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From: "Rev. Cotton Mather" <revcottonmather@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} NEW Playing the Game III: The Competitive Edge, Ch. 21
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Date: Mon,  5 Apr 2004 08:10:02 -0400
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And now we continue...

Enjoy!

RCM



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Welcome to the Church of The Reverend Cotton Mather. This
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(copyright 2004, Rev. Cotton Mather)

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THE COMPETITIVE EDGE:
PLAYING THE GAME, BOOK III


by Reverend Cotton Mather




- 21 -

POSTURING AND ASSAULTS



I know, I know, you don't have to remind me.  I'm a dickhead, I'm an
asshole, I'm about as stupid and immature as a guy can be.  Heard it
all before, I'll have to hear it all again before I die.  It doesn't
have to make sense; it just is.

After the implosion of our season, we all cleaned out our lockers.
We would be back in February to prepare for spring soccer camps, but
until then we had about two months to recuperate.  We needed it.

After our last game, the debacle against Clemson, I dutifully wrote
up my report and handed it in, just like always.  I didn't hear
anything from Pick about my reports, but I really didn't expect to,
either.  Even so, something interesting came out of that project.  I
discovered that my love of the game hadn't been extinguished.  I
found myself really studying the tapes, and I enjoyed dissecting the
games with Eddie.  On the days I didn't have any duties to perform
for Eddie, I took a couple of my soccer balls out to the field and
worked on my skills by myself.  Sometimes Spencer or Jesse came with
me, but I was happy to work on my own.  I'd done it before, and I had
found that it was good therapy for me.  I wanted to continue to play
the game, play to win, and regain my competitive edge.  The flame was
still burning.  Soccer was important to me, even if I never played
another game for the University of Florida.

Then, about a week after the NCAA championship game, when I called
Eddie to find out what he wanted me to do that day, he told me Coach
Pick wanted to see us.

"Really?" I said, a little surprised.  He had pretty much ignored me
at the end of our season.  I was assuming I wouldn't be back the next
year, even though I had yet to let my parents know what was going on.
I wanted to wait to spring that little disappointment onto them for
as long as I could.

"Yeah," said Eddie.  "When's your last class on Wednesday?"

"It gets out at 2:45."

"Okay, I'll meet you at the fieldhouse at 3:15," he said.  "I'll let
Pick know we'll be in his office by 3:30."

It gave me more to worry about.  Pile it on, I said to myself.
Let's get it all over with sooner than later.  It was strictly a
defensive mechanism, though, and even I, in my muddled mental state,
could recognize it.  I was posturing for nobody but myself.

I met up with Eddie on Wednesday afternoon.  He didn't have any more
information on what Pick wanted with me than he did before, but I was
ready to hear the worst.  In fact, I was kind of looking forward to
finally feeling the hammer descend.  Anything was better than the
dreadful anticipation I had been under.

Once again, Pick kept us waiting by Eunice's desk.  My anxiety level
was still sky-high, but being resigned to hearing the bad news made
the wait easier.  Eddie Whitehead was slouched in the chair next to
me with his eyes closed, seemingly asleep.  If it had been anybody
else, I would have assumed he was listening to his own soundtrack in
his head; with Eddie, I had to think he was reliving soccer plays he
had observed over the past few months.

Finally, the intercom on Eunice's desk buzzed.  Eddie's eyes snapped
open and he stood up even before Eunice said anything.

"Go ahead," she said as she waved us toward Pick's office door.

Eddie opened the door and strode in, and I followed, closing the
door gently behind me.  Nobody could accuse me of not having learned
my lesson from a previous visit to that office.  I stood by the door
and waited for instructions from Pick.

"Sit," he said.  "Both of you, please sit."  He gestured toward the
two chairs opposite his desk.  I took the right one, and Eddie sat
down in the one on the left.  The reports I had worked so hard on
were stacked on the side of his desk.  Had he even read them?  I was
mildly curious, even though it really didn't matter much to me at
that point.

Pick waited a long time before he said anything.  I was getting a
little restless, and it took a real effort not to squirm in my chair.
Eddie, on the other hand, sat there motionless, as if he could sit
and watch the endless loops of film in his head forever.

"When I give you that assignment," Pick finally began, gesturing to
the stack of reports, "I was tryin' to come up with a way to make you
focus on what's important here, Mr. Porter.  To tell you true, I was
expectin' you to scribble somethin' up and staple it together.  I was
not anticipatin' an actual presentation like what you gave me."

He paused.  Perhaps he was expecting me to say something, but I
stayed silent.  No sense leaping in when you don't know where this is
heading, I reminded myself.  It occurred to me that maybe Pick really
had read my reports.

As if he could see my thoughts, Pick patted the stack by his side.
"Yup," he confirmed.  "I read every damn page."  He looked straight
at me, but I couldn't decipher his expression.  "I'm assuming Eddie
Whitehead helped you with this."

It was a statement, not a question.  I nodded anyway.

"You two was analyzin' that film after every game, wa'ant you?"

"Yes, sir," I replied.

"Why?"

"Why?"  It confused me.  He had assigned the work; he of all people
should have known why.

"That's right, son.  Why?  As in, why did you go to all this
extent?"  He was still staring right at me.  "I asked for a report.
You give me an in-depth analysis."

I got nervous.  "But... Isn't it what you wanted?" I asked.  Maybe I
don't want to hear the answer, I thought disjointedly.

Pick barked a short, humorless laugh.  "Well, son, it surely ain't
what I asked for."

"I... I'm sorry, sir, I could..."

He waved me off, and my jaw snapped shut.  Keep quiet, idiot, I told
myself.

"No, hold on," he said.  "What I asked for was just busy work, a
punishment.  What I got was a lesson of my own."

"Sir?"

"Eddie Whitehead, here, prob'ly helped steer you in this direction,
Sean."  He glanced over at Eddie, and then shifted back to me.
"Hell, I'm just a simple ol' boy.  I see somethin' in my way, I
either move it or I get around it however I can.  Eddie's much more
sly than I could ever hope to be."  Pick dug his fingertips into his
eyes, his elbows propped up on his desk, and rubbed for a moment, and
then he sat back in his chair and looked me over once again.

"Mr. Sean Porter, you continue to surprise me, son.  I knew you was
a helluva player - hell, anybody who knows the game can recognize
that right off - and very good players seem to know, almost by
instinct, what constitutes a well-played game.  The best ones know
which other players on the field are their peers, and they tend to
focus on them.  Whether they're teammates or opponents, the best ones
key in on the players they think are the quality athletes."

I nodded.  "Yes, sir," I ventured, though I had absolutely no idea
where this conversation was going.

"Good."  Pick's expression had resolved into something more intense.
"Now, let's take all these here really good players as a group for a
moment.  Think of it like a pyramid.  First, we've got all the soccer
players, and the best ones are at the top layer of the pyramid.  Not
many of them, right?  Okay, now we're takin' them top layer players,
and we're setting them to the side, and they form another small
pyramid."

He grabbed a blank sheet of paper from his desk drawer, and he drew
a long pencil from an old coffee can on his desk that served as a
holder for his pens and pencils.  He quickly drew two triangles, one
larger and one bigger, on the paper.  He tapped his pencil on the
smaller triangle.  "They're all good players, but now they're
separated by some other qualities.  F'r instance, some of these
players, but most assuredly not all of them, will have the
temperament to be team leaders."  He drew a line near the base of the
triangle, and tapped the point of his pencil on the next layer of his
pyramid.

"As we move up the pyramid, here, we might find a smaller group who
have an innate feel for the game, and can express what they see so
others can understand."  He drew another couple of lines, each time
indicating a smaller segment.  "Others might be able to change the
essence of their team's game, simply by their presence.  That's a
rare one," he said, almost to himself.

He colored in the top part of the triangle.  "Now, don't get me
wrong, I know there's some of all these qualities in all these
players," he explained.  "I'm just talking about the strongest
capabilities here.  There are a few players I seen who are such
students of the game, they seem to be able to draw conclusions out of
the air, almost like the best chess players.  They can watch a game,
and go back to a play ten minutes prior to a goal and explain how it
was all set up that long ago."

Pick continued doodling on his triangle, drawing arrows up and down
through each of the layers he had made.  Gazing down, only half
seeing his doodling, he said, "And then there are a few players, very
damned few, who can mold a team around them, so they have almost
created a living entity.  That entity moves with purpose and
coordination, and it's a thing of terrible beauty."

He looked up at me.  "That's another rare one," he said pointedly.

Eddie shifted in his chair, and I glanced over at him.  He was
nodding.  What did all this have to do with me and my reports?

Pick tapped his pencil on the stack of reports.  "I can read Eddie
Whitehead's evaluations in these here papers, son, and they are as
precise and insightful as he always is.  I was impressed with the
parts that obviously weren't Eddie's."  He paused once again, and
then he shifted gears on me.  "You love this game, don't you, boy?"

Startled, I said, "Yes, sir, I do."

"It shows," he said, still tapping the pile.  "It surely does show
up, even in those first reports, before Eddie Whitehead began showing
you the film.  You got a way of describin' the plays that makes it
all seem like it works all together.  Offense, defense, all supposed
to be workin' toward the same goals, and you saw just how and where
it all seemed to break down."  Pick chuckled, this time displaying
some humor.  "You two take the cake, by God.  I leave you two alone
in a room full of film canisters, and you gonna fix it, ain't you?
Well, I got not a doubt in the world anymore.  No, sir, I don't."

"I'm not sure I..."  I stumbled on the words, wanting to reach out
and grab them back, but they were out of my mouth before I could stop
them.

"Hell, son, I ain't sure of much, myself," Pick said with a tight
grin.  "Not anymore, leastways.  But this much I do know, Sean
Porter.  I owe my team an apology.  And, despite all that's happened,
I believe I owe you at least an opportunity."

"I don't know that you do, Coach," I said.  I was sincerely hoping
he did feel like he owed me something, but I was not expecting it.  I
couldn't let my guard down and be disappointed again.

"Here's the deal, son.  I intended to punish you for your
misdemeanor, and instead I visited a felonious assault upon my team."

Eddie was nodding again, sitting up now and paying attention to the
conversation.

Pick continued, "That there Georgetown trophy wasn't important to
me.  Hell, I already got five of 'em out there in the case in the
lobby of the fieldhouse.  I was tryin' to impart a lesson, and I done
got taught one, but good.  I surely did not expect the entire season
to go into the crapper just because I benched a couple of our
starters."

Pick stood up suddenly, and I flinched.  He took a couple of steps
over to his chalkboard and began to draw out a chart.

"See?  I bench Porter, Wilhoit, Watkins, and Goldman, and I fully
expected to lose to South Carolina at the Georgetown.  Okay, that's
acceptable to me.  The same players are benched for the next game,
which unfortunately happens to be against South Carolina again, but
that's the way the cookie sometimes crumbles.  So we lose that one,
too."  He scribbled some more lines on his chart.  "Now, for the next
four games, it's just Porter who is sittin', and we should be back at
pretty much full strength, especially up front.  And what happens?  A
win, a tie, two losses.  What the hell went wrong?"

He practically threw the chalk back into the tray.  "I'll tell you
what went wrong.  I done my team a terrible disservice, and now I got
to make amends."  He sat back down at his desk.  "And I start doing
that right now.  Eddie?"

"Yes, Pick?"  It was the first time Eddie had spoken since we
entered the room.

"You correct me if I get this wrong now, hear?"

"You got it," said Eddie, though I didn't think he would have to do
any correcting.

"I'm puttin' it all out on the table, Sean.  Frankly, I want you
back here next year.  I'd hate to see you transfer off just because
of what happened the end of this season.  So, your scholarship
remains in place.  You try out for your spot in the lineup next year,
just like everybody else.  That sit okay with you so far?"

So far?  It was already beyond any expectations I had brought with
me to this meeting.  "Yes, sir," I managed to croak out.

"Part of the condition of your scholarship was a part-time job, and
I took that away from you, which I should not have done.  So now you
work for me.  Well, to be factual, you will be workin' for the entire
Athletic Department, but in truth you will be workin' as Eddie
Whitehead's assistant, and you will be workin' for me."

"Okay," I said.  I was already doing that.  Now, apparently, I was
to be paid for it, which was all the way fine with me.

"Eunice will have a paycheck for you every two weeks, beginnin' this
Friday.  You just stop by and see her anytime that day.  Now, I got
two special jobs for you two to do for me.  First off, I got a list
of clinics and tournaments for this spring.  I want you and Eddie
Whitehead to get together with the team captains and narrow that list
down.  I don't want us enterin' no creampuff tourneys, though.  I
want you boys challenged, and I want you all to figure out how to win
them challenges."

Eddie spoke up.  "I've got Jesse, Bryan, and Rick coming here in
about an hour to talk about it," he said.

Pick's eyes crinkled in amusement.  "You done gone and anticipated
me, din't cha?"

Eddie didn't reply.  In fact, his face gave away nothing.  Note to
self: do not play gin against this guy.  Even Spencer Goldman would
do well to stay away from Eddie Whitehead when he's got a deck of
cards in his hand.

"The other assignment I got is this," Pick continued, once it became
obvious he wasn't going to get an answer from Eddie.  "We got a
couple of good players comin' in as freshmen next year.  One in
particular is a midfielder from out California way, a young man who
desperately wants to put some yardage between himself and his family.
He turned down a helluvan offer from Berkeley to accept a scholarship
to Florida, and we'll be glad to have him.  I got about twenty hours
of film of this boy's games.  I want you two to analyze that film,
just like you did these others, and let me know how we're going to
fit him in."

Eddie nodded, and I followed his lead.

"Okay, good.  We got a team meeting set up for Saturday morning, and
I want to have our practice schedules for February done by then, so
get some work done on that there clinic list first.  Got it?"

"Yes, sir," I said.

"Now get the hell out of here.  You got work to do."  Pick said it
with a smile, but I didn't dawdle.  Eddie and I got the hell out of
there.


_________________________________________________________________



When the other guys arrived, we all sat in one of the classrooms
with the list of tournaments Pick had given to Eddie.  Rick Rogers,
the defensive co-captain and a senior, was familiar with most of the
tournaments, and he quickly ran them down for us.  Eddie filled us in
on the ones Rick didn't know about, and he also described the focus
of the clinics on the list.  Some of the clinic's marquee instructors
were defensive specialists, some offered offensive drills, others
drilled mainly on restarts such as corner kicks and throw-ins.  It
was a surprisingly specialized group of clinics, but since they were
typically only run on the weekends, I realized they had to pinpoint
areas of development.  The clinics were designed for advanced
players, college-level and club athletes, so they didn't have to
cover the basics, concentrating instead on coordinated plays,
atypical game situations, and trick plays to outwit opponents.

Of course, if all the SEC teams attended the same clinics, they
would see the setups and be able to counteract them.  Even so,
knowing what was happening on the field was always a good thing for a
soccer player, in my opinion.  I was eager to attend any of the
clinics Eddie and my co-captains thought might be of interest.

By the end of our discussion, we were all back on the same page.
Past transgressions were in the past, and everybody was looking
forward to moving ahead.  It was a load off my mind.


________________________________________________________________



Unfortunately, my team life was the only part of my existence that
seemed to be heading in the right direction.  Two weeks until finals,
and I was woefully behind in my studies.  If I didn't make grades, my
reacceptance onto the soccer field was going to be a moot point.

My personal life also continued to suck.  The letters piled up.  I
now had three good-sized stacks of unopened mail.  I didn't want to
throw them out, but I didn't have any desire to read them, either.
The only ones I read were the ones from my mom, and even those were
painful.  She never mentioned anything directly, but her omissions
were loud assaults on my psyche.

Bryan had hinted about something going on with Reggie, but she was
another on my list of people I was avoiding.  I was carrying a huge
amount of guilt around, and quite a lot of it stemmed from my
conflicted feelings about her.  She was a wonderful girl, and I had
no wish to hurt her in any way.  At one point, before the Georgetown
tournament, I had been thinking that, if Kayla hadn't been my
girlfriend, I might have pursued a more romantic relationship with
Reggie.  Now, with my self-inflicted exile from Kayla, I couldn't
imagine even talking to Reggie.

My choice was swept away from me, however, when I found Reggie
waiting for me after my English class one day.  I didn't even
recognize her until she called my name, even though I looked right at
her as I walked out of GPA, one of the general education buildings on
campus.  She was dressed in an old work shirt and frayed jeans, and
she wasn't wearing any makeup at all.

"Sean?  Can I talk to you?"

I whirled when she called my name, and I was surprised when it took
me a moment to place her.

"Reggie?  Are you okay?"

She nodded, but she looked uncomfortable.  I didn't know if she was
just reluctant to see me, or if the surroundings were making her feel
that way.  I stepped over to her and tried to put my arm around her
shoulder, but she stepped away from me.  There's your answer, I told
myself.

"Sean, I... I want to thank you for... for..."  She stumbled over
the words she was trying to say.  She looked like she was about to
cry.

"You want to get some coffee or something?" I asked.  "Maybe walk
over to Reitz?"

"No, that's okay," she said.  She wasn't looking directly at me.
Her body language screamed of reluctance at being there.  "I just
wanted to... say thanks for... for being around for me."

"Why?"  Ol' Cut-to-the-Chase Porter, now on duty.

"Why?"  Now Reggie looked at me.  I could see the sadness in her
eyes, and it was painful to recognize it.

"Sure," I said.  I was anxious to get away from this scene, too, so
I decided to make it quick for her.  No sense prolonging the agony.
"Why are you thanking me?"

"B... Because..."  She was having trouble getting the words out, so
I helped her out even more.

"Because it's over?" I asked, perhaps a little harshly.  "You're
done with me?"  I watched, a little heartlessly, as the tears began
to roll down her pale cheeks.  "Okay," I said, my voice rough.
"You're welcome.  See you around."  And I turned, and I walked away.

She silently let me go.


__________________________________________________________________



It wasn't until much later I found out Reggie had been having
conflicting feelings about me, just as I had been having concerning
my relationship with her.  She had gone home to visit Elvis for fall
break, and they had a fight about it, about me.  When she returned to
Florida, she found out about the upheaval in the soccer team, created
by none other than her so-called "safe date," the one and only Sean
Porter.

My own depression and distance helped her to make up her mind, and
she decided to stop going out with me so she could stop jeopardizing
the relationship that was more important to her, her romance with her
Pennsylvania hockey player.

She displayed more guts than I possessed, however, by confronting me
in person.  It hurt, but it also painfully reminded me of my own
cowardice.


__________________________________________________________________



I struggled through the last couple of weeks of school before the
Christmas break.  I was dreading going home and facing Kayla, Jake,
and Jaimie.  I didn't think I wanted to see Eric or Trent, for that
matter.  Then, in meeting with Eddie and my teammates, a way out
presented itself.

My parents had sent me a plane ticket home.  I splurged and called
long-distance to tell them my plans for the long break.

"Tell me again about what you want to do?"  My mom sounded confused.

"I have to help plan out the spring clinic schedules," I repeated.
"I'm going to drive down to Jesse's house for a few days so we can
work on it."

"And you're planning on going there right away?"

"The day after I get back.  It's important, Ma.  It's for the team."

She sighed.  "Well, I suppose, if your coach is asking you to do
this..."

"Oh, it's a big assignment," I said hurriedly.  I had her on the
ropes.  Now I had to seal the deal.  "He needs us to finish this as
soon as we can."

"I still don't see why you can't just work on it there," she said.

"Because we don't have time," I wheedled.  "Not with finals and all."

"And when are you coming back home?"  She sounded resigned.  Good, I
thought, though I had just enough sense to not say it out loud.

"I'll be back in plenty of time to pack up and go to Aunt Jo's," I
said.  We were going to my mother's sister's house in Wisconsin for
Christmas, and with luck I wouldn't be back home until it was time to
fly back to Florida.  "I promise."

"Kayla will be so disappointed," my mother said, thrusting the
needle deep into my vein.

"Yeah, I'm disappointed, too, but we've got to get this work done,"
I said, trying to sound as regretful as I could.

In the end, she bought it.  I knew she would be able to convince my
dad of the importance of my trip down to Jesse's.  I knew she would
be very disappointed in me if she ever found out how duplicitous I
was in the way I used her.  I just hoped she would never learn the
truth.


__________________________________________________________________



It worked like a charm.  I flew home on Sunday, and on Tuesday I
drove down to Jesse's.  I spent the next few days with Jesse and his
family, farting around at the mall and working out at a new indoor
soccer facility about fifteen miles away from his house.  We even did
some legitimate work on our spring schedule.

We also talked about getting the "flow" back into the team.  We were
losing four starters to graduation, including the entire middle of
our defensive unit, but we had a great core from which to build.
Jeremy Peters, our left midfielder, was graduating, and if this kid
from California Pick had landed was as good as Pick thought he was,
he might be able to slide right into that spot.

Ted Artichenkoff, Brad Rickman, and Rick Rogers were also
graduating, but we had some solid players ready to take over.  A new
sweeper, stopper, and keeper on a team would normally be tough to
integrate quickly, but Jesse, Bryan, and Eddie all were confident we
would hardly miss a stride in the fall.

The Wilhoits had a guest room in their house that I used.  Jesse and
I shared the hall bath, and his younger sister, Anna, had her own
room with a bathroom.  I had been a little nervous about seeing her
again, but by now she was a senior in high school, and she was dating
a tennis player from her school.  We had flirted at one time, back a
few years before, but she hardly gave me a second glance anymore.  It
was okay with me.  I didn't need the complication.

I drove back home the day before we were leaving for Aunt Jo's.  I
didn't really like my cousins very much, so I wasn't looking forward
to seeing them, but it got me out of town.  My cousins were quite a
bit younger than me, still in middle school, and they were as
obnoxious as I probably was when I was their age.  Maybe I would like
them when they grew up, but until then I was of the opinion they
should be locked away.  The oldest, Will, was twelve, and his younger
brother, Troy, was eleven.  It seemed like the Lindgren sisters, my
mom and her sister Jo, could only produce male progeny.  Jo kept on
saying she wanted a girl, but so far it was all grandsons for that
side of the family.

Even my brother Stephen, closer in age to Will and Troy than either
Michael or me, had little patience for the tricks our cousins tried
to pull.  I did my best to ignore them, but Stephen actually cornered
them the second day we were there.  By then, Will and Troy had short-
sheeted Stephen's bed, put some sort of slimy concoction in my
pillowcase, and were all-around pains in the ass.  Stephen used a
baseball bat to contain the boys in a corner of the basement, and
then he threatened them with mutilation and severe bodily harm if
they even looked at us funny for the rest of the time we were
residents of their house.  The look on Stephen's face must have been
convincing, because Will and Troy backed off and left us alone after
that.

When Stephen told me about it, later that afternoon, I had to work
hard to keep a straight face.  I remembered all too well how Jake and
I had had to threaten Stephen and his friends in much the same way,
not all that long ago.  It felt good to find some humor in a
situation again, even if it was a little dark.

I was still pretty moody over the Christmas holidays, and I spent a
lot of time thinking about Kayla.  I knew she was hurting, but I just
couldn't bring myself to contact her.  Being out of town helped me to
rationalize my behavior, and the longer I went without talking to
her, or writing to her, the easier I thought my life would become.

Of course, I was wrong.

By the time we got back to our own house, though, I was itchy to get
back to Florida.  It was Wednesday, the second of January, and I
impulsively called the airline to see if I could get on an earlier
flight.

They had seats available.  All I had to do then was convince my
parents.

When I brought it up at dinner that night, my mom almost had a cow.

"You want to... what?"  She put down her fork carefully and stared
at me.

"I think I should get back," I repeated.  "Coach has some film he
wants us to look at, and I've got a lot to do..."

My dad said, "We'd like to spend some time with you, son.  We've
missed having you around."

"But you're going back to work tomorrow," I pleaded.  "So is Mom.
It's not like we've got a lot of plans or anything.  Please?  It's
important."

My mother looked at me, the disappointment plain in her expression.
"You have someone you have to talk to before you go back," she said.
"And you know it as well as I do."

And, just like that, the subject I had worked so hard to evade had
just found the light of day.  Just what I was trying to avoid, and my
mother catches me up.  I sighed, and tried an end-around.  "But Pick
is expecting me to..."

"Your coach expects you to do the right thing," she interrupted.
"On the field and off it.  You are not going back to Florida without
talking to her, Sean."

And so there it is, I thought to myself.  Cornered again.  I sighed
once again, as dramatically as I dared.  "All right," I said.  "I'll
call after dinner."

Suddenly, though, I just wasn't hungry at all.

After our meal, I put off calling for as long as I could.
Significant looks from my mother finally guilted me into picking up
the phone, though, and I reluctantly dialed.

Jake picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hey," I said.  "How's things at Iowa?"

"Where the hell have you been?"  Jake didn't sound happy.  I didn't
blame him for being angry.

"We were up north for Christmas," I said by way of explanation.

"You gotta talk to her, dude."

"Yeah, I know," I said slowly.  "That's why I'm calling."

"Ah, shit," he said roughly.  "She's not home right now.  Her and
Jaimie and their moms are out shopping.  You'd think they would have
had enough of shopping before Christmas."

"Women never have enough of shopping," I said distractedly.  Kayla
wasn't home.  That was all I could concentrate on.

"Kay was going to spend the night with Jaimie.  You could call her
over there later," he suggested.

"Christ, I don't think so," I muttered.

"Sean, call her soon, dude.  She's done nothing but cry for the past
month.  You gotta straighten this out."

"Yeah, I'm working on it," I said, but both he and I knew I didn't
have much of a plan.

We hung up, and I went in to report my effort.  Mom looked grim, but
she nodded tersely.

The next day, when we were gathered at the dinner table after my
parents got home from work, Mom pointedly asked, "Did you talk to
Kayla?"

Keeping my head down, I mumbled, "Yes, ma'am.  It didn't go well."

I didn't dare look up at her.  She was silent for a moment.  "You
need to keep working on it when you go back," she said.

"I will, I promise," I said.  Liar! kept on echoing in my brain, so
loudly I wouldn't have been surprised if my family couldn't hear it
leaking out my ears.

I left for Florida the next day, relieved to get the hell out of
there, especially before my mother found out I really hadn't called
Kayla back at all.





(Continued in Chapter 22)




Rev. Cotton Mather
Senior Pastor,
Church of the Erotic Redemption
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/ReverendCottonMather/www
http://www.storiesonline.net
www.ruthiesclub.com

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I'd do it all over you**

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