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From: "Rev. Cotton Mather" <revcottonmather@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} RP Playing the Game III: The Competitive Edge, Ch. 6-10
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Date: Mon,  5 Apr 2004 09:10:03 -0400
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So we all can catch up with the story...

Enjoy!




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(copyright 2003, Rev. Cotton Mather)

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THE COMPETITIVE EDGE:
PLAYING THE GAME, BOOK III


by Reverend Cotton Mather




- 6 -

TWO LETTERS



Dearest Sean,

I can't believe it's already the middle of September!  Junior year
is going by so fast for me!  On the other hand, it seems like a year
since I was able to see you, to feel your presence next to me.  I
miss you so much!  Christmas is an eternity away!

Homecoming is in about three weeks.  Jaimie and I are going to
babysit Kyle so that Stephen and Tara can go to the dance.  And
before you even say anything, NO!!!  I WON'T go if you're not there
with me.  And Jaimie feels the same way, too.  Even though Jake is a
lot closer, he still can't come home very often.  He's got a game
nearly every weekend, too, so it's hard for him to leave.

Oh, I didn't tell you!  Jake is playing rugby instead of football.
He says it's kind of like football, only without pads.  He says it's
an English game, or Australian, or something.  It sounds too rough to
be English to me.  Don't they play, like, cricket, or badminton, or
something?  Anyway, rugby sounds kind of rough, but he really likes
it.  He can tackle and block like in football.  He says it's
especially fun when the field is muddy.  Yuck!

My recreational soccer team is doing pretty well.  We won our last
two games, and our coach is going to sign us up for that tournament
you took the Warriors to the last couple of years.  I hope we do
well!  Wish us luck!

I got a fun call yesterday!  Since Molly is away at school, and she
knows I'm just sitting at home moping about you being away (just
kidding!) Lori Wilkinson - oops, I mean Lori McMasters! - anyway,
Lori called and asked if I would be their main babysitter.  I said I
would, and my first babysitting job for them is this Friday night.
Those boys are so much fun!  I'll bet they miss you almost as much as
I do, lover.

Can I confess something to you?  God, I hope my mother doesn't find
this before I can mail it.  Sometimes, at night, I lie awake and
remember how you touch me.  I just can't help it, because I know my
memories are all I have until you come home.  Some nights I just
can't sleep, and I run my fingers slowly up and down my thighs,
across my tummy, and around my boobs, trying to tease myself the same
way you like to tease me.  My boobs especially are so tender and achy
from wanting to feel your lips on them, I have to pinch my nipples to
give myself some temporary relief.  It just isn't the same as when
you do it though, Sean my love.  Just the thought of your fingers and
your tongue teasing me, caressing me in the most sensitive of spots,
makes me light-headed.

And the rest of me - oh, Sean, I get so wet just thinking of you as
I lie in my bed, in the dark, with nothing but my pictures of you and
my thoughts of your hands and your kisses.  The way you touch me so
lovingly, and yet you can be so hard and forceful when you need to
be, it just makes me weak in the knees even thinking about it now,
here in study hall!  What would old Miss Epstein say if she could
read this??

Please don't think I'm evil, Sean, just because I have these funny
thoughts.  I knew I would miss you terribly, but I never thought I
would have these physical cravings for you!  It's like I have a rash,
and only feeling your naked body on top of mine will cure me.  Help,
I think I need a hot injection of Porter Love! *giggle*

Oh my God, I can't believe I actually wrote that!  But I won't
scratch it out.  No secrets between us, Sean, ever.  That's my
promise to you.  One of my promises to you.

Write back soon, Sean my love.  I miss you, and all that keeps me
going day by day is anticipating getting a letter from you, until I
can hold you in my arms once again, three long months from now!

All my love, forever and forever,

Your Luscious, Kayla



****************************************************************



Dearest Kayla,

I've been so busy, you wouldn't believe it.  College is way
different from high school.  There's a lot more reading to do, and
writing papers, too.  And you have to buy your own books, but I told
you that already.  Do you know my books for just my first semester
cost over two hundred dollars?  It's a good thing my scholarship
covers my books, too.  Anyway, here we are, only about three weeks
into the semester, and I'm already falling behind in my reading.

I went to that Greek Rush party at Bryan's fraternity the other
night.  It was kind of interesting.  Their fraternity house is really
big, they have a huge room on the first floor with a big-screen
television in it, they have a giant meeting room in the basement, and
they have a horseshoe pit in the back yard.  Bryan introduced me to
the president of the fraternity.  His name is John Huff, but
everybody calls him Jack behind his back!  (It's a joke.  Ask Jake to
explain it if you don't get it, ha ha)

I'm pretty sure I'm not going to join, though.  I just don't have
time for a fraternity.  I barely have time now to do all the stuff
I'm supposed to do (such as write to my girlfriend! ha ha).

My roommate wants to pledge a certain fraternity.  From what I
understand, the process is something like this.  You go to the
introductory parties and meet the members.  That was Monday night.
Then, the fraternity members vote on who they want to invite back.
You choose which fraternities you want to visit a second time from
the list of those who invite you to return, maybe three or four of
them, and you go to a second night of parties.

Don't get me wrong, these aren't wild college parties.  They are
kind of formal and fake, like adult cocktail parties.  Everybody gets
kind of dressed up, and they stand around with these cheesy smiles on
their faces, and pretend they are really having fun.  It's actually
kind of gross, when you think about it.  Anyway, you go to the second
night of parties, and then the fraternities meet again, and whittle
down their list again.  You can then decide to go to a third round,
and usually you're choosing between two fraternities at this point.
Or sometimes, it's just one that you like that invited you back, so
you just go to that one a third time.  After that, the fraternities
vote on whether to invite you to join or not.  By the third party,
you should pretty much know if you fit in with the other members or
not.  Or you're supposed to, anyway.

Whatever.  Anyway, Westy wants to pledge this fraternity.  He got
invited back for a second party, and he's really looking forward to
going and talking with the members.  He's putting it all on the line
with just this one frat, though.  Either he declined the others, or
they declined him, so he's already down to only one choice.  I hope
he's not disappointed.

I'm sorry this letter isn't longer, Kay, but I've got to get busy
and hit the books.  If I get bad grades, they're going to yank me
from the team, and I can't afford that!

I miss you every day.  I'll see you soon!

Love,

Your boyfriend,

Sean





(Continued in Chapter 7)





- 7 -

GIRLS WITH BOYS' NAMES



I was nervous as hell.

It was Friday night, and I was going back to the Phi Kap house.
They were having another party, this one much more informal.  It was
kind of an end-of-Rush party for the members and their guests.  They
would find out how big their pledge class would be sometime during
the evening, so the members and their guests were hanging out
together while they waited for the paperwork to arrive from the
Hellenic Council.

Bryan and Melanie had decided this would be a good opportunity for
Reggie and me to meet.  Maybe they thought, with a crowd around us,
things might be easier for everybody.  I hoped they were right.

As I was getting ready, I kept glancing over at Westy.  He was a
bundle of nervous energy, too.  He had accepted an invitation to join
the Sigma Tau Rho fraternity, and he was wired.

"Parties, dude," was all he could say when I asked why he wanted to
pledge a fraternity.  "Doobies, beer and broads."

"What about your training?  When are you supposed to start swim
practices?" I asked.  I thought a subtle reminder of his scholarship
and its source would be enough to temper his enthusiasm.

"Yeah, well, that begins pretty soon," he admitted.  "I'm gonna have
to store up some good partying, because the good times will
definitely slow down once the season begins."

"Okay, whatever you say," I told him.  He was determined to burn his
candle from both ends while he could, and nothing I said to him was
going to alter his course.  I mentally wished him the best of luck,
and didn't give it another thought.  It was no skin off my nose if he
bit off more than he could chew.

It was still blisteringly hot out, and the dress for the party was
very casual, but I wanted to make a good impression on Reggie - and
on Melanie - so I opted to wear some tan pressed slacks instead of
shorts, and topped it off with a plain blue crew-neck shirt.  I
really didn't want to put on socks and shoes, so I slipped on some
leather sandals.  I checked myself in the mirror again, making sure
my hair was okay and I didn't have any food stuck between my front
teeth.  I paced the three or four steps between the door and the
couch, back and forth, glancing nervously at the clock each time I
passed by my desk.  Westy was perched on the arm of the couch, his
hands slapping his thighs and his feet tapping alternately on the
floor, as he listened to his own internal soundtrack.

Finally I couldn't stand it anymore, so I left and wandered around
down by the lake, until it was time to go over to the Phi Kap house.
There were a bunch of joggers out, using the path around the lake as
their track, and there was a large group of kids playing at Ultimate
Frisbee.  It looked like a lot of fun.

The walk did me good.  I was sweating, but it was from the heat
instead of nervousness.  I turned my feet in the direction of Greek
Row.

All the houses were having parties.  Music throbbed from every
window of each of the fraternity and sorority houses, and there were
kids moving across the lawns between the houses, visiting back and
forth.

The Phi Kap house was no exception.  The big wraparound porch was
packed with people, and .38 Special's "Wild-Eyed Southern Boys" was
pumping from the giant speakers in the television room, loud enough
to be heard out on the sidewalk.

I skipped up the stairs, but was stopped by a couple of guys sitting
on the concrete pillars at the top.

"Sorry, man, private party," one of them said as he stood up to
block my way.

"I'm here to see Bryan Watkins," I said.  "He invited me."

The other guy spoke up.  "Are you Porter?"

"Yeah," I confirmed.

He looked over at his companion.  "Bryan told me he was expecting
this guy."  He motioned me in.  "Him and Mel are over on the side,"
he said, pointing toward the corner of the house where the porch
wrapped around.

"Okay, thanks," I said.  I wove my way through the mass of bodies in
the direction indicated.  I had only gone maybe a half-dozen sliding
steps when somebody thrust a plastic cup of foamy beer into my hand.

"You look thirsty," somebody said.  I never did see who my
benefactor was.  I wasn't much of a beer drinker, but it was hot and
the liquid was cold.  It went down easily.

I finally made my way around the porch and saw Bryan perched on the
railing.  Melanie was sitting in a big wicker chair across from him.
She had on very tight shorts, and her bronzed, thin legs were
elegantly crossed.  A gold ankle bracelet winked in the sun.  She was
wearing a fancy white tee shirt, also mouth-wateringly tight, with
"Angel" arched across the top of her breasts in rhinestones.  I
almost had to agree, if I hadn't known a real angel back home, one
with white-blonde hair.  Melanie held a cup of beer in her hand, and
she set it down on the small wicker table next to her chair when she
saw me.  She smiled at me, stood gracefully, and stepped over to take
my arm.

"I'm glad you came, Sean," she said as she guided me over to her
group.  Bryan was watching her, an indulgent smile on his face.  I
felt a little flustered and flattered, just by being the object of
her attention.

There was a very attractive, young girl sitting in a wicker chair
next to Melanie's.  Her hair was long and dark, nearly black, with
bangs that just reached her eyebrows.  Her eyes were large and brown,
and she was watching Melanie and me carefully.  She was dressed
conservatively, wearing a loose-fitting buttoned sleeveless blouse
and a pleated skirt that nearly reached her knees.  She looked nearly
as nervous as I felt.

Melanie led me over.

"Reggie, this is Sean," she said.  She gave me a little push forward.

Reggie licked her lips nervously, and then put out her hand.

"Hi," she said, so softly I barely heard her.

I shook her hand as gently as I knew how.  I didn't want to scare
her any more than she already seemed to be, and I certainly didn't
want to bruise her.  She looked far too delicate for a klutz like me
to be around.

"Hi," I mumbled, suddenly unable to come up with anything cleverer
to say.

Bryan laughed out loud at me.  "Jesus, Porter, she's not going to
break," he cried.  "You probably don't have to be quite that careful."

I glanced over at him, feeling a little panicky, but seeing him
laughing at us pretty much broke the ice.  I could see the humor of
the situation all too well, and I smiled, a little chagrined.  I
looked back at Reggie, and she evidently thought the same thing,
because she was smiling too, and didn't look nearly as nervous
anymore.

"Um, can I have my hand back now?" she asked, her eyes twinkling now
with amusement.

I dropped her hand as if it was a hot iron.  I hadn't realized I was
still holding it.

"Oops, sorry," I said.  I moved over to stand next to her chair, so
I was facing everybody.  She watched me as I moved, keeping track of
my whereabouts.  Melanie sat back in her own chair, a smug look on
her beautiful face.

There was a pretty raucous party going on around us.  The Phi Kaps
had a couple of kegs of beer on ice in the back yard, and it flowed
freely.  Even the four of us perched against the back rail of the
deck were eventually sucked into the party spirit, as plastic
pitchers of beer were passed around.  I refilled Reggie's glass when
a pitcher made its way over to me, and then refilled Melanie's glass.
There was just enough left for one more glass, so Bryan grabbed the
pitcher away from me, poured the last of the beer into my glass, and
headed out into the masses to find his way into the back yard to
replenish our supply.

Reggie and I bobbed and weaved our way around conversations, never
really addressing each other very directly.  My mind was on Kayla and
how she would react to this development, and I was sure Reggie was
thinking about her boyfriend back home in the same manner.  How to
explain?  How to justify?

Finally, though, the beer, the heat, and the crowd around us broke
through, and both of us found ourselves relaxing with each other.  We
were both still holding the other pretty much at arm's length, but at
least it wasn't as uncomfortable as it started.

Melanie, Bryan, and the rest of the Phi Kaps helped, too.  At one
point, after the sun had gone down, I heard a squeal, and turned
around in time to see Alex jumping up and down and waving.  I looked
around, wondering who she was waving to, and she laughed, pointed
directly at me, and waved even harder.  I stared at her and pointed
to myself, raising my eyebrows quizzically, and she laughed and
nodded vigorously.  By this time, Reggie was standing next to me, and
she took this all in with an enigmatic smile, glancing back and forth
from Alex to me like she was watching a tennis match.

Alex weaved her way over and gave me a big hug.  I was surprised,
and not a little flattered, but I assumed her affectionate greeting
was fueled by the alcohol.  Alex let me go, and then turned to
Reggie.  Alex and Reggie both started talking at once.

"Oops," said Alex.  "Hey, I'm sorry, it's just that Sean was here on
Monday, and I met him then, and..."

Reggie shook her hand at Alex.  "It's fine, really.  Sean and I just
met tonight..."

They both stopped, and then broke down giggling together.  Reggie
grasped Alex by the upper arms, and they kind of collapsed together
as if something was incredibly amusing.  I just didn't get it.

Alex was several inches shorter than Reggie, but they both were dark-
haired, fair, and pretty.  They seemed to become instant friends.

"By the way, I'm Alexandra Wallace.  Everybody just calls me Alex."

Reggie was still holding Alex's arm.  "I'm Regina Coverdale, but my
friends call me Reggie," she said.

"Two perfectly gorgeous females who want to go by boys' names," I
said.  "Maybe I should call myself Sally."

"You'd better not," said Alex.  She slapped at my arm as if I was
the silliest thing she had ever seen.

Reggie, in the boldest move I had yet seen her make, looked me up
and down.  "Definitely not a Sally," she said, smiling.  She gave
Alex a quick grin.  "More like a Mary," she said, and they were off
again into a fit of giggles.

Alex was definitely the party animal among us, and she took Reggie
and me under her wing, introducing us around to nearly everybody.
There was hardly a person at the party she didn't know, and she was
obviously well liked by just about everybody.  It wasn't long before
Reggie and I both felt like we were accepted, if not as members of
Phi Kap and their Little Sisters, then as friends of the fraternity.

Much later, as the party was beginning to wind down a little,
Melanie and Bryan came looking for us.

"Hey, Porter," called Bryan, once he spotted me.  "Mel and I are
taking off.  Don't forget we've got to catch a bus in the morning."

I groaned.  I'd forgotten about that.  Our bus was leaving about
7:00 AM to go to Tuscaloosa to play Alabama in a conference game.

Reggie stood.  "Melanie, can you drop me at my dorm?" she asked.

"Of course, dear.  Sean, would you like a ride, too?" replied Melanie.

I was about to tell her I would prefer to walk off the influence of
the beer, but the look on both Bryan's and Melanie's faces convinced
me I should accept their offer.

"That would be great," I said.

It took awhile to make our way out of the party.  Bryan and Melanie
had to stop often to say goodbye to friends, and, of course, Reggie
and Alex had to have a last whispered conversation together.  They
both glanced at me a couple of times during their secret
conversation, making me sweat just a little more.  I waited around a
little awkwardly as the goodbyes swirled around me.

Finally, we were walking down the concrete steps, heading toward
Bryan's car in the parking lot.  I held the door open for Reggie, and
slid into the back seat beside her.  We sat there, not touching,
uncomfortably silent as Melanie and Bryan got into the car.  The
animation and easy companionability of the couple in the front
contrasted sharply with the quiet couple in the back.

Bryan started the car, and turned to look through the rear window so
he could back up.  Reggie was looking out the side window, and Bryan
jerked his head in her direction and stared at me, willing me to say
something to Reggie.

As he drove down the street, he turned the radio on to provide a
distraction.  I steeled myself for the rejection I knew was coming,
and slid over to sit next to Reggie.  She looked at me, a bit
startled.

"Reggie," I began, "I know this whole thing is kind of strange..."

She smiled.  At least she smiled, I thought.

"Here," she said.  She handed me a slip of paper.  I opened it up.
It had her name, her dorm room number, and her telephone number on it.

I was suddenly very nervous again.  "We're... uh... I won't be back
until Sunday..."

"You want to get together for coffee or something Sunday night?" she
asked.  Now her smile was warm.  Maybe I hadn't blown it, after all.

"I'd love to," I replied.  "I'll call you when we get back from
Alabama."

"Okay," she said.  She slipped her arm through mine for the rest of
the short ride to her dorm.

I walked her to the front lobby of her building.  She turned to me
at last.

"Thanks for being a nice guy," she said quietly.  "Mel has good
taste in friends."

I think I blushed.  "I'll talk to you Sunday," I said.  We didn't
hug, we didn't kiss, but I still felt like the evening went very well.

I got the feeling Reggie thought so, too.





(Continued in Chapter 8)



- 8 -

A PLATONIC HUG



We smoked Alabama in our game that weekend.  Dan got a lot of
playing time, substituting for both starting defenders, me on the
right and Martin on the left.  Martin and I ended up playing about
three-quarters of the game, and Dan was on the field for about 40
minutes, too.

On the long trip back from Tuscaloosa, Coach Pick told the team
about a tournament we were going to.

"Second week of October, boys," said Pick as our bus rolled through
northern Florida.  "Let your professors know you'll be out of town
for the entire week."

"That's not mid-semester break, is it?" asked Spencer.

"Nope, it's the week before," said Coach.  "Y'all will be missin'
about a week's worth of classes.  We'll be back home for the break,
but we've got North Carolina comin' in for a game on Wednesday,
followed by Tennessee on the weekend."

"So we don't get a break," interjected Dan.

"Nope," confirmed Pick.  "Now listen up here, boys.  Like I said,
we're headin' up to Warshington D.C. for the Georgetown Invitational
Tournament.  There'll be sixteen teams there.  They're using
Georgetown, Maryland, and George Mason University soccer fields, and
the semifinals and finals will be held at RFK Stadium."

"How many games?" asked Bryan.

"Four games," said Pick.  "Here's the deal.  There's two halves of
the draw, let's call 'em the top half and the bottom half.  The eight
teams seeded odd numbers, one through 15, play the top half, and the
even seeds play the bottom half.  Winners advance, losers play in the
consolation draws, so everybody plays four games during the
tournament."

"Who all will be there, Coach?  Same as last year?"  That was Rick
Rogers, our starting keeper.

"Yup, pretty much," said Pick.  "Georgetown, obviously, and
Maryland, and George Mason, Kentucky, Purdue, UConn, South Carolina,
Ohio State, a few others."

"Did they announce the seedings yet, Coach?" called out Jesse from
the back of the bus.

"As a matter of fact, I've got them right here," said Coach, waving
a sheet of paper.  "Let's see now," he continued, looking over his
glasses at the paper in his hand.  He smiled a little, enjoying
dragging it out.  "It says here... let's see... Ah, here it is.
Yep."  He looked up and grinned, obviously pleased with himself.
"University of Florida.  Seeded number one."

A cheer went up in the bus, and the driver, caught up in the
celebration, honked the air horns.

"Now, don't get no idears that you're the king shit soccer team of
the world," admonished Pick as the cheering died down.  "Remember
this is a sixteen team invitational, and teams ain't traveling three
days to come play there."

Pick walked down the main aisle of the bus, hanging on to the tops
of the seats as he strode.  He looked each of us over, making sure we
were paying attention to what he was saying.

"There are a lot of good teams out there, boys.  West Coast teams
from UCLA, Stanford, San Diego, Oregon.  Hell, New Mexico has a top-
ten team, and we won't never see them unless we both get well into
the NCAA tournament."  He turned and started back.

"Hey, we're the team in the East to beat, though, Coach," said Brad.

"You think so?" asked Pick.  "Well, maybe we are.  How 'bout the
University of Texas?  They're not exactly a West Coast team, but
they'll give us a run for our money most any day."

"And don't forget South Carolina," called out Eddie Whitehead.

Pick whirled around and pointed, first at Eddie, and then at me.
"That's right, the Gamecocks."  As he pointed my way, he said, "Ain't
that where that friend of yours plays, Sean?  Trent What's-His-Name?"

"Abbott," I said.  "Trent Abbott."

"Right, Abbott.  Damn boy's got the tricks.  He can score from damn
near anywhere on the field."  Pick shook his head as he recalled
watching Trent.

"One player does not make a team," noted Jesse.

"Well, that's by-Christ true, son," said Pick.  "Abbott's got a team
surroundin' him, you can bet on it.  They're seeded in the two spot.
If all goes according to plan, we just might see them at RFK."

He was back at the front of the bus again, and he turned to face us
all.  "But the road to the Georgetown Tournament title goes through
Gator country, boys, and the rest of them teams had best remember
that."

His pronouncement set up another round of whooping and hollering,
and I was happy to join in as we celebrated.

I didn't relish the thought of collecting a week's worth of homework
from my professors, but it would be great to be able to go to the
Georgetown Invitational Tournament.  I was thinking it would be a
great reunion for me.  After all, Eric Johnson played for Maryland,
and Trent would be there with his team.  Maybe I would even get to
see Keisha Prescott, Eric's girlfriend, while we were there.  I
doubted that Trent's girlfriend, Danielle Nickerson, would be there,
but I would take a visit from the friends I could, and not be an
ingrate.  I settled back in my seat, and suddenly realized I was
happy, maybe the happiest I had been since coming to Florida.


___________________________________________________________________



Reggie and I had arranged to meet at a little coffeehouse left over
from the hippie days, a dive called The Glass Onion.  It was located
in a rundown old building that looked like it should have been
demolished years before, but inside it was fairly clean.  The
proprietors went by the names of Stone and Skye Parker, and they
looked like they had been time-warped straight from about 1968.  They
both had long, straight hair, leather headbands, and beaded and
fringed vests.  The walls were covered with concert posters for The
Doors, The Grateful Dead, The Who, Sly and the Family Stone, Janis
Joplin, and Jefferson Airplane, many of them apparently local
appearances at different venues around the Southeast.  The coffees
and teas were fresh, however, and their homemade muffins and cookies
were outstanding.  They also had quite a collection of leatherworks,
pottery, framed and unframed art, and crafts from students and local
artists, there on consignment.  Stone and Skye did what they could to
support the local arts community, it seemed.

Still, it was funny to watch Stone and Skye working together.  Their
conversations were sprinkled with leftover "Groovys" and "Far Outs"
and "Right Ons," anachronisms that, outside the coffeehouse, would
have been jarring.  Inside their little enclave, though, it sounded
just about right.

I got there a few minutes early and ordered coffee and a brownie.
The brownie worried me just a little, but it was all because of the
ambiance of the place.  There wasn't anything... funny... in the
brownie.  I was sure of it.  No, really.

Reggie walked in a few minutes later.  I almost didn't recognize
her, since she was now wearing standard student garb instead of party
clothes.  I would have thought she wouldn't look comfortable in t-
shirts and shorts, but here she was, dressed casually in a scoop-
necked pink shirt, tight shorts, and pink sandals.  Her dark hair was
pulled back and clipped with a plastic comb sort of thing, and she
was sporting dark sunglasses that she perched on top of her head as
she walked in out of the bright sunshine into the dim coffeehouse.  I
was struck again by how very pretty she was.  If she was in love with
a guy back home, having somebody to hang around with here at school
would be an asset to a girl as attractive as Reggie, if for no other
reason than to keep the wolves at bay.  I could just imagine somebody
as slimy as Westy hitting on her as soon as they spotted her.

She glanced around, saw me sitting at a table, and came over.  She
slipped gracefully into the chair opposite me.

"Hi," she said.  She looked around, but I couldn't tell if she
approved of the place or not by her noncommittal expression.

"Would you like something?" I asked.

She smiled at me, a good sign.  "Iced tea would be nice," she said.
Her very slight accent reminded me somehow of the East Coast, but I
couldn't really say why.

I got up and ordered an iced tea from Skye, and Stone wordlessly put
an orange-banana muffin on a paper plate for me.

"She looks more like a muffin girl than the brownie kind," said Skye.

"I'm a brownie kind?" I asked her.

She smiled at me, a bright and happy look on her open and unreserved
face.  "Of course you are, Sean.  Through and through."

I just shook my head at her in amazement, and carried the muffin and
the glass of tea back to our table.

"You've been here before?" asked Reggie.

"Nope," I replied.

"Oh.  She seemed like she knows you," she said.

"I just met them a little bit ago," I said.  "They're pretty easy-
going and friendly, though.  Before you can order anything from them,
they insist on knowing your name."

She tore off a miniscule portion of muffin and examined it before
putting it in her mouth.  She bit down tentatively, looked up at me
in surprise, and pinched off a larger piece.  "This is really good,"
she said.

I looked up at Skye and gave her a thumbs-up.  She clasped her hands
together and gave them a shake, a victory sign.  "Right on," she said.

Reggie leaned in toward me, her eyes dancing.  "Right on?" she
whispered to me, a laugh in her voice.

"Yup," I agreed, happy to have seen her smile.  "Right on."

She leaned back and concentrated on her muffin.  "So, Mel and Bryan
say you're going to be the star," she said, not looking at me.

That startled me a little.  "Me?  Why would they say that?"

She glanced up at me with an unreadable expression.  "That's what
they say."

"Nah.  Jesse, Bryan's roommate, he's the star.  He's the one up
front, scoring all the goals.  I'm just a defenseman, trying to keep
the other team from scoring.  Jesse's the one getting all the action."

Now she smiled, her face softening.  "And you don't want all the
action?"

"No, not me," I said.  "I'm just a boring guy, and I like it that
way."

"Somehow I don't think you're very boring," she said.  She glanced
at my left arm.  "How did you get that scar?"

I looked at the white line snaking down my forearm.  I was so used
to it I really didn't even see it anymore, so it took me by surprise
when she asked about it.  "Uh... it was a... a problem... that
escalated a little..."  I hesitated.  This was the last thing I
expected to talk about with Reggie.

"Escalated into something that opened up your arm?"  She wasn't
going to let it go.

"Well... yeah, I guess it did."  I gave her the short, sanitized
version of the story, concluding with the surgery that repaired the
damage.  By the time I finished, her eyes were wide.

"And this Molly... she's your girlfriend?  The one back home?"

"Oh, no," I said.  "Molly's a really good friend.  I mean, we used
to go out, but that was a long time ago, and..."  I stopped and took
a deep breath.  I was feeling a little anxious, and needed to calm
down a little.  Talking about some of my more spectacular disasters
did that to me.  "My girlfriend's name is Kayla.  She's still in high
school... Molly's at Illinois, she graduated with me..."

"Kayla," she murmured.  "That's a beautiful name.  Tell me about her."

"She's an angel," I blurted out.  Oops.  Nice going, Porter, I
thought.  Call a girl an angel while you're sitting there, talking to
a different girl.  Smooth.

Reggie took it all in stride, though, and smiled at me.  "She's a
lucky girl," she said.  "You were going to tell me about her?"

"Uh... she's my best friend's younger sister," I explained.  "She's
back home, still in school.  She's really great, stood by me during
everything that's happened..." I wound down, thinking about Luscious.
I suddenly felt a little guilty.

"She sounds wonderful.  Do you have a picture of her?"

"Not with me, but I've got some back in my dorm room," I said.

"Will you show them to me sometime?" she asked gently.

"Well... Sure, I guess."  Why did she want to see pictures of Kayla?
Or was she just being polite?  Here I was, trying to navigate the
labyrinth of relationships again, and me with no map.

She smiled at me.  Her eyes were shining.  "I know," she said
softly.  "It's private, isn't it?"

I nodded.

"I kind of feel the same way," she admitted.  "My boyfriend... It's
between him and me, and talking about it when we're apart seems kind
of like..."  She paused, searching for the right phrase.

"Like a breach of confidence?" I suggested.

"Yes!" she cried, speaking much louder than she intended.  She
looked around, a little embarrassedly, but nobody, least of all Stone
or Skye, was paying any attention to our conversation.  "I was going
to say... kind of like... treason, but that's way too strong.  A
breach of confidence is about right."

She took a deep breath.  "I didn't think anybody else would
understand," she said, almost to herself.  She looked at me again.  I
could see her coming to a decision.

"Let's make a deal," she said.  "You've got somebody waiting for you
back home, and so do I.  Still, everybody needs a friend, especially
when they're far from home."

"I agree," I said.

"Okay, here's what I'm thinking.  You're a great guy, Sean, and I
trust you.  Besides, Mel likes you, and she's very picky about who
she sees as trustworthy.  I hope you can find it in your heart to
trust me, too."

I nodded, wondering where this was going.

"Let's stop dancing around each other, and just let it all out,
okay?"  She leaned in, serious now.  She concentrated on me, holding
my attention.  I subconsciously leaned in closer to her, too.  "Let's
prove 'em all wrong, Sean.  Let's show them there can be a platonic
relationship, good friends who just happen to be boy and girl.  No
pressure between us.  Okay?  You don't have to wonder if you should
try to kiss me, I won't have to worry if I'm leading you on.  If
we've got something to say, we'll say it.  If you need a convenient
date, I'll be there, and if I need a companion for an evening, I'll
know I can call on you.  But you know I'm committed to my boyfriend,
and I know you're committed to... Kayla?  Right, Kayla.  Okay with
you?"

She leaned back, reasonably satisfied she had explained herself.  To
my mind, she had, very well.  I liked this girl.

"I think it's great," I said.  "I really do.  Thank you."

She smiled, and I smiled back.  Time to put her to the test.

"So," I said, "tell me about your boyfriend."

Reggie looked a little startled, and then she got a chagrined
expression on her pretty face.  "Touche," she said.  She picked up
her glass of iced tea, and she smiled at me just before she took a
sip.  "Would you believe his name is Elvis?  But I love him, anyway."

I sat back.  "Elvis?  For real?"

"Yep.  Elvis Aaron Hravney.  Can you believe his parents saddled him
with that name?"

"I'll bet he grew up strong."

She laughed.  "He's a hockey player," she said, shaking her head.

"I would believe it," I said.  "He any good?"

"At hockey?  Yes, pretty good.  Not good enough to win a scholarship
or anything, but he's knocked shoulders with the best in our area."

That brought up another question.  "You know, I don't even know
where you're from," I said.

"Pennsylvania," she said.  "Near Harrisburg."

"Oh.  I've never been to Pennsylvania.  How come you came to Florida?"

"I hate winters," she said.

"But you're dating a hockey player," I said.  "That doesn't make any
sense."

She shrugged.  "They play hockey indoors.  It doesn't have to be a
cold-weather sport."

"Good point," I admitted.

Reggie and I fell into an easy friendship that evening.  In the
blink of an eye three hours passed, and Skye was trying to make eye
contact with me.  I was startled to realize it was nearly an hour
past closing.

"Oh, gosh, I'm sorry, Skye," I said, jumping up.  "We just sort of
lost track of time."

"Oh, don't worry about it, Sean," she said expansively.  "I was just
doing my chores back here, grooving on the very cool vibes you two
were sending out."

"Us?  Sending out vibes?"  I wasn't even sure what vibes were, much
less how we were sending them out.

"Oh, yeah, you and Reggie are an outa-sight couple.  It's always
good to be friends first, and you two have got it going on."

That took me aback.  "No, Skye, I just met Reggie the other day.
We're just getting to be friends, nothing more."

"Okay, that's cool," she said.  She flipped her head, sending a
cascade of long brown hair over her shoulder, and gave me a look that
said she didn't believe a word I said about it.

She unlocked the front door for us, and opened it so we could leave.

"Thanks for everything, Skye," said Reggie.

Skye gave her a big, open smile.  "Welcome back anytime, Reggie.  We
love company."

It was nearly a mile back to the dorms, but it was a warm, breezy
night, good for taking a walk.  Reggie and I casually strolled along,
keeping up our conversation the whole time, comfortable walking side
by side without any pressure or expectations getting in the way.  It
was refreshing, and at the same time it was extraordinarily strange.

I walked her to her dorm.  It was dark, and there were a few couples
hanging out on the porch and sitting on the grass, enjoying the
evening.

"Good night, Sean.  Thanks for the muffin."  Reggie was smiling at me.

I held out my hand to shake, and she laughed, her eyes sparkling.

"Come on, pal, give me a hug," she said, and she stepped into me and
put her arms out.

I took her up on her suggestion, and we shared a brief, friendly
hug.  We both let go, and she smiled up at me before turning and
going inside.

I told myself it was a brief, friendly hug.  A hug between good
friends, who happened to be boy and girl.  Platonic.

Then how come I couldn't help but notice the hard bumps of her
breasts as they pressed against my chest?




(Continued in Chapter 9)




- 9 -

A SELF-INFLICTED PROMOTION



They're killing me.

That was the only thought I had left by Friday.  It was a conspiracy
among my professors to fry my brain, work my poor fingertips to the
bone, and make sure I had absolutely no energy left for anything even
resembling fun.

I had so many papers to write that week I thought I was going to
burn out my typewriter.  I probably went through most of a bottle of
White-Out, making corrections.  Of course, each correction added to
the time it took me to get everything typed out correctly, adding to
my frustration.

Westy wasn't helping.  He didn't bring a typewriter, and he kept on
wanting to use mine.

"You can use it when I'm in class or at practice," I said.  "Don't
bother asking me for it when I'm here, because I'm going to need it."

"Shit, man, I've got classes too, you know," he pouted.

I gave him a sour look.  "Maybe you should stop prowling the Quad
and concentrate on getting some of your work done early," I suggested.

"Hey, just because you ain't gettin' any doesn't mean I should go
without," he retorted.

"Yeah, thanks for reminding me," I grumbled.

"Hey, if you want, I can fix you up..."

"With somebody like Maureen?" I replied, disgusted.  "Thanks, but no
thanks."

"Maureen the Blowjob Queen?  Nah.  Did her once, that was enough.
She's got a talented mouth, though, I will say that for her."

"I thought you just screwed her the one time here," I said.

"Well," he said, looking at me a little sheepishly, "I just screwed
her once.  But I did run into her again last week."

"Really?  Where?"

"Why, Porter?  You interested?"

"Christ, no!"  I shuddered at the thought.

"I know she'd be over here in about two seconds flat if you were.
She's really jonesing on you, dude."

"Yuck," I replied.

"I think she's hanging around our dorm every now and then, because I
saw her last week.  She was just wandering around, like she was lost
or something, so I took her back to the Union and bought her a Coke."

"Jesus, Westy, you actually went on a date with her."

He turned a little pale when he heard that.  "Don't even say that,
Porter, Christ!  You're gonna make me lose my lunch!"

"Hey, you're the one who bought her the Coke," I reminded him.

"Well, yeah, but she repaid me.  Big time.  I took her into one of
the men's johns, and she gave me a blowjob in a stall."

"No shit?"  Now it was me who felt like losing his lunch.  "That's
as disgusting a thing as I think I've ever heard."

Westy laughed.  "Stick around, my naive friend.  I can get way more
disgusting than that."

I grimaced.  "Ugh.  Maybe I don't want to know about it," I said.

"Hey, Maureen's pretty good with that mouth.  You just need to make
sure she keeps her clothes on, and maybe you want to carry around a
paper bag to slap over her head.  One with a cutout for her lips.
That way you can imagine it's that Melanie bitch from the Phi Kappa
house who's blowing you, instead of having to look at Maureen while
she's doin' it."

"Hey!"  Now he was pissing me off, and I felt like reaching for his
throat.  "Leave off with that shit about Melanie, okay?"

He took a step backward and held up his hands.  "Easy there, Sean, I
was just joking," he said by way of apology.

"Not funny, shithead," I said.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," he said.  "No harm meant."  He made sure he
was out of my reach when he continued, "I think she's way out of your
league anyway, pal.  But don't give up on your dreams."

He was still chuckling as I slammed the door on my way out.



*****



We had a home game on Sunday, so at least I didn't have to face any
long bus rides on the coming weekend.  Reggie and I were going to a
sorority get-together on Friday night after I was done with soccer
practice.  On Saturday, we had soccer practice in the morning, and
then I was scheduled to work in one of the gift shops during halftime
of the football game.  After the game I was supposed to meet Dan in
the weight room.  I hoped to have enough energy to get some homework
done after that, and maybe even get another letter off to Luscious.
I was falling behind in my letter productivity again, having only
written to her once that week.

At practice on Friday afternoon, Coach once again broke us down into
our Alpha and Omega scrimmage teams.

"I got a change here," he announced, just before we were going to
take up our positions for the scrimmage.  "Dan Ortega and Sean
Porter, switch teams."

That didn't matter much; Dan had been on the Alpha Team, and I was
on the Omega Team.  We switched our practice jerseys, but Coach
wasn't finished yet.

"Stuart Early and Sean Porter, I want you two to switch positions,"
he said.

Stuart, the right midfielder for Alpha Team, looked at me in
surprise, as if I was supposed to know what Coach was thinking.  I
shrugged to let him know I was as confused as he was, and we headed
out onto the practice field.

I had Bryan opposing me for a change, in the middle, and I was
startled to realize I had Martin Flauget defending against me, on my
side.  I knew I wasn't much of an offensive threat, but I was looking
forward to locking horns with the Frenchman.

There's a story about a basketball player by the name of Jerry
Sloan, who was an expansion pick by the Chicago Bulls when they were
created in 1966.  Sloan was a workingman's player, a defensive
specialist who had little tolerance for showboating on the court.  In
fact, he was known to occasionally punch an opponent in the stomach
if they had the audacity to attempt to dribble between their legs
against him.  Sloan would gladly take the penalty in exchange for
inflicting his own brand of court justice on what he considered to be
poor sportsmanship and a lack of respect in opposing players.  My dad
and my older brother were both big fans of Jerry Sloan's.  As I
trotted out onto the field, I thought I just might try a little bit
of Jerry Sloan's defensive tactics on my Frenchy friend, if he
started running his tricks on us.

And, to almost no one's surprise, Flauget did.  The first time he
showed off I let it pass.  He gave me just a quick glance as he made
his way back into his defensive territory after passing the ball off
before I could move on him, just to let me know he had no respect for
my game.  The second time he did it I also gave him a bye.  I wanted
him comfortable, confident, and unwary.  He was haughty, insolent,
and completely unaware of the Sloaning he was about to receive.

The third time he started with his showboating was the one.  On a
high, looping serve downfield into open space by Alpha, Flauget
picked up the ball.  Instead of moving it upfield, he lofted it,
balanced the ball on his foot, and flipped it up to his shoulder.  He
let the ball ride on his shoulder for a few strides as he started
upfield, and then he hunched and jumped, pushing the ball into the
air.

My forward, Luke Severin, was a sophomore reserve, and he was
flummoxed by Martin's antics.  He practically stepped out of the way
while Flauget diddled with the ball.  I engaged, running up to
intercept, and Martin saw me coming.  With an insolent smirk, he
headed the ball up and over my head.  What he didn't understand,
until it was too late, was that I didn't give a damn about the ball.
I lowered my shoulder and drove it, at nearly full speed, into
Martin's unprotected midsection.  I heard the air whoof out of his
lungs, and he dropped like a sack of stones.  I leapt over him,
skidded to a stop, and turned back to retrieve the ball.

As I trotted over to where the ball was bouncing to a stop, I became
aware of the resounding silence around me.  Play had stopped, and all
my teammates were standing, watching in amazement.  Even the coaches
stood as if mesmerized.

I mentally shrugged and dribbled the ball back over to Martin, who
was just struggling to his knees.  I held out my hand to help him up,
and he batted it away and came at me, murderous fury in his eyes.
His knees were still a little unhinged, however, and I stepped away
from his lunge.  He went past me and slid on the turf, nearly
tumbling back down, and was about to charge me again when both his
arms were grabbed.  Spencer was holding his right arm, and Bryan his
left.

"Hold up there, cowboy," said Bryan to Flauget.

Martin struggled against the two holding him.  "Did you see what he
did?" he growled.

By then, most of the team had gathered around, and the coaches were
all coming over.

"Sure, I saw," said Bryan.  "He took you off the ball and took you
out of the play."

"Le b tard a essay� de me tuer!" spat Flauget.

"What?  In English," said Bryan.

"The mother-fucker tried to kill me," he shouted.

"Oh, that might be a bit of an exaggeration," said Pick as he pushed
his way through the crowd.

"Did you not see what he did?" asked Flauget, his eyes practically
bugging out.

"I shore 'nuff did, and if'n I was a referee, I would've slapped a
card on him right quick," said Pick, giving me the eye.  "Why'd you
do it, son?" he asked me.

It was my turn to give him the eye.  He knew full well why I did it,
and he probably planned on me doing it in the first place.
Otherwise, why move me up to play in the midfield?

"I just thought it was time to Jerry Sloan him, coach," I said.

Spencer guffawed, and Jesse burst out laughing.  They knew what I
was referring to, it seemed.

"What the hell is that?" asked Eddie Whitehead, one of Pick's
assistants.

Pick, barely able to hold back his own laughter, turned to Eddie.
"You don't follow basketball, do you, Eddie?" he said.  He clapped
his assistant on the back.  "It's all right, you're a soccer nut.
That's why I like you."  Pick turned to me.  "You'd better explain to
these unenlightened, Sean," he said expansively, indicating most of
the team.  Nearly everybody was looking at me strangely, except for
Jesse, Spencer, Bryan, and a few others who understood the reference.

"I just decided that Frenchy here had shown me enough," I explained.
"So I thought I'd show him a little bit of a defensive maneuver of my
own, something I kind of improvised from watching Jerry Sloan play
basketball."

Spencer and Bryan had let go of Martin, but he wasn't in a
threatening mood anymore.  I thought that, with the adrenaline
wearing off, he might have been stiffening up.  He was certainly
moving carefully.

"Porter, I'm not saying he might not have deserved it, but in a game
situation you'd have drawn a card, for sure," said Rick Rogers, our
defensive captain.

"True," I admitted.  "And it might not have just been a yellow.  But
if an opponent is desperate enough, sometimes they might think it's a
chance worth taking.  If our opponent is in a position where they
have to resort to extreme measures to get back into a game, they just
might target somebody like Frenchy."  I turned to Flauget.  "Tell me
true, Frenchy.  How likely are you to work your tricks on me again?"

He lowered his head, staring at me under his brows.  If there hadn't
been witnesses, I might have been in trouble, but he finally shook
his head.

"I don't think I could, after a shot like that," he reluctantly
admitted.

Nearly everybody laughed at that.

"Okay, that's it for today," called out Pick, dismissing us.  He
looked back at me and Martin.  "You two, Flauget and Porter, come
with me.  Rogers, you might as well join us."  Pick strode off the
field, heading toward the fieldhouse.  Martin and I followed along,
keeping a wary distance between each other, and Rick stepped in
beside us, filling the gap.  Rick looked questioningly at me, but I
didn't have an answer for his unspoken question.  Martin just trudged
along, still a little bent over, but he had finally managed to catch
his breath.  When your heart rate is elevated and somebody comes
along and hits you hard enough to knock the breath out of you, it
takes awhile to recover.

We got to Pick's office, and he ushered us in before closing the
door.  He sat down at his desk and rubbed his eyes as the three of us
stood around uncomfortably.

Pick looked up at me.  "Mr. Porter, you are about the last person I
expected that sort of behavior from."  His southern accent was
substantially diminished.  I took that to be a bad sign.  "An attack
on one of your teammates, even in the guise of a scrimmage, will not
be tolerated.  In fact, I've half a mind to throw the fuckin' book at
you for this.  Another incident like this and you will be out of this
program so fast, your shoes will be smoking.  Do I make myself clear,
Mr. Porter?"

I tried to swallow into a suddenly very dry throat.  Finally I was
able to croak out, "Yes, sir."

Flauget was just beginning to smile and relax a little, obviously
pleased that I was the one being dressed down.  His smile was erased
from his face when Pick turned to him.

"And you, Mr. Flauget."

"Me?  I was the one who was attacked..."

"I don't believe I was finished speaking, Flauget!" shouted Pick,
standing suddenly as he drowned out Martin's protests.  Once he was
satisfied he had Martin's full attention, Pick sat back down again.
"I have tried to help you for two years here, Mr. Flauget," he
continued in a calm voice.  "I thought we was makin' some progress
here.  This year, however, there seems to be some backslidin' goin'
on."

I noted distractedly that Pick's accent was creeping back into his
speech.  What did it mean?  I had no idea.

"Frankly, Mr. Flauget, I'm gettin' almighty tired of all your
showboatin', and I just won't put up with it for one second more.  Do
you understand what I'm tellin' you, boy?"

"Oui, yes I do, but..."  Martin didn't have a prayer of finishing
that sentence, as Pick stood again and leaned over his desk.  Without
saying a thing, he managed to shut Martin off in mid-sentence.
Martin looked like he had swallowed a fish, but he nodded and
stammered, "Yes, sir, Coach Cropper.  I understand."

Pick sat again, and looked back and forth between the two of us.
"You are both damned fine players, and I would hate to lose either
one of you.  But I will not tolerate dissention of this sort on this
team.  Now, I ain't expecting you two to be bosom buddies or nothin',
but while you are playing for me, you will get along.  Let me
emphasize that for you.  You will get along."

He waited to see our reactions.  I shuffled around, trying to figure
this whole scene out, because something didn't feel right.  I decided
to take the conciliatory path Pick had opened for me, and I turned to
Flauget.

"I'm sorry, Martin," I said.  I held out my hand.  He just looked at
it for a moment, and then, rather reluctantly, he shook it.  "I guess
I kind of lost my temper out there, and I apologize," I said.

"Apology accepted," he said, but his demeanor was still angry and
stiff.  He tried to pull his hand back, but I held on.

I stepped up close to him.  "But don't do it again, Frenchy," I said
quietly.  Something flared in his eyes when I called him Frenchy.  He
glanced over at Pick, perhaps looking to see if Coach was going to
berate me for elevating the problem again, but Pick sat at his desk,
watching us impassively.

"You don't scare me, Porter," he gritted.

"No, I don't suppose I do," I said, maintaining my grip on his hand.
"But if we're lined up opposite each other again sometime, you
remember what happened today.  And you play your game accordingly."

I stepped back and let go of his hand.  He stood there, absorbing
what I had said, and then turned back to Pick.

"Did you hear him, Coach?"  Martin was almost beside himself with
anger.

Pick had chosen to hear what he wanted to hear, though, and he let
Flauget know.  "Shore," he said, before Martin could go off any
further on his tirade.  "I heard him apologize, and I heard you
accept his apology.  Ain't that right?"

Martin's mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out.

"I said, ain't that right, Mr. Flauget?" Pick said softly.

Martin reluctantly nodded.  "Yes, sir, that's right," he said with
clenched teeth.

"Hit the showers, Frenchy," said Pick.  "I've got a few more things
to say to Mr. Porter, here."

Martin turned and opened the door.  He flashed a small, triumphant,
and malicious smile at me just before he closed it behind him.

I glanced at Rick, and turned to face Pick's wrath.

Pick, however, didn't seem to be angry.

"Mr. Rogers, do you think these two can play together as a defensive
unit?" he asked.

Rick smiled.  "They'll probably play better together now," he said.

Pick nodded, and then he, too, grinned.  "That was a helluva hit you
put on poor Frenchy," he said, beginning to chuckle.  "Damnedest
thing I ever did see."

Now I was totally confused.  Why was Pick laughing?  He had been
angry enough with me to consider kicking me off the team - or so he
led me to believe.

Pick got up and walked over to the door.  Opening it, he hollered
out toward the locker rooms.  "Eddie!  You out there, Eddie
Whitehead?"

I heard the echo of Eddie's voice wafting back through the hall.
"Coming, Pick!"

A few minutes later Eddie appeared at the door.

"Come in and close it," said Pick.

Eddie closed the door and sat in the chair neither Rick nor I dared
to sit in without an invitation.

"What do you think, Eddie?" asked Pick.

Eddie glanced at me, at Rick, and at Pick.  He knew what Pick was
referring to, especially seeing Flauget absent.

Eddie smiled.  "It was a beautiful hit, worthy of the name of
football," he said.

"Yeah, well, maybe American football.  It didn't resemble no
European football play I've ever been witness to," Pick reminded him.

"True," said Eddie.  "What you really want to know is if it'll give
us a handle to work with on Martin."

I looked at Eddie with new respect.  Not much got by him, obviously.

"And?"  Pick was patient.

"And we'll have to see," said Eddie.  "One thing, though.  Players
can do stuff to get under his skin a lot easier than coaches and
advisers can.  Maybe what Sean has started here will work to our
advantage."

I was getting very confused, and a little impatient with it all.
"What are you guys talking about?  Coach, maybe I've gotten the wrong
idea, but when you moved me to Alpha and up to midfield, I assumed
you were looking for somebody to try to find a way to neutralize
Flauget.  Am I wrong here?"

Pick favored me with another of his enigmatic smiles.  "Well,
kinda," he finally admitted.  "What I was doin' was testin' the
waters for a little slippery business comin' up in the Georgetown
Invite.  I wanted to see how you extemporized, playin' up for awhile.
Eddie Whitehead and Stan Harvard and me, well, we came up with a
screwy little plan, and we was anxious to see how crazy our plan
really was.  That's why we moved you around some."

"Uh..."  I felt like it was my turn to apologize for leaping to
false conclusions again, but Pick didn't give me an opportunity.

"Your scheme of whackin' Frenchy was an extra added bonus," Pick
continued.  "Frankly, it never occurred to me you'd take something so
extreme onto your own self, consequences be damned."  He smiled at me
indulgently.  "You surprised me today, Sean Porter, and by Christ I
thank you for it.  I think you done this team a huge turn out there."

"But Coach, I thought you were mad at me for..."

"Oh, that was just the official line, son," said Pick.  He brushed
imaginary dust off his desktop, as if he was whisking away bothersome
"official lines."  He looked back up at me.  "I had to dress you
down, because it was a foolish, dangerous ploy you concocted.
Between you, me and the fencepost..."  He paused, looked around at
the people in his office, and continued, "And Rick and Eddie, too...
I got to thank you for takin' Mr. Frenchy down a notch."

I wisely kept my mouth shut.  I was learning.

Pick turned back to Rick.  "Now, as co-captain, I'm counting on you
to keep the peace from here on out."  Rick nodded.  "Porter
apologized, and Frenchy accepted it.  You might have to remind him of
that upon occasion," continued Pick.  "Let the team know about what
transpired in here earlier, and you can let your co-captains and our
key players know what the real score is."

"Can do, Coach," said Rick.

"Now, I know Jesse and Bryan and you carry the weight on this here
team, Rick, so I'm counting on you three especially to keep this team
unified.  And that includes our Frenchy friend.  Can you do that?"

"Yes, sir," said Rick.  "Jesse and Bryan are on Sean's side in this
already, and I know most of the rest of the team will see it that
way, too.  A little propagandizing, a little posturing, and some
cooperation from Porter here, will be what we need."

"Sean?"  Pick turned back to me.  "Can you follow Rick's lead on
this?"

"Yes, sir, I can do that.  I'll be as humble as you need me to be,"
I said, wanting them to know I would be on my best behavior.

"No, no, don't be humble," corrected Pick.  "Frenchy won't respect
humble.  You be as arrogant to him as he's been to everybody else.
You might have to feint on him a time or two, just to remind him.
When he sees the rest of the team falling in line behind the
leadership, he'll have no choice but to follow.  It's him we want
humbleized, son, not you."

"I don't do arrogant very well," I said, "but I'll try."

"Atta boy," said Pick with a smile.



*****



Almost immediately the campaign within the soccer team began to
roll, and it quickly acquired considerable momentum, even before
everybody dispersed from the locker room after practice.  By then,
Flauget found himself nearly ostracized as he posed and postured and
tried to paint himself as a victim of an unprovoked attack.  Nobody
was buying it.

Bryan and I were double-dating that night.  We were accompanying
Melanie and Reggie to one of the Omega Sigma Theta's semi-formal
parties for their pledge class.  Bryan picked me up at my dorm, and
as we drove the few blocks to Reggie's dorm, he started to fill me in.

"Jesse and Spencer have been double-teaming guys, but it sounds like
everybody understands what's going on," he said.

"Well, explain it to me then, because I'm confused as hell," I
complained.

He looked at me, a little surprised.  "What's going on is that Pick
is always looking to the future.  It's part of what makes head
coaching in Division One such a tough job.  As a head coach, you can
only spend a certain amount of your time enjoying the fruits of your
labors in recruitment during any given season.  Instead, you've got
to constantly be looking two, three, four years ahead, recruiting,
grooming, training for the transition to the next team."

"Okay," I said.  "I can see that.  What's that got to do with what
happened this afternoon?"

Bryan chuckled.  "In a nutshell, what's going on is that you are
being stepped up to represent Pick's future team," he said.  "You're
now one of the big guns.  A team leader, and as a freshman, too."
Bryan just shook his head, as if he could hardly believe it.  He
could hardly believe it?  I was having trouble figuring out all the
nuances of what should have been seen as just a physical play against
Frenchy.  Where did all these undercurrents come from?  I didn't want
to get embroiled in politics; I just wanted to play soccer.

"What?  Because of today?" I was having trouble taking Bryan at his
word on this.  It was all just too flabbergasting.

"Today was just the capper," he said.  "Pick's been chewing on this
for a long time, trying to come up with a way to make it happen.  And
here you come and create a nearly perfect situation for us, solving
two problems with one timely hit."  We were stopped in front of
Reggie's dorm.  "Go get her, and we'll pick this up later," he said.
I opened the door and walked up to the lobby of the dorm, in a kind
of state of shock.  My head was buzzing from all Bryan had told me.

I used one of their house telephones to call Reggie's room.  Her
roommate answered, and said Reggie would be right down, so I sat in
one of the overstuffed chairs scattered throughout the room to wait,
trying not to think about soccer.  Reggie didn't need to hear about
all this melodrama.

Reggie came through the door, and nearly took my breath away.  She
had on a little black dress that only came to about mid-thigh, with
spaghetti straps and a slightly daring neckline.  Her hair was pulled
back into a ponytail, with wisps of curled strands artfully undone,
framing her lovely face.

I stood, and she came over and took my arm.

"Hi, Sean," she said with a smile.  "Thank you for accompanying me."

"I'm the one who should be thanking you, and thanking Melanie.
Having you by my side will make even me look good," I said.

Reggie favored me with an even bigger smile.  I suddenly wasn't so
tired anymore.

I walked her to Bryan's car, and we took off to pick up Melanie at
her apartment, and then headed over to the banquet hall, where dinner
would be served.

The purpose of the party was so the sisters of Omega Sigma Theta
could get to know all of their new pledges better, in a social
setting.  Everybody was all smiles and handshakes, until the smiles
began resembling grimaces.  My own smile, plastered on my face, felt
like it had been painted on, and I was looking forward to being able
to get back in Bryan's car and massage feeling back into my facial
muscles.

As we were sitting at our table with glasses of wine after dessert,
Melanie said to me, "You look like you're in pain, Sean.  You can
stop smiling anytime now."

"I don't think I can," I said.  "I think my face has finally frozen,
just like my mom warned me."

"At least it didn't freeze with your tongue sticking out and your
eyes crossed, like my mother warned me," said Reggie.  I couldn't
even imagine Regina Coverdale like that.  That pretty girl, so lovely
and yet so sensible, sticking her tongue out?  I don't think so.

Sensing my thoughts, Reggie said, "Oh, yes, I did make horrible
faces.  You might not believe it now, Sean, but I was an awful tomboy
when I was younger."

"A tomboy?  You?"

"Sure," she said with a smile.  "When I was eleven years old, I was
convinced I was going to be over six feet tall.  I was nuts about
basketball, and I just knew I was going to be a big college
basketball star."

"Really?  What happened?" I asked.

She shrugged.  "I stopped growing," she said.  "I never stopped
loving basketball, though."

"Then you probably are familiar with... what was his name, Sean?
Jerry Sloan?" asked Bryan.

"Jerry Sloan!  God, I loved watching him play," exclaimed Reggie.
"He played defense like nobody I ever saw."  She glanced around the
table.  "Did you know he's now an assistant coach for the Utah Jazz?"
I was impressed that she would know that, and I thought it pleased
her to know she could impress me.  "What made you mention him,
Bryan?" she continued.

And off Bryan went, telling the tale of practice that afternoon.  He
made it sound much more interesting and amusing than I remembered it,
so I was kind of drawn in to the entertainment, right up until both
Melanie and Reggie turned to look at me, astonishment in their eyes.

"You really did that, Sean?" asked Reggie.

I turned away.  I didn't want to see the disappointment in her eyes
that I was sure was there.

Melanie said, "That was this afternoon?"

"Yep," confirmed Bryan.

I could feel Melanie looking at me.  The force of her personality
made me look up at her, but it still took me by surprise to see her
smiling.

"Congratulations on your promotion, Sean," she said.

"Huh?  What promotion?" I asked.  Had she heard something I hadn't?

"If what Bryan says is true, and I have no doubt it is," she said,
glancing at her boyfriend for just a moment and touching his cheek,
"you have just managed to leapfrog over almost everybody else to
become one of the top two or three players on Pickett Cropper's
nationally ranked soccer team."

"What?"  She was saying words, sentences, but they made no sense at
all to me.  I glanced over at Reggie, and noted she was following
Melanie's comments with shining eyes.  Not at all sad or
disappointed, her expression seemed eager and happy, not upset at all.

"You really don't see it, do you?"  Melanie shook her head in
disbelief.  "You have just vaulted into the role very few people can
choose for their own, and fewer still can fulfill.  You are now one
of the leaders of this team, the role model for your teammates, and
the example Pick is going to use as one of his prime recruiting
tools, Sean.  And as a freshman."  She shook her head again, this
time in wonder.  "And you really didn't see that coming, did you?  It
may be self-inflicted, but it's still a great promotion into a
leadership role.  Like I said, congratulations, Sean.  You are
unique."

"Yeah, I'm unique," I grumbled.  "Just like about four billion other
people on this planet."

Melanie laughed, and Bryan and Reggie followed suit.  I looked at
them in surprise, and then realized what I had said.  I couldn't help
but join in with them.  Hey, if you can't laugh at yourself, who can
you laugh at?

Melanie surprised me that night, however.  Later on, reflecting on
that conversation, I came to the realization that Melanie was either
the sharpest, most intuitive person I had ever met, or the most
delusional.  Only time would tell which one was correct.



(Continued in Chapter 10)




- 10 -

BLACK AND GOLD



Saturday: work, work, work.

We started out with practice again, and we were again scrimmaged
Alpha against Omega.  Pick made a few more changes in the lineups of
the two practice squads, including moving Spencer Goldman over to
Omega, but he opted to leave me playing the right midfield position
for Alpha.

I hope he doesn't think he can make a striker out of me, I kept on
thinking.  I just didn't have an offensive mindset.

What I gained by playing up like this, though, was a better
perspective of what was going on almost everywhere on the field.
When you're playing defense, it can sometimes be kind of hard to see
what's happening with your offensive sets, particularly in the far
corner.  Playing across the centerline made it easier to see
patterns, especially tricks and habits headed toward our goal.  I
thought I knew the games of my teammates pretty well, but I
discovered I could study them better when I was playing up.  It was
easier to spot who was weak with their off foot, who had a tendency
to turn a particular way when receiving a through ball, who tended to
trap a ball instead of playing the roll.  I learned to anticipate
which way another player would turn on a fake, and I could tell much
more readily who had the strongest and most accurate long feeds.

Conversely, on my side of the field, I could scope out the
tendencies and strengths of my mates, and feed the ball to their
strong side more often.  I also got a lot more touches on the ball
than I did playing back, since I tended to be involved in the
movement of the ball both directions.  It all was a real eye-opener.

On one of his first possessions, Martin forgot himself and started
in on stunting.  My grandfather, an avid hunter who trained his own
dogs to move on his audible commands, had taught me how to belt out
an ear-shattering whistle, and I used it.  Frenchy looked over at me,
and all I did was point at him.  He scowled at me, but he got the
message, passing the ball off and resuming his defensive duties
within his territory.

My center midfielder, a scoring position if ever there was one, was
Max Ehrlinger, a sophomore who came in often off the bench to give us
a boost with some fresh legs.  He had been on Omega Team with me, but
was part of Pick's switch when he moved Spencer to Omega.  Max was a
very good player, able to anticipate crossing and through passes very
well.  He also passed well, but he suffered from indecision when he
had the ball, and that was enough to keep him out of the starting
lineup.  He was a great role player, though, and I found that if I
led him by a few steps, his tendency to hold the ball until somebody
came over and took it away from him eased.  Once he was in motion, he
tended to stay that way, and he could do some interesting things with
the ball.

A couple of times, I even called for him to switch with me so I
could roam through the middle, especially as we were falling back on
defense.  I either wanted to see what was going on over on the other
side of the field, or I wanted to follow the path of the ball through
the middle.  Max was amenable to switching coverages, and once I
ventured into the middle of the field, I was able to watch even more
of the play.  I always made sure I switched back with him as soon as
I saw what I was interested in observing.  I was hoping his game
would benefit, too.

After about an hour of scrimmage, I had a very good picture of our
team in my head.  I categorized my teammates according to position
and relative ability, kept tabs on the soft parts of their games, and
formulated plans on how I might be able to exploit their strong
suits.  I also made a mental note to question Spencer, Jesse, Bryan,
and Rick about my game.  I wanted them to tell me about my weaknesses
as a player, so I could do something about them.

I loved defense, but I was learning to appreciate playing in the
middle of the field.  I discovered that I enjoyed the freedom of
patrolling up, and I quickly realized that midfielders really were
the first line of defense.



*****



After showering, a bunch of us walked over from the fieldhouse to
the stadium for the football game.  Jesse, Bryan and I had planned on
going together, and most of the rest of the starters came along with
us.  Spencer Goldman jogged up to walk with me.

"Yo, Porter.  You switching positions?" he asked.  "Gonna finally
work for a living instead of being a lazy defender?"

"Work for a living?" I exclaimed.  "It seems to me it's the
midfielders who are the lazy ones.  'Oh, it's a through ball.  Oh,
well, I'll just let Porter or Rickman clean up the mess.'  You guys
in the middle have it way too easy."

Spencer laughed out loud.  "Nice dream, pal.  It's more like, 'Oh,
it's a through ball.  I'd better hustle back so our weak-legged
defenders won't strain something trying to get the ball back all the
way up to the middle.'  Hey, you've been playing up for awhile in
scrimmage.  You can't deny the truth."

Jesse, on my other side, just chuckled.  "You both got it wrong," he
said.  "Up front, we're thinking, 'Why don't they just move the ball
up so we can attack?  Can't they do anything with that damn pill?'
Forwards are the workhorses of the team, boys."

"Forwards?" sputtered Spencer.

"Sure," continued Jesse with a smile.  "If you guys weren't
freshmen, you'd probably realize it."  He turned to his roommate,
walking on his other side.  "Ain't that right, Bryan?"

"Truth," said Bryan.

Spencer laughed.  "The only work forwards do is hustle to hog the
glory after a win.  But guess who gives you all those assists?"

Jesse looked at him in mock solemnity.  "Ummm... the keepers, for
shutting out our opponents," he said.

Well, there was really no arguing with that.



*****




I was able to watch most of the first half of the football game with
my friends.  About five minutes before the half ended I hotfooted it
over to the gift shop.  I punched in and got ready to be overrun with
students, parents, and visitors looking for souvenirs.  For the next
half hour it was a mad scramble to keep up with the demand for Gator
gear.

The crowds disappeared almost as fast as they appeared, once the
second half started.  My coworkers and I spent the next hour getting
the stock back into shape, refolding sweatshirts, hanging the
windbreakers back up on their hangers, restocking the banners and
bumper stickers and UF decals, refacing the shelves full of coffee
mugs, shot glasses, address books, and sleeves of UF logo golf balls.
We just finished with these tasks when it started all over again.
Crowds streamed in after the end of the game, and decimated our poor
little space, wiping us out of several styles of t-shirts, key
chains, and logo pens.  It amazed me what they could put the
University's mascot onto, and it amazed me what people would actually
pay good money for.  Ninety percent of it was crap, in my opinion,
but there was a customer for every product in the store.  P.T. Barnum
was right.

By the time my shift was over, I was wiped out, and I still had a
session in the weight room to face.  I trudged back to my dorm room
to change, and found Westy there, huddled up with Jason, from across
the hall.

"Hey, what's up, guys?" I asked.

"Party tonight, dude," exclaimed Jason.  He, too, had pledged Sig
Tau.  He and Westy were in the same pledge class.  "You should come
along."

"What, it's not a frat party?" I asked.

"Well, not a sanctioned party," said Westy.  "A bunch of brothers
live in this old house in the Student Ghetto behind Chaucer's.
They're throwing the party, and it's kind of an open invitation."

"Naw, I don't think so," I said.  "I'm supposed to meet a guy over
in the weight room."

"We're not going until late, Sean," said Jason.  "We'll talk about
it when you get back."

I grabbed my gym bag and headed out to meet Dan.  I didn't give
Westy and Jason's invitation a second thought.  Westy in particular
was not ever going to be my first choice for somebody to party with.

I met up with Dan in the weight room, and we started on our first
circuit.  Spencer and Luke were also there, spotting for each other,
and the four of us worked out together for the next hour.

We were in the locker room, packing up our bags after showering,
when Spencer turned to me.

"Hey, Sean, you want to go get something to eat later tonight?"

"Sure," I said.  It was that or homework, and I had used flimsier
excuses than going out with a pal.

Spencer turned to the others.  "Luke?  Dan?  You guys want to grab a
bite later?"

"Can't, man," said Dan.  "Got a date tonight."

"Hey, yeah, I'll come along," said Luke.  "I've got nothing planned."

"Okay," said Spencer.  "I'll get something set up."

We all walked out of the gym together, and Luke and Dan headed off
to the right.  Spencer and I went straight, walking toward one of the
side entrances to our dorm.

"Where you want to go tonight?" I asked Spencer.

"Copper Monkey?  Wings and burgers?"

"Sure," I replied.

"Come on up to my room whenever you want," he said.  "I'll give you
a chance to win some of your money back at gin."  I thought I
detected just the hint of a smirk as he loped up the stairs after
leaving me at the third floor landing.

Westy was gone, and Jason's door was closed, so I figured his
roommate, Craig, was probably gone too.  No doubt studying at the
library, I thought.  The kid was going to burn himself out with
studying.

I flopped down on the couch, snapped open a can of Coke, stuck "Eat
A Peach" (I was really getting into this Southern lifestyle, it
seemed) into the cassette player, and grabbed pen and paper to write
to Luscious.  I wanted to let her know what was going on with the
team.  I thought she would get a kick out of hearing about my
experiences playing midfield instead of defense.

I was feeling frustrated and guilty after being at school without
Kayla for several weeks.  I was tired of jacking off while I stared
at her picture.  It was only a temporary release, and did nothing to
ease the ache of not having her near me.  It also forced me to adjust
my own internal version of what I considered myself to be.  After
all, here I was, a healthy teenaged athlete at a major university,
independent and fancy-free.  What did I need with female
companionship?

Who was I kidding?

Certainly not myself anymore.  Any illusions I may have brought with
me that I was immune to the strain of maintaining a long-distance
relationship had been burned out of me early on in my college career.
Hanging out with the guys was a lot of fun, but I knew I was not
alone in needing more sometimes.  Even the limited involvement I was
enjoying with Reggie was reminding me in an almost painful way of
what I was missing without Kayla around.

Was I having fun at college?  Sure.  But was I happy?

I was a long way away from happy, even if I was reluctant to admit
it to myself.  I just hoped I was keeping my true feelings from
seeping into my letters home.  It would drive Kayla crazy if she knew
how miserable I really was here, with nothing to do about it.

Buck up, Porter, and stop feeling sorry for yourself, I thought
harshly.  Freakin' crybaby.  I found an envelope and addressed it,
shoved my letter into it and sealed it.  I found a stamp and licked
it, and I trudged downstairs to the lobby mailbox to send it off.
There was a late pickup on Saturdays, so with luck Kay would receive
it by Tuesday or Wednesday.  By then, I hoped to have another letter
to her started.

I went back up to my room and opened up my history book to study for
another hour before I headed up to Spencer's for my weekly lesson in
humility, courtesy of Goldman's gin expertise.



*****



Spencer and I walked up 13th Street and met up with Luke before we
got to University Ave.  The three of us cut across and jaywalked
across University to the Copper Monkey.

It was already crowded, much of the crowd still there from after the
game.  It was rowdy and loud, but we managed to find three chairs,
and we squeezed in at a big table with a bunch of other people.
There were four pitchers of beer on the table, each about half full.
Luke pushed his way up to the bar and ordered three Cokes and a
couple of orders of wings.  He brought the Cokes back to the table,
and we each guzzled the sodas down and refilled our glasses with beer
from the pitchers.  Free beer, college bar.  What could be better?  I
almost forgot about missing my girl.

A couple of hours later, we were well buzzed.  We had consumed
hamburgers, wings, popcorn, and fries, and our table companions kept
the beer flowing.  Luke, Spencer and I each contributed some money to
the table in exchange, and our newfound friends around us were only
too happy to help us out.

I got up and sidestepped my way through the crowd toward the johns,
needing to tap a kidney.  The floor was getting sticky with spilled
beer and soda, and I slipped and nearly fell on my ass as I reached
the door.  A big, meaty hand reached out and grabbed my upper arm in
a steel grip, keeping me upright.

"Steady there, little fella," rumbled a big, deep voice.

"Thanks," I said once I got my feet back underneath me.  I glanced
at the big, round, black face of probably the biggest person I had
ever met, bigger even than Tiny Harrison, my friend from home.

"Funny how this damn tile can be sticky and slippery all at once,
ain't it?" he said.

"Physics," I replied.  "You just can't trust physics to be sane when
you're under the influence."

The big man laughed, and I turned back to the door to the restroom.

When I came out, the big guy was still there, leaning up against the
wall with his friends.

"Sean Porter," I said.

He looked at me a little quizzically.  "Nope," he said.  "Not me."

"No, I'm Sean Porter," I said.  "Thanks for the hand before."

"Oh, I thought you was accusing me of being Sean Porter," he said,
laughing.  He held out his hand.  "Lamarr Elliott, pleased ta
meetcha."

I shook his hand, and he held on, looking at me as if he was trying
to place me.

"I know that name," he said, not letting go.  "Just a minute, and
I'll have it."  Lamarr turned to one of his companions, a smaller,
very muscular guy with wide shoulders and slim hips.  "Hey, Dantrell,
does the name Sean Porter sound familiar to you?"

Dantrell and Lamarr.  Suddenly I knew who these guys were.  Lamarr
Elliott was a starting offensive lineman on the UF football team, and
Dantrell Sinclair was one of a tandem of halfbacks the team used very
effectively in their running attack.

Dantrell looked me over.  I still couldn't move, because of Lamarr's
grip.  Dantrell's eyes showed nothing, neither friendliness nor
animosity, and his expression was completely neutral.  I didn't
matter at all to him, from the look on his face.

"Soccer dude.  All-American from up North, freshman.  I hear he got
a game," said Dantrell.  I would discover later that evening that
Dantrell was just a quiet, reserved person, and his expressionless
face was simply a defense mechanism, acquired when he was a sought-
after high school All-American running back from Mississippi.

"Thass right!" shouted Lamarr.  "Goddammit, I knew that name was
familiar!  Good to meet ya, Sean Porter."  He gave my arm a vigorous
pump, nearly shaking me out of my shoes.  "This here is Dantrell
Sinclair, Sean Porter."  Dantrell lifted his chin in greeting, and I
nodded.  Lamarr finally let go of my hand.

"How come you know about the soccer team?" I asked.

"Ah, hell, it ain't the soccer team we know about," said Lamarr.
"But we find out about all the good athletes coming in.  We're like
our own fraternity, you know?  A lot of us like to meet the good
ones, though this time of year is a little busy for us.  I usually
try to make the rounds after winter break, introduce myself to folks."

"I'm kind of surprised," I admitted.  "I would have thought football
players would just kind of hang out with other players from the team,
and basketball players would hang out together, that kind of thing."

"Oh, that's somewhat true," said Lamarr.  "Don't mean we ain't
friendly with other guys, though."

"Good to know," I said.

"Buy you a beer?" asked Lamarr.

"Well... sure," I said.  Dantrell slipped over a little, making room
for me in their group.  It turned out Lamarr and Dantrell were there
with a bunch of other teammates and their friends.  Spencer and Luke
came over to see what was going on, and introductions were made all
around.  Once again I lost track of which face went with which name,
except for Dantrell and Lamarr, but it really didn't matter.
Everybody was there just to have a good time.

The music was loud, the crowd was louder, and the beer kept on
flowing.  Sometime during the festivities, Spencer and Luke came over
to tell me they were going to split.

"Where are you guys going?" I asked.

"I'm tired of the noise," complained Luke.  "I just think I'm going
to head back to the dorm."

"I'm going to meet my roomie over at Reitz," added Spencer.
"They're showing 'Bananas' late tonight."

"Bananas?  What's to show about bananas?" I asked.  Something wasn't
making sense here, and I was afraid it might be me.

Spencer, proving me right, laughed.  "Not the fruit, you idiot.  The
Woody Allen movie from a dozen years ago.  You've never seen it?
It's hilarious."

"I'll take your word for it, dude.  I'll see you tomorrow, then."  I
waved as he turned to go.

A little later, Lamarr came lumbering across the floor to me.  "Hey,
Sean Porter, Dantrell and me and a few others are going over into the
Ghetto to a friend's place.  You want to come along?"

"A course," I slurred.  Was I picking up a bit of a Southern accent?
I shook my head at my own foolishness.  I followed them out the door,
and we headed off down the street in a pack.  Just me and my football
pals, led by a six foot six inch, 340-pound behemoth, I blearily
thought to myself as I let myself be carried in Lamont's wake.

We got to the apartment, and it was already crowded, with the heavy
bass of street rap booming out of speakers in the main room.  It was
about a 50-50 mix of black and white kids, mostly football players
and their girlfriends, with a few team groupies thrown into the mix.
The dress ranged from typical college gear to colorful and strange
tribal adornment, with substantial amounts of bare skin showing in
tiny skirts, shorts, and sheer or very skimpy tops, all, no doubt,
due to the Florida climate.  Lamont introduced me to another dizzying
number of his friends, and I shook a lot of hands, and endured some
trash talk about how skinny soccer players seemed to be.  I found
myself drinking a surprising amount of cheap red wine, courtesy of
Lamarr, Dantrell, and their friends.

LaShonda Merriweather and Amari Al-Sharif, the girls who gave up
their apartment for the party, seemed to be near me most of the time
when I looked around.  Of course, one or the other seemed to be
everywhere, acting as hostesses and protecting their furniture the
best they could.  Amari was a thin, exotic looking girl in a
colorful, patterned black and gold caftan, with a matching headband.
She wore rose-colored glasses in an octagon shape, perched on the end
of her thin nose so she could look over them.

LaShonda was a substantial girl, a senior majoring in political
science.  She was nearly six feet tall herself, with big shoulders,
big breasts, big frizzy hair, big hips, and big smile.  Lamarr
introduced her to me when we first arrived.

"Sean Porter, meet the best damn cook east of the Mississippi," he
said, giving LaShonda a big slap on her ass.

LaShonda jumped as if she had been hit with a paddle, and gave
Lamarr a slug on his slab of an arm that would have knocked me down.
It hardly fazed Lamarr.

"Don't you go slappin' at my butt, Lamarr Elliott," she warned him.
She winked at me to let me know she was having fun with the big man.
"Don't you know it's attached to the rest of me?"

"I surely do," answered Lamarr with a big grin.  "And I like what
it's attached to, just fine."

"Oh, you," said LaShonda affectionately.  "Don't you go givin' this
new friend of your'n the wrong idea, now."

"Ah, hell, Sean Porter.  You got the wrong idea here?" asked Lamarr
as he put his arm around LaShonda's substantial shoulder.

"No, buddy, I don't think so," I replied.  "I think I've got the
right idea."

I wandered around the apartment, drawn to groups where I knew
somebody.  Dantrell introduced me to his buddies out on the porch at
one point, and he was much more animated and friendly, now that he
was in his own element.  I also squeezed in at times to corners where
LaShonda or Amari were stopping, letting myself drift with the eddies
and swirls of the conversational drifts.  Amari, in particular, had a
sharp tongue and a sharper wit, and she was completely unafraid to
say anything to anybody.  She obviously was well respected, even so,
and even the recipients of her barbs could only laugh when she hit
her target.  I found myself tending to drift toward wherever she was
holding court.  The entertainment value was too great to pass up, and
she always welcomed me with a smile.

Much later on, I met up with Lamarr in the hallway leading to the
bathroom.  He took up most of the space in the hallway, coming out as
I was going in.

"Hey, Lamarr, what's up with you and LaShonda?" I asked.

He grinned.  "She's a lot of woman, ain't she?"

I nodded.

"She's my best girl," he said.  "We're probably gonna get married
when we're done here.  I stay healthy, I'll probably get tooken in
the first or early second round of the NFL draft.  LaShonda, she's
got good grades, a great work ethic, she'll go to grad school
wherever I end up playing next year.  Gonna be a lawyer,
International Law.  Eventually wants to be ambassador to Kenya or
Tanzania.  Helluva girl."

"So how come she wasn't at the Monkey with you?" I asked.

He shook his head.  "Aw, she and Amari and their girlfriends, they
like to do these parties," he said.  "She spends most of the
afternoon gettin' everything ready, and she sho' 'nuff don't want me
stumblin' around, gettin' in her way.  So she shoo me off to spend
some time with my boys while she and her friends get the place
fortified for the party.  I show up too early, she get nervous, so me
and Dantrell and the others hang out over there until things get
goin' here.  Once the place gets hoppin', she starts to relax, and
it's okay for me to show my face."

He laughed, whether at LaShonda's indosyncrasies or at his own
behavior on her behalf I didn't know.  Lamarr probably didn't know,
either, nor did he seem to care.

"She's a very self-possessed woman," I said.

Lamarr got a real kick out of that.  "She can be possessed
sometimes, Sean Porter," he said.  "But, yes, she is self-possessed.
LaShonda Merriweather ain't no shrinking violet."

I could only agree.  Lamarr pounded me on the back in good
fellowship, nearly knocking me over in my inebriated state, and
squeezed by me to wade back into the party.

I stopped in the john and relieved myself.  I was feeling pretty
woozy, and very tired.

"Got to get home," I said to my bleary-eyed reflection in the
bathroom mirror.  "Got a game tomorrow."

I opened the door and stepped out into the dim hallway, and almost
immediately bumped into somebody.

"Oops, sorry," I mumbled.

I grabbed for an arm to steady myself, and felt a silky material
beneath my palms as a feminine voice said, "You feeling okay, Sean?"

I looked up into the girl's face, but shadows blocked her from my
recognition.  "I'm not sure," I said.  I sounded drunk, even to my
ears.  Must be true, then, I thought.

She chuckled.  "Come with me, little boy," she said, not unkindly,
and she led me down the hall to a closed door.  She opened the door
and guided me over to a waterbed in the middle of the small room.
"Maybe you should lie down here for a minute," she said.

"Okay," I agreed, and I pretty much fell onto the bed, dragging her
with me.  She landed on top of me, and my arms quite naturally went
around her.  She started to lift up off me, until she felt me holding
her.  She let me pull her back down, and she pressed her lips to
mine.  I kissed her, a little sloppily due to my condition, but she
didn't seem to mind at all.  In fact, she opened her mouth and let
her tongue slip between my teeth to explore.

My unknown benefactor tasted like cinnamon, and her breath was hot
on my cheek as we kissed.  She sucked in, pulling my tongue into her
mouth, and I thought I heard her growl as our temperatures rose
higher.  We moved into each other's arms a little more, and our
movement set up a rocking motion in the mattress that, had I not been
otherwise involved, would have really done a number on my equilibrium.

As it was, I was having difficulty controlling the heat we were
generating.  I was sweating, and I could feel her skin through her
shift warming my palms as I pressed them to her back.  I could feel
her sharp nipples boring into my skin through two layers of clothes,
and I dragged my hands up her back, feeling for a bra strap that
wasn't there.

As my hands were exploring the expanse of her back, her own hand was
doing some exploring of its own, working its way up my leg, inside my
thigh.  I was still wearing shorts, and she tried to get her hand up
the leg, but they were too tight.  She brushed lightly against my
hard cock, standing proud and erect in my shorts, and fumbled at the
snap and zipper.  I was tempted to help her, but she managed to open
them before I could formulate the proper command from my addled brain
to my reluctant hand, and she reached inside my shorts, inside my
underwear, and grasped my stalk.  She instinctively pumped it,
gripping me fiercely, nearly painfully.

My own hands couldn't figure out her clothing, so they gave up, and
I submitted myself to her ministrations.  She obliged by breaking our
kiss and leaning over me, her head sliding down my body toward the
prize she held in her fist.  She pushed my shorts and my briefs down
until they were around my knees, and she cupped my balls as I felt
her tongue glide up the underside of my throbbing cock.

I groaned, knowing I was not going to last long at all.  Hers were
the first hands to touch my cock and balls, other than my own, in
what seemed a very long time, and I could do nothing but surrender to
the sensations that were flooding through me, pinning me to the
mattress.  The motion of the water contributed to a desire in me not
to move very much.  As it was, it was soothing, but I knew if I tried
to contribute, a very disquieting motion in the bed would be set up,
and I didn't think my stomach would accept that much movement.  And
so, I lay there and let my blood sizzle and crackle as it raced
through my veins, heated by the presence of the moist and warm tongue
and lips of my unknown friend.

I felt her lips at the crown as she held my cock upright with her
left hand.  Her right hand continued to play with my scrotum.  As she
pressed my cock against her closed lips, forcing the head into her
mouth, I also felt one of her fingers tickling and exploring around
my asshole.  As she took more of my cock into her mouth, I could feel
her tongue laving back and forth across the hot skin, moistening and
teasing.  She continued to take more of me, never pausing at all,
until I felt her nose bump against my crotch, and the head of my cock
was nestled at the back of her throat.  She paused there, letting the
actions of her throat as it accommodated my girth play against my
sensitive tissues, and then she backed off slowly, sucking on me
hard, until just the head was still encased in her hot mouth.

At that moment, her hand returned to the base of my cock, and she
began jacking me.  At the same time, her head bobbed up and down on
me, as she worked hard to get me off.  Her finger against my backside
became a little more insistent, now poking at my puckered opening,
and, suddenly I was tossed over the edge.  My hips bucked up, and I
drove my cock deeper into her mouth.  I thought I heard her squeak,
and then the switches and pumps activated, and I filled her with the
first huge spurt of my seed.

She swallowed instinctively what she could to keep up with me, and
my body continued down its path by flexing and pumping another burst,
followed by a third.  A weaker fourth spurt followed, and each
successive pumping action diminished until I was completely drained,
and I collapsed back onto the waterbed, exhausted.

I felt her swallow the last of my semen, and as my cock began to
shrink she used her tongue and lips to clean me off, still caressing
my balls gently.  I put my hand down to touch her head, meaning to
thank her, whoever she was, but I must have dozed off before I could
form the words.  When next I gathered myself together enough to
realize where I was, the girl was gone, and I was alone on the cool
bed.

I stumbled to my feet and yanked my underwear and my shorts back up,
feeling panicked and dazed.  I needed to get away from there.  I ran
my hands through my hair, feeling thickheaded and confused, and I
found the door.

The party was still going on, but the crowd was substantially
diminished.  The only person I saw that I knew was Dantrell, sitting
out on the porch with a couple of buddies, and he waved as I came out
the door.

"Takin' off, Porter?" he asked as I paused at the top of the steps.

"Yeah," I mumbled.  "Got a game in the afternoon.  Got to get some
rest."

"Okay, man.  You know your way back from here?"

I looked around the neighborhood.  Brighter lights told me
University Street was to my left.  "Yeah, the walk will do me good,"
I said.

Dantrell just nodded.  I trudged down the stairs and followed the
sidewalk toward campus.  I was still pretty well dusted, but not so
far gone I couldn't feel pretty disgusted with myself over what had
occurred.  How could I have let that happen?  It felt so good at the
time, but by the time I got to my dorm I felt like a complete
degenerate.  I was no better than Westy.

The flights of stairs up to the third floor seemed unending.  I was
stumbling with exhaustion by the time I got to my room.  I shoved my
hand into my pocket, searching for my keys.  Along with my key, I
pulled out of my pocket a silken, gold and black headband.




(Continued in Chapter 11)




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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**If I had to do it all over,
I'd do it all over you**

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