Phalen

Phalen - Reputation and Honor

Chapter Six

By Roy Reinikainen

"Thanks for meting with me, Coach," Greg began, after thanking the waitress for his and the coach's extra-large mugs of coffee. "I just thought you'd be interested to know that I met with Randy Shaw yesterday." Coach Bowen's eyes widened.

"How's the young man doing? Better I hope. He looked like death warmed over when he came to tell me he needed some family medical leave." Coach Bowen pursed his lips. "Someone has been trying to tell me that his absence indicated trouble with the law, or drugs, or some such thing. I'd said that couldn't possibly be the case. Drugs and legal troubles aren't Randy's style. He's a straight shooter. Whatever he says he'll do, he does. It was really him who needed time, wasn't it? Not his family? I mean, he looked awful. You say he's doing better?"

"Better yes, though he's far from recovered." Greg had debated with himself until the wee hours of the morning about what he was going to say next. He knew that he was walking a fine line between betraying a trust, and fulfilling a legal responsibility. He pressed his lips together.

"Coach, Randy told me everything that happened to him. I'm not at liberty to divulge the majority of what he said. In fact, I've still got an internal war going on as to whether I should even be here with you, telling you anything, but . . . " Greg shrugged. "Here we are." He licked his lips.

"This is serious, isn't it, Doctor?" Greg nodded. "Is it about my boys? Does it affect more people than just Randy?"

"It's about the guys on your team, and any other male athlete. Doctor Layson took a deep breath. "Coach, Randy was abused . . . sexually. He was raped repeatedly, over a period of months. He initially knew he was getting into a sexual situation, and was comfortable with that. What he wasn't prepared for though, was having his life . . . his mind . . . and much of his body . . . torn apart like it was. Repeatedly. He's in counseling now. His external wounds are healing. His mental ones will take much longer. I'm not sure he'll ever be able to completely recover.

Coach Bowen covered his eyes with a hand and shook his bowed head. Randy's problem was worse than he had imagined . . . much worse.

"Coach, he is a changed man. His emotions are fragile."

"You know who did . . . this?" Ed Bowen asked, his voice grim.

Greg shook his head. "No, Randy won't tell. He says that he's spoken to the authorities, but he hasn't convinced me of that. I think he intends to speak to the police, and is working up the nerve. He has a lawyer, and a counselor, and, of course, he has me as his physician. He thinks he's got things under control, but I'm not so sure. He's angry, coach. He wants to see this guy brought down, but I'm worried that not divulging the information right away might be a mistake. His lawyer has urged him to take immediate action, if for no other reason than to prevent this from happening to another young man, but Randy is adamant that his wishes be met. He's told me that he's . . . warned the one person he thinks will most likely be a . . . a target.

"Coach, I'm speaking to you, not because I believe this incident is in some way related to your team, or your personnel. I'm speaking to you because Randy is one of your men, and I know how much you care about all of them. If I knew for certain that another young man, an athlete, had been abused in this way, I'd be telling their coach to keep an eye out, too.

"All I can ask you is to keep an eye out for any unusual behavior on the part of your players . . . anything out of the ordinary. If you spot something, send that person to me. I'll see what I can do. Many times, a person will talk to their doctor, when they've no one else they think they can turn to."

"You can't give me any more information than this?"

Greg shook his head. "I'm sorry. I can't. Actually, I don't know much more than I've told you. Both of us will have to trust that Randy is indeed tending to the legal aspect of what happened to him.

Suddenly, Greg sat back, tenting his fingers before his mouth and taking on a distant, troubled, look.

"Coach Bowen," he began, causing the Head Coach to sit up straight, at the formal tone. "I've been entrusted with some information critical to the welfare of Randy Shaw, as well as other players on the baseball team, and elsewhere. I must insist that you do not divulge to anyone what information I've just given you, and I do mean anyone. Not your wife, your assistant coaches, your trainers, anyone on your team, your priest, anyone. Say absolutely nothing about what you have learned. Please. I am sorry, but I should have gotten your agreement before I told you what was happening. I hope you don't feel as if I've tricked you. That wasn't my intention. When I say anyone, Coach Bowen, I mean anyone." Greg paused. "Really. Other boys' welfare may be at stake, but, if the person who did this finds out, or even suspects, that you know what he did, Randy Shaw's life may be forfeit."

"Been out for lunch?" Jackson Cline asked his uncle, as the older man entered the office wearing a preoccupied expression.

"What?" The coached focused on his nephew seemingly realizing where he was for the first time. "Oh," he grinned. "Yes. One of the doctors from the Clinic," he paused, as he pretended to drink from his take-home coffee cup, "and I." He swallowed what he'd been about to say, along with the coffee. After all, doctor Layson had stressed that he was to tell no one about what he knew. "I've made it a habit to meet with someone from the Clinic every couple weeks during the season to discuss the health of the guys on the team. Thankfully, everyone's doing fine."

"Hm," Coach Cline snorted. "I didn't know you did that."

Coach Bowen laughed. "There are many things I do which you know nothing about, Jackson, just as I'm sure there are things you do which you prefer to not have me aware of."

"Not me," Jackson Cline laughed. "My life's an open book."

His uncle looked at him over his glasses. "Yeah, right. My nephew, pure as the driven snow." He snorted amusement, as Coach Cline fidgeted. "We all have our dirty little secrets, Jackson. Those secrets only become dangerous when they are ignored and left to grow into something monstrous." Ed Bowen shook his head and grinned. "Geez, I sound like a philosopher or something."

"What about Mister Shaw?" Jackson asked, changing the subject, perching on the edge of a desk, in a pose of studied nonchalance. Jackson had tried to hide his anger when he'd been told that Randy had taken a leave of absence. 'The ingrate!' he had wanted to shout. When Randy had at first refused to answer his cell phone, then had changed the number, Jackson's anger had blossomed. The manager of Randy's apartment complex had refused to answer any questions, saying only that Randy no longer lived there. No one seemed to know anything. Calls to his parents had gone unanswered, even after he had hinted at the possibility that their son had been the victim of foul play. The bathroom door of Jackson's apartment had taken the brunt of his anger, on a night when he desperately wanted release. Then, to make matters worse, that panty-waist, Marty Kelly, was playing hard to get, hanging out with that Phalen kid, and some Asian-looking guy. That kid even had the nerve to put his arm around Marty's shoulders, as if he had a fuckin' right. 'The boy is mine! You can have him when I'm done with him!' he wanted to shout, as he bashed the show-off against a wall. He'd even had the nerve, the nerve, to be sassy in front of both Phalen and Marty . . . trying to play the big man, no doubt.

"Any word when Randy'll be back?" Jackson was pleased at his casual tone of voice. "He's left a big hole in the lineup, taking off like he did, with no explanation. Do you have any idea where he is? I'd like to go see him . . . give him support in a time of need . . . that sort of thing."

Coach Bowen shook his head. "Nope, I have no idea where he is. He didn't tell me and I didn't ask. It's none of my business. As for when he'll be back, your guess is as good as mine. I'm assuming, before coming to see me, Randy went to the folks at the clinic, to handle whatever problem he experienced. You know doctors, though. They can only speak in generalities, never about a specific patient, even to telling one of us coaches anything. I'm not sure, though, that Randy's problems are medical. When he spoke to me, he just told me there was a family emergency of some sort. He looked terrible, so I'm inclined to believe him. He's never been a slacker before; I doubt he's suddenly become one. I've been presented the appropriate request forms, so I had no choice but to let him tend to his affairs, no matter how large a hole he left in the roster."

"Drugs," Coach Cline said, out of the blue. "Like I've said before, I'm convinced he's into illegal drugs. Performance enhancing stuff, heroin, cocaine, you name it, I would not be surprised if he's into it." Coach Bowen looked at his nephew through slitted eyes. "Sooner or later," Coach Cline continued, 'that type of person always shoots themselves in the foot. They don't know when to stop. Yep," he said, leaning against the office door jamb with crossed arms.

'Randy, you bastard,' he thought, 'you're not going to get away from me so easily. When I'm finished with you, you'll wish you were dead. What business did you have to go to the Clinic? Probably just wanted someone over there to admire your asshole.'

Coach Bowen rocked back in his chair. "I don't believe drugs have anything to do with Randy's problems. I've seen enough young men who gave in to the temptation of drugs. Randy doesn't fit the profile. I believe Randy is exactly as he said . . . troubled with personal problems."

"If it's not drugs," Coach Cline persisted, "what could it be?"

The head coach shrugged. "Whatever it is, Randy's smart enough to know that he can't carry such a large burden around without getting some help. In fact, he as much as told me that he had enlisted the help of a number of people to help him . . . a doctor, lawyer, or whatever." Ed Bowen sank back in his seat, momentarily lost in thought, and didn't notice the slight widening of his nephew's eyes. "I hate to have one of my boys facing something traumatic. Each one of them is like a member of the family. I've always told anyone coming to me like Mister Shaw did, that it was essential for them to speak to someone about their troubles, and not keep things bottled up inside, hoping they'd be able to handle whatever was going on, on their own. Like I said, I've told the same thing to . . . I don't know how many young men. Of course, I never know if my advice is heeded, just as one never knows if they'll ever be able to recover." The coach shook his head, as if driving away thoughts of young men in the past who didn't quite recover from personal tragedies, then looked up and smiled, not understanding his nephew's tight-lipped expression.

"Now, let's get busy taking apart that game film those kind folks at Southern Cal sent us, shall we?"

"Hey, Brad," Eric smiled, standing at Brad's apartment door. "Howzit?" It was late afternoon, a time Eric knew when Brad had no classes and Marty was carrying out his duties with the team. For a good portion of the afternoon, Eric had sat at the edge of the Zen garden in the Nakai Saburo Dojo, his karate school, and meditated on what was the right thing to do. 'I can do nothing, hoping that Marty has, at least, told Brad about the person stalking him, or I can add some weight to what I hope Marty has already said. It may mean more, coming from more than one person. I trust him to do the right thing, but I want to make sure that he has made Brad aware of the seriousness of the problem. This is not something Marty can deal with on his own. That's why I'm getting involved. I'm not playing busybody! Besides, I . . . care for Marty.' After he'd assured himself of his laudable goals, he called Brad, and asked if he could come by. "If you and your partner aren't busy," he added. Brad had laughed.

"Curt's not here. He's off gallivanting across the country, selling advertising campaigns for things no one needs, or wants to buy. After seeing one of his campaigns, even I want to go out and buy a . . . whatever . . . just so we can say we have one. Fortunately," Brad grinned, guiding Eric into the apartment's living room, whose windows were framing a glorious sunset over jagged western peaks, "Curt is normally able to persuade me that we don't actually need the product, and that, like everyone else, I've fallen for his sales pitch." Brad shook his head in disbelief. "Whenever that happens, I feel like a fool. He feels great that he could even sway me. That man could sell sand to a person living in the desert and make them think their life will suddenly improve if they buy a couple cartons full." In a more introspective voice, Brad continued. "Curt always was very persuasive. Sometimes I've wished he were less so."

Eric stood on the opposite side of the counter and watched as Brad rummaged in the refrigerator, then took out a pitcher and filled a couple glasses. "Now, what can I do for you?" he smiled, handing Eric a glass of fruit juice. They sat in the living room, facing one another across a small glass table, while Brad, familiar with Eric's deliberate approach to most things, waited. Brad grinned to himself. At times, Eric seemed to be the happy-go-lucky guy, always laughing and joking in his Hawaiian pidgin, leaving people scratching their heads, not quite sure what he's saying. The laughter and teasing hid a serious person, who was supremely confident in himself and his abilities. Brad suspected though, that Eric's confidence was a fragile thing. That was one reason he thought Marty and Eric would be so good for one another. They were similar in many ways, and he knew that neither would ever knowingly do something to hurt the other.

Eric cleared his throat. "Has Marty been over in the last couple days . . . to talk?" Eric asked, sipping the tart red fruit drink, and watching Brad over the rim of the glass. "I asked him to talk to you about something he's facing. It's important to me that he did as he promised." Eric began to relax. Now that the first step had been taken, he no longer had to worry if he was doing the right thing. It was done. He relaxed slightly, sinking into the sofa. The glow of the sun added bright highlights to his black hair, and tinted his Hawaiian skin with a golden glow.

"Oh?" Brad asked, noncommittally.

Eric grinned. "Brad, I care for Marty a lot. In fact, I'm only just beginning to realize how much. I'm not breaking any confidences, though I hope he's already told you about what I'm going to say." Brad made a small go-ahead gesture with one hand. Eric took a deep breath. "Marty's told me about a coach who's stalking him. I asked him to tell people, beginning with you. Has he . . . told you, I mean?" In an under-voice, he added, "I'm hoping so; otherwise, I'm going to have a lot of explaining to do, both to you and to him." He grinned. "I don't want to hound him about things, but, at the same time, I can't sit still and do nothing. Marty's become too important to me."

Brad set his glass aside. "Yes, he's spoken with me. I've been trying to figure out what, if anything, I should do. Marty's old enough to make his own decisions, but," Brad shrugged, wearing a crooked smile, "that doesn't mean that I don't still want to look out for him, just as you apparently do. I know he's nineteen, but he still seems like the little guy I grew up with."

Eric smiled and nodded. "I feel the same way." He took a deep breath. "Brad . . . y'know, when you introduced us, I teased him about being the perfect height to kiss." Eric smiled. "He's not only that, he's about as perfect a guy as I've ever met. He's so considerate, so gentle, so full of love. He's just waiting to open up and give himself to someone. So," Eric rubbed his hands over the fabric of his shorts, "the other reason I'm here is to ask your opinion of how your family would accept me, a guy of mixed heritage, if Marty and I get serious."

Brad watched his normally self-assured friend, try to stop his fidgeting. "If Marty loves you, then my family will love you, too. You have nothing to worry about."

Eric released a breath he'd not been fully aware he'd been holding. "Now, if my folks are as understanding of me falling for a white man," he grinned crookedly. "I don't expect that will be a huge problem, especially since I'm Hapa Haole. Half Japanese, half White," he added, in explanation. "If I were pure Hawaiian, things might be different." Eric looked into the middle distance, then back to Brad, and grinned. "Some native Hawaiians . . . some . . . are angry at anyone who they judge not to be pure. They want the islands to . . . I don't know . . . to return to before Captain Cook, or something. Even though some are way militant, others are," he shrugged, "not into hate or stuff. I don't believe any of my in-laws believe that way, especially the men who married my sisters. Their families seemed to not have any problem with my sisters being of mixed heritage." He grinned uncomfortably. "It's something I've never had to think about before, primarily since I've never been that interested in anyone I've met, but also because those guys I have been interested in have been from Hawaii."

Eric swirled the remnants of his fruit drink around the bottom of the glass, as the sky faded from lavender to dark purple, and an automatic light came on in the kitchen. He glanced in that direction, then at Brad, who was watching him with his full attention. "Enough said, about possible in-laws," Eric grinned. I'm here to talk about Marty."

"The guy's still pressuring him?" Brad asked.

Eric nodded his bowed head. "I went to meet Marty, at the gym the other night. I questioned him, after dinner, about what had been going on before I arrived. He . . . reluctantly . . . told me the guy had come into the showers, and had thrust his hips forward, and was waving his dick around. I tell you, Brad, . . . when I arrived, Marty was positively white. He tries to make everyone believe that he's not all that bothered by what's happening, but take it from me, he is terrified. Thankfully, he's been trying to keep someone around to prevent the harassment from getting worse. In this case, Phalen was with him, which made things better, but when we all left to go out to dinner, da lolo buggah was giving me mean stinkeye!"

Eric grinned. I probably shouldn't have done it, but, I walked over, close to where he was standing in the showers, and threw some pidgin at him." Eric's grin blossomed into a smile of recollection. "That threw him off balance. You should have seen him! There he was, naked as the day he was born, a big . . . sausage . . . dangling between his legs, all soapy . . . looking at me as if I had sprouted horns, or something. It was all I could do not to laugh. So, to keep him from seeing me smile, I turned back to the guys and put an arm over Marty's shoulder, and we left the building. I wanted to let the guy know that Marty was not available."

"Phalen?" Brad asked, his eyes brightening. "Phalen knows Marty?"

Eric smiled. "Yes, they've become good friends. They practice together with a group of other guys from the baseball team, though I don't know that Phalen knows you and Marty are related. From what I saw at dinner the other night, Marty has become pretty popular with the whole team. I was happy to see that they treat him as an equal, not as a trainer, who's tagged along. I know Marty's gone over to Phalen's for dinner a couple times, but," he shrugged, "other than that, I don't know much. Marty and I are still pretty new with one another. We talk a lot, but we also spend lots of time just enjoying one another's company, holding hands, and things. I love that. Being with him is like meditation. It's soothing. He's afraid of moving too fast into a relationship, and I am afraid of doing anything which might make him think I'm impatient.

"I really do like him, Brad." Eric smiled. "I think he likes me too."

Eric's face lit as Brad answered. "I think he likes you, too. You'd be good for one another, Eric," Brad grinned. "I'm thinking that the stuff with Marty was the main reason you came by today, but equally important were my thoughts about your relationship." Eric blushed, and bowed his head.

"You're a wonderful person, my Hawaiian friend. If Marty loves you, my folks and brothers will, too. Have no worries. Marty is a good man. He's more sensitive than I think is good for him, but . . . that's him. I believe he'd be a wonderful lover."

Eric grinned. "I believe so, too." He looked at Brad with a mischievous look. "He certainly can kiss."

Kerin paced back and forth across his and Thian's living room. "I feel so damned useless!" He threw out his arms, giving his injured arm a withering glance, then pivoted and turned to his brother. "I can't do anything! I can't practice, I can't work out; hell, I can't even have sex with you, properly. I don't like being a bottom all the time, and," he held out a warning hand, "before you say it, laying on my back with you bouncing on my dick does not make me a top, at least in my estimation."

"I'm frustrated. I'm angry." He made a face. "I'm jealous that you can do everything, and I can't. I'm upset that I'm upset. I know that my arm is getting better, but it's not getting better fast enough."

Kerin plopped onto one of the large easy chairs and winced, as his arm was jostled. "I'm just cranky, I know. I'm friggin' tired of being cranky, and Doctor Layson won't even allow me to do stretching exercises, or anything! Hell, by the time, I'm recovered, I'm not gonna be able to touch my freakin' toes, I'll be so stiff."

Phalen studied the half-dozen guys arrayed around the restaurant table. At Phalen's insistence, they'd all arrived early for their regular burger lunch. All of the men were on the baseball team; yet, since beginning their extra practice sessions, they'd become close friends rather than mere teammates. "Where's Marty?" Bobby Pickett asked, glancing around. "Isn't he gonna join us?"

Phalen nodded. "Yes, but I wanted to get you guys together. before he showed up, to ask you something." Everyone nodded. Phalen licked his lips.

"I don't know what's going on, but Marty's facing . . . something, and needs our help." Each of the guys looked troubled. Even before Marty had begun to practice with them, he was highly thought of. Now, it was as if he was already a member of the team. If he needed help, everyone was willing to listen. "We've all seen how jumpy Marty has suddenly become." The guys slowly nodded. Marty had been off his game recently, seemingly distracted by something. "I don't know what's causing it, but I'm sure it has something to do with his duties as assistant trainer, or the locker room, or something. I'm sorry, but I really don't know more than that. Personally, I think someone may be picking on him, or something. He's not complained to me . . ."

"He wouldn't," pitcher Ross McCree interrupted. "He's not a whiner. How can we help out, Phalen? Marty would bend over backward to help any one of us. We can do no less for him." Ross' comment was met with nods from everyone.

"Our schedules aren't that different from Marty's," Phalen began. "I'm hoping that we can work out something where one of us is nearby Marty, if not all the time, at least most of the time when he's in the locker room, or trainer's office. Maybe our presence will make things easier for him. We also might be able to figure out what's causing his problem. We don't need to let him know we're looking out for him; just our presence will do that." He looked around. "Does that sound like a plan?"

Center fielder, Dennis Chaves cleared his throat in warning, as he held up a hand. "Hey, Marty!" he called. "Over here."

"Hey, guys," Marty smiled, as he sat in the chair reserved for him. "Sorry I'm late. What were you all talking about?" Marty grinned his thanks at the waitress, as she brought him his soda.

"We've been talking about the importance of friends," Phalen said, "and how we all look out for one another."

Marty's smile broadened. He raised his glass of soda, inviting a toast. "To good friends," he said, glancing from one face to another. "To all of you!"

"And to you, Marty," Ross McCree added.

"To Marty," Bobby Pickett added. "One of the best guys around."

Head baseball coach Ed Bowen stared out the window of his office in the athletic complex. 'Something is going on.' First, Dr. Layson's bombshell, suggesting that someone in or near his department had abused Randy Shaw. Now, he'd received a request for a meeting by someone he didn't know, but who said he had some important information that, as a coach, he needed to be aware of. The coach looked up as the team trotted past his office, all full of energy. They were a bunch of good guys, some of the best he'd ever coached. Randy Shaw's absence left a large hole in the lineup, though; one it didn't appear, as a coach, he'd soon fill.

Coach Bowen's nephew, assistant Coach Cline, paused at the door. "Y'ready?" he asked, his voice clear in the sudden quiet of the empty locker room. Today was a major practice. Everyone, from the best player to the trainers, was out at the stadium, practicing under game conditions.

"You go ahead. I've got a meeting to take care of first. I'll be along soon." Coach Bowen's nephew gave his uncle an unreadable look, then turned and jogged down the hallway. Coach Bowen swung his chair toward the large windows in his office, and stared out to the green practice fields, and the mountains surrounding the valley beyond. 'Why do I feel as if something awful is heading my way and there's not a thing I can do to prevent it?' He rubbed his forehead, hoping to ward off what promised to be a major headache, then looked up with a start at the knock on his door.

"Coach Bowen?" the young man asked. "You agreed to meet with me for a few minutes."

Dani Aarons scanned through the student newspaper. His first story was supposed to be in today's issue. Journalism class was not his favorite; still, he was anxious to see the printed results of his work. 'I'm not the type of guy who'd make a good reporter,' he told himself. 'I'm too shy.'

Then, he'd happened to draw the worst possible assignment - writing about an expanded investigation into the unexplained deaths of two university students within the past two years. All he could think of was his brother Denis; yet Denis' death was, as far as the police were concerned, explained. It was suicide, plain and simple. Dani doubted that was true, with all his heart. Denis' death definitely was a suicide, but there was nothing simple about it. No one had yet explained why it had happened. That was what was important to Dani. He knew Denis would never return, but he needed, more than anything, to know why Denis had chosen to do what he did.

The headline had been printed in especially bold type, "Explanation Sought for Unexplained Deaths."

"University, Tempe City, and Phoenix City police departments have joined forces," the article read, "to broaden the scope of investigations into at least two unexplained deaths of male students during the past two years.

"According to press releases, and interviews with law enforcement officials close to the investigation, the two known deaths follow a similar pattern. The students, both of whom worked in different capacities within the University's athletic department, developed sudden changes in behavior, which worsened over a period of two to three months. Extensive interviews with athletic department officials, family members, and friends, have offered no further clues to why these two young men took their own lives.

'Something is going on, something that our combined law enforcement forces intend to get to the bottom of,' said Tempe police chief Ivan McCavanaugh. 'We're asking anyone who has any information which might help us find a reason for these two men's deaths, to contact us. And, secondly, we're asking if anyone is aware of any other situations similar to the two we already know about, to get in touch immediately. If these cases are connected, we want to find out how, and see that other young men do not suffer the same fate."

Dani sank into the chair, and closed his eyes. 'Is it possible that my brother's death is in some way connected? Denis fits the profile. He worked in the athletic department; he seemed fine; then suddenly became withdrawn, even with me. Then,' Dani swallowed, 'then Mom told me that he'd been found . . . dead. He'd killed himself. He and I had hardly ever been apart, until then. He died alone, unwilling to trust anyone with enough information to help him . . . In his own mind, he died without a friend.'

A tear escaped from beneath Dani's closed eyelids and slid over his cheek. 'There was no note; there was no reason. He was just . . . gone, leaving me . . . to go on.'

Coach Bowen stood and shook Brad's hand, gesturing to a chair as he closed his office door.

Brad waited until the older man sat, before taking his own seat. "Coach, when I called you, I was intentionally vague about my last name, because I didn't want you to speak to anyone about my . . . visit. It's Kelly. I'm your trainer's, Marty Kelly, older brother, and he has absolutely no idea that I'm here. If he did know, I expect he'd be very upset. You see, I feel it's necessary to tell you about something he told me; something that I'm sure he never expected to go any further. I've also been told the same story by another person, a friend of Marty's, in whom he'd confided, and who has witnessed some of the things I need to speak of."

"I understand, Mister Kelly. I seem to suddenly be the person people are turning to with their darkest secrets." His snort definitely did not signal amusement. "Go on, please," he said, idly toying with a fountain pen.

"Sir, I'm sure that you won't take anything that I tell you at face value. I'm sure you'll want to conduct your own investigation, but please, don't let . . . anyone . . . know that Marty was the source of the information I'm about . . ."

Coach Bowen smiled kindly. "I know the routine, Mr. Kelly. I appreciate your trying to protect your brother, but if he's done something wrong or . . ."

Brad held up a hand. "He hasn't. It's assistant Coach Cline who has." Brad stopped speaking, as the color seemed to drain from the Coach Bowen's face.

"Coach Cline?"

Brad warily nodded.

"He's my nephew." It was Brad's turn to be shocked.

"Oh," he said, bowing his head. "Damn, Marty didn't say anything about that."

"I hate to ask, but what exactly did your brother tell you that involves Coach Cline?" Brad noticed that the coach was no longer idly toying with the fountain pen. He now held it between both hands, whose knuckles were pale, with the pressure he was exerting.

"Marty believes Coach Cline is . . . stalking . . . him." Brad cleared his throat. "According to my brother, Coach Cline has offered to make a place for him on the team . . . if . . ."

"Go ahead." The coach said, in a voice like rough sandpaper.

"If, Marty would go to bed with him."

The fountain pen snapped in two. Brad flinched, as blue ink stained the man's hand, and splattered across the desk in a fine spray of blue droplets. The coach's anger seemed barely held in check, as the muscles of his arms stood out in sharp definition, while he maintained a death grip on each half of the unfortunate pen. He silently ground his teeth, as he stared, unseeing, into the distance, unaware that both he and the desk were peppered with ink stains.

"And, you trust your brother's word in this matter?" he managed to say, his voice hoarse.

"Yes, sir, I do. When he told me, he was on the verge of tears. He was trembling so badly he could barely talk. He didn't come to me to tell me . . . this, but when I saw how he was behaving, I knew something was awfully wrong. I guess I sorta hounded him until he told me." Brad leaned forward. "Coach, I've never known Marty to tell a lie. I believe him. I also believe his friend. He came to me to make sure Marty had spoken to me about what was going on. Marty and I have always been close. I trust they're both being truthful. If I didn't, I certainly wouldn't be here, talking to you," his voice lowered, "about your nephew." Brad bowed his head and massaged his forehead. "Aw, geez." He looked up. "I'm sorry."

The coach looked at his hands and clothing, first with surprise, then disgust. "I guess I did this," he nodded toward his hands. All Brad could do was acknowledge the coach's words with a nod. "Well . . . damn. I have no idea what I'm going to do with two blue hands." He paused. "And my clothes!"

"Coach . . ."

Coach Bowen held up a . . . blue . . . hand. "I'm not ignoring what you've told me, Mister Kelly. I'm just finding it difficult to assimilate it all. Give me a few moments. And," he continued, "you have nothing to be sorry for, nor does Marty. He's a fine young man. You should be proud of him. I believe he would also be proud of you, and how you're looking out for his welfare."

"I am proud of him, sir. He's been carrying around a lot on his shoulders recently. I hope that everything will work out . . . for everyone. Not just Marty, but Coach Cline, too."

"You're too generous, Mister Kelly. If my nephew has indeed been doing what you and your brother accuse him of, there is no way things will . . . work out, for him. He will certainly not have me going to bat for him, nor the rest of the family, if I have anything to say about it. If what you say is true, he's using his position of authority to get . . . sex partners! Certainly, Marty cannot be the first young man he's approached."

The coach suddenly looked up. "Has Marty succumbed to these . . . advances? God, I hope not." He raised a hand to his face, then thought better of it, remembering the ink.

Brad shook his head. "No, sir. He's torn though. His greatest dream, during his whole life, has been to be on your team. It was all he talked about as he was growing up, all he worked for. All he did was study and practice ball. Everything he did was geared toward eventually being on your team. I can't begin to describe how devastated he was when he was turned down. It was as if his world had ended. The fact that he was given an academic scholarship meant little to him. It took him weeks before he was able to even talk about his rejection. Then, he surprised everyone in the family, and applied for a position as trainer. It was as if he wanted to torture himself, surrounding himself in the thing he had dreamt of, but wasn't good enough to achieve." Bard shook his head. "It's been rough for him . . . now, this!"

Coach Bowen could easily imagine the young man he knew, being able to maintain a single-minded focus for years. Yet, here he is, working with us, and doing an admirable job. "It must be . . . painful . . . for him, being so close, yet knowing he can't do what he wants."

Brad nodded. "That's why, no matter how much he hates the idea of doing what the coach is asking, he can't help but wonder if . . . maybe . . ."

Coach Bowen shook his head. "That would never happen! I depend on my assistant coaches for many things, but never to help with final scholarship selection. That is my job. They have input, but that's all. I make the decisions. Coach Cline knows how things operate. If he has done as you say, and I have every reason to believe he has, and for the reasons you've given me . . . I am more disappointed in his behavior than I can say."

Coach Bowen sat back and stared into the distance for a moment before returning his attention to the man who sat across the desk from him. "Turn about's fair play, Mister Kelly. You've told me something I have to keep quiet about, so I'll tell you something."

"Sir?"

"Your brother has been the topic of conversation between an old friend of mine, his high school coach, and me. It turns out, my friend was very . . . let's just say, irritated with me, for not having offered Marty a scholarship. My friend always was one to vent his opinions." The coach heaved a sigh. "In this case, I'm coming to the conclusion that he may be right." His eyes focused on Brad's.

"Now, Mister Kelly, here is the bit that you cannot divulge."

"Sir?"

"I . . . would like to offer your brother a scholarship. I've seen him play. He would be an asset to the team, but . . ." Ed Bowen held up a hand as Brad's face lit. "But," the coach continued, "I have only so many scholarships available. At the moment, I have one player who has requested, and has been granted, permission to tend to family matters. I do not know if he will return to the team. I'm hoping he does, because he's a very good player. So . . . the bottom line is, I would like to have Marty on our team. Like the other player I mentioned, he would be a valuable asset. But, for the moment, at least, I don't see how adding Marty to the roster is going to be possible.

"I can say that if a scholarship comes available, it will be offered to Marty, but for god's sake, do not give him the slightest hint that such an eventuality is a possibility, because . . . it may not come to pass. I hope that it will, but if it does, it will mean that another of my boys has left the team, and I won't like that to happen. My team . . . my boys, Mister Kelly, are like my own sons to me. I care about them . . . deeply . . . probably more than they'll ever realize. I believe that I've been a good father to my own sons, and I've always sought to be a good . . . coach . . . to the young men on the team, a father to them while they're away from their own. That's why it's incomprehensible that one of the men I hired, my nephew, has apparently abused his position." The coach shook his head in disbelief.

"I know this hasn't been easy for you, Brad," The coach paused, as Brad nodded his permission to use his first name, "but I do appreciate you coming to me with your accusations, no matter how painful they may be, for both of us." He grinned. "I'd offer to shake your hand, but . . ." he chuckled.

He gestured toward the noise outside the door. "It appears my charges have returned from practice, so I'd better make an appearance, eh?" Both he and Brad stood.

"Thank you for listening, coach." Brad opened the door and stepped into a herd of sweating ballplayers, who were trooping past.

"Brad!" He turned at the voice. "What are you doing here?" Marty asked, trying to maintain control of a bag of equipment nearly as large as he.

Coach Bowen answered, saving Brad from having to fabricate a story on the spot. "He came by looking for you in hopes of inviting you to dinner. We've been shooting the bull, waiting for you guys to finish. Why don't you go get a quick shower? I'll have someone else tend to your duties, just this once."

"But . . . I shouldn't. It's my job."

"I'm telling you to take off. Have a good dinner." He winked. "If it'll make you feel better, I'll think of some especially onerous task to give you tomorrow."

"Oh," Marty's eyes brightened. "In that case," he laughed, then gestured for Brad to follow. "C'mon Brad, lemme show you my office. Brad hefted one of the bags his brother had been carrying, and trailed alongside, raising his hand in thanks as he and Marty headed for the office.

Brad sat on the edge of one of the exam tables as his brother stripped; then, with an impish smile, looked over his shoulder and wiggled his bare butt in his older brother's direction. "Better'n Curt's, huh?" he laughed, then crossed the hall to join the team in the showers, leaving Brad to cool his heels, with nothing better to do than look around the office at all the trainer's paraphernalia.

He looked up as someone cleared their throat. "May I help you?" the person asked. Instantly, Brad knew who this person was. As Marty had said, he was very good looking, in an arrogant sort of way. His shorts and t-shirt clung to him like a second skin. His dark wavy hair matched his flawless tanned skin perfectly.

'Damn,' Brad thought, as he watched the man move, 'Compared to this guy, I look like something the cat coughed up.' The man's arrogance overrode everything one might say good about him, though. His movements were studied to achieve the greatest impact, and Brad had to admit that he definitely did feel an . . . impact. The sheer raw charisma of the man caused a totally involuntary twitch in his groin. 'How can any gay man resist this guy?' he wondered. 'If I didn't know what he was really like, I'd want to roll over with my legs in the air and beg.' His appreciation of his brother's . . . control . . . skyrocketed.

Brad shook his head, drawing himself back to the conversation with difficulty. He hated that the bastard knew exactly what he was thinking. "No, thanks. I don't need any help," Brad answered, surprised at how calm his voice sounded. "I'm waiting for my brother to finish his shower, then we're heading to dinner."

"And your brother is . . .?"

"Marty Kelly," Brad supplied. There was a slight widening of the man's eyes.

"He shouldn't be inviting . . . relatives . . . into the locker room."

"Oh, he didn't invite me," Brad casually laughed. I invited myself. I thought the practice ended earlier than it did, so I've just been hanging out, waiting for him, visiting with the head coach." He smiled, as he watched the assistant coach attempt to decipher what he'd just been told.

"Ah, Jackson," Coach Bowen said, in a genial voice. "Just the man I wanted to see. I assigned Marty's duties to someone else for this afternoon. I promised I'd come up with something extra to do tomorrow, to ease his conscience, but I wanted him to have a chance to have dinner with his brother. He didn't like the idea of leaving early, even though I told him to." He looked into the small office and saw Brad sitting on the table. "I take it you two have met one another?"

~ to be continued ~

Thank you for taking the time to read my work. I welcome your email and enjoy hearing your thoughts. If you would like me to send a pic of the character(s), please ask. roynm@mac.com