Chapter Text
[VIZSLA] And we're back, reporting live from the NFL draft and this is it, folks! The moment we've been waiting for, the Tatooine Raiders are on the clock.
[WOVES] This is, without a doubt the most anticipated pick of the night. The Raiders have been one of the most dominant teams in the league for well over a decade, due in no small part to their veteran quarterback, Obi-Wan Kenobi.
[VIZSLA] While many would call him the greatest of all time, Kenobi is set to start this season at nearly forty years old.
[WOVES] Come on man, give him the extra year, he’ll turn thirty-nine in week four.
[VIZSLA] I said nearly.
[WOVES] Just don’t want to disrespect the man.
[VIZSLA] I understand! And that’s what we’re all curious to see here. Will the Raiders stick by their guy for another season — maybe draft him another target here, there’s a great tight end on the board who could fit nicely into this team—
[WOVES] Or will they do what many have begun to speculate? Are they going to draft a quarterback here? Someone to carry on the legacy once Kenobi retires—
[VIZSLA] Or moves on! We’ve seen it before, Veteran quarterbacks forced out before their time is really up. Maybe Kenobi goes somewhere else?
[WOVES] I don’t know if I could see him in any other uniform—
[BACKGROUND CHIMES]
[VIZSLA] Here we go! The pick is in. Let's all hear what Sheev Palpatine, owner of the Tatooine Raiders, has in store for us.
[PALPATINE] With the twelfth pick in the NFL draft, the Tatooine Raiders proudly select— Anakin Skywalker, Quarterback, Mos Eisley State.
[WOVES] Wow.
[VIZSLA] There it is. Oh, man.
[WOVES] Now, this does not mean Kenobi is out in Tatooine, it just means he has competition. If the Raiders are smart, they’ll stick Skywalker on the bench for a few years, have him learn from the best—
[VIZSLA] Well, from what we know about Skywalker, he’s not going to like that option very much.
[WOVES] True. This kid is wildly talented, took Mos Eisley State to several conference championships, pulled off some truly shocking wins against incredible teams. He’s an impressive playmaker with an enormous arm and on any other team, he might have the starting job in week one.
[VIZSLA] But don’t forget, a lot of talk around Skywalker focuses on his lack of patience and worries about whether he can be a team player.
[WOVES] This football season just got a whole hell of a lot more interesting.
[VIZSLA] You can say that again.
“With the twelfth pick in the NFL draft, the Tatooine Raiders proudly select— Anakin Skywalker, Quarterback—”
A horrible high-pitched whine drowns out Palpatine’s proud voice as Obi-Wan blinks at the television, his elbows on his knees, hands held over his parted lips, trembling ever so slightly.
With unfocused eyes, he watches as a young man with bright eyes and a wide smile practically sprints up onto that stage and hoists a crisp Tatooine Raiders jersey over his head, pointing directly into the camera like he knows he is pointing directly at the man he is meant to replace.
Obi-Wan can’t breathe.
Time’s up, old man.
“Ben?”
Distantly, he knows this isn’t the first time she has whispered his name, her hand gentle on his shoulder, her thumb drawing small circles into the soft fabric of his shirt.
Obi-Wan lets his head fall forward, elbows still on his knees, rough fingers buried in thick auburn hair trying not to think about the silver threads that have started to come in thicker and thicker over the past few seasons. Slowly he finds his breath, trying to concentrate on the delicate fingers dragging soothingly up and down his spine, running through a playbook from eight seasons ago so his mind won’t wander— squeezing his eyes shut harder when all he can think about is which plays would work best for Skywalker.
“Ben. I need you to say something.”
“Mhm.”
“An actual word please, darling.”
“Whiskey.”
“I’m not sure that’s better, but I won't fight you.”
Obi-Wan can’t bring himself to be offended by the small laugh in Satine’s voice, especially when she leans forward in her seat – her touch lingering on his heated skin for as long as possible before she lets go — refilling both of their empty glasses.
“You can have this,” Satine offers, her tone teasingly patronizing, “but you have to come out first.”
“I hardly think my situation would be improved by announcing my fondness for coc— Ow!”
Apparently being publicly replaced by some charismatic child isn’t enough to protect the future hall-of-famer from Satine’s ire, her fist playfully striking him in the shoulder, protesting, “You know that’s not what I meant!” before quickly apologizing for the hardly-brutal blow.
Miraculously, Obi-Wan smiles.
She was definitely the right person to have over tonight.
A bit reluctantly, Obi-Wan comes out of hiding, sitting upright, his fingers running through his graying hair one more time before opening his eyes with a deep and almost regretful sigh.
“Hi,” her voice is soft and curious, offering up his freshly filled glass with an arched eyebrow.
Obi-Wan nods, accepting the heavy crystal tumbler, watching the way the mostly melted sphere of ice swims in a pool of glistening bronze for a few moments before pressing the glass to his lips and letting the intoxicating liquid burn over his tongue, his eyes falling closed for just a moment, concentrating on the sharp sting in his throat.
“Would you—” Satine begins hesitantly, holding her own glass in both hands, facing Obi-Wan with her legs folded beneath her on the couch, her gaze almost painfully soft, “Would you want to talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” he shrugs, collapsing back into the couch and taking another long sip of bourbon, “I knew this was a possibility, I just—I thought—” I thought they would tell me. I thought I would have time to prepare. I thought they would at least give me that much. “—I just— I didn’t expect to be surprised, I suppose.”
“They should have warned you,” Satine agrees like she can hear his thoughts, “I can’t believe Qui-Gon would—”
As if on cue, Obi-Wan’s phone lights up on the coffee table and before he can even think to pick it up, Satine is answering the call for him, standing abruptly and walking toward the kitchen, as if he won’t be able to hear her when she begins to speak, hushed but undeniably aggressive, “This man gives you sixteen years of his life— He gives you five world championships and you can’t even send a fucking head’s up text!?” There’s a pause before she disappears down the hallway, her volume rising with every word, “No, you can’t talk to him! If you’d like to make excuses, Jinn, you can talk to me—”
Three more draft picks have been made and they’re still talking about the great Obi-Wan Kenobi and the legacy that suddenly feels very much in the rearview instead of sprawled out before him like so much open green turf, one perfect throw between him and glory — the screaming crowd silent in his ears as the ball flies through the air to victory or defeat—
Is this really it?
The beginning of the end?
Doomed to fall to a pretty boy with a wicked arm.
A hometown kid drafted by his dream team.
In with Skywalker, out with Kenobi.
On the coffee table, Satine’s phone begins to buzz.
Obi-Wan knows his phone must be lighting up like New Year’s Eve with calls and texts from concerned friends and teammates where it is still clutched in Satine’s perfectly manicured claws—
There is only one person who would know to call Satine.
“I’m fine, Cody.”
His voice is rough and low and he knows he doesn’t sound fine as he holds Satine’s phone to his ear.
“You didn’t answer your phone.”
“That would be because Satine is currently using it to scream at Coach in my kitchen.”
He can still hear her.
“Yeah, that sounds about right.”
There’s a long, horrible pause before Obi-Wan repeats, “I’m fine,” his voice a bit steadier this time around, hoping pointlessly that Cody might just accept the lie and move on.
“Good for you,” he deadpans instead and Obi-Wan can practically see the look on his face.
There’s a certain kind of bond that exists between a quarterback and his center — an unspoken trust that starts on the field and tends to follow you home. Obi-Wan trusts that when he gives the signal, Cody will snap that ball directly into his hands. Obi-Wan trusts that Cody will hold the line and buy him the time he needs to make the play. Obi-Wan trusts Cody—
Obi-Wan trusts Cody.
“I’m— I’m terrified—“ Obi-Wan admits, deciding there’s no point in hiding from the truth, “and so angry.”
“Good.”
“Cody—“
“You should be angry.“
“I don’t think that’s—“
“No, Obi-Wan. You should be angry—“
There’s a long pause on the other end of the phone and his jaw is clenched so tight he should be worried he might crack a tooth.
“—We’re going to war.”
*
“With the twelfth pick in the NFL draft, the Tatooine Raiders proudly select— Anakin Skywalker, Quarterback—”
It takes a moment for the words to register.
The Tatooine Raiders.
Anakin Skywalker.
Quarterback.
Holy.
Fucking.
Shit.
There’s no stilling his feet as he sprints up onto that stage and grabs hold of his destiny.
Anakin has owned dozens of Raiders jerseys in his lifetime — his favorite team since he knew what football was, the only team he’s ever truly wanted to play for.
Hoisting the crisp draft jersey over his head, Anakin tries not to think about the one hanging in a shadowbox in his room — game-worn and signed by his hero.
He tries not to think about the way the man had grinned as he pulled it over his head and handed it to an awkward high school quarterback with a big arm and bigger dreams.
He tries not to think about the empire he's been chosen to topple.
The man he’s destined to replace.
Because this is football.
This is war.
Sorry, Kenobi, he thinks, pointing into the camera with a smile that could power an entire stadium.
You’re in my seat.