Here is the next part of the story. The usual diusclaimers apply - it's fictional, and if matters sexual (especially involving teenaagers) are illegal to read wherever you live, don't read this. My thanks to Flip, author of SoCal Summer 1969 here, who has graciously volunteered to take on the thankless task (especially given my typing shortcomings) of editing this for me as we go forward. As always, I welcome all comments and critiques. I'll also again point readers here to my previous Nifty story, "Seal Rocks," which is in the HS section here with a final chapter posted in April 2011. Thanks again to all, and I hope you enjoy it.
When the World Changed, Part 10
The rain lasted throughout Monday, cancelling work program (a good thing) and flooding every sidewalk on campus (a very bad thing). Brady's shoes were squishy before first period even began, and he knew there wouldn't be enough newspaper left to dry them that night. He resolved to try using his dirty laundry instead, and risk staining something from the leather. Maybe just the underwear and socks, he thought. Not the dress shirts.
Classes, chapel, more classes. The cold and wet and gloom were unrelenting. During free periods boys either huddled in their rooms trying to dry off or moped around the canteen. This was a large single room that had been a science lab in the late nineteenth century, before the larger classroom buildings were constructed. Now the high ceilinged room had been converted into a snack bar of sorts, where boys could drink sodas and eat ten cent doughnuts served by a stunningly ill-tempered woman behind the counter,
If Gertie hadn't been in Roller Derby, well, she should have been. Her face was narrow and hawk-like, with a pointy nose that reminded Brady of the Wicked Witch of the West. Her curled grey hair was tightly cut to her scalp, and her eyes were fierce behind slanty framed bifocals. Her one redeeming grace was that she seemed to despise the McShanes even more than David did - a feeling they reciprocated, seldom failing to insult her or call her obscene names in a stage whisper designed for her to hear.
Brady had convinced Gertie to carry Tastykakes, and he .carefully budgeted himself to be able to afford a Coke (ten cents) and some cream filled chocolate Tastykakes (another ten cents) every other day. His mother had dropped whole boxes of them at Linsley twice since school had started, but the other guys had devoured them almost instantly. Those encounters had been brief and awkward - his mother visibly making an effort to keep her composure, and Brady uncertain how much emotion he could show as well in front of his dorm mates. David was always polite but shy. Doug seemed to brighten her a bit, which gladdened Brady immensely. He wanted her to like Doug. She seemed to make a point of asking about him in their nightly telephone calls - even the ones where her words seemed a bit slurred and her description of her day made little sense. Brady pushed that worry to the back of his mind. He was good at boxing emotions away and choosing to ignore them. He'd done it for years already.
Both McShanes were in the canteen when Brady slipped in after first period, hoping to get a Coke before chapel. They were on opposite ends of the room, gathered with their own respective group of sycophants. A few other boys - seniors, mostly - including Bill Fieldstone, were by the jukebox. - "Penny Lane" was playing. Doug, Evan, Alan Black and Dunc were at another table off to the side. They waved, and Brady joined them.
There seemed to be some tension in the room. "What's going on?" Brady asked quietly as he slid into a chair.
Alan grinned slyly. "Ian and Stud Douggie were mouthing off big time at each other. Guess Ian's on probation for punching Vic last night, and Douggie's pissed off at him. Ian told him to fuck off. Said he was a loser puke and he wasn't going to take shit from him anymore. Douggie looked like he wanted to kill him or something. Gertie threatened to call Storeman. That shut 'em both up."
They all shared a satisfied conspiratorial giggle at this. "Weird, isn't it?" Doug interjected. "I mean I thought they were like joined at the hip - brothers in being jerkoffs and stuff. What shit does Stud Douggie ever give Ian, anyway?"
Brady blinked rapidly and looked down at his shoes, as if nspecting them. "No idea."
David was right, they were losing it. Ian was standing up against his brother. Would Douggie allow that?
"Hey New Boys!!" Stud Douggie suddenly called out. "Up on the table and dance, now!"
Alan rolled his eyes. "You're not a senior, Douggie, we all know that. Drop it, OK?" Brady glanced over to see Fieldstone watching things warily.
"But I am." Talbot, the senior who'd accosted Brady along with Stud Douggie in the dining hall walkway Saturday, was sitting next to Douggie . He rose. "Last week of New Boy Rules, we gotta have some fun. Let's see some dancing."
The boys stood uncertainly. "The table's too small for us all to fit on it, " Evan said.
"Then we'll go one at a time," Stud Douggie answered. "Right, Jimmy?" Talbot grinned and nodded. "Let's start with farm boy here. Maybe he can do some hillbilly crap for us, huh?" Brady blushed, and noticed Ian moving towards them with a sly smile on his face. "Let's go, Jethro, up an' at 'em."
Brady looked at Stud Douggie as calmly as he could. "I don't listen to you, pal." Douggie bristled visibly. He turned to Talbot. "Is that your order? As a senior?"
Talbot seemed a bit taken aback. He blinked, glanced at Stud Douggie, and stammered, "Well, yeah, I guess, I mean yes, up on the table and dance!"
Brady moved a chair over by the table. "Keep an eye out," he whispered to Evan as he climbed onto the table. It sat only four, and had a single central support post. He stood carefully in the center and started moving clumsily, self consciously, with the music. Some of the other seniors started laughing at his discomfort and applauding, shouting encouragement and teasing insults. He started laughing himself at how ridiculous he must look. Most of the kids in the room were laughing with him, some clapping in time.
That was when Stud Douggie shoved down one side of the table, toppling him over.
Brady had anticipated it. David had warned him. He saw Douggie slipping close to the table as he danced, with Ian watching from behind, a reptilian glint in his eyes. When the table started to tilt abruptly out from under him, he lifted his legs quickly and tucked himself sideways as best he could in the direction the table had fallen, hoping to hit the inclined top and slide to the floor. He instead hit the edge, though, and fell awkwardly to the side onto a couple of chairs. Still he managed to catch his fall pretty well considering. And Evan, Doug, and Alan were almost immediately there to steady him and prevent further damage.
The room erupted in angry shouts. Doug stepped angrily toward Stud Douggie, his fists balled up. "What the fuck was that?"
Stud Douggie was visibly disappointed that Brady hadn't broken his neck. "W - what? He - he fell, that's all, he's just fuckin' clumsy."
"You tipped the table, asshole!" Doug shouted, trying to move around the chairs and other kids to get at Douggie. Brady was trying to disentangle himself from the chairs he'd fallen onto in time to restrain Doug. They'll come after Doug too, David had said. "You fucking devious piece -"
That's enough." Bill Fieldstone's voice cut through the din and silenced everyone. "Talbot, this is your fault. You let McShane order a New Boy around, and you let him put him in danger of getting hurt."
Talbot was purple. "I - I didn't do -"
"That's right, you didn't do anything. Not to stop it, not to protect the New Boy. Sound familiar? You might as well take off the senior sticker, you're done using New Boy privileges. You'll be lucky to not get DC."
"Fuck you, Fieldstone," Stud Douggie sneered.
Bill turned to him calmly. "Oh yeah, you. I almost forgot about you, I was busy doing my job. I'm stinging you, and I'm reporting you to Storeman. You flipped the table on him. You tried to hurt him, deliberately."
Ian protested. "He never touched the Goddam table!"
Fieldstrone smirked. "Nice try, Ian, but bullshit. Everybody saw. Right?" There was a general murmur of assent.
Stud Douggie was blinking rapidly. "I - I - it was an accident, I was like slapping the table 'cause I was having fun, with him dancing and all, and - and it just tipped. I didn't - "
"Can it. Come up with something better than that for Storeman, OK?" By this time Brady was standing, with a restraining hand on Doug's shoulder. Don't go at him, he was thinking, that's what he wants. You throw the first punch and he'll pound you. Doug was trembling with anger. Brady's hip, where he'd hit the edge of the table, was throbbing.
Stud Douggie had turned a shade or violet that made Talbot look pale by comparison. "Th - this is bullshit, Fieldstone, you can't sting me for anything - "
"I can sting anybody who fucks around with New Boy Rules - I'm in charge of it, remember?" Fieldstone said in a biting tone Brady had never heard from him before. The image of his determination while running that previous Saturday returned to his mind: don't fuck with this guy. "You think you're the shits, here, Douggie, but you're just a junior - and by the way, a total asshole, in my humble opinion. You've been egging Talbot on to crap like this ever since New Boy Rules started. This time you fucked up, you got caught at it. End of story." He stepped over to Brady. "Are you OK?"
"Fine," Brady muttered. He could feel a knot growing on his hip, but didn't want to acknowledge anything in front of either of the McShanes. "I'm fine." Just don't make me walk anyplace for another minute or two, he thought - he was still having trouble putting weight onto his right leg.
"Good." He turned back to Stud Douggie. "You want to come with me to see Storeman and give your side, or you wanna wait till he pulls you out of class next period? Your call."
Stud Douggie sputtered. "I - I didn't do anything, I already told you that! You go to fucking Storeman with this, and - and -"
"And what?" Fieldstones' eyes were flinty. "Come on, I want to know. What, Douggie?"
The silence was oppressive. Stud Douggie stared a long moment at Fieldstone, then whirled and strode out of the canteen. "Fuck this, fuck all of you!!"
Fieldstone nodded as he left. "Yeah, that's about what I thought. You sure you're all right, Conover?"
"I told you, I'm fine. Can we just forget it, please?"
Fieldstone shook his head. "Can't. I get that you don't wanna hassle this, but I saw it so it's my thing to deal with - even if you don't want to." He smiled at Brady. "Relax - at least you won't have to do any of that shitty-assed dancing again anytime soon."
Brady smiled thinly. "God I hope not. It kinda sucked, didn't it?"
"Out loud. Ok, I gotta go here, Later."
The boys slowly moved back to their respective tables. Brady dropped into the nearest chair, trying to evaluate his ability to walk without actually trying it. Doug held his arm as he sank down. "You OK, man? I know you put up the tough guy thing for Fieldstone."
"I think so," Brady answered, even though he really wasn't sure. Evan and Dunc were talking excitedly about what a jerk Stud Douggie had been. Alan had already gotten some ice in a towel for Brady to put against his hip.
Ian McShane stood, arms limply at his sides, for about a minute, watching things. When most people had turned away, he leaned in toward Brady. "If Storeman comes to you, keep your mouth shut, Conover, got it? You were just fucking clumsy. That's it."
Brady shook his head. "Don't you get it, Ian? It doesn't matter what I say, or don't say. You want to stop it, go bug Fieldstone, not me. I got no interest in fucking with your brother - or with you. I just wanna be left alone, OK? Why are you guys always on my case like this? It's total bullshit, you know that."
Ian's cheeks flashed red. "Just keep your fucking mouth shut, asshole. Learn your place, OK?"
"What's his 'place,' exactly, Ian?" Evan Creed was leaning over the table and looking like he might lift it up and smack Ian in the face with it. "Who died and made you and Douggie king anyway? Get your head outta your ass and get the fuck out of my sight, OK? "
Ian glanced at each of them, in turn, his face reddening. "Fuck all of you." He stormed out the door.
The entire room seemed to exhale at once. Doug glanced at Brady with a slight smile "'Fuck all of you.' I think I detect a theme here." Their laughter washed away the remaining tension.
Brady found he could move pretty well after the initial throbbing went away. After fourth period (a particularly unpleasant day in algebra with Mr. Wadleigh), he slipped into a bathroom on the second floor of Mueller and dropped his pants to have a look. A long purple bruise, about the width of his thumb, ran along his right hip where he'd hit. It was painful to touch, but the surrounding skin seemed OK, and he could flex his leg fully. He spent a couple of minutes idly regarding it.
"Hey Bray? You all right?" Doug burst in a look of concern on his face.
Brady tried to grab his pants and underwear, to pull them up. "Fine - I - I , ih, I was, um, just - "
Doug laughed. "Pervert. You jerking in front of the mirror or somethin'?"
Brady forced a laugh he didn't really feel in his embarrassment. "No, asshole, I'm checking out my bruise and stuff."
"I know, I'm just giving you shit. Lemme see, is it bad?"
Brady blushed deeply. He felt himself stir a bit. "Um, OK .. ." he said softly, and slid his clothing back down over the hip.
Doug peered closely. "Not big, but wow is it really dark." He ran a finger along it. Brady winced - it hurt, but at the same time felt wonderful. Doug was touching him. No one else had ever touched him there - well, maybe his mom, but that didn't count anyway. He swallowed hard. "Does that hurt?"
"A little. Bu - but it's OK, really."
Doug's hand flattened out against Brady's skin, and he felt the area around the bruise. "It's not spreading or anything. I think you're gonna be OK, right?"
"Yeah." Brady found breathing difficult at that moment, much less speaking in any articulate manner. He abruptly hitched his underwear and pants up, turning slightly away from Doug to hide his growing hardness. "Gonna be fine."
Doug leaned back against the sink as Brady zipped up and tucked his shirt in. "You knew he was gonna do that, didn't you? I saw the way you reacted, like you knew it was coming."
Brady smiled slightly. "Well, I knew - or at least I guessed - he'd do some asshole thing. That was kinda predictable, you know? David said something like that would happen." He realized what he'd said. "I mean, just in general, you know. With New Boy Rules ending, and stuff. Can't end too soon ,right?"
"Yeah, I'm really sick of these beanies and looking like an idiot all the time." He turned to brush his hair back from his forehead. Brady wanted to do it for him. "What's the deal with Tanner and McShane, anyway - both of 'em, for that matter? Has he told you what that's about?"
Brady licked his lips quickly. "No idea," he said in the most even tone of voice he could muster. "Some guys, you know, they just don't, like, mix. The minute they see each other, they just wanna kill each other. I think maybe it's like that."
"Hell, McShane's like that with everybody it seems. Unless you like suck up to him and all. I don't get him, or Stud Douggie. There's shit going on there someplace I just don't get."
"Yeah," Brady said quietly, "I guess."
Doug turned from the mirror, a smile across his face. God he's wonderful, Brady thought. "I broke out my dad's golf umbrella. It's really big - you can get like twenty people or something under it. C'mon, we'll go back to Linsley together."
Brady laughed. "Twenty?"
"Well, you know, it's big, that's all. C'mon."
Smoking was forbidden for all students at Wilson except juniors and seniors with parental permission. It was therefore no surprise that Ian McShane was spending this free period along the side of Linsley, under the eaves and behind some shrubs, puffing away on a Marlboro. He watched Brady and Doug walking together, laughing inconsequentially beneath the wide (and garishly orange) umbrella, arms casually about each other's shoulders, with eyes narrowed.
Brady enjoyed football in the rain. You slid wildly across the field and got ridiculously muddy, and the rain kept you cool. Mr. Glendon ran the team through some basic calisthenics, then split off the first team (only thirteen boys - most, including Brady, Doug, Evan, Alan, and Ian, had played both ways in their game against Summerton) and gathered them around him. "Gentlemen, I hope you enjoyed the weekend. You earned it Friday, you all know that." He paused a moment. "Now, here's the hard part, for all of you. This is a freshman team. That means that a lot of the boys on it have never played the game before. I know a lot of you have - Pop Warner, some junior high programs, whatever. You know what you're doing, in basic terms at least. The other boys don't - the ones who didn't get to play last week."
He paused again. "Part of my job is to teach the game to all the members of the team. You all know there's only one way to really learn, and that's to play. That's how you all did it, right?" Some nodded. "So I'm going to start playing the other boys a lot more the next few weeks - not because I don't think any of you are poor players, but because they're part of this team, too, and they don't deserve to work hard all week and then not play."
Ian McShane pulled his helmet off. "How can we win if the best players don't play?"
Mr. Glendon looked at him calmly. "I don't think that's a choice, Ian. I think we can win like this, too. And if we don't - well, that's all right in the larger sense, because the goal of this team is to develop players. You aim to win on varsity. Our goal here is to teach all of you boys to play so you can contribute to varsity someday. That means all of the team members get to play."
"Sir," Ian interrupted again, his tone acid, "this is bullshit. You play to win – "
"Don't swear at me, young man."
"Sorry ,sir." He didn't sound very sorry. "I don't know about anybody else, but I'm not playing on this team to have some limp wristed special help period for guys who don't know how to play. I'm here to win."
"You're here to bring honor to your school and your classmates, Ian. Part of that is being generous. I'm not responsible for your ego. I'm responsible for teaching every member of this team how to play the game and play it the right way. Now, I pulled you boys over here to tell you this because you're the leaders. You need to understand what I'm doing, and you need to support it, and support the other boys as they play and learn. Because they'll make mistakes, ones you might not make."
"Sir, you didn't do this last year! Last year the starters played almost all the time!"
"That's true, Ian, and that was a mistake. I didn't do right by a lot of boys last year. And frankly, our team last year wasn't that good. I needed to play the first unit more so they'd learn, before I could focus on the others. I don't have that worry this year, you boys proved that last Friday. This year, I can teach more."
"So we're getting benched because we're too good?" Ian refused to let it go. Brady was getting uncomfortable.
"No one is getting benched," Mr. Glendon said in a clipped tone that indicated he felt the discussion was over. "You boys will continue to start - so long as you don't get beaten out by someone else playing better - and play a lot. But you're not going to play all the time like you did last week. Now, are you going to accept this, and support your teammates, or am I going to have problems? If it's problems, I can recommend other schools you can go play for."
The silence that followed was strained. Evan Creed was the first to speak. "I - I think it's a good idea, sir. I'll do all I can."
"Me too," said Alan Black.
"Yeah, I'm in," Doug said. He glanced at Brady. He nodded, and Doug grinned. Brady could feel Ian McShane's anger from across the small group.
The rest of the first unit agreed. Mr. Glendon spoke for another five minutes or so about how he expected them to be like coaches with their fellow players to help him in the process, to be positive, and to keep playing hard. They agreed again. When the team reunited, Brady could see the excitement among the other players - they'd clearly been told the same thing, and the prospect of real playing time had them thrilled.
The rest of practice was devoted to drills of various sorts - not terribly difficult or strenuous, but made tougher by the rainy conditions. Brady talked animatedly in line during drills with some of the guys who hadn't played, telling them how to make or fend off blocks from his own experience. The enthusiasm of the entire team seemed to be redoubled.
Only Ian McShane seemed disgruntled.
Ian let his anger show again in the locker room. "Fucking Christ!!!" he shouted, kicking the locker next to his. Brady and Doug, peeling off their soaked jerseys two rows away, glanced at each other and rolled their eyes. "Playing the fucking scrubs. We're gonna fucking lose, and it's gonna be Glendon's fault!!!"
"Pipe down, McShane," they heard Evan Creed respond. "You got a beef, keep it to yourself, OK?"
"Or what? You wanna get your face rearranged by some lineman who doesn't get blocked right while you're trying to pass? Maybe I should let a couple through and let you see how it feels."
"You'd do that, too, wouldn't you?" Evan said, contempt dripping in the tone of his voice. "You're like that."
Brady and Doug walked together toward the shower room, Ian was standing by the scales, his towel around his waist, muttering to himself. He looked up as they passed. "And there go the faggot twins, joined at the ass. Jesus Christ."
Doug turned back. Brady tried to pull him on to the showers, to no avail. "What'd you just call me?"
McShane smirked at Doug. "Truth hurts, huh pansy?"
Brady saw Doug's left fist ball up. "Don't," he said aloud without meaning to. "Just don't, OK? Leave it."
"Good advice, Jethro. I don't fucking believe this place." He stalked off back to his locker.
"C'mon Doug, it's not worth it, right?"
Doug turned to face Brady. "God he pisses me off. Calling everybody a faggot and crap."
Brady's heart sank a little. "It's just him, man, he doesn't mean it like literally."
Doug shook his head. "I know, it just gets me sometimes."
"I'm trying to ignore all of it myself. I don't care what dumbass things he says."
Doug was still angry. "With him, you gotta ignore like everything then."
"Pretty much," Brady agreed. "But that makes it really easy, right? He opens his mouth, you click the off button."
In the shower, Brady tried as usual not to stare at Doug - the sight of his body, sleek and wet beneath the spray, always threatened to arouse him. Not to mention his huge cock. Luckily, that day a number of the other players, excited over their opportunity, made it a point to tell Brady and Doug how they wouldn't let them down. "I know you guys are pissed," Dennis Hills said quietly, "but I promise I won't let you down." Dennis played linebacker, despite standing barely 5'6" and looking like he needed several months of good meals to bulk up past the early stages of malnutrition.
Brady smiled. "I'm not worried about that. I think it's great that everybody's gonna get a chance to play."
"You sure? I mean," Dennis dropped his voice, "Ian's pretty pissed off."
"Ian's pretty pissed off about most everything in life, so who cares?" Doug answered. "The rest of us are fine with it, so don't worry. They had me play some linebacker, let me show you some stuff tomorrow, OK? I'm pretty new to all this too, so I got a lot to learn anyway - might as well do it together, right?"
"Thanks," Dennis said with a shy grin, He blushed a bit and lowered his head. Brady saw his eyes stray to Doug's penis, and widen. He started laughing at Dennis' incredulity. Dennis looked up at him, blushing even more.
"Scary, isn't it?" Brady said quietly, and both began laughing openly.
Doug realized what they were laughing at, and theatrically grabbed his dick. "Yeah, you all want a piece of this, don't ya? Get in line, baby, the stallion's here!"
Brady did his best to look away, while joining in the general laughter.
The next three days were actually among the most fun Brady had ever had playing. He and most of the starters spent almost half their time working with the other players, teaching them basic techniques and even running some drills. He and Doug worked together a lot on offensive line play, and proved to be good at the teaching aspects. They were able to turn mistakes into harmless jokes to be laughed off in a way that Mr. Glendon (a man who never seemed to be less than intense) never did. He found himself making friends with a whole new group of guys, who seemed strangely deferential towards him while they seemed to like his company. Brady felt good about it but at the same time slightly embarrassed. These were all kids with rich families and parents who could get them all sorts of stuff, and they were acting like he was their leader or something. He didn't want to be that, however good it felt at times. He just wanted to be Brady.
The week also went quickly because the seniors were keeping things lively. The last week of New Boy Rules seemed to energize them, and all the New Boys found themselves skipping or doing other foolish things at almost every opportunity. Nothing was malicious or cruel (maybe because Jim Talbot had indeed had his privileges revoked, and was often seen moping about campus with hands thrust deeply into his pockets). Brady was photographed kissing the flagpole on center campus along with a large group of other New Boys, he was directed to sing "Hang on Sloopy" at dinner Tuesday (he got pelted with dinner rolls, and Storeman got royally pissed), and he watched Doug and Evan do a clumsy waltz in the canteen to the jukebox's recording of "Tiny Bubbles," to general delight. They were both terrible dancers.
The freshmen were set to play Dumbarton School's freshman team that Friday, up in north Jersey someplace. Dumbarton's varsity would then visit Wilson the next day. At assembly that morning, Brendan McCracken and Bill Fieldstone took the podium after Leeds had given his usual (and excruciatingly boring) summary of rules to remember and upcoming activities, to announce that all New Boys were required to attend a special assembly that night. Both had trouble suppressing grins as they made the announcement. "Kangaroo Court," he heard David whisper to Jerry Goldman, who nodded knowingly. Brady wanted to lean back and ask them what they were talking about, but Billips and Taber were patrolling the aisles checking for people talking during assembly - a major sting if you got caught - so he resisted. He glanced around. Most of his classmates, being New Boys like he was, were glancing around looking equally concerned. Ian McShane, on the other hand, was beaming. Doug was frowning, looking questioningly at Alan Black.
As soon as assembly was dismissed, Brady grabbed David. "OK, fill me in here. What's going on?"
"It's probably Kangaroo Court," David answered. "The seniors get all the New Boys here the last night and make them do stuff on stage and all. Hit them with shaving cream, stuff like that." He leaned in. "Last year, what they did do McShane?? It was brilliant, man."
By now Doug, Evan, and Alan were close by as well, with Dunc and Vic Stenkowski close behind. They waited for David to elaborate. "What??" Evan finally begged.
David turned, stopping the group and bringing them into a tighter cluster. His voice was low, but glistening with delight. "They kept him up there for like 20 minutes. They did all the basic stiff - shaving cream pies and all - then they poured maple syrup all over his head and put this huge glob of Atomic Balm in his underwear and like smushed it so it went all over. Then they hit him with powder so it stuck to the syrup. He smelled like pancakes for almost a month."
The boys reacted with a combination of revulsion and acid thrill at this news. Brady noticed Ian lingering near the back of the theatre, watching them. "Why'd they go after him so hard?" he asked.
David stared at him like he was a Martian. "Why d'ya think? He was a total prick. He thought he could ignore seniors who told him to do stuff he didn't want to do. He pissed off most of the class. It worked out great; they didn't do much of anything to anybody else."
"What about you?" Alan asked.
David shrugged. I got pied with shaving cream, and tickled." He blushed a little. "Somebody told Tom Wilson I was ticklish," he glanced at Brady, who realized who it must have been, "and they had me kind of squirming up there for a minute or so, when I couldn't really see through the shaving cream. It was funny, really." He started walking toward the doors, with the boys stumbling to keep up. Brady noted that with amusement: I'm not the only one who can't keep up with this kid when he walks. "Anyway, I don't think it'll be a major deal for anybody this year. I haven't heard of anybody being really defiant or anything like last year." He used that phrase carefully, since as he said it while walking through the door Ian could be seen conspicuously lounging on the steps of the theatre. He glanced at the boys as they passed.
"Ready for your comeuppance, there, Jethro?"
Brady ignored it and kept walking. David smirked. Alan Black glanced at the others, twisted his face in disgust, and turned. "Fuck off, McShane, your asshole is talking again."
McShane snorted. "Ooooh, that's a good one, Black. It'll be fun watching you get fucked up tonight."
Alan started back towards Ian, but Dunc and Evan pulled him along. "We been stuck together on this Goddam campus too long," Evan said. "We're all getting on each other's nerves a bit."
David snorted. "There's an insight. Wait till like February."
Brady walked resolutely away back toward Geiger, poker faced but yearning to beat the crap out of McShane. Doug hid his anger less well, his jaw set, the color rising on his high cheekbones. Brady glanced over at him. God that's beautiful, he thought for a moment, before tearing his eyes away hoping no one could notice.
Lunch was a mass of whispered rumors about what was in store, none of them good. Vast quantities of Atomic Balm had supposedly gone missing from the training room, all the fire extinguishers in the senior dorms had been taken and filled with fish chum to spray on New Boy victims, there were ropes hanging from the fly rails in the theatre, . . . . Brady was glad that he boarded the bus to Dumbarton right after lunch for the game, if nothing else to escape the gossiping.
Dumbarton was located in one of the tonier suburbs of Morris County. It was much larger than Wilson's campus, a vast expanse of open lawns and deliberately understated clapboard buildings. The football field was immaculately groomed. Even the locker room was comparatively plush - brightly painted and well lit, without the vague smell of sweat and old jocks that permeated the Wilson locker rooms. McShane made his opinion known that this was what a real school looked like, as opposed to Wilson's shabby facilities. Brady felt like telling him to go to fucking Dumbarton, then, but again managed to hold his anger.
The team's mood was nervous - a lot of the boys who had never really played in a game were about to get their first extended experience. Mr. Glendon was low key. "This is a learning game for a lot of you, and I only ask one thing: give it everything you have. Passion and enthusiasm are what make football players great, not necessarily being a good athlete. Go out and attack." Brady and Doug smiled slightly at each other. Evan's head was bobbing up and down. Alan stared at the floor. McShane's face was already mottled.
Wilson received the opening kickoff, and found the going easy against Dumbarton's defense. It took ten running plays to score. Brady felt as if he'd barely broken a sweat. It proved equally easy to make a defensive stand, and when they got the ball back the offense again ran the ball down the field with that particular methodical cruelty that football can be when one team is hopelessly overmatched. By the time Jack Spencer bulldozed through both of Dumbarton's inside linebackers for a six yard touchdown, the first quarter was essentially over.
Brady kicked the extra point, and Mr. Glendon called an unexpected time out. The team gathered around him. "All right, gentlemen, time for the nest unit to get some time in. Good job in the first quarter, now take a blow for a bit."
Ian protested. "We only played one quarter!! Let's bury these guys and then let the scrubs play!"
"You call any of your teammates 'scrubs' again and you've played your last down for me - are we clear?" McShane's face reddened, and he dropped his head. "Sit down - now." Mr. Glendon turned to the rest of Brady's unit as the new kickoff team sprinted enthusiastically onto the field. He lowered his voice a bit. "You boys are clearly better than these guys, and you know it. Right?" Everyone nodded. "OK, then. Let's let some of the other boys have some fun. This is where you need to be cheerleaders for your teammates. Be leaders." He clapped his hands and turned to the field, shouting encouragement at Terry Wolfsen, a smallish podiatrist's kid from someplace in Ohio, who was about to kick off and looked like he might not be up to the task. Brady and Doug began yelling to Terry as well, and the sheepish smile he gave in return made the whole team break out in laughter.
Terry's kickoff was, to be truthful, an awful shank, but it made it to the Dumbarton 20 before it got picked up, and it took so long to run down that there was essentially no return. Brady and his teammates clustered along the sideline clapping and shouting to the new players. The first two plays were not good. The new boys were hesitant and timid, and they got smacked hard. Dumbarton made almost twenty yards. Mr. Glendon kept clapping for them. "Conover, go in at right end and talk them up a bit."
Brady grabbed his helmet and sprinted to the defensive huddle as the chain crew fumbled to reset the down markers. Billy Hinchcliffe, who was playing right end, looked like he was about to cry. "They didn't even run this way, Brady - it wasn't my fault!" he protested.
"Relax, Billy, it's only for one play, you're doing great." He smacked Billy on the backside and sent him to the sideline, where Mr. Glendon pulled him into a hug and started talking intently into his ear. Brady turned to the huddle. The boys were visibly upset and shaken. "Hey, it's all right, you guys just need to settle down. They're pussies, OK? Tony, what are we running this play?"
Tony Gaetano - the hairiest boy Brady had ever seen, especially for a high school freshman - looked uncertainly around the field, and at David Hills, who stared back wide eyed and shook his head. "Uh, right hashmark, first down, midfield about, . . . uh, Mike 5-2 left slant?" He was more hopeful than assured.
"Perfect," Brady responded, and grinned all around. He really wasn't so sure about this - their faces were still ashen - but he knew he had to pump them up somehow. "OK, I'm buying a week of Cokes for the next guy who makes a tackle for a loss. Any takers? " They started clapping at that - which surprised Brady; it seemed so silly an offer - and Brady thrust his arm into the center of the huddle as the referee blew play back live. "This play, we kick their asses. Let's go!" The rest of the boys' hands piled in atop Brady's, and they broke the huddle with a shout.
Dumbarton tried the same running play - a basic off tackle plunge - that had given them success the previous two times. But the defense now was ready. Tony Gaetano saw the quarterback's pivot back from center and shot his gap He, the quarterback, and the running back met more or less simultaneously, and the ball skittered away behind the resulting collision. Brady, having shed the tackle blocking him, let out a whoop of delight as Perry Berg, a pudgy defensive tackle who seemed always to finish last in wind sprints, moved faster than he'd ever seen to fall on the ball. The entire team began jumping up and down, cheering and slapping each other. Brady lifted Tony into a fierce hug, then pulled Perry to his feet. "Great play, Perry!!! You're like a cat!" Perry laughed loudly, a free and open laugh that held in it a tension release that was palpable. Brady turned and waved Billy Hinchcliffe back in. "C'mon and play offense, Billy, I need to rest!"
On the sideline, Evan and Jack Spencer were leading one of the school's odd yet compelling 1920's era cheers, with the entire first unit shouting along hoarsely. Doug slapped Brady's helmet as he reached the sideline. "Whatever you said, it worked!"
Brady laughed. "I offered to buy the next guy to make a good play a Coke - is that weak or what?" They giggled, watching the second unit offense try a running play, with limited success.
By halftime, the second unit had managed one touchdown, but had given up two. Ian McShane was pacing agitatedly about the locker room, yelling at random people. Brady discreetly followed him, along with Doug and Evan, encouraging each member of the second team, and in not quite so many words telling them to ignore McShane. Mr. Glendon seemed pleased. "You guys are learning fast, doing very well. Now, let's talk about some of what we missed that half." What followed was a patient rehash of basic position by position responsibilities, with Mr. Glendon conspicuously using members of the first team as examples. "Now when Conover, overpursued here, he let that back get by to the inside for some yardage - right, Conover?"
"Yes, sir." Their eye contact told Brady that he was being used as an example for a reason.
"All right, so when you're in, Hinchcliffe, you stay at home here. You made the same mistake a couple of times and they got inside you just like they did to Conover. Stay at home, string it out to the sidelines, let your teammates help," he emphasized, drawing long sweeping lines outward towards the edge of the chalkboard. Billy Hinchcliffe nodded gravely.
"All right, we're going with the same rotation this half. Same unit that started plays third quarter, and the other unit finishes it up. Let's learn some things here today, gentlemen."
As they started back onto the field, Brady heard Ian McShane mutter, "Absolute fucking bullshit."
The first team offense again moved the ball smartly down the field to start the third quarter, after stopping Dumbarton's initial offensive possession, and again did so without needing to pass the ball. Jack Spencer was trampling the linebackers. They soon had a third down and short yardage play on the Dumbarton 36. "OK," Evan said in the huddle, "let's have a little fun. Dive 34 fake, slant short 9." He looked at Brady. "They've been seeing the belly play all day, the backers'll bite so hard on it you'll be in the end zone before they even realize it was a fake." Brady grinned, the rest of the guys let out a whoop, and they broke the huddle enthusiastically.
Evan was right. Brady had no one anywhere near him as he slanted sharply over the middle. Evan's pass was chest high, and Brady caught it easily, splitting the safeties who had likewise bought the run fake and charged the line at the snap. Brady was laughing as he sprinted easily to the end zone, but became confused as he heard whistles behind him. He crossed the goal line and turned.
Two referees were trying to pull Ian McShane off a Dumbarton player, Ian had a firm grip on the boy's face mask, and seemed determined to yank it, the attached helmet, and possibly the enclosed head, off. Mr. Glendon and the Dumbarton coach were running toward the scene, Mr. Glendon's face red.
One of the referees took the ball from Brady. "The score won't count, son, the penalty is before the play was over. And your guard there is going to sit the rest of the day."
Ian was finally disentangled from the Dumbarton player- a smallish boy who, with his helmet off, looked abashed to be part of the whole situation, and vaguely frightened. Ian was shouting various obscenities at him, ignoring Mr. Glendon's own angry yells. "Get on the damned bus and sit there - now!" Mr. Glendon bellowed. All the Wilson players froze - they'd never heard Mr. Glendon utter any sort of swear word before. Even Ian was shocked. He stared a moment at Mr. Glendon, suddenly silent, then strode off the field toward where the bus was parked on the far side of the gymnasium.
Brady was back by the line of scrimmage now, and saw Doug shaking his head. "He just lost it on that guy," Doug said, "Started punching him and pulling him by the face mask. No idea what made him do it."
Mr. Glendon was apologizing to the Dumbarton freshman coach "Frank, you know that isn't how we play ball at Wilson."
"I do know that, Tom. I had the refs warn you about that boy in the first quarter - he's been punching groins and doing dirty things like that all day. I'd hoped you would talk to him."
"I did. It didn't get through, clearly. Look, that was his last game in a Wilson uniform, I promise you. Is your boy all right?"
"I think so. I want to have the trainer look at him. Neck stuff can be tricky."
The game resumed, but the fire was gone from the Wilson side. They were embarrassed. The Dumbarton team, by contrast, was infuriated, and began playing aggressively. They scored against the first team on their ensuing possession, and were driving again when the quarter ended.
"All right, second unit, let's go see if you can get some momentum back for us!" Mr, Glendon shouted, clapping his hands.
Brady couldn't stand it. "Sir, can we just stop this drive? I know we can. And - "
"Conover, your unit failed. You're all responsible. I promised the other group this quarter and they're getting it. I know this isn't your fault, son, but I'm keeping my word."
The look on Mr. Glendon's face was resolute, but shadowed. He and Brady both knew what was going to happen.
The second unit proved totally unable to stem the tide. Dumbarton scored three touchdowns in the fourth quarter, winning the game easily. Brady and his unit kept as much encouraging cheering up as they could, but their hearts weren't in it any more. When the game ended, the second unit players trudged back to the sideline disconsolately. Tony Gaetano looked like he wanted to cry. Dennis Hills, his face blotchy and scratched, was in tears. Billy Hinchcliffe sniffled as he approached Brady. "I'm sorry, I tried, we all tried so hard -"
Brady patted him on the shoulder. "It's OK, Billy, I know you did. It's OK, really." He managed to sound happier than he was.
Mr. Glendon gathered them together. "All right, we got taken out of our game today, and it cost us. That's our own fault. Bad things happen in a game, and you can't lose your focus, or give your opponent a rallying point. We did both today, and it cost us a win we should have had. But I'm proud of the way out second unit played, no matter the score. You all learned a lot, and got better as the game went on. There'll be other days, and we'll be a better team for this." For once, Brady wasn't buying it: they'd lost, and it hurt.
Ian McShane was at the back of the bus, still in full pads, when the team got back on. No one sat with him. He avoided all eye contact. The ride home was deathly silent.
Mr' Glendon took Ian with him as soon as the bus got back to campus, to see Coach Drake or Dean Storeman or something, Brady guessed (or hoped). Not having him around loosened the team up a bit, and by the time they had finished showering, some of the second unit players were talking proudly about plays they'd made. Brady, Doug, Evan, Alan, Jack and the rest of the first unit did their best to remain encouraging, but occasionally would make eye contact with each other and see the disappointment in each other's faces. After the Summerton game, Brady had felt that no freshman team could ever beat them. They'd go undefeated for sure. But they'd lost, and to a team that Brady knew was hugely inferior to them. It was painful, and galling.
They were back and cleaned up in time for dinner that night, but Brady wasn't in an eating mood. Mr. Taber briefly indicated he knew what had happened. Mercifully, the others at the table didn't press for details.
David waited for him downstairs. "Hey," he said quietly. "I'm really sorry. Ian fucked things up, huh?"
Brady found himself walking even faster than David, for once. "He - he just, like, blew up. I dunno what set him off, he just tried to kill this kid, and the refs couldn't get him to stop and even Glendon barely could. I - I just got no fuckin' idea what happened. And - it just - we like died after that. They got pissed, and we were, I dunno, embarrassed or something. We should've won by like twenty points or something."
Dunc ran up beside them. "Ian's off the team, did you hear? Glendon kicked his ass off. And he may have another DC for what he did, too." He seemed about to dance for sheer joy, until he saw Brady's face. "Sorry, Bray, I guess today still kind of sucked, huh?"
"You said it." He sighed. "But we'll do better."
"You're a better team with him gone, Brady," David said.
"I guess. I'm just still pissed over it all." He sighed again. "I'll get over it."
"Conover!" Brady turned to see Brendan McCcracken striding towards him, his tie blowing over his shoulder in the chilly evening wind. "Heard today went not so well."
"That's an understatement," Brady answered.
McCracken nodded. "You get those days. Just wanted to tell you - Fieldstone and I expect you in the front row tonight. Understood?"
"Right." He'd forgotten about Kangaroo Court. He was suddenly conscious again of his beanie cap. He'd warn it for how many weeks now, ever since school had started. It felt like part of him now, but tonight was its last night on his head. That was a weird idea.
Back in their room, David counseled him. "Wear something crappy, in case they really go after you."
Brady was used to the theatre being a somber place, with the boys gathered politely for assemblies where Leeds would drone on about school rules and various other deathly boring subjects. Tonight the place was electric, with the Old Boys packing in the rear rows and balcony, leaving the front rows for the New Boys in their caps and mismatched socks. Brady nervously chose a seat by the aisle in the front row, conscious of McCracken's directive. Doug sat next to him, and they unconsciously huddled against each other as the din increased.
Bill Fieldstone finally walked onto the stage, wearing a black choir robe, and the Old Boys hooted and cheered. "This is the last night of New Boy Rules," he intoned, and this time it was the New Boys who let out a cheer. "But before they pass, we need to mete out a little justice, and recognize a few of our New Boy Cavaliers, who've made themselves conspicuous these first few weeks of their careers at Wilson." More cheers. "All right, we start off with best singers. Creed, Garreston, Black, and Stenkowski, front and center. Doug glanced at Brady, frightened. Brady shrugged with a slight smile and patted his leg. He had a momentary flashing desire to caress it, but held back. The group slowly assembled onstage, where the curtains had by now been drawn back, revealing a number of seniors, including McCracken, all wearing black robes similar to Fieldstone's. The groups assembled center stage, glancing at each other nervously. "All right, let's have a strong chorus for once, you guys!" The Old Boys began making a huge racket as the boys, glancing at each other, started trying to sing. They were pretty awful, and Brady found himself laughing along with the rest of the boys.
Suddenly McCracken and three other seniors slipped up behind each of the boys on stage and plastered them in the face with towels filled with shaving cream. The cheers were deafening as the boys reacted, doubling over, spluttering, stumbling, and trying with only limited success to wipe at least their eyes clean. All were laughing hard. Evan wiped a large handful of cream off his face and threw it at McCracken, who pulled a can of Foamy from his pocket and sprayed him in the face. The din grew even louder, if that was possible. The seniors then handed the boys towels, clapping them on the back, and led them to the stairs and off the stage.
Doug was still laughing as he sat back down next to Brady. He was a mess, with shaving cream across his shirt and still under his chin. Brady again resisted the effort to touch him, to help clean him up. McCracken was now calling some other boys to the stage, as Doug flicked a dab of shaving cream at Brady. "Was that as dumb looking as it felt?"
"Well, it was pretty funny," Brady answered, watching as a New Boy who was a junior, who had apparently refused to follow some seniors' orders, had a large can of what appeared to be maple syrup thrown over his head. "I wonder what they have in store for me."
"It'll be fine, Fieldstone and McCracken are cool. Poor Vic was ready to piss his pants going up there, but I told him it was gonna be OK." They looked over to the right side seats, where Vic Stenkowski was wiping himself clean and jabbering excitedly to anyone in the vicinity, looking more animated than Brady had seen him all year.
The evening proceeded in much the same fashion. Various New Boys were called to the stage, to recite school facts or sing the fight song, only to be shaving creamed or otherwise get something dumped on him. Fieldstone seemed to have some clever and funny line to say about everyone, and the proceedings became more lighthearted as the New Boys realized they weren't going to get paddled or anything. About forty minutes in, McCracken stepped forward. "OK, we need to deal with this right now. Conover, step up here!" Brady heard the boys roar their approval as he rose, Doug clapping him on the back, and Fieldstone laughing easily. His robe by now had several shaving cream blotches on it. McCracken's looked like it had been through a barbershop war.
As Brady walked onto the stage, Fieldstone stepped toward him, dropped a water balloon down his back inside his shirt, and slapped it hard. It burst, and Brady felt the flood of water down his back and into his jeans. Several of the seniors behind him threw balloons at him, dousing him thoroughly from behind. Brady, cringing, found himself laughing. McCracken stepped to his side. "Now this New Boy, they tell me, plays tight end!" The crowd jeered. "And they tell me his team beats other schools' varsity teams, too! I'm not so sure I like that." More raucous noise. "I like my job on the team, Conover, and don't you forget it."
Brady was laughing nervously. "Yes, sir," he managed to giggle out.
"Oh, he's laughing, is he? Laugh at this!" Suddenly McCracken grabbed him and pinned his arms to his side. Fieldstone ran up and shoved two cans of Foamy into the front of his pants and started spraying. Brady, helpless, laughed so hard he almost cried, squirming in vain as the shaving cream filled the front of his pants and ran down his legs. It took nearly a minute to empty the cans completely, by which time drools of cream were appearing around his ankles. When the cans were finally empty, Fieldstone pulled them out, squeezed the nozzles to demonstrate to the crowd that they were indeed used up, and tossed them away. McCracken released Brady, who stood oddly bowlegged. He had no idea how to walk in this condition.
Then McCracken slapped the front of his pants, causing a couple of spurts of shaving cream to fly out, upwards, coating Brady's chest and the underside of his chin. The laughter that caused was riotous. Brady was blushing, but also giggling helplessly. He slapped his pants himself a couple more times to show the spurting better. "He likes it!!!" Fieldstone shouted, grinning salaciously, and the boys hooted back. "G'wan, Conover, go try to sit down," Bill said to him with a sly grin. Brady waddled to the stairs, shaking his lags in an effort to shed some of the shaving cream from his pants before he hit the stairs.
Sitting back down was a squishy process, and more shaving cream drooled out of his pants onto his belly as he did so. Doug was in tears. "Oh God, Bray, that was funny! You shoulda seen your face, when it was like you were coming in your pants and shooting all over the place!!" Evan was pounding his shoulder, also in hysterics. Brady felt a mix of slight embarrassment and a glow of belonging. He hadn't been mocked, he'\d been teased, like a friend would, He'd been through a sort of passage, a ritual, and he hadn't even realized it. He was part of the place now. Pride stirred in deeply in him.
The rest of the hour passed in much the same manner, though no one else was singled out the way Brady had been. At the end, the New Boys rose as a group and sang the school fight song, with the seniors onstage conducting them. As people began to disperse, Bill Fieldstone appeared. "Have fun there, Conover?"
Brady blushed. "That was really funny. Um, thanks, too. I was kind of scared that you guys were really gonna do something radical to me or - well, you know. , , , something."
Fieldstone waved his hand dismissively - a feminine gesture, Brady thought. "Nah, there wasn't anybody this year who pissed off the seniors like last year, so we went pretty easy. Besides, Leeds was pissed after last year so we had to tone things down some. Gersten deserved a lot more than maple syrup, believe me, but we went easy."
As Brady turned to leave, Ian McShane shoved his way up to Fieldstone. "What the fuck, you call that a Kangaroo Court? What kind of bullshit is this, Fieldstone?"
Bill returned Ian's angry gaze coolly. "If you're pissed off that no one got all that you did last year, Ian, blame yourself. You earned every bit of what you got. How's football going, by the way?"
This question clearly infuriated McShane. "Fuck you, Fieldstone." He shouldered his way back into the crowd. Fieldstone shrugged at Brady, smiled slightly, and walked away.
David was waiting for Brady, Doug and Evan at the exit. "Have fun, guys?" They walked back to Linsley at a relaxed pace (unusual for David), laughing and rehashing the events of the evening. The air was cool, damp, portending more rain. Faded brown and orange leaves were plastered to the flagstone sidewalks. Brady's pants made occasional liquid noises as they walked, to general amusement.
The tension the next morning was visceral. Classes passed quickly and unremembered. Brady wolfed down his lunch, not even listening to the conversations at his table. Mercifully, Mr. Taber was out helping prepare the PA system and other stuff for the game. The sky was leaden grey, threatening to pour at any moment. He passed Brendan McCracken as they left the dining hall, and saw the faraway fixed look in his eye. He knew better than to speak to him.
A fine drizzle began falling by the time that Brady and David, along with Doug, Evan, Jerry Goldman, and the rest of the crew, walked out to the football field and crowded into the stands. Brady was surprised by how many adults - alumni, he supposed - were there, many in jacket and tie (the school blazer and necktie being especially favored apparel). As the teams warmed up, a helicopter swung low and landed on the JV soccer field, disgorging a small party of smartly dressed men who were already visibly tipsy. "That's Schornavacchi," David explained. "They own a shitload of racing horses over in Colt's Neck. Their kids all went here."
Brady nodded. I've heard of them. They're like Mafia, aren't they?"
Tony Gaetano gave Brady a friendly shove. "There is no such t'ing, as de Mafia,' he intoned in an exaggerated Brooklyn accent. Tony already had a thick dark beard that looked like it needed shaving constantly. The line, and the way he looked saying it, cracked them all up.
"So Tony, what's your dad do, anyway - plant bodies for the Columbo family?" Evan Creed asked in a fake innocent tone.
"Highly classified,' Tony laughed in response. "But if I told you, I'd have to kill you, OK?"
Their banter continued, with none of them wanting to admit their nervousness. The time was almost upon them.
The drizzle intensified as the game started. Dumbarton's varsity looked little better than their freshman team had been. Brady recognized all three of their plays as they gained little yardage against the Wilson defense after receiving the kickoff, with McCracken sacking their quarterback on a third and long. Wilson's offense took over near midfield, and ground toward the end zone, with the boys' excitement growing with each play. Then, on a quick slant intended for McCracken, the ball was tipped and intercepted. Groans rose to the heavens. Dumbarton managed a couple of first downs this time before stalling. Brady noticed that Stud Douggie was only put in on occasional pass rush downs. Mostly he sat alone on the bench.
On their next offensive possession, Wilson left nothing to chance. They ran the ball again and again, pummeling the Dumbarton defense and moving inexorably down the field. The small Dumbarton contingent behind the other sideline grew desultory and silent. Brady and Doug were hopping up and down, screaming. Raskauskas was already making their secondary dread hitting him. He finally broke loose around left end, along the Wilson sideline, for a thirty some yard touchdown run, the team waving him on, and the boys in the stands cheering deafeningly.
As he dropped the ball to the ground after scoring, New Boys poured out of the stands and crossed the track, throwing their beanies into the space behind the end zone, hopping to peel off damp purple and gold socks to add to the debris. They were New Boys no more. They shouted, they danced, they hugged each other randomly, fists pumping skyward. The extra point was forgotten amid the tumult.
Brady stood alone for a moment, barefoot amid the wet grass and discarded socks and beanies, panting. Doug strode over to him, his face beaming more than even Brady had ever seen it. Brady's heart melted as Doug grabbed him into a fierce embrace. "Bray, Goddam, I love this," he whispered into Brady's ear, his hair tickling Brady's nose. Brady inhaled the scent of him and hugged back, yearning to kiss him and tell him all he felt. He never wanted to let go. "I never thought I'd love it like this, Bray." He pulled back, still holding Brady by the sides. "Isn't this great?"
Brady pulled him back into his arms, not daring to do any more. Was he hard? Were they both hard? What was real, what was he saying, or doing, or letting slip? "It's great," he finally managed to whisper into Doug's damp brown curls. They smelled so much like him, intoxicating. "I love it too. I love it so much."