it's bruised and sends me home and I wake up and it's gone so I go for my run and--"

He pauses for breath, aware he's prattling on stream-of-consciousness like some kid who just saw Superman flying overhead.

Deep breath. Another.

Then: "I went for a run this morning. Saw the nurse in the courtyard, I guess she lives here somewhere. Showed her the bruise and she fucking punches me... it came back a little and then it faded. Already. Do you have this too? Are you Deadpool? This is insane."

Alan stares at the arm for a few seconds longer as though trying to see what it is that he's not seeing and then studies Brandon, letting him get it all out. "What are you saying to these women that they are dumping and punching you? Like, what does it take to get a NURSE to punch you, man?" He asks it with a straight face, but he struggles for a moment before the grin that indicates he's totally fucking with Brandon spreads over his features.

"So you have super healing?" he asks. "That's pretty cool. Definitely one of the better abilities I've heard of." Then he laughs and shakes his head, "No, technically I'm more Wolverine than Deadpool but for different reasons." He takes his hands out of his pockets and extends his hands where his nails suddenly grow and turn into long, wicked looking black claws that certainly do complete the look with his sharp teeth and horns. "Not quite adamantium though."

Enjoying the ribbing still, Brandon emits a low whistle as Alan demonstrates just what he can do with those nails. The singer's eyes pop a little bit, but he's maybe-- just maybe-- a little more accepting of these changes in others than he is in himself.

"Damn. So maybe between the two of us, we make one Wolverine?"

Grinning, he runs a hand through his already-messy hair with an aw-shucks kind of look. "The punch was strictly a medical necessity. Took me by surprise but she did it to test the... healing factor? Yeah. That's easier to say than 'regeneration'," he decides out loud. "No dumping. I mean, she's cute. Blonde. Norwegian. But I've sort of got a date tonight, I'm not the kind of guy who can just... you know..."

He shrugs his shoulders, the silent question apparent but unspoken.

Alan laughs at that conclusion and says, "Sure. I think you got the better half of that deal." He curls and uncurls his fingers a few times and the claws seem to melt away again, returning his hands to their normal state, with normal, blunted trimmed nails. He slips his hands back into his pockets, that demonstration over.

"I'm gonna argue that it wasn't strictly medically necessary, but scientifically significant, perhaps," Alan teases but then he nods and says. "Well, I think it's cool. Probably will help given your occupation. Faster recovery time and all." So it's practical as well as magical!

"Yeah, I remember Drea, from the beach a couple of nights ago," Alan chuckles. Both brows raise just a little. "Just.. you know?" Then he slips his hands free and holds them out palms forward, "No judgment from me of all people. Going out with the girl you got the good seats for? I take it that worked as intended?"

Brandon pulls his hoodie back on as Alan talks, listening but fidgeting the slightest bit-- still bouncing on his heels, still full of nervous energy. "Yeah," he admits, "The same girl. She hasn't been to a show yet, but she does want to come. I..."

He trails off, shaking his head with a sheepish smile on his face. "I don't know, man, I just mean if I'm thinking about her I can't go chasing other girls. My head doesn't work like that. Jason-- one of my old friends, sorry-- he used to tell me I shouldn't limit myself." A snort for that. "But if I wanted that life my band would've been Motley Crue two-dot-oh, not The fucking Silvertones, you know?"

Alan holds his hands out for the ball as Brandon bounces a little bit with that nervous energy. Now that he no longer has claws to grab it with, that is. He can't help but grin amusedly as Brandon stops and starts. "Good for you. Hope you have a great time."

"Eh, Jason needs to mind his business and worry about himself," is Alan's opinion on that. "You do you."

Once he has the ball, he bounces it a few times before trying to shoot it into the net and misses. Yeah, no pro ball for Alan. He manages to actually get it near the net, but definitely not into it, before he jogs over to grab the ball and bring it back.

Brandon laughs, happy to accept the validation for his rather-less-hedonistic take on dating than the rockstar archetype might have suggested. Floating out toward the three-point line, he claps his hands once and opens them up to call for a pass, knees slightly couched in a ready stance.

"You actually met her," he calls to Alan across the court. "That night at the tiki bar."

Beat.

"The girl I ran away from," Brandon finally admits, flushing as he waits for the pass-- and can't hold the laughter in at that.

Alan passes the ball back to Brandon, who clearly has more skill than he on the court. Fortunately he's got better aim for getting it over to him than he did for the basket. "Oh, wait, the other blonde, the one that came up right before I had to go back to work?" He hadn't caught her name.

Then he laughs a little and says, "Guess she caught you after all."

He takes a couple of steps back and lets Brandon perform whatever fancy maneuvers he's going to before he takes his shot.

Nothing fancy, just a jump shot. Gather the pass in, rise up on the balls of your feet, extension straight into the air-- feel it through your legs, up to the release, for once it's clean-- and nothing but net. Swish. Brandon gives a little shrug and a disbelieving chuckle as he settles back down on the earth, letting the ball bounce under the hoop as he starts back toward Alan. His little brother's a much better hoops player.

He makes a face, giving Alan a yeah, right sort of look. "You think she was trying? No way." He seems unwilling to buy it. "Want me to introduce you to that nurse?"

Alan wanders over to collect the ball from where it's bouncing on the ground and picks it up, dribbling it a bit, passing it from hand to hand. He manage that much without losing hold of it as Brandon comes back over. "No?" Alan laughs. "Then how did you end up going on a date? If you were running away? Or dost thou protest too much?"

Both brows go up when Brandon offers to introduce him to the nurse and he says, "What? Do I look like I need to get punched? What'd I do?"

Brandon laughs at the question, shrugging his shoulders again with another of those annoyingly-innocent Midwestern expressions that can't possibly be completely on the level. "Just offering, my man," he replies, nodding toward the hoop with a bob of his head.

"I went out to walk the beach," he explains as he urges Alan out on the court to try another shot, all positive vibes. "She must've done the same thing. We wound up talking for... well, a long time. Just talking. It's been a while. Anyway. It was really nice. Although now you and I are both Wolverines," he adds with a smirk, changing the subject before it gets too personal, "so who the fuck knows anything, right?"

Alan gives the ball a toss at the nod of Brandon's head and this time it does actually go into the basket which seems as much a surprise to Alan as anything else. He then goes over to retrieve it and pass it back to Brandon. One bounce, two, and then he sends it over his way. "I appreciate the thought," he laughs.

He hangs back as Brandon tells the story of the walk on the beach, grinning a little. "Romantic," he comments, then smirks slightly. "It's alright to get all twitterpated. I won't tell." He flashes another one of those amused smiles. "I've got fucking horns and fangs, man." He gestures at his head and his face, "It's whatever, here."

Oof. That Disney word. Brandon winces visibly at the sound of it. "My Grandma used to use that word," he grunts, looking distinctly sour-faced. "That-- that word. I can't even say it. Disney, man." He gives no explanation, only jogging over toward the basket and picking up the ball, which he one-hops over to Alan with a basic bounce pass. The rhythms of sport relax him, give him energy, give the nerves he hasn't felt in what...? Six years? Give them a place to go.

"Shooter's got to keep on shooting. Put it up, man. You got it!"

Alan laughs, having chosen that word specifically for it's wince-factor. Mission accomplished. And then the ball is being passed back to him for another shot, so he takes it. And this one's even cleaner than the last one. "Maybe if the game just involved standing still and shooting baskets I'd have a place in basketball," he observes idly before going to retrieve the ball. He comes back, bouncing it lightly. "Fine, we shall never speak of that word again. But I do expect the tea on how the date went afterward."

"If I come back late and hit the Scotch hard, assume it went poorly," Brandon laughs again. "Nice one!" Rolling his neck out, his mood still high and his eyes sparkling, he adds, "But anything else should be a good sign. Hey, when's your next gig? Some of that trancey stuff you were spinning last week was really cool."

Alan goes for a third shot, since he seems to be on a roll, but this one just hits rim and tips off the edge, and so after he goes to retrieve it, he bounces it back in Brandon's direction. "Noted," he says, of the potential Scotch signal. As for his next gig? "I work Thursday through Sunday nights, ten hour shifts." It's not a bad gig, four days on, three days off. Though which days sometimes rotate depending on what the club needs and the time off that other DJs might want.