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Subject: {ASSM} NEW Playing the Game III: The Competitive Edge, Ch. 13
Date: Thu, 4 Dec 2003 16:10:08 -0500
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Thank you for your patience over the holiday. Here, at long last, is
Chapter 13.
Enjoy!
RCM
Rev. Cotton Mather
Senior Pastor,
Church of the Erotic Redemption
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/ReverendCottonMather/www
http://www.storiesonline.net
**If I had to do it all over,
I'd do it all over you**
_________________________________________________________________
Shop online for kids' toys by age group, price range, and toy category at
MSN Shopping. No waiting for a clerk to help you! http://shopping.msn.com
<1st attachment, "CE13.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 at hotmail dot 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
- 13 -
CAUSE AND EFFECT
The shit really hit the fan on Wednesday after Homecoming.
Fortunately, it was blowing in a different direction than at me.
Westy and Jason, along with everybody else from their pledge class,
got summoned to their fraternity house that evening after dinner.
They left the dorm thinking it was just another pledge hazing, joking
a little and complaining about the short notice.
They returned to their rooms three hours later pale, very quiet, and
still sweating.
I watched Westy rummaging around his desk, but he wasn't really
looking for anything. He was just fidgeting.
"Westy, what's up?" I asked.
He glanced over his shoulder at me. "Nothing, dude. Just forget
about it, okay?"
"Well, it's obvious something's fucked up your head, man. Don't
forget I've got to live in this room, too, so why don't you tell me
what's happening?" I persisted.
He sighed and shuffled over to the couch and tumbled down into it,
throwing his knee over the arm and leaning back to rest his head on
the back cushion.
"I fucked up, Sean," he said quietly. "You know that party last
weekend? Friday?"
I nodded. "Where I saw you and Jason with your dates," I said. I
was straddled across my desk chair, and I rested my chin on my hands
on the back of the chair, ready to listen to his story.
He snorted. "Yeah. What a hairball that date turned out to be."
He shook his head at the memory.
"What's the matter? Didn't get lucky?" I probably shouldn't have
said it, but he deserved anything that was coming down the tube at
him.
He gave a short, humorless bray of derisive laughter. "Not with
what's-her-face."
"Angelina," I reminded him.
"Yeah. Angelina. Big tits, high morals, dried-up cunt." He shook
his head as he remembered that night. "What a fuckin' waste of time
and money she turned out to be. Couldn't even get a fucking handjob
out of her. What a cunt."
"So, she's your problem here?"
"What? Angelina? No, man, what gave you that idea? She just
wouldn't give it up, is all."
"So what's got you all fucked up tonight, then?" This conversation
was getting irritating. I was fast losing what little sympathy I had
started with toward Westy.
"Ah, it was that other shit from that night," he said, now a little
hesitant.
"At the party?" I prompted.
"Yeah, that night at the party. Anyway, I saw a girl there I'd been
out with before, you know?"
"A girl you'd been out with before? Or one of your one-night boinks?"
He smiled, a flash of the old arrogant Westy again. "It's all the
same thing, Porter."
"Maybe to you," I said disgustedly. "Okay, so you saw her at the
party."
"Her name was Amy. Shit, when I did her a couple of weeks ago I
thought she was a fucking tramp, but I didn't think I would ever run
into her again." He looked a little puzzled for a moment. "What do
they call it when something odd happens to you, like something
appears out of your past?"
"Serendipity? Or do you mean deja vu?"
"Yeah, serendipity, I think that's it." Westy settled in and
continued. "I thought it was, like, serendipity, when I saw her at
that party. I was a little buzzed, you know? And my fuckin' date
was getting more and more uptight as the night went on, and I had the
feeling I was gonna be shut out on nooky." He gave me another
glimpse of that Westy grin I had come to despise. "Can't have a
Friday night without a little action, you know."
"Yeah, right. My heart's bleedin' for you. So you ran into one of
your old squeezes." I tried to get him back on track. I was really
regretting offering a sympathetic ear.
"Man, where do you come up with this shit? An old squeeze. Is this
all part of those sappy Midwestern values you've been saddled with?"
I stood up. "Fuck you, Westy. I'm here trying to give you a hand,
and all you've got for me are insults?"
He sat up straighter, and actually managed to look apologetic. "Ah,
shit, Porter, I'm sorry. You're right, I'm an asshole."
I sat back down, albeit reluctantly. "Get back to the party, then.
I'm assuming this is all leading somewhere?"
His look turned sour and introspective again. "Yeah, sorry. It'll
all come around in a minute, you'll see. Anyway, Amy was at the
party, hanging all over Arthur Burns - he's one of the Sig Tau
brothers who live in that apartment, you know?"
One of Jeremy Peters' roommates. "Okay," I said. I motioned for
him to go on.
"Okay, okay, don't get your panties in a knot," he said, a little
roughly. He slumped back down on the couch and squirmed around to
get comfortable. "Amy was there, I think she was stoned to the max,
and I was buzzed and horny, like I said, so I got this crazy idea. I
cornered her one time when Angelina and Kitten were in line for the
can, and I sweet-talked her into a quickie. We couldn't use the
bedrooms, because we'd have had to pass by the line waiting to use
the john, and Angelina would have spotted me, so we snuck downstairs
and found a blanket in the back yard."
I knew where this was heading. It was like watching a car wreck in
slow motion, fascinating and morbid, but still irresistible.
"She peeled off her panties in about record time, Sean, it was
really something." He smiled again at the recollection, and then
remembered the consequences, and he sobered up quickly. "Anyway, she
was laying there spread wide, so I dropped my own shorts, hopped on,
and rammed home. When I climbed off her, Jason was there, watching,
so I asked him if he wanted a ride. Amy wasn't particular, so he
just pulled his dick out and hopped into the saddle for sloppy
seconds."
"Yuck," I said.
"What's the matter, Porter? Never had sloppy seconds?" His lip
curled. "Wait'll you try sloppy sixths or sevenths, dude."
"Ain't never gonna happen, Bridges. Skip the gory details, okay?
Then what happened?"
"Got a weak stomach, Porter?" He saw the look on my face, and his
own expression was hard. "Yeah, I know, I'm a degenerate. So what?"
"Hey, what you do on your own time is your own business," I said.
"You want to be an asshole, go right ahead."
"I may be an asshole sometimes, but at least I'm not crying every
night because I'm young, dumb and full of cum," he said with a
knowing smirk.
"Nope, you're not," I said tightly. "You're just hanging on at the
frat house by your fingertips. What happened with the girl in the
back yard?"
He sat up a little straighter. "Okay, anyway, so while Jason's
taking his turn with her, getting his rocks off, I run back upstairs
and let a few of my pledge buddies know what's going down, and
there's a line forming to the right. I figure I'd better get back in
there before Amy gets too loose and squishy to be any good, so I do
her a second time, and Jason hops back on, and by the time she had
done everybody in line, that bitch had taken about twenty loads, and
she was still on her back, squirming around and moaning for more."
"Jesus Christ, that's disgusting," I muttered.
"Yeah, it is," Westy said, almost happily. "Best damn night in this
rathole of a college yet."
"For Chrissakes, Westy," I said.
He waved me off. "Anyway, the upshot of it all is that Kitten
caught Jason with his fly open, put two and two together, and flew
off the handle. She told Angelina about it, and that was all she
wrote. Angelina took off, Kitten grabbed Jason and dragged him off
to look for her, so I had no choice but to tag along."
The memory of that part of the night wasn't very pleasant,
apparently, because his expression was dour again.
"So, I found out later somebody found Amy wandering around dripping
cum all over the floor, and then Arthur and Jeremy and some of the
other brothers started asking her about what had happened, and they
found out about my involvement in it all..." He paused, clearly
uncomfortable about telling this part of the story. It figures, I
thought. Consequences just aren't something an asshole like Westy
would consider before jumping in on something.
"And?" I, on the other hand, was looking forward to listening to
him confess about the aftermath.
"And so tonight the brothers called the entire pledge class over to
the house, and they really reamed us out. Me and Jason really got
hammered, not only by the brothers, but by the other guys in our
pledge class, too. Shit!" Westy pounded his fist on the arm of the
couch. "It's not like they weren't willing to take their turn at
her, and yet it's like they're blaming me for getting them in
trouble!"
"The thankless bastards," I said facetiously.
Westy glanced at me, wondering if I was serious. The look on my
face must have told him I wasn't.
"All right, so maybe it was kind of my fault," he grudgingly
admitted. "Even so..."
"So how much trouble are you in with the fraternity?"
"On probation," he spat. "Jason, too. We ain't got no freedom at
all. Starting tonight, the two of us have to spend every spare
minute either at the fraternity house, or in the company of a
designated brother. Homework gets done there, and they're going to
check it to make sure it's done right. If I gotta go to the library,
somebody will go with me. I can't hardly go to the can by myself,
for Chrissake."
"So you're not going to be around here very much," I said. Inwardly
I was smiling, though I was careful to not let it show on my face.
Things were looking up.
"Just to sleep," he said. "From now until the end of the semester."
"Well," I observed, "it ought to keep you from finding mischief."
"It'll do that," he agreed. "Besides that, training for the swim
team began this week. I ain't gonna have energy to go sniffing
poontang during the week, anyway."
"You really have a way with words," I said sourly. I felt like I
needed to take a shower, and that was just from talking to Westy. He
got up and started rummaging around again. If he was looking for a
conscience, he wasn't going to find it in his dresser drawers, I
thought to myself. I did manage to keep my mouth shut, though, even
when he turned to me a little expectantly. Was he looking for
absolution? Understanding? He wouldn't find it with me. No way was
I going to shake his hand. I almost looked around the room to see if
there was a ten-foot pole handy, just so I could say I wouldn't touch
him with it.
I suddenly felt the urge to call Reggie to see if she wanted to meet
me for coffee or something. I needed to talk to somebody sane, so I
could rinse the Westy taint from my psyche. I waited, watching as
Westy packed up his backpack with books so he could study at the
fraternity house. He left a few minutes later, still grumbling under
his breath. He left our door open and stepped across the hall to
pound on Jason's door. Music was floating down the hall from several
rooms, so I didn't hear them leave, but I was sure they had plenty to
talk to each other about as they walked over to the Sig Tau house to
begin their probation.
___________________________________________________________________
Despite my feeling at that moment to call her, I resisted. I tried
to concentrate on my own homework that evening, and for the next
couple of weeks after Homecoming I tried to cool down my association
with Reggie just a little. Beer is a wonderful relaxing beverage,
but I had learned that both she and I were prone to being more...
attentive when under its influence, and in this instance,
attentiveness was not what we needed. We still went out on the
weekends together, but we were both trying to fit back into the molds
we had originally made for ourselves. Guilt, even implied guilt of
the soul, can sometimes be a blessing in disguise.
Even so, on our Saturday all-day bus ride up to the tournament in
Washington, D.C., I found myself thinking about Reggie. It was a
little dismaying when I finally recognized the truth I had been
avoiding for a long time: I already missed her, and I had only been
away from her for about eight hours, having spent most of Friday
night with her at another party, this one at Jesse and Bryan's
apartment.
Christ, Porter, Reggie isn't the girl you're supposed to be missing.
What is wrong with you?
Which brought me to another naked truth: I had been away from Kayla
for so long, I barely missed her anymore. This truth, instead of
setting me free, only made me sadder. That was not what I wanted,
and I knew it was not what Reggie wanted, either. It was just
another tangled knot my clumsy fingers would never be able to untie.
I wandered up and down the aisle of the bus, stopping to talk to
friends, hoping to find a conversation that was involved enough to
yank me out of my melancholy, but all I could achieve was a temporary
salve to my nagging conscience. I decided the only way to purge
myself was to write a long letter to Kayla, so I propped myself up
against a window toward the back of the bus and pulled a notebook of
lined paper out of my pack. I rummaged around until I found a pen,
propped my biology textbook on my knees, and began to laboriously put
together some coherent sentences. As I began writing about the
mundane events of my college life, I deliberately left out any
mention of Reggie, describing instead the recent hard life of my
roommate, tales of Jesse and Brittany, and moaning about my continued
bad luck playing gin against Spencer Goldman.
A couple of hours later, I discovered I was in a much better mood.
The combination of concentrating on my task and knowing I was writing
to my girl back home created a surprisingly welcome ache. I wanted
to see her, to touch her, to talk to her so badly it was nearly a
physical feeling. When I realized what it was, though, I embraced
the wanting and the emptiness. It was Kayla, just as it had nearly
always been Kayla. I was almost happy in my misery, having
rediscovered that which had been missing.
I signed off on my letter, folded it carefully, and put it back in
my pack. I settled back, crossed my arms, and let my head fall back,
ready for a nap. With luck I would dream of my white-haired angel, I
thought lazily as I drifted off.
____________________________________________________________________
I wasn't quite that lucky. No dreams of Kayla, or of any girl, for
that matter. I did manage to sleep for a couple hundred boring
miles, but then I was up again, and faced with another choice: study
or try to win back some of my money from Goldman. I opted to play
cards, and we acquired an audience of equally bored teammates as we
battled for four-suited supremacy.
For once, I walked away a winner, if only by a slim margin. Spencer
was happy to mark down the fact that I outpointed him in this
particular contest. He was undeterred, and with good reason, knowing
as well as I that he would recoup this loss another time.
The bus pulled in to the Capitol Hotel, our home away from home for
the next week, after dark. We were all anxious to get off the bus
and put our feet back on solid ground again, and we piled off the bus
and stood around as Eddie and our driver crawled into the storage
space beneath the coach and started sliding our individual gear bags
and suitcases out.
I grabbed my stuff and lugged it into the hotel lobby, where Pick
was stationed. He doled out room keys to the designated holders as
we checked in. Pick had decided on who was staying with whom, and he
elected to spread everybody out. Instead of rooming with Spencer,
Bryan, or Jesse, the teammates I was closest friends with, I was in a
double with Luke Severin. Luke and I had hung around together on
occasion, and neither of us had a problem with it. We could live
together for a week without getting on each other's nerves, I knew.
We all stowed our gear in our rooms, and then met in a reserved room
in the restaurant for a late dinner. By the time the soup arrived, I
was ready to nod off, thinking longingly of stretching out between
nice, cool sheets. Everybody else looked as wiped out as I felt. We
finished up our meal and called it a night.
We had our first practice scheduled for the next morning. Our bus
was waiting for us after we finished a light breakfast, and we rode
over to one of the practice fields at Georgetown University. We
started slowly, walking three laps around the field, and then broke
into an easy jog for three more laps. We stopped and stretched while
Pick, Eddie, Stan Harvard, and Marv Allison, our equipment manager,
got our practice balls and jerseys out and ready.
We broke out into our Alpha and Omega practice teams and took the
field. Pick gave us some final instructions, and we spent the next
hour working.
By this time I was just as comfortable in midfield as I had ever
been in my typical defensive position. Pick still started me every
game in my right back spot, but during every scrimmage I played up.
I moved over to the center, switching with Max, so often that we
hardly had to communicate about the switch anymore. He would see me
start to move, and he would angle over to cover my territory,
practically on instinct.
Sometimes we would switch because of the movement of the ball or the
positioning of an opposing player, and sometimes we would switch
simply because of a gut feeling I might have. Either way, our switch
nearly always rippled through both teams. Cause and effect: when
Alpha and Omega saw Max and me move, adjustments were made all up and
down the field. Perhaps an Alpha back turned and passed to a player
other than his original intended target, or maybe a forward
sidestepped and changed direction. It wasn't long before these
changes in tactic became evident to all my teammates.
The biggest change, though, occurred early on in our practice
sessions when Max and I shifted. My Omega teammates, watching what
we were doing, became much more fluid in their coverages. The
willingness to change up or back, as well as side to side, made our
scrimmage team a lot more versatile, and we covered the ball much
better. Sometimes, especially during the early learning phase, we
found ourselves bunching up, but shouted instructions from the
captains up and back usually corrected it. Alpha was having a much
harder time creating space and moving the ball into a quality scoring
position.
Alpha Team was also observant, however, and they very quickly
adapted, especially when they saw Max and me shift. They, too, began
to utilize speed and slippery coverages, adjusting to Omega's
changes. Ehrlinger and Porter were the triggers, it seemed, and the
ripple effect spread through both scrimmage teams. Once the
positions taken up by Alpha became as changeable as Omega's, the
complexion of the entire Gator team changed. No longer could another
team concentrate on Jesse Wilhoit attacking from the middle, or
Frenchy defending on the left. Anymore, Jesse could very well be
handling midfield duties from the left or the right, and Frenchy
could be found up and in the middle right next to Jesse. It played
hell with other teams' scouting reports on us, I was sure, a fact
that no doubt tickled Pick. He just stood on the sidelines with
Stan, looking like he had swallowed a canary, as he watched his team
transform on the field.
We finished up our practice and got back on the bus. We had another
short practice scheduled for the afternoon, and our first game,
against George Mason University, was the next afternoon. Our
practice in the afternoon consisted mainly of shooting and passing
drills, enough to put the ball on our feet but not enough to feel
like we were working ourselves to death. We finished up with a two-
mile run around the practice fields and the stadium. Just for kicks
we took practice balls with us and played passing games among us,
working on keeping the ball in the air as we ran. It was good
practice, and it made running miles more fun as we did our laps.
After we got back to the hotel and had showered, I called the hotel
where the South Carolina team was staying and talked to my old buddy
from home, Trent Abbott. He had called me a few days before to let
me know where they were staying during the tournament, and we wanted
to get together with Eric Johnson, who was staying in his dorm on
campus at the University of Maryland. I got permission from Pick for
Jesse and me to leave the hotel for the evening, and we took a cab
over to Trent's hotel. From there we all took the cab out to College
Park, so we could meet Eric at a pizza joint just off campus.
When we arrived at the restaurant, a local dive called Charlie's,
the three of us tumbled out of the cab and raced each other into the
dim interior. I spotted Eric sitting in a booth against the wall.
He saw me at about the same time, and stood up as we approached.
"Porter, Goddamn, it's good to see you," he said, holding out his
hand.
I didn't bother shaking it, but instead I stepped in to him and
wrapped him up in a big bear hug.
"You're even uglier than I remember you," I said, my voice a little
husky.
"You always did have poor eyesight," he retorted. He patted my back
as we hugged.
We finally broke apart, and Eric shook Jesse's hand. "You keepin'
this young one in line?" he asked.
"You have no idea what a pain in the ass he can be sometimes," said
Jesse. "Just ask his good friend Frenchy when you meet him."
Jesse and I had a good laugh over that one, and ended up explaining
a little about my history with Frenchy to Eric and Trent.
"Sounds like he could out-weasel Weasel," said Trent.
"Weasel had redeeming qualities," I said. "Frenchy hasn't really
shown any as yet."
"He's a helluva player, though, you've got to admit," Jesse reminded
me.
"Yes, he is, and he'll be glad to show you when you run into him,
pal." I pointed to Eric, who would no doubt be faced up against him
if we played each other later in the tournament.
"Sounds like fun," he said. "Coach has been working on my takeoffs
and my sprinting speed. Sounds like the kind of matchup I can test
myself against."
"Jesus, you mean you're even faster than you were last year?" I asked.
Eric just smiled, which was confirmation enough for me.
"Well, I hope it isn't us who lights the fire on you," said Jesse.
"Oh, I wouldn't worry too much about it," offered Trent. "Once he's
got a ball to worry about, it slows him up something considerable."
Even Eric had to laugh at that.
The four of us spent most of that evening in a sausage-and-cheese
pizza extravaganza, catching up on college life for each of us. We
bragged about our teams, laughed over some of our teammates (of
course, tales of Frenchy were a big hit with Trent and Eric), and
brought each other up to date with news of home.
I asked Trent about his girlfriend, Danielle Nickerson, and he told
us they were moving into an apartment together next year. They
didn't want Danielle's parents to find out about it quite yet, so he
asked us to keep the news to ourselves until they could break it to
her parents over Christmas.
Eric, in turn, said that he and Keisha had been having some
problems, and I probably wouldn't see her this week. Something
didn't ring true, but he was so reticent to talk about it I didn't
press him.
In short order, though, we were back to being the three amigos once
again, goofing off and carrying on almost like high school. Jesse
hung back just a little, content to let the three of us be ourselves
for the evening, smiling at us and laughing with us. Perhaps he was
remembering his own high school friends, also, as he watched our
interplay.
Almost before we knew it, it was time for the three of us to head
back to our hotels. It was nearly midnight, early for college kids,
but we still had a curfew to obey. We promised to catch up with Eric
during the week at the tournament. I really wanted to watch Maryland
play, not only to see Eric on the field once again, but to scout out
a potential opponent. I was also planning on watching Trent's team
play the next day, since they were taking the field against Kentucky
right after our game.
Eric stayed with us outside the restaurant until the cab came.
Jesse, Trent and I tumbled into the back seat, shouting out to our
friend as he turned and, with a final wave, walked off into the
darkness, back toward campus.
We dropped Trent off at his hotel, and finally made it back to the
Capitol, just making our curfew. Luke was already asleep in our
room, so I undressed in the dark so I wouldn't disturb him. I
brushed my teeth and washed my face, turned out the bathroom light
and stumbled in the dark, stubbing my toe against the bed frame
before finally climbing into my own bed. I sent out a silent prayer
to Kayla, and then rolled over onto my side. Tomorrow was the first
tournament day, and I was looking forward to the week.
(Continued in Chapter 14)
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