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Subject: {ASSM} NEW Playing the Game III: The Competitive Edge, Ch. 3
Date: Fri, 19 Sep 2003 16:10:06 -0400
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A drumroll, please, for the newest chapter of Book 3...
RCM
Rev. Cotton Mather
Senior Pastor,
Church of the Erotic Redemption
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/ReverendCottonMather/www
http://www.storiesonline.net
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**If I had to do it all over,
I'd do it all over you**
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<1st attachment, "CE3.txt" begin>
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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 download or copy for their personal pleasure or use, as
long as there is no intent to charge money or barter for the
privilege of acquiring this material.
(copyright 2003, Rev. Cotton Mather)
E-Mail all comments to RevCottonMather@hotmail.com
Don't be shy! I enjoy hearing from you.
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THE COMPETITIVE EDGE:
PLAYING THE GAME, BOOK III
by Reverend Cotton Mather
- 3 -
A FASTER GAME
Westy Bridges turned out to be an asshole.
He disguised it pretty well, but inside that great-looking swimmer's
body, beyond the sharp eyes and the long, wavy hair and the puckish
charm, lurked an arrogant, supercilious and disdainful male slut.
He readily admitted to me he had a girlfriend back home in Atlanta,
a very nice girl his parents adored. A rich girl whose father liked
him. A girl who, according to Westy, was a sweet Georgia peach to
everybody, a pleasant and demure girl who dressed right, led instead
of followed, belonged to all the right groups, volunteered at the
local hospital, and carried herself with dignity and confidence.
Everybody thought of her as the epitome of the modern Southern belle.
"Everybody except me," he confided. "With me, she's the dirtiest
little trailer trash tramp you could ever hope for. Ain't nothin'
she won't do for me when we're alone in the bedroom, Sean," he
leered. "And there ain't nothin' I haven't done to her. In the
bedroom, in the back seat of her father's car, in the park in the
fuckin' grass. She ain't a virgin anywhere, man." Westy oozed of
confidence as he talked big.
In fact, his parents were barely out onto Interstate 75, on their
way home, when Westy began trolling. He paced around the women's
dorms, he cruised the lake and the Student Union, and he checked out
the areas around the sorority houses.
By Sunday night he had bagged his first conquest, a hapless freshman
girl who was probably away from home for the first time, and was
unfortunate enough to have bumped into my roommate. Westy came
stumbling into our room with his arm around her, and tried to
introduce her to me. He had an opened beer in his other hand, which
he waved around as he talked.
"Hey, Sean ol' buddy, meet..." He turned to the girl, a mousy
little thing with thick glasses and a downturned, thin mouth.
"What'd you say your name was, sweetie?"
"Eleanor," she said, gazing at Westy's imposingly broad shoulders,
and dropping her eyes to take in his swimmer's chest, down to his
impossibly narrow waist.
"Yeah. Meet Eleanor. Elly, this is my roomie, Sean. Say goodbye
to Sean, Elly, he was just leaving." He gave me a significant look.
"Sure," I said. "I was just leaving." I stared back at Westy,
trying to let him know I was not happy about this situation. "But
I'm planning on coming back in about an hour," I said.
"An hour's plenty of time for us," said Westy, holding on to poor
Eleanor. She probably thought he was being protective. I thought he
was being possessive. I picked up the letter I was trying to write
and left them alone, heading up to Spencer's room.
When I got to the sixth floor, the music pumping out of rooms up and
down the hall was nearly painful. Country was competing with blue-
eyed soul, Southern rock was prominent, and there was a smattering of
a new sound, a primarily spoken type of music called rap. I got to
Spencer's door and heard good old Led Zeppelin pounding out the
speakers. I poked my head in and saw Spencer at his desk, and his
roommate, a soft-spoken baseball player named Arlen Jones, on his
back on his lofted bed, his hands propping up his head and his feet
moving in time with the music.
"Hey," I shouted, trying to be heard over the music, "mind if I camp
out here for awhile?"
Spencer glanced up. "Come on in," he said. "What's up?"
"Westy's got a chippie," I said.
"So?" asked Spencer.
"So, he wanted a little alone time with her, so I got kicked out for
an hour."
"Ahhh," he said knowingly. He gestured toward Arlen's desk chair
and reached for a deck of cards. "How about some gin?" he asked, a
glint in his eye. "Penny a point?"
Just looking at him, I knew I was in trouble. What the hell, I
thought, how much can I lose in just an hour? I nodded.
*****
About ninety minutes later, I stumbled from Goldman's room in a
little bit of a shock. I was already down over six bucks. Spencer
was magnanimous about it.
"We'll just keep track here in this," he said, pulling a notebook
from his bookshelf. He smirked just a little as he carefully wrote
down the date and the amount I owed him.
I trotted down the three flights of stairs to the third floor, and
back to my own room.
Westy was there, alone. He was sitting on the couch, desultorily
rubbing at a stain on the coverlet.
"Fuckin' bitch was a cherry," he muttered when he saw me. "She
fuckin' bled all over my couch. My mom's gonna have a kitten when
she sees this."
I looked at him, thoroughly disgusted. "Don't worry about it," I
said facetiously. "That stain will probably be buried by plenty of
others before the year ends."
He brightened. "Hey, you're right, roomie," he said. He actually
took me seriously, which bothered me even more. "Hell, between you
and me, we'll probably bust the springs right out of this bastard,
won't we?"
I didn't even bother to grace his comment with a reply. I took the
letter to Kayla I was working on and climbed up into my bed to try to
write.
*****
On Monday, Coach Pick finally put us into teams and had us
scrimmage. Jesse and Spencer were on Team Alpha, and Martin, Bryan
and I were on Team Omega. Martin was a leftie, so he was a natural
to play the left defensive side. I was defending on the right, and
Bryan was the forward on my side. Our keeper was Rick Rogers, who
was a senior and the team's starting keeper. We had Brad Rickman as
our stopper, another senior and a starter for the team.
We played a full 90-minute scrimmage. I knew we would be pressed
hard by having to defend against both Jesse and Spencer, and that was
proven less than ten minutes into the scrimmage. Jesse, in the
center, and Spencer, playing on the left, kept on challenging us,
pressing us through the middle and on our right, into my territory.
I ran hard and concentrated on getting the ball out of the way. With
Brad's help and Rick's direction, we managed to deflect all but a few
thrusts into our area before the coaches restarted.
I thought I was prepared to fight for my position as right defender.
I was determined to battle for the starting position. What I didn't
really realize until that first scrimmage was how fast the college
game was, compared to the high school level. Everybody on the field
was a high school star, and the pace of the play increased
dramatically over what I had been used to seeing. I had to scramble
to keep up at first, until I got more used to the speed of the
players and the velocity of the passes.
The other aspect of the game that was surprising to me was how much
of the game was played in the air. In high school, lofted passes
were common, but we played the game on the ground for the most part.
In college play, the ball stayed in the air longer, and headers,
juggling, and using vertical spaces also provided advantages and
strategies I had rarely seen before. In fact, I watched in amazement
as Martin Flauget, in a defensive maneuver, used his head, shoulders,
and chest to keep the ball in the air, all while he was moving
upfield at a healthy trot. Up until that moment, it had never
occurred to me to even try to do that. It kept his opponents
sufficiently off the ball, however, and he was able to move the ball
out of our red zone. He finally let the ball drop down to his feet,
powered it off his shin guard and off the Alpha midfielder's leg and
out of bounds, giving us time to reset on the throw-in.
Flauget wasn't the only one, either, to carry the game up into the
air. Midfielders on both sides tended to use their heads on the ball
much more often than I had seen before. It was something of a
revelation.
After practice, I mentioned it to Spencer.
"Yeah, I was surprised, too," he admitted. As a midfielder, he had
been burned by our Omega challenger a couple of times, who elevated
and took the ball out of the air as Spencer was waiting for it to
drop. He learned quickly, though, and adjusted. By the second half,
he, too, was leaping up, challenging for the ball.
Jesse, sitting across from me in the locker room, interjected, "I
probably should have told you about that. It took me a little while
to get used to the speed and the trajectory of the ball at this
level. Everybody plays a little faster, kicks a little harder,
pushes it as much as they can to try to build an edge. You'll do the
same in a little while."
"It is a faster game here," I said.
"Everybody was a hero back home," Jesse reminded me. "Here, you've
got to step it up if you want to be noticed."
"I'll say." I hoped I had something in my repertoire to step up to.
Otherwise, I would find myself sitting on the bench a lot more than I
wanted to do.
*****
Bryan Watkins, Jesse Wilhoit's roommate, was a member of the Phi
Kappa Phi fraternity. His girlfriend, Melanie Forsythe, was a
walking dream. She was on the Florida cheerleading squad, she was a
member of the Hellenic Council, and she had been a finalist the
previous year for Homecoming Queen. She was also the princess of the
Phi Kap fraternity, and unofficial leader of the Phi Kappa Phi
Auxiliary, a loose-knit organization of girlfriends of Phi Kaps whose
purpose was to help the Phi Kaps with their school-sanctioned parties
and receptions. They also provided help organizing the house for
Greek Rush Week, along with providing attractive decoration during
the recruitment phase.
Bryan had asked me if I was interested in rushing. He was willing
to stand for me with the Phi Kaps, nearly ensuring that I would be
invited to join their pledge class. I didn't feel like I was the
fraternity type, however, so I declined as politely as I could.
"Hey, it's no problem at all," Bryan assured me. "Hell, I couldn't
even get Jesse to join up. It's not like nobody will talk to you if
you aren't Greek."
"Well, thanks anyway," I said.
"Just do me a favor, will you, Porter? Come to the fraternity house
the first night of Rush. I'll introduce you around, you get to scarf
up a lot of free food, the guys will see I'm out there trying to
recruit. You decline when they send out the invitations to come
back, everybody's happy. Okay?"
"Do I have to sign up for Rush? I really don't want to put on a
glad face at all those fraternity houses," I said.
"Nah, don't sign up," he said. "Just show up at the Phi Kap house
the first night of Rush. I'll have it all set for you."
"Sure," I said. "I can do that."
"And," he added as an incentive, "Melanie wants to meet you. I
think she's got something cooking you might like."
"You know I've got a girlfriend at home, right?" I asked, a little
worried. "I hope this doesn't have anything to do with fixing me up
or anything."
"I told her about it," he replied. "Trust me, she's got a head on
her shoulders. Beauty and brains."
"In that case, okay. I'll be there," I told him.
And, just like that, I made a seemingly simple decision that would
end up having a tremendous impact on my life for the next several
months.
(Continued in Chapter 4)
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