Phalen

Phalen - Reputation and Honor

Chapter Seven

By Roy Reinikainen

Dani looked around the small apartment he'd shared with his brother, Denis, sighing at the boxes he'd spent a week preparing to shift to a less expensive place. 'With Denis and me working, we could manage to afford this place,' he thought. 'But, there's no way I can do it on my own; besides, I don't need anything larger than an efficiency someplace, hopefully one that's clean, not too noisy, and near the University.' His mouth twisted into a smile. 'I don't ask much, do I?'

Denis' large desk was the last thing he had to go through. Since Denis had died, he'd done his best to avoid the desk and its contents. If he had to go through them, he had to admit to himself that Denis would never be coming home, and, even though he knew that was the case, he didn't want to admit it. Now, he had to go through Denis' stuff.

Most of it, he could dispose of. Denis no longer needed his prized set of baseball trading cards or his Superman comic books. Dani shook his head, wondering what some unknown person would think of him, should they have occasion to sort through his stuff.

After close to an hour, he sat back and surveyed the small box of things he'd decided to keep. "That's everything of importance in your life, Denis," he said, his voice echoing in the nearly empty apartment. He shook his head. "Pretty sad."

As he sat daydreaming, Dani toyed with one of the few things he knew nothing about. The bracelet surely couldn't have been given to his brother. It looked expensive, and it was engraved. "Jackson, Happy Graduation, Ed."

'Who are those people?' Dani wondered, as he ran a finger over the engraving. Surely, this Jackson person would want his bracelet back, now that Denis had no use for it. He glanced at the shining piece of jewelry. 'There's a story here,' he thought. 'This Jackson guy must have given it to Denis.' He shrugged, and tossed the bracelet into the box of items to keep. It clanged against Denis' laptop computer, then snuggled up to a stuffed toy Teddy Bear, the twin of one Dani still had. Denis' bear should have been consigned to the rubbish. Denis' embroidered name was fraying, and, in places, the stuffing was escaping.

"Poor Mickey," Dani murmured, running a finger over the bear's snout. "You miss him too, I bet." Dani's lips twisted into a crooked smile. He'd always teased his brother about naming a toy after Mickey Mantle, a star baseball player. Denis, in turn had laughed when Dani had told him that his bear was named Albert, after the famous scientist. Denis had hooted with laughter, and a wrestling match had ensued, complete with pillow fight.

'I have to learn to stand on my own,' Dani thought, leaning back in the desk chair, with the fingers of both hands linked behind his head. 'Denis is gone. As much as I hate it, as much as I feel as if I've lost an arm or something, ol' Mickey and I will have to manage.'

"How?" he asked the silent room. 'What's left to smile about? Who is there to share a tender touch with, or a laugh?'

Dani grinned, thinking back to the time when he and Denis, both no older than nine, had gone with their parents on a vacation drive along Highway 101, the famous road which hugged the California coastline. His father had stopped at a roadside rest stop, and they'd had a picnic beneath some trees. His father had told them that the flowers next to the road were grown by some sort of big company, for their seeds, which they would sell to people so they could have flowers in their gardens. Dani remembered the red flowers, nearly as tall as he and Denis, seemed to stretch nearly to the horizon.

After lunch, he and his brother had run into the field, romping among the flowers. They had both laughed so hard, they had fallen to the ground, among the blossoms, where they wrestled, shrieking and laughing. He would roll on top of Denis, and raise his arms in victory, only to have Denis on top of him, a moment later.

When their mother called their names, they'd suddenly become aware how dirty they were. Their shorts, clean only minutes earlier, were covered with dirt. Their knees were stained green, and red petals sprinkled their hair and shoulders. Denis had frantically looked around for a missing shoe, then shoved his foot into the sorry thing and had brushed himself off. Finally, satisfied he looked as presentable as possible, Denis had tried to break one of the thick flower stems, so he could take a gift to his mother as a peace offering, but hadn't been able to. "Dang," he muttered, turning to Dani, who stood by, wondering what his brother was doing.

So, instead of breaking one of the tough stems, he tugged until he yanked an entire plant from the ground. He'd carried it, as if it were a gift of great consequence, before himself, and had presented it to his mother, who was looking upon her two sons, aghast.

"Here, Mom," Denis had said, holding the enormous bloom out to her. "We've been looking for the perfect flower for you, and we sorta fell down." He brushed some stray petals from his hair, then reached over and did the same for Dani, who he then urged to, "tuck in your shirt . . . you look a mess."

Dani remembered wondering why his mother had to turn away and wipe her eyes, as she brought the large bloom to her nose, and told him and his brother that the flower they had chosen had to be the most perfect flower ever. That flower, minus the roots and the dirt, had stayed with them during the remainder of the vacation, and the wilted remnants had later been pressed between the pages of an old set of encyclopedias, the only souvenir of the family's vacation. Dani smiled in recollection, as a tear rolled over his cheek.

"Ho' man," Eric said, his words echoing off the walls of the shower, along with the sounds of the splashing water. He raised his arms and danced in a small circle. "Ho' man," he repeated, shaking his hips for the sheer pleasure of moving. "I wen luck out! WooHoo!" he shouted, pumping his arms up and down. "Brad says Marty likes me!"

That morning, he and Marty had shared the same shower in which he was now dancing. They'd embraced one another and kissed, until Eric would have sworn that the steam coating the shower and the mirror over the vanity, was not caused by the hot water, but by the two of them.

"Y'know," Marty had grinned, as he toyed with Eric's hair. "I've often thought that your hairdo was pure art." He pulled a few wet strands of hair into an upright position, and shook his head, still smiling. "Nope. Now, I realize you wear your hair the way you do 'cause you don't own a comb." He'd giggled, and coaxed other strands of Eric's hair into a standing position. "There!" he exclaimed. "Don't touch it! It's perfect! It looks like the two of us have made love all night long. Which," he continued, beginning to nuzzle Eric's neck, "wouldn't be too far from the truth." He tried to stifle a yawn.

"That's the problem with spending the night together, Mister Sexy. I get so little sleep, I'm a wreck if I don't manage a nap sometime before practice. Hell, I wouldn't be able to hit a ball past the pitcher!" He ran his tongue over Eric's lips. "As it is, all the guys tease me about being worn out because of you. They think they're joking." He lightly kissed Eric, then quickly stepped out of the shower, along with billows of steam. "If they only knew the truth!" he laughed. "They'd be soooo jealous."

"Oh, Marty," Eric murmured, as he left the bathroom, shutting off the light and climbing onto his bed. "I wish you were here tonight." He snuggled up to a pillow . . . the same one Marty had used . . . and imagined Marty lying next to him, or on top of him. It took little imagination to recall the feeling of Marty's weight, or what his breath felt like against his skin, in the middle of the night, or the taste of his tongue, or the furnace-like heat whenever Marty surrounded his penis with his mouth.

Eric jerked out of the beginnings of a sensuous dream as his cellphone, resting on the nightstand, played its supremely annoying tune, demanding attention. He scooted to the edge of the bed, and swiped his finger across the glass surface.

It was Marty! "Hey, my handsome Hawaiian!" he said, before Eric had had a chance to answer. "I'm laying in bed wishing you were with me. But . . ." he sighed, "since you're not, I thought I'd call just to tell you how much I miss you." There was a brief moment of silence. "Since we're not together tonight, I just sent along an electronic goodnight kiss . . . not nearly as satisfying as the real thing, but it'll have to do, at least for tonight. Sleep well . . . my favorite man," he added, then hung up before Eric had been able to say a word.

"I tell you, Randy, the next time that guy stops by I'm calling the cops. He gives me the willies!" Carl Murphy was one of the few people who knew how to contact Randy, and was, as he called it, ventilating about Coach Cline. "He's even been over to the apartment manager's office, telling him it was urgent he get in touch with you. We're both continuing to play dumb. The manager says you've moved and that I've moved into your apartment. Whenever that coach-guy asks me about you, I ask, 'who? You must mean the guy who used to live here. I don't know him or where he might be living.'"

Carl lowered his voice. "Randy, the guy was even sitting in his flashy ol' sports car, out in the parking lot, last night when I got home from work. That was close to midnight! What did you do to him?" Carl asked, his voice rising.

"I didn't do anything, Carl. It's him who is stalking me, not the other way around."

"Yeah, I know that, but why."

Randy sighed. "Okay, Carl. He and I had a bit of an affair. I wanted to end it, he didn't. He won't take, 'no' for an answer."

"Whoa. You had an affair with him? Randy, he's one of the hottest guys I've ever seen. I wonder if he'd consider . . ."

"NO!" Randy couldn't help himself from shouting. "Trust me, Carl, this guy is good looking and he's hung, which would make a size queen like you happy, but listen Carl . . . he's really and truly dangerous. He gets off on pain and humiliation. Don't even think of letting him near you. Please, Carl. We've been friends since elementary school. You're like a brother to me. Please don't. You've seen how determined that guy is to get his way. And, he's doing all this to get to me. I never was that good a fuck."

Carl snorted agreement. "And, you've gotten sorta scrawny recently, too." There was a long pause. "Does your losing weight have anything to do with him?" He hurried on. "I won't ask any more questions. I promise, and I'll stay away from the guy."

"Yes," Randy sighed, in answer to his friend's question. "He pretty much beat me up, both mentally and physically. I'm at least able to keep food down . . . most of the time."

"Aw, shit," Carl sighed. "I just had to sit down. This is all just too much to handle. I can't believe anyone getting the better of you." There was yet another long pause, where Randy could almost hear Carl's mind working.

"Well, are you going to do anything about what's happened to you, other than go into hiding, I mean? You'd better, Randy. If that guy's half as bad as you describe, he needs to be locked up so he doesn't hurt anyone else."

"That's my goal," Carl.

"Goals are good, but the question is are you doing anything to meet your goals? What about your folks? Do they know what you told me? I'm sure they're worried sick, wondering what's going on."

Randy rubbed his eyes. "Yeah, I told them and my sister some of it, just to keep 'em from going off the deep end and imagining me into drugs or something." He'd done his best to comfort his mother, who was already worried about his sudden weight loss. "I'm just having to deal with stuff, Mom," he'd said. "Head coach Bowen understands, and has given me time to get things figured out. Coach," he swallowed, barely able to say the name, "Cline has become a real prick, not only to me but to lots of guys on the team. I'm . . ." He absently massaged the back of his neck. "I'm trying to sort things out and figure out what I need to do."

"But . . ." his mother had begun.

"Please, Mom," he'd interrupted, holding up a hand. "I'm okay. I'm not in any sort of trouble with anyone. The doctors at the clinic tell me I'm healthy. I've just been worried about things, that's all. The head coach knows what's going on. I just need some time, okay?" He lowered his voice. "I'm sorry. There's no need to raise my voice. Please try to understand, though." His mother had reluctantly nodded her acceptance.

"As parents," she said, holding his hand, "we want our children to grow up and be able to handle things on their own. But," she grinned, "when they do grow up, it's tough to let go, for fear they'll hurt themselves. Remember, dear, that your father and I are here, if you need anything."

Randy kissed his mother's forehead. "Thanks Mom. Sometimes that growing up you're talking about isn't so easy. But," he grinned encouragingly, "I think I've finally got the hang of it."

Coach Cline walked alongside Marty from the practice field to the locker room. "Have you thought about what I asked the other day?" the coach asked, taking one of the heavy equipment bags Marty was carrying and hefting it to his own shoulder with ease.

Marty looked toward the coach. "Yes, I've thought about it."

"And . . . have you decided that you'd like to be on the team rather than lugging around these heavy bags and taping people's ankles? I know you're gay. I've seen you hanging around with that Asian guy. He's getting pretty familiar with you . . . in public no less. The guy's a loser, Mister Kelly. You can do better than that. If you're going to be on the team, you're going to have to start hanging out with the right people."

"I've already given you my answer, Coach. Following me around and stuff is not likely to make me change my mind." Marty stopped and turned to the coach, as the team, in groups of twos and threes made its way to the locker room. As always, some lagged behind.

Bobby Pickett nudged Phalen and nodded toward the two men facing one another, then jogged on, not wanting to be part of whatever storm was brewing out on the field. Phalen, on the other hand, knelt and seemed to suddenly find his shoelaces of extreme interest. Coach Cline was facing away from him, and must have thought no one was nearby since he'd raised his voice. Phalen smiled to himself when Marty responded, in an equally loud voice, drawing the attention of the few players who straggled past.

"His name is Eric, Coach," Marty responded, trying not to lose his temper. How dare the coach attack Eric! He realized his own voice was rising, but didn't care. 'This man does not deserve my respect.' "Eric's a good person, not someone to be made fun of. I don't understand what you could possibly have against someone you've never met. Also, what do you think gives you the right to criticize what I do with anyone, whether it's in public or not!" His anger temporarily eased, though he distanced himself from the coach by dropping the equipment bag he'd been carrying, between him and the coach.

Marty heaved a sigh. "But, you're right, I'm gay . . . just like you." He was pleased at the look of surprise that flashed over the coach's face. "So, I like guys. What of it? Just because I like men doesn't mean that I automatically would like to be with you.

"You're also right about another thing. I really would like to be on the team. It's always been one of my dreams, but . . ." he made a face. "This isn't the right way to do it. You know it isn't, or you wouldn't be slinking around, using the team as bait to get me to do what you want." His voice was rising again. "I'm getting tired of this, Coach! I've given you my answer, at least a half dozen times. Surely, you understand what the word, 'no,' means." He held up a hand.

"I'm sorry. There was no need for me to get sarcastic, but the answer is still the same. So, please, leave me alone."

"I don't intend to wait around forever, Mister Kelly," the coach answered, louder than he realized, pointing a skewer-like finger at Marty's chest, as if ready to pluck out his heart. "You know you're going to give us what we both want, so what do you have to gain by pussyfooting around, hanging out with that loser you've been seeing?" He touched Marty's chest with the tip of an extended finger. "I am going to be the one to take your virginity, Mister, not that so-called friend of yours. It is mine," he hissed, "and the sooner you realize it, the better. You're going to have to learn that, in the real world, you can't play hard to get." With that, Coach Cline dropped the bag of equipment he'd been holding, at Marty's feet, turned, and stalked off, shouting orders to the groundskeepers.

Marty watched him until he entered the locker room, then bowed his head and sighed.

"Hey," Phalen said, as he approached. "Is he giving you a hard time?" Marty shrugged.

"Sorta." He looked at Phalen's serious expression from beneath lowered lashes. "Yeah, he is. He has been for quite a while now."

Phalen gestured toward some bleacher seats shaded by a row of trees and flowering shrubs and, coincidentally, out of view from the locker room, and lifted one of the equipment bags Marty had been carrying. "Umph," he huffed. "You carry two of these things?" He shook his head. "Geez, no wonder I don't see you in the weight room." He set the bag down next to the bleachers, and smiled, patting a nearby seat.

"You and I have got to talk," he said, as Marty slowly sat. "Alright," Phalen continued, in a no-nonsense voice, "what's going on with Coach Cline? And, don't tell me that it's nothing, 'cause I know it is something. I've watched you. Whenever he's nearby, you get all freaky. You're dealing with something big, and I don't want you to deal with it alone. So . . . tell me." Phalen sat back with the attitude that he could wait forever for Marty to respond.

"Coach Cline is hitting on me."

"He's what?" Phalen's voice slid upward, along with his brows.

Marty nodded once, then sighed, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and looking up to Phalen. "Yeah, he's told me that he can get me a place on the team if I only agree to go to bed with him." Marty turned to face Phalen. "I don't know what to do. You know how badly I want to be on the team. A few weeks ago, I would have said that I'd do anything to get what I wanted." He slumped back. "Now, I'm not so sure. I mean, how bad could going to bed with him once possibly be? Sure, he's a big guy, but I'm not that small."

Marty grinned his impish smile. "I'm not talking about weenie size."

Phalen snorted a laugh, pleased that Marty still had his sense of humor. At the moment, he was not feeling very humorous. 'How dare the man!' he shouted to himself. 'That lousy son of a bitch is using his authority to get sex partners. I'm sure Marty isn't the first person he's propositioned. I wonder what he promised the others?'

"I've told him," Marty continued, "that I'm not interested in his offer, that just 'cause I'm gay doesn't mean I automatically am attracted to him or am interested in his offer. I've also told him that I'm happy doing what I am, for the good of the team." He sighed. "But, that's a lie. I know it, and he knows it. I'm happy to be tied with the team in some way, but I'm not happy, like I would be if I were on the team. If he could get me a position, I ask myself, would giving in to him just once be so bad? I mean, it's not like he was going to beat me up, or maim me or something.

"Still . . . whenever I stop and really think about it, I know it's not the right thing to do, but," he shrugged. "I applied for a scholarship and was turned down. I've played by the book. Maybe I should try something different." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped, his head bowed.

They both looked up at the sound of someone approaching. "Hi guys," Eric said, as he rounded the flowering shrubs next to the bleachers where Marty and Phalen sat. His smile became strained as he saw how serious both men were. "Bobby," he pointed back to the locker room, "told me I'd find you out here. You talking bout dat lolo buggah?"

Marty nodded.

"You know about Coach Cline?" Phalen asked.

"Yeah," Eric answered, glancing from Phalen to Marty, then back. "Some," he added, as he sat on the bleacher behind Marty and urged him to sit back between his spread legs. Phalen watched as Eric gently began massaging Marty's shoulder muscles. "Marty told me the good-for-nothing mullet is stalking him. He hasn't told me why though."

"Marty," Phalen said. "Tell him what you just told me."

"What?" Eric asked, leaning forward to look at Marty.

"He wants me to go to bed with him as the price for him getting me onto the team."

"The frickin' moe lepo!!"

"Marty, I'm needing to say a couple things. I hope that I don't offend either of you guys. I'm not pretending to be a man of the world, or something, I just need to give you a little booster shot of, I don't know, conscience, I guess. You don't have to pay any attention to me, but it'll make me feel better. Okay?" Both Marty and Eric nodded. Phalen noticed that Eric continued to gently knead the muscles of Marty's shoulders.

"Marty," Phalen began, reaching out and briefly squeezing Marty's hand. "You already know this, but . . ." Marty nodded understanding. "There are some things that no matter how badly you want them are not worth the price. I gave a speech once where I talked about reputation and honor. Right now, you have a wonderful reputation. Everyone who knows you likes you. Every one of the guys on the team thinks of you as their friend, just as the guy who's massaging your shoulders does. Just as I do. You also have your honor. You can look at yourself in the mirror each morning, knowing that you have not compromised the ideals you have always played by and believed in.

"Would you be able to feel good about yourself if you gave in to that bastard's propositions? Sure, you might be on the team, but there is no real guarantee of that happening. I personally don't believe that the assistant coach has that ability. Oh, he probably makes recommendations, but when it comes to deciding who gets a scholarship, that's something only the head coach can do, and I know he listens to no one but himself.

"I know that, because I've mentioned someone to the coach that I think should be on the team, and I know for a fact that he's heard from high school coaches, about specific guys. I'd be willing to bet he doesn't discuss his thoughts about scholarships with Coach Cline, or anyone else, until he's made his decision."

"This guy's that good, that you'd go to the coach on his behalf?" Marty asked, looking up. Eric, Phalen noticed, had stopped the shoulder massage and was studying him with a very serious expression.

"Yes, he's that good," Phalen continued, trying not to look at Eric, for fear he would give away more than he wanted. "He's one of the best players I've seen, as well as being a number one guy. You're a lot like him, Marty. He's always stood by his ideals, just as you have. Are you willing to take a chance that the assistant can really get you on the team? After all, he's going to have already had what he wants.

"Are you willing to take the chance that you won't be able to look at yourself in the mirror . . . on the day after . . . you go to bed with him, and he tells you that whatever deal he's been talking about with the head coach has fallen through?" Phalen snorted. "He'd probably choose to tell you that, while he's got his dick buried in you, and you're crying with pain and humiliation."

Phalen reached out and took Marty's hand. "You've never been fucked, have you?" Marty compressed his lips and jerked a reluctant shake of his bowed head.

"Well, shit," Phalen huffed, sitting back. "That guy'd split a person in half, he's so big. I'm not joking! You might never be the same if you let him at you. That's not a joke. I'm deadly serious. I'd be willing to bet that he's not a gentle lover either, not like someone else."

Marty looked up at Eric and smiled, confirming Phalen's guess.

"Marty," Phalen continued. "Assuming that you decide to let him have his way with you, and assuming that he's speaking the truth and is able to get you a position on the team, and you have a stellar career with crowds cheering and lots of fans. Even though you could have a wonderful reputation, you'll always know what you had to sacrifice to get where you are. I'm not talking about the sacrifice of your virginity, either.

"Are you willing to have exactly what you want, to be on the team, and to have crowds cheer you, and all that, but know, deep down within yourself, that you had to sacrifice your integrity to get what you wanted? Those cheering crowds won't mean a whole lot when you see you're dragging around the shattered bits of your honor." Phalen lowered his voice. "You'll never get it back, Marty. No matter how hard you try, you'll always know what you did. Maybe no one else will, but you will. And, you are the only person who counts. The only one."

Phalen looked away, wondering if he'd stepped over the line and Marty might think that he was being lectured to. 'Well, I was lecturing, wasn't I?' His attention was brought back when he heard someone sniff, and the wooden seat squeak, as someone changed position.

"Thanks, Phalen," Marty said, gripping his hand. "I don't know what I ever did to deserve a friend like you."

Phalen smiled and made a dismissive gesture. "Me, I'm nothing special. The man who'd sit at your back for the past half hour and massage your neck, though - he's someone special. Don't let him go, Marty. He'll never ask you to compromise your honor, I'm sure of it."

"That damned kid." Jackson Cline muttered, and slammed his locker door closed, instead of tearing it from its hinges, as he wanted to do. 'He's mine! Who does he think he is, leading me on like is? He knows he's going to let me have him, yet he screws around with that friend of his, defending him when I make some offhand comment. And now, that Phalen bastard is horning in on my territory. He doesn't realize that I can bring him down as easily as I can anyone else. He goes around thinking he's soooo special, with that sickening smile of his and his do-good attitude.' Coach Cline huffed a disgusted laugh. 'One night with me on top of him would change that attitude. I hate people who go around thinking they have the right to manage everyone else's lives.'

A telephone ringing in the next door office, shouldered itself into Head Coach Ed Bowen's consciousness, followed by someone muttering and angrily slamming a locker door.

"Hey," he shouted, to the unknown person, "take it easy on the furniture!" He shook his head and swiveled his desk chair to look out onto the practice field and the stadium beyond. 'My domain,' he thought, to himself. 'Under attack. If what Brad Kelly claims is true, my own nephew is at the heart of the assault. He's preying on my players, my boys! He might just as well be seeking sex from one of my own sons!' The coach wearily rubbed a hand over his face, grimacing at the blue ink stains which seemed to linger. It had been nearly a week since Marty's brother had made his assertions, and he still didn't know how to approach the problem.

'I've been watching Jackson,' he told himself. 'But what am I expecting him to do? He seems to be acting normal enough, though a little extra sensitive about everything. He seems to be barely controlling his anger. So far, though, he's only taken out whatever it is he's feeling, on the equipment, not any of the players. I've noticed that there nearly always seems to be someone hanging around Marty. That tells me that someone on the team has spread the word that Marty needs a little,' he cleared his throat, 'protection.' He grinned. 'I expect the ringleader in getting things organized is Phalen. He seems to have his finger on the pulse of the entire team. Hell, when Dennis Chaves was in the hospital with that appendix attack, Phalen was visiting him every day, and encouraged all the other team members to go to the hospital, as well. Phalen even organized a 'welcome back party' when Dennis was finally able to return.

'I wonder what that little confrontation Jackson had with Marty, a few minutes ago, was all about. He seemed angry with the boy, then stalked into the building.' Coach Bowen grinned. 'I admire Marty for standing up to someone like Jackson. Not many people would do that; yet Marty certainly didn't seem to have any trouble.' A movement caught the coach's eye. It was Phalen, talking to someone in the bleachers. Who it was though, he couldn't tell, since all but the first row of seating was hidden by the shrubbery. It was Phalen's broad gestures which had attracted his attention. 'I wonder what that's all about. He should be showering by now.'

"I'm heading out, if you don't need me for anything else," his nephew said, sticking his head into the office, and tearing his uncle's attention away from Phalen and whoever it was he was talking to.

Ed Bowen turned from the window and smiled. His nephew, Jackson, had always been his favorite nephew. Maybe the young man's love of baseball had had something to do with his opinion, but Ed had always felt Jackson had more in common with him than with his own father. "You're all dressed up!" he observed, "Do you have a date?"

Jackson leaned against the office door and made a dismissive gesture. "Naw. I'm just going to cruise around and see what trouble I can get into." His grin, his uncle thought, was not entirely pleasant.

"I noticed you giving the what-for to Marty, a while ago, out on the field. What was that all about?"

The grin faded from his nephew's face. "I told him he'd better shape up and stop dragging his tail, hoping someone else would pick up the slack. He's just not working out as a trainer, Coach. He's too slow, too . . . moody, always wanting things his way. He's not a team player. He's too headstrong. He thinks everyone should do things his way." Jackson huffed. "I don't know how he acts around you, but around me, he's just a spoiled brat who thinks everyone should cater to his wishes. I'm getting so I can't stand to be around the little creep."

Jackson's eyes shifted to the field beyond the window, and widened slightly. "Just like now, for instance," he said, continuing his earlier thoughts, "he's been out there shooting the bull with that Phalen kid . . . another goof-off in my opinion, and some kid who seems to be hanging around the locker rooms a lot lately. Probably some sort of pervert, or something."

Conversation halted while the three men being discussed entered the locker room. While Coach Bowen was studying his nephew's reaction, the three young men passed the office. Of the three, only Marty's friend, Eric glanced in. When he saw both coaches, his humorous monologue about the name of Hawaii's State fish, the humuhumunukunukuapuaa, faltered. He was quick on the recovery though, and had both Phalen and Marty laughing, as they left the coach's office behind.

Ed Bowen leaned his elbows on his desk. "Jackson, is everything okay? Lately, you seem to be angry all the time. Marty has always been an exemplary trainer. I've never had one as good as he is. The same is true of Phalen . . . both men are great people, both assets to the team. What have either of them done to get your hackles raised, so? If they've done something I should be aware of, let me know, and I'll get to the bottom of it. And, the young man you're calling a pervert is anything but. His name's Eric. Marty introduced him to me the other day. I can't believe Marty would have befriended Eric if he wasn't an upstanding fellow. Seems like a nice person to me . . . always smiling."

Jackson made a derisive snort. "That sort is always smiling, but you never know what's going on inside." He pointed to his head. "In here, they're sick. That sort is almost always sick."

"Hmmm. I'm thinking that maybe instead of going out, cruising, looking for trouble, as you said you were going to do, that perhaps you need to go home and try to figure out why you're so angry. You can take out your frustrations, or whatever, on the lockers, but never on another person, like you appeared to be doing to Marty. Never, Jackson," the coach's voice hardened. "Especially, one of the members of the team. The parents of the boys we work with have entrusted their sons to us. We have an obligation to continue those folks' efforts to help their boys become fine young men. Shouting and pointing your finger, making fun of, and generally being a nasty person, as you have been lately, has no place here.

Coach Bowen was finding it increasingly difficult to control his temper, when faced with the surly attitude of his nephew. 'I've always thought of him as . . . prickly,' the coach thought, watching his nephew grind his teeth in response to his comments about controlling his anger. 'I'm afraid he's gone beyond prickly to something darker . . . something . . . dangerous.'

"If you want to behave like you have been, I suggest you join the military. There, the sort of behavior you're exhibiting is, if not expected, at least tolerated. But, Jackson, it will not be tolerated here, as long as I am the head coach. None of my boys will ever be abused, by anyone under me. And, if I find that they have been, whoever did it will find that they're out on the street with the imprint of my shoe on their butt. Now, shape up! Change your attitude. Stop picking on people. Stop thinking bad of people who have never done you any harm, and start acting like a person the boys can look up to as a role model." He made a dismissive gesture. "Now, go . . . you don't want to be around if I get really angry."

"So . . . Eric," Phalen smiled, as he and Marty dried themselves. Eric looked up from where he sat cross legged on one of the wooden benches at the end of a row of lockers. He'd been watching the two men who were laughing and joking, but had been unable to get the image of Coach Cline standing before his uncle, anger written in every line of his body, out of his mind.

'They were talking about Marty. I know it.' he told himself. 'If Coach Bowen was only aware of what his nephew was attempting to do. If only someone would have the nerve to tell him.' He snorted a disgusted thought. 'Certainly, no one on the team will do it . . . not even Phalen. They're all enthralled to the assistant coach. Would Coach Bowen listen to me? I mean, I've only met him once.'

"Earth to Eric!" Phalen laughed. "Come in, Eric!"

"He's still trying to figure out how to spell that humuhumu-fish name," Marty laughed.

'Both guys are oblivious to the fact that they exuded sensuality,' he thought, as he watched Phalen stretch, and twist, working his stiff muscles. Every movement both men made hinted at a passionate person, and, at least in Marty's case, a passionate lover.

'Damn, he's sexy,' Eric thought, as he watched Marty dry his hair. 'I friggin' love the bare pubes. Though,' he amended his thought, 'Phalen's dense mat is nice, too. They're both so casual about their nakedness.' Eric grinned, thinking back to the previous night, when Marty had laid on top of him, kissing him and grinding their erections together. Even now, Eric imagined he could feel the hot spurts of their combined orgasms coating their stomachs. 'And then,' Eric recalled, 'he gave me a tongue bath, starting with my stomach, which he slurped and licked clean, before moving to my cock, my legs, feet, arms, chest . . . hands.' Eric squirmed slightly, trying to adjust his thickening penis, while Phalen and Marty continued laughing and taking far longer to dry than was necessary. 'Hmm,' Eric grinned to himself. 'The show offs!'

He watched as Marty faced away from him and vigorously rubbed the towel over his back. 'His butt is as perfect as the rest of him,' Eric thought. He felt his cock squeeze out another drop of pre-cum, and was positive there'd be a wet spot on the front of his shorts whenever he stood. 'I love how muscular those two mounds of smooth flesh are.'

When Marty bent over to dry his feet, his ass cheeks spread, exposing a hairless pucker, which twitched in silent invitation to Eric's tongue. Marty glanced over his shoulder, wearing one of his trademark impish smiles. 'Damn, him,' Eric thought, 'he knows exactly what he's doing to me. Well,' he vowed, 'the next time we're alone, we're going to take our sexual relationship to the next level, with a little asshole stimulation.' He mentally rubbed his hands together in expectation of having Marty squatting on his tongue, squirming with pleasure.

"Hey, Eric," Phalen laughed, flicking a sprinkle of water in his direction.

"Wha . . .? Huh?" He shook his head, surprised by the droplets of cold water one of the guys had flicked in his direction. Both Phalen and Marty were watching him . . . Phalen's smile bright, Marty's impish, matching the sparkle in his eyes. 'He knows what I was dreaming about.' Eric's thought was confirmed by the slight widening of Marty's eyes, and playful stroke of his hand down the length of his cock.

"Daydreaming?" Phalen asked.

"Fo' shua, but only for da guy standing next to you."

"Whoooooo," Phalen teased, reaching out to ruffle Marty's short brown hair. "Marty's got an admirer." Phalen laughed, following Marty out of the shower room and into his office, where his street clothes waited. Eric followed, casually leaning against the door jamb, as the two men began to dress. In the distance, it sounded as if Coach Bowen was chewing someone out. 'I'd bet the assistant is the one getting chewed out,' Eric thought. Coach Bowen wasn't shouting, but his voice . . . carried, echoing in the empty locker room. Marty and Phalen looked at one another, wondering what was happening. The sound of the head coach's voice abruptly quieted, followed by the slam of the locker room door.

"I'm glad he's never needed to do that to me," Marty murmured. "I've heard of a tongue lashing before, but I never actually heard one, until now." He made a face. At the door to the office, Eric had turned and was grimly staring down the wide hallway leading to the head coach's office, and the door which had just slammed.

"Um, well," Phalen looked over his shoulder as he continued dressing. "Eric, back in the shower, I was asking if you like being naked? Would you and Marty like to come over to Jeff's and my place tonight, for dinner and a swim?"

"They hang out naked, when they're at home," Marty explained. "I've been over to their place a couple times. It's cool. Dinner and naked sorta go together." His smile broadened. "Maybe we could do the same thing when we have dinner together."

"I don't think I'd get much eating done," Eric grinned, as his glance slid from Phalen to Marty, then back again. "Does this naked-thing involve sex?" he asked, still not quite sold on the idea, unable to imagine Marty having casual sex with anyone, but intrigued by Phalen's invitation.

"Not with Jeff or me, it doesn't," Phalen responded, with a laugh. "If you guys want to have fun, though, no one's going to stop you. We've got a great pool, and some lounges which easily hold two people. Jeff'n I have used them . . . quite a few times."

"I don't think I'm much of an exhibitionist," Eric began, but was interrupted.

"But, I am," Marty laughed, twisting his hips from side to side, causing his flaccid penis to slap one side, then the other.

"Ho' boy, and how!" Eric's laughter joined Phalen's. "I've never known anyone who was as anxious as you to get out of their clothes. I half expect you to strip down in the grocery store, or something." He grinned, as Marty made a face in his direction.

"Kiss my ass, Mister Mori," he laughed, turning his back to face Eric, and slapping an ass cheek.

"Later, brah. If I start now, I won't be able t' stop. I've been hard the whole time I've been watching you guys show off in the showers. I was thinking that I could make a million bucks if I filmed you both. I'd be rich and you guys would be stars." He smiled, nodding his head, as if trying to convince the two that it was a good idea.

"Fame, at last!" Phalen hooted, then tossed the damp towel at Eric, who flailed his arms, eventually tossing both Phalen's and Marty's towel to the floor.

"Sure," he turned to Phalen. "I'd love to come over. I've gotta warn you, though, I'll probably be hard the whole time."

Marty spoke to Phalen in a stage whisper. "He's got a great pecker." Phalen hooted with laughter. "And, he can really kiss," Marty added, twisting away from a playful punch.

"Me, I'm a butt man," Phalen said.

"He's got one of those, too." Marty couldn't help himself. "I'm a personality-man, myself," Marty continued. "Oh, and hands. I love hands." He nodded in Eric's direction. "He's got a couple'a winners." He playfully shivered. "Oh maaaan," when he starts working on me, I go all limp."

"Nah, you no get li dat," Eric laughed.

Marty grabbed a nearby towel and flicked it in Eric's direction. "You know what I mean."

"Limp, huh?" Phalen asked, his smile bright.

Eric wiggled his fingers. "What can I say? I'm talented, but I don't come cheap."

"I'll say!" Marty laughed, tugging on his underwear. "I've never bought so much vanilla ice cream as I have since we met."

~ to be continued ~

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