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Message-ID: <40123asstr$1041073802@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Rev. Cotton Mather" <revcottonmather@hotmail.com>
Mime-Version: 1.0
Subject: {ASSM} Playing the Game II: Playing to Win, Ch. 25 (mf rom)
Date: Sat, 28 Dec 2002 06:10:02 -0500
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Happy holidays to all.  May the new year ring brightly for everone.




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Welcome to the Church of The Reverend Cotton Mather. This story is
the sole property of the author, and may not be copied or downloaded
for the intent of profit. Permission is freely given for anyone to
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(Copyright 2002, Rev. Cotton Mather)

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PLAYING TO WIN:
PLAYING THE GAME, BOOK II


by Reverend Cotton Mather




- 25 -

A BETTER KISS



Monday was a really good day.  My mom took the morning off from work
again, and I took the morning off from school, and we went to the
doctor's office to have all my stitches taken out.  After examining
my various healing wounds, the doctor pronounced me as progressing
nicely, and he removed almost all restrictions from activities.  He
did caution me that my ribs would still need a lot of time, and he
told me not to go into the weight room and stress my arm for a couple
more weeks.  On the other hand, he also told me that he didn't need
to see me again, unless a problem cropped up, giving me pretty much a
clean bill of health.

I was at school by lunchtime, and I slid into my customary seat next
to Luscious, who was happy to take my hand and hold it in her lap, as
usual.  I quickly got caught up on the main topic of gossip for that
morning, which was the temporary return of Jilly Del Toro to school.
Dr. Osgood, apparently having been tipped off to the return of Jilly,
was standing at the main entrance, waiting for him, and he hustled
Del Toro into his office as he entered school.  There was a lot of
speculation about what Jilly's fate at school would be, especially
when it was learned that his mother was called in to speak to Dr.
Osgood, too, but the smart money was on the prospect of him being
assigned to "Outreach Alternative Learning", our education board's
euphemism for reform school.

The other members of his little band of outlaws, Joey Amonte, Harold
Barnes, Vinnie Arilio, and Pammy Lipschutz, were all staying after
school each and every night for detention, in an open-ended sentence
that was agreed upon by both the school administration and each kid's
parents.  They were watched over in one of the study hall rooms by
Miss Gladys Epstein, a tough, no-nonsense, battleship of a
schoolteacher who brooked absolutely no nonsense under her watch.
Miss Epstein stood over each of them in turn, looking over their
shoulders as they hunched down and did schoolwork.  If, either
through a lenient teacher or through some attempt at deception, any
of them claimed not to have any schoolwork to do, Miss Epstein, a
member of our high school's English Department for over 35 years,
assigned her own work to do.  The first time she did this, it was
reported, Vinnie protested, threatening to go to Dr. Osgood to
complain.  The next day at detention, Dr. Osgood, himself a former
history teacher, was in attendance with Miss Epstein, and supported
her intent to keep the miscreants busy through additional
assignments, by giving each of them a history project they had to do
for him, in addition to their regular homework and the work assigned
by Miss Epstein.

If nothing else, Miss Epstein was bound and determined to teach the
rascals something in an intellectual capacity before they left her
sphere of influence, according to kids who had to suffer a day or two
in the same detention room as the Bulls, even if it meant having the
four of them in the room with her five days a week, until the end of
the school year.  The mere prospect of enduring Miss Epstein's
detention room for the foreseeable future was enough, according to
the rumors floating about, to make at least Harold and Pammy consider
dropping out of school altogether.

The other interesting topic of conversation concerned the article
that Matthew Hartigan wrote for our local paper.  The top headline of
the sports section read "Bears Extend Streak to 12-0", not a
particularly surprising headline about the soccer team.  What
disconcerted me, however, was the sub-head, just below the headline
and in slightly smaller type, but still large: "Porter Injured; Sits
Out Game".

Jesus H. Freakin' Christ, I thought to myself.  Why was the fact
that I sat out a game so newsworthy?

The article started out: "The Bears soccer team, ranked as one of
the best in the state, extended their unbeaten streak to 12 in a row,
beating the Lakewood Huskies 7-3 on the offensive firepower of Trent
Abbott and Eric Johnson.  Surprisingly, the win was achieved without
the defensive help of Sean Porter, the All-State defenseman for the
Bears, who was sidelined with an injury.  Worse news for the Bears is
that Porter may be out for their next game, against the always tough
Rockton Heights Jaguars."

Just great, I thought glumly.  Now the whole world knows.

Determined to try to recapture my good mood, I asked Kayla how her
date on Saturday went, but she pointedly ignored my question, so I
wisely let the subject lapse.  Sometimes I was fortunate enough to
remember not to stick my foot firmly between my molars, and that
happened to be one of those times.  We finished up lunch by not
talking about the past weekend, nor mentioning the coming one.

That afternoon, I suited up with the rest of the team in my practice
gear, and joined them as they headed out to the track to run some
warm-up laps.  I had removed the bindings from around my chest, and I
was feeling deliciously free and reasonably healthy, now that I was
down to just a small covering over my healing arm.  That feeling
lasted about three-quarters of the way around the track, until
reality hit, and I started trying to take deeper breaths as I jogged,
and found that my ribs still were going to restrict me from exerting
myself too much.  I let Eric and Trent move out ahead of me as I
slowed to a more sedate speed, trying to find a balance between my
need for aerobic exercise and my efforts to keep from breathing too
deeply.  By the time I finished my second lap, I was down to
practically a walk, and the rest of the team had lapped me at least
once, and Weasel, Eric, Jorge, and Anthony had passed me twice.  Eric
slapped my back each time he passed me by, almost like he was telling
me that my betters were gliding on past, as if I didn't realize
already that I was slowing down practically with each step.

As we gathered on the sidelines of the main practice field and
stretched out, Prince jogged over to Coach Neville.  I happened to be
near enough to hear most of the conversation.

"Coach?" asked Weasel.  "Since I played the entire second half of
the game, are you going to keep me in the starting lineup?"

Coach didn't even look up from his clipboard.  "No," was all he said.

Weasel's face got red, but his voice was calm.  "Why not, Coach?"

Coach Neville now looked up, his face carefully neutral.  "Because
Mr. Ingrams is the designated starter in that position."

"But..."

"End of discussion, Mr. Prince," said Coach, going back to studying
his notes on his clipboard.

Weasel's posture spoke of defiance.  "Okay, then, in that case, I
want to issue a challenge to Ingrams for his spot," said Weasel.

Coach looked up at him, over the rim of his glasses, and sighed.
"You do insist on being an irritant," he said.  "However, I can see
that you will be persistent in this, won't you?  All right, I will
abide by the rules I set out at the beginning of the season.  You may
challenge Mr. Ingrams.  Challenge match to be played tomorrow at
practice."  He looked hard at Weasel, conveying his displeasure.  He
spoke in chopped words.  "Is.  There.  Anything.  Else.  Mr.  Prince."

Weasel gulped, backpedaling a couple of steps.  "No, sir," he said.
"Thank you, Coach."  And he turned back to the team, a satisfied
smile on his face until he saw his 20 teammates, all scowling at him.
His smile faltered as he realized he might have a problem finding
someone who would be willing to partner up with him on this challenge.

When Coach Simonson was done setting up the field for the day's
drills, Coach Neville blew his whistle and explained the day's
activities.  I participated the best I could during the passing and
shooting drills, and after about an hour, we headed in to the
physical education classroom to watch the film of our previous game.
I knew a number of players who were not going to enjoy the analysis
that was coming, especially Rich Ingrams, but for once, I didn't have
to concentrate too hard on what the tape would show.  I settled back
to watch.






After our warm-up laps on Tuesday, Coach Neville announced that it
was time for the challenge to be played.

"Mr. Prince, who is your teammate?"

Weasel stood up.  "Brett," he said, pointing to our stopper.

Brett looked pretty disgusted, but he stood, anyway.

"Mr. Ingrams?"

Rich stood, and said, "Jimmy Brooks."

Jimmy hopped up, having apparently agreed previously to play for
Rich.  Coach Neville took the four boys with him over to another
field, and Coach Simonson got the rest of us to our feet to work on
passing schemes.  We all just kind of stumbled around, half-heartedly
working at the drill, more interested in finding out how the
challenge would turn out.

It didn't take long, and we could tell by the body language of the
returning players that Weasel had won his challenge.  Jimmy and Brett
were just walking along, as if nothing much had happened, while Rich
was trudging behind them, head down.  Weasel, on the other hand, was
jigging and jogging up in front, next to Coach Neville, yelling and
pumping his fist in the air.  Eric turned to Trent and me.

"Shit.  Now he's gonna be even more obnoxious to be around," he said
sourly.

"Look on the bright side," said Trent.  "We're playing Rockland on
Friday night.  Maybe he'll get burned even worse than Rich did last
week."

Eric just looked at him.  "That's the bright side?" he asked.  "We
could lose big against a strong team like that, if that's the case."

"So what?" said Trent.  "One loss all season long?  We'll still
carry home field advantage into the playoffs."

"Only if we don't lose the next game, too," reminded Eric.

Trent's face fell.  "Oh, yeah," he said.  He turned to me.  "But
you'll be back for that game, won't you, Sean?"

"Maybe," I said.  "But that might not mean much.  The way I've been
able to play so far doesn't bode well for a very successful return."

"Ah, I wouldn't worry too much about it, Porter," said Eric.  "Even
hurt and practically bled out, you'd still play stronger than Ingrams
or Weasel."

"Maybe you think so," I said.  "But from the inside looking out, let
me tell you, it hurts."

"Well," said Eric, eyeing my face critically, "I'd say, by the look
of it, from the inside your face must hurt like hell, because it's
killing me to have to look at the outside of it."

I swung at him, but he easily stepped back, as both he and Trent
laughed hard at my expense.






Jake and Kayla were still coming over to my house after school most
evenings, so we could all do our homework together.  After practice
on Monday, I had told them about how decrepit I had felt trying to
run laps.  Jake was getting enough of a workout at football practice
every night, but Kay suggested that she could bring some running
clothes, and she and I could go for short runs after we finished our
homework.  We decided that, beginning Tuesday, Jake would load up his
car with Kay's books and backpack and stuff after we had finished our
work, and drive back home, while Kay and I would jog together back to
their house, where I would drop her off, and jog back home.  I
figured it was as good a way as I knew to get my legs and my wind back.

That first night, Kayla stepped into our downstairs bathroom and
changed out of her school clothes into running gear.  She came out
and handed her duffel bag to her brother to put in his car.  He took
it and headed out the front door, while I just stood and stared.  Her
pale blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail that still reached to
below her shoulders, with just a few wisps floating free to frame the
sides of her face.  She was wearing a shorty pink t-shirt that left
her flat tummy bare, and baggy black silk running shorts that seemed
to accentuate her long, lean legs. She had a zippered, hooded
sweatshirt over her arm as she stopped, fully aware of my admiring
gaze.  She smiled and struck a pose.

"You approve?" she asked with a smile.

"Do I ever," I said admiringly, struck anew by how absolutely
gorgeous she was.

"Sean?"

I started, having been caught staring.  "Uh, yeah?" I said hoarsely.

"Don't you think you should change, too?"

"Yeah," I mumbled.  "I'll go change."  I stumbled toward the stairs.
"But you, Luscious," I added, "don't you ever change."

She smiled at me, a bright and happy grin that made her even more
beautiful.  I found it difficult to turn away from her and clomp up
the stairs so I could throw on running clothes.

By the time I got back downstairs, Jake had already taken off, and I
ú****ed 
out to my mom, in the family room, that I would be back from
jogging within an hour.  Kayla had already put on her sweatshirt, and
we headed out the back door and walked down the sidewalk.

"An hour?" she asked.

"Well, it's only a couple of blocks to your house," I said.  "We
need to take the long way there."

So we started out, heading in the opposite direction from her house,
intending to jog about a mile, circling around in the direction of
the park where I had worked with the boys, and coming back toward the
Lehigh residence from the other side.  We went slowly, and even at
that, I had to stop every couple of blocks to walk for about 100 feet
to catch my breath.  We would step it back up for another quarter of
a mile or so, and then walk again, until, about 45 minutes later, we
were walking the last partial block to Kayla's house.  I was
wheezing, hands on my hips as I walked, trying without much success
to get my aching ribs to stop squeezing, and yet Kayla looked relaxed
and flush and ready to go a few more miles.

I walked her to her back door.  The outside light was on, a pool of
yellow light splashing across the wooden steps.  She stepped up onto
the first step, and turned back to me in anticipation.  I leaned
forward and up, now that she was just over my height, and kissed her
softly.  She put her arms around my neck, holding me close to her as
she gave in to the kiss.  After a few moments, we broke the kiss, but
she held on to me, looking me straight in the eye.

"Is your lip okay now?" she whispered.

"Yeah, it's fine," I said.

"No pain?  No swelling?"

"Nope.  It's okay.  A little tender, but no pain."

"So you can give me a good kiss, then?" she asked, a gleam in her eye.

"That wasn't a good kiss?" I asked teasingly.

She looked at me, her head slightly cocked.  "I've had better," she
said, a saucy gleam in her eye.

"Oh, really?" I asked.  "From who?"

She gave me one last, quick peck on the lips, and let go.  As she
leapt up the last two steps and grasped the door handle, she turned
back to me.  "Whom," she said.

"What?" I asked, confused again.

"No, not 'what'.  And not 'who', either.  It's not 'from who', it's
'from whom'.  Ain't you had no proper schooling?"  And, with a
giggle, she slipped through the open door, and I was alone again.  I
just shook my head, confused as usual, and started slowly jogging
back home, wondering where my grasp of our conversation had slipped
from my question to her slick evasion.  It was like she was having a
battle of wits with a woefully unarmed adversary.






It's amazing how quickly a reasonably fit and healthy young body can
recuperate.  Between working with the team and jogging with Kayla, by
Friday I was feeling more and more like I was supposed to.  I still
had to take it pretty easy, but I was able to control the spasms my
ribs would create to make be slow down, and I could run, slowly, for
much longer, and I didn't have to concentrate so much on placing one
foot in front of the other.

Our game was an away game, while the football team was playing at
home.  Kayla told me that she would be going to the football game to
watch her brother, and she would get Josh to drop her off at Mike's
Pizza Palace after the game.

I sat next to Rich on the bus to the game.  Even though he was
disappointed that he had lost the challenge to Weasel, deep down he
was happier that he could revert to his comfortable position as a
reserve, ready to enter a game in progress and contribute.


About three rows up toward the front, Weasel and Jimmy were sitting
by themselves.  I thought Jimmy was a little taken back by how
quickly he was ostracized, aligned with Prince because of the
challenge match, and how quickly most of the rest of the team stepped
back, treating him with the same cool detachment that was given to
Prince.

Rockton Heights was the team that handed us our only loss last
season, up until the semi-finals of the state tournament.  They were
a big school, the biggest in our conference.  They had a large
student population to draw their athletes from, so all their sports
teams were powerful, especially when they played on their home
fields.  In the last Metro Times, we were ranked third in the state,
but Rockton was also in the Top 20.  We expected a very tough game,
but we were confident that they would have a hard time containing our
offense, and as long as our defensive players held their own, we
should be able to come home with our 13th victory of the season.

We unloaded our gear bags and moved as a group out to the sidelines
of the field.  The stands were about half full, a very respectable
crowd for a soccer game.

Coach Neville called out, "Mr. Prince and Mr. Porter, please."  He
walked a dozen steps away from the rest of the team.  Weasel and I
followed him.

"Mr. Prince, this is a very dangerous team," admonished Coach.
"Even though Rockton's big guns from last year have graduated, they
still returned seven of their starters."  He turned to me, placing a
hand on my shoulder.  "Mr. Porter had the opportunity to play this
team twice last year.  He will tell you what you can expect in your
area.  Listen to him well, and heed his advice."  With that, he
withdrew to speak a few words to the rest of the team.

Weasel looked at me.  "Well?"  I could tell he was anxious to get
back and get ready to play.

I shrugged.  "I don't know what to tell you.  Like Coach said, their
best players graduated.  But I'd bet that they've watched tape of our
game last week."

"So?"  He was playing at being stubborn, I knew.  I was tempted to
just let him learn while doing, so to speak.  Trial by fire.
Instead, I heeded Coach's unspoken request.

"Just shut up and listen for a moment."  His face got red as his
anger quotient went up, but he kept his mouth shut.  "If they studied
anything of last week's game, they're going to know that their best
chance is on your side.  You only played one half, so they really
couldn't get a feel of your game.  That, plus you were bouncing
around the field like you were on a pogo stick."

"I..."

"Listen up, Weasel, I'm not going to tell you again.  Stay home, be
the guardian of your own borders.  Kevin and Mikey will guard their
own interiors, they don't need your help.  Listen to what Jorge has
to say, and don't poach into anybody else's areas unless you're
invited.  Okay?"

"But..."

"Ain't no buts about it.  If you run around without purpose again,
like you did last week, Coach is going to yank you out before you can
work up a sweat.  Understand?"

"Yeah, but..."

"Understand?" I growled.

His mouth snapped shut.  He nodded tersely.  I nodded back, and did
an about-face and walked back to rejoin my team.  Weasel followed
silently.

As visitors we got the opening kickoff, and our offensive set
started.  I kept watch on the right side, and Weasel tried to stay in
position, guarding his own turf, but it was a struggle for him.  When
Rockton cleared the ball down the center, he ended up standing right
next to Mike Evanson as he trapped the ball and started dribbling
back up toward the center line.  Mikey passed it off over to Eric, on
the left, and started yelling at Weasel to get back into his
position.  I couldn't hear his words, but Prince's body language
spoke of an injured innocence.  He was probably saying something like
"What did I do?" to Mikey.

And, to make matters worse, he was still paying more attention to
defending himself to Mikey than defending against Rockton Heights, as
the ball came sailing through the air on a clearing kick from the
Jaguars' sweeper.  It flew over Kevin's head, and bounced down the
sidelines, being chased down by the left forward for Rockton, who
gathered it up, angled in behind Mikey and Weasel, and took a shot at
Jorge, standing watch in goal.  Jorge dove at the ball, and landed,
arms outstretched, holding the ball in his fingertips.  He scrambled
to his feet, punted the ball, and then started jawing at both Mike
and Weasel about being flatfooted on the play.  He was so angry I
could hear him lapse into Spanish in the middle of his tirade.  Mikey
turned away, embarrassed that he had lost concentration, and focused
on the game again.  Weasel, on the other hand, turned and began
arguing with Jorge, until, finally, Coach Simonson's voice cut
through the babble to grab his attention, and, looking a little more
chastised, he moved back into his position.

But, as far as Coach Neville was concerned, the damage was done.  As
soon as we had a throw-in, Coach called for a substitution, and he
pulled Prince out, and played Rich Ingrams for the balance of the
first half.

Coach Neville preferred to run his games with few substitutions, but
in the second half, he went to a different tactic.  He freely
substituted Weasel and Rich, keeping them rotated about every five
minutes, not letting either of them get too winded, nor too
comfortable out on the field.  It also changed the tempo of the game,
and that worked, surprisingly, to our advantage, and at the final
whistle, we walked off the field with a 2-1 victory, feeling like we
had stolen something and escaped.

By the time we had taken the long bus ride back to our school, and
had sat through Coach Neville's post-game summary, showered and
changed, it was later than I thought I would be.  I rode over to
Mike's Pizza Palace with Eric and Trent, half expecting to find that
Kayla had gotten bored and gone off somewhere else with her friends,
but she was there, with Jake, Jaimie, Tiny, Erica, and a few others,
and the soccer girls, Keisha and Danielle and Ayesha, were holding
another big table, right next to them.  A bunch of kids from school
walked in the door a few minutes later, and suddenly the place was
filled up with friends, a warm and happy hangout for us on a cold
Friday night.

Around midnight, Kayla and I piled into the back seat of Jake's car.
Jaimie got in the front passenger bucket seat, and looked a little
sourly back at Kayla and me, cuddling on the rear bench seat.

"Not fair," she grumbled.  "We can't sit close like that up here."

I smiled at her.  "Maybe next week I'll drive, and you two can ride
in the back," I offered.  Her face brightened at that.

"Maybe a double-date?" she suggested.  "To the drive-in?"

Kayla laughed out loud.  "Like your parents would let you go to a
drive-in movie," she said.

Jaimie looked a little crestfallen.  "You're right," she grumbled.

Jake, meanwhile, had gotten behind the wheel and started up the car.
"Hey, they don't have to know you're going to a drive-in," he said.
"Just tell them you're going to a movie with Kay."

Jaimie's eyes lit up.  "Now, that's an idea," she said.  She leaned
over and rewarded him with a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Yawzah!" he said happily.  He dropped the car into gear and drove
out of the parking lot and toward my house.

I had Kayla wrapped up in my arms, and she was contentedly bundled
up, her head resting between my arm and shoulder, one arm hugging me
around my waist.  We had winter coats on, so our actual contact was
minimal, but we were cozy, anyway, and we stayed that way, all the
way home.

Jake pulled into my driveway, and I disentangled myself from Kayla,
who grumbled softly, complaining about losing her nice, warm cushion.
I gave her one soft kiss, too aware that her brother was sitting in
the front seat, pointedly looking straight ahead, and I opened the
car door and bade them all good night.





On Saturday night, Kayla and I went to the local movie complex.
Fortunately, there was a kid from our school working the ticket
window.  He sold us two tickets to "Arthur", a PG-rated comedy
starring Dudley Moore, but then he told us quietly to sneak into
"Body Heat", an R-rated film, instead.  Kayla turned to the door as I
was collecting my change, and the kid behind the glass gave me a
quick wink.

We slipped quietly into the room showing the movie, and found two
seats near the back, against the far wall.  I had heard that "Body
Heat" was a great date movie, but Kay didn't know anything about it.
We took off our coats and settled back as the previews came on, and
before the main attraction had started, I had my arm around her, and
she was nestled up to me, her arm and hand resting on my leg.

I could have stayed like that forever, but as the movie progressed,
Kay sat up in her seat, still glued to my side, and watched the
unfolding drama raptly.  I still had my arm draped around her
shoulder, and she was clutching that hand as the tension built.  And
then, when that scene comes on (You remember the scene, don't you?
The one where William Hurt and Kathleen Turner are staring at each
other through the window, and he picks up the chair and breaks
through the window to get to her?) and the two characters practically
attack each other in their passion, Kayla squeaked just a little, and
subconsciously pressed the palm of my hand firmly against her small
breast.  Her chest was heaving, and each breath she was taking was
pressing her boob harder against my hand, giving us both electric
thrills that seemed to match the fireworks being displayed on the
screen.

We stayed like that for quite a long time, even after the movie
settled back down into a noir detective story, until, at long last,
my arm started cramping from being torqued around her neck, and I
gently removed my hand from its soft resting place, lifted my
complaining arm from around her shoulder, and took her hand in mine.
She grasped my hand with both of hers, nested in her lap, and we
finished the movie just like that.  We stayed in just that same
position as the credits rolled, and the house lights came up, and
people began filing out of the theater, until we were practically the
last ones left.  She turned to me with shining eyes.

"That was incredible," she said.

I smiled at her.  "So you liked the movie?  Good."

"Oh, the movie was okay," she said.  "That part in the rain, though.
I've never seen anything like that before."

"What part in the rain?" I asked teasingly.  "It rained for
practically the whole movie."

She slapped my arm.  "Come on, I know you know what I mean."  She
sighed.  "You're more of a romantic than you like to let on, Sean."
She favored me with another smile as we stood and put our coats on.

She sat next to me all the way over to the pizza parlor, huddled up
and holding my arm.  The place was crowded with kids, but we managed
to commandeer a booth near the kitchen, and we sat side by side,
sipping Cokes from big, clunky tornado-shaped glasses, and grabbing
handfuls of french fries dipped in ketchup.

Since Kayla's curfew was 11:00, we couldn't stay there long, and it
was after 10:30 before we managed to say our goodbyes to friends we
had run into at the restaurant.  I started up the car, and we sat on
the chilly vinyl seat, huddled together, waiting for the heater to
kick in.

The fan was set to high, and warm air was pumping out of the vents
as I pulled out of the parking lot.  We drove aimlessly for a few
minutes, content to be sitting close to each other, until the time
forced us to turn toward home.  With about ten minutes to go, I
stopped on the street, a block away from Kayla's, and switched off
the lights, leaving the car running.  We turned to each other there,
and I could see the light from a distant streetlamp reflecting off
her bright eyes.  Her mouth was slightly open, perhaps anticipating
my touch, and I leaned down, enfolding her within my arms, and kissed
her soft and pliant lips.  I heard her make a soft sound of pleasure,
and my eyes closed as I concentrated on the erotic pleasure of her
lips moving slightly, adjusting to the pressure and the moisture of
our kiss.

She let me take the lead, content to wait until I couldn't stand it
any longer, and I let my tongue slip out and brush against the slight
gap of her mouth, licking and caressing her lips.  Her lips parted
just a little, and her tongue darted out to meet the tip of mine, and
we played a sensuous cat-and-mouse game with each other, dipping and
sliding and darting and testing.

I felt her shift slightly on the seat, and I slipped my hand under
the flap of her coat, feeling the soft, fuzzy nap of her sweater
against my fingers.  She shifted again, and my hand found the harder
material beneath the sweater of her bra, and the softer swell of her
encased breast.  My hand reflexively flexed, lightly squeezing her
soft flesh, and her passion, demonstrated through a more insistent
pressure of her kiss, got hotter.

Unfortunately, it was all over almost before we had begun, as we
both were aware of the inexorable movement of time working against
us, as we worked each other up into fevers we would not be able to
quench.  Reluctantly, we broke our kiss, and we straightened up in
our seats.  Without a word, I dropped the car into gear once again,
and drove the last, short block to her driveway, just as the hands of
the clock on the dashboard moved to 11:00.  She slid over and opened
the passenger door, and I got out the driver's side, and I walked her
to her front door.  Just as we got there, Jake's car came barreling
down the street, swinging into the driveway, next to my car.  Jake
hopped out and came up the sidewalk toward us, and our mood was broken.

"How you doing, Seanster?" said Jake, pounding my back in greeting,
a big smile on his face.

"I was doing good, until you showed up," I grumbled.

"We'll talk about that another time," he said threateningly, but I
knew he was joking.  After all, it was Jake.

"Good night, Sean," said Kayla softly.  Her mouth was smiling, but
her eyes told me she was sorry for the interruption, too.  She leaned
in and whispered in my ear, "That was a better kiss."  I thought she
was blushing just a little when she turned back to open the door.

"Yeah, g'night, Sean," called out Jake.  He pushed Kayla into the
house and, with an evil grin, shut the door in my face.

My best friend, I thought grumpily.

But, on the other hand, I was lusting after my best friend's sister.
So maybe he had a legitimate point, even if his methods were crude.
I mentally shrugged, and turned and headed back to my car.

I had a hard time getting to sleep that night, thinking about the
movie, and thinking about the body heat of the girl who had been
sitting next to me, holding me tightly to her bosom.





(Continued in Chapter 26)






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