Here's the next chapter of this story. Thanks to those who've sent notes commenting on it so far - I appreciate them all, and hope I can encourage more people to let me know what they think. Compliments are of course most welcome, but I'll take anything. It's not as though I'm such an expert that I can't use some constructive criticism! If you like this story, check out "Seal Rocks," my other story on Nifty, also here in the HS section, which ended last April (wow, a long time ago already).
As always, this is entirely a work of fiction, and if you think you recognize anybody in any of this, well, you're wrong. It contains material of a sexual nature involving teenaged boys, so if that's ofensive or illegal in the jurisdiction where you're reading this, stop now and leave this story alone. I hope the story strikes at least some people as decent.
When the World Changed Part 6
Brady could barely breathe. He'd never felt so nervous in his life. He sat in jacket and tie, wearing his beanie cap and the different colored socks, a school handbook tied to a string from a belt loop, in a third floor classroom in Mueller Hall, the main classroom building. It stood diagonally east of the chapel, across from the dorms south of Linsley, and was a worn turn of the century Georgian structure with concave depressions worn in the centers of each step of the staircases that were the only way up and down. He had arrived at his first class of his freshman year - Spanish II - a good ten minutes early, and was eyeing the boys who were gradually filtering in to take seats around him, many seemed to at least passingly know each other, and only a couple were also New Boys. The teacher had yet to appear.
The morning had been better than he'd expected. He had figured the seniors would pounce on him along with the other New Boys as soon as they emerged from their dorms, but aside from being directed to sing the school fight song a couple of times - including while skipping and holding hands with Dunc and Nate Silver on the way to breakfast (he was silently disappointed Doug hadn't been around) - things had been fairly quiet. The prospect of being accosted by seniors who might instruct him to do something foolish even had served to distract him from his trepidation over starting classes. Now that he was actually sitting in the classroom, however, there were no further distractions, and he was terrified.
The room was spare, painted a slightly greenish off white, with heavily varnished dark wood trim here and there and three rows of long fluorescent fixtures hung from the ceiling, running the length of the room. There were fifteen wood and steel desks scattered about - the kind with a small writing table attached to the right arm (which Brady was used to using, though he was left handed) and a shelf beneath the seat on which to place other books. Large windows, open given the rising heat of the day, looked out at center campus, with a line of iron radiators below them for winter use.
He was acutely conscious of his jacket and tie looking shabby compared to the suits and blazer/slacks outfits worn by the other boys. Please don't let me look stupid, he thought. He knew his mother had done her best to get him some coats 9and even two full suits0 that looked presentable, but he also could tell that at least some of these boys had suits from fancy clothiers, probably up in New York or something. David's attire that morning, a dark blue pinstriped suit with lapels fashionably wide yet respectable, had alone made him feel inadequate.
A kid from the freshman football team, his beany lopsidedly askew, walked in, glanced about nervously, and smiled a bit when he saw Brady. Brady retuened his nodded greeting, and as the kid stepped over to the next desk Brady struggled to remember his name. Alan something . . .
"Hey, Brady, Alan Black, remember - from football?" Alan was gawky, all arms and legs, but a fast wide receiver who held promise if he could develop sufficient coordination to stop tripping every time he tried to cut sharply. His hair was jet black and shaggy, and his eyes almost as dark. "We were in the drills yesterday, working with Evan."
"Right," Brady breathed, glad that the name had been given. "Yeah, sure I remember. You're fast."
Alan blushed and glanced away a little. "Thanks," he said. "So are you, and you're really quick on your feet when you cut and all. So, Spanish II, huh? How'd you get to this level?"
Brady allowed himself a slight sardonic laugh. "No idea," he answered. "they gave me this test when I was applying here and I sort of faked my way through it, I couldn't understand much of it. Guess I faked better than I should have. How about you?"
"Wow, that's cool. I - well, my dad works for Standard Ohio - he's a petroleum engineer. So we spent two years living in Venezuela."
If Brady had felt inadequate before, he felt like a bug now. "Far out,' he managed to get out between swallows. "That must've been really neat."
"It was OK for a while, but the food was lousy and it was hotter'n hell, and the locals really resent the Americans. I was happy when they transferred us back here."
Brady nodded as if he understood. "So where do you live now?"
"Oh, my dad's up in Alaska - there's this huge new find way up north there, and my mom is living in Anchorage for now. They sort of parked me here so I wouldn't have to move around with them so much. Alaska's really cool - or at least it was this summer; I'm glad I won't be there much in winter. Probably freeze my nuts off."
Brady laughed. "It's a lot colder here than Venezuela in winter, too, I bet, so don't get too comfortable." They laughed softly together.
"Well look who's Mr. Spic." Stud Douggie McShane was leaning against the door to the classroom, books under his outer arm. He ambled into the room, keeping an eye on Brady as he chose a desk and slid it to the far back corner. "This'll be fun, won't it Jethro? Nice coat, by the way."
Alan glanced at Brady questioningly. "McShane's older brother," Brady explained. Alan glanced back at Douggie, then nodded at Brady. Good, another one on my side, he thought. Wait, is it really my side, like there's McShane's side too - already?
The warning bell rang - class would start in four minutes. After it stopped, Brady could hear the rhythm of the classroom bell ringing atop Geiger, wafting down the morning breeze through the opened windows. Dum, dum, dum-dum, dum-dum, dum, dum-dum, dum-dum, sum, dum-dum, dum-dum . . . The sound was light, lilting, innocent. He didn't feel very light at that moment.
"Somebody close the fucking windows, I'm already sick of that Goddam bell," groused Douggie McShane. Brady noticed that no one seemed to want to sit very close to him.
A dumpy looking man with short thinning black hair pomaded back on his scalp, wearing a suit that looked extremely ill tailored, strode into the room, his arms flapping oddly about a half-phase behind the rest of his walk. He had a pencil moustache and very little chin. "Good morning students," he said in very thickly accented English. "I am Dr. Cortes, and this is Spanish II. If you are not supposed to be in this class, shoo now." He seemed moderately amused by the joke, and the class, being no slouches to take a hint on the first day, responded with some chuckles. Brady noticed Douggie McShane remained stolid. The late bell rang, and Dr. Cortes closed the door to the classroom. Here we go, Brady whispered to himself.
Politely put, the class was a disaster. Dr. Cortes soon began speaking exclusively in Spanish - rapidly, seeming to slur words (to the extent Brady could discern individual words at all), and in an accent unlike anything Brady had ever heard when the language had been spoken. He was used to carefully enunciated tape recitations, but Dr. Cortes seemed to Brady's ears to jabber incomprehensibly. He tried to figure out what was being said, to keep up. Eventually Dr. Cortes switched back to English, but that proved scarce comfort for Brady, as his English was similarly accented to the point of being unintelligible.
And what he did make out was even worse. "We will have test in one week on the following tenses: present, subjunctive, preterit, imperfect, future, and conditional." Brady had never heard of, or been taught, anything but the present tense in Spanish, much less studied any of the others sufficient to take a test on them in a week. The longer the class went on, the tighter his terror gripped him. Oh fuck, it's my first class and I'm already on the road to flunking out. What do I do? The other boys in the class seemed to be taking everything in stride, taking notes, making comments in halting but clearly grammatical Spanish that they were able to compose in their own heads. Alan Black even asked Dr. Cortes a couple of questions, in rapid and clear Spanish of a sort Brady felt he could never muster. I'm fucked, Brady, kept thinking. I am totally, irretrievably fucked.
The class bell rang after exactly forty three minutes. Brady felt like he'd been through a war, and lost. He had a free period coming up, until chapel at 9:30, so he took the opportunity to approach Dr. Cortes, who was sitting behind his desk, flapping his legs open and closed in rapid and frankly odd fashion. "Sir?"
"Yes? Mr. Conover?"
"Sir, I took ALM Spanish in intermediate school and - and it was all just memorizing dialogues and things. I - I never learned anything about all these tenses. I don't know - I wonder if this is the right class for me."
Dr. Cortes nodded, his tongue flicking about the corners of his mouth, "You come Special Help period this afternoon, I show you, This test will not be too hard." He smiled at Brady, revealing a need for dental work. "You are smart boy, I saw your application test. I know you don't learn these things in Cullingstown. You will learn, catch up, be good student. I see you care, because you come to me already. That is good, that is important, more than even knowing right now. Some students -" he waved a hand dismissively toward the back corner where Douggie McShane had been sitting - "they no care, about nothing. So they never learn. You, I know, will learn." He looked at Brady closely for a second. "Don't worry so much, you will learn. That is my job, OK? To teach."
"Yes, sir," Brady said, trying not to let his shoulders sag too visibly. He trudged out into the hall as the late bell for second period echoed about. He felt like crying again, but again couldn't make anything come out (or wouldn't let anything come out, at some inner unacknowledged level). The hallway was empty, echoey, and cold. He felt very alone.
As he passed the foyer on the first floor, he heard his name called. Doug was climbing the stairs on the north end of the hall. Brady broke into an involuntary grin and turned to meet him. "I thought you had class second period."
Doug tossed his head to clear his forelocks form his face. Brady smiled wider. "Nope, I do German first period, then Earth Science third - whatever Earth Science is. What about you?"
Brady sighed. "I just had Spanish II."
"Wow, you must know it pretty well already to get put into Spanish II."
"I wish." Brady explained his predicament, trying to stay detached and calm. It wasn't easy; by the time he finished describing the class he was feeling emotional again. He gritted his teeth and suppressed it. "So anyway, I guess Cortes'll help ne through it, which is cool, but he's gonna have to some serious helping if I'm gonna do anything but bomb out completely."
Doug nodded, his brow furrowed worriedly. "It's really nice that he's willing to help you out, though, right?" Brady nodded. "You'll be fine, I can tell. You're too Goddam stubborn to let some stupid language beat you." He grinned and leaned in, apparently hoping from a similar response from Brady. For his part, Brady took a deep breath and nodded, looking down in an effort to keep his eyes dry.
"C'mon, let's go get a donut from the canteen or something." Doug threw his arm around Brady's shoulder and steered him back toward the stairs. Stud Douggie was climbing them, watching the two keenly.
"New Boys!!" he shouted. "Get over here!"
Brady was in no mood for this shit. "Back off, McShane, you're a junior."
Douggie cocked his head. "I got delegated power to do whatever I want."
"From who?"
"Mark Humphries. He's a senior."
Doug seemed almost as pissed off as Brady. "So what? Is that OK by Fieldstone?"
"Fuck Fieldstone, he's a fucking fairy. Now get over to my room - "
"I'm not doing shit for you, Douggie, so back off," Brady snapped. "Go study for Cortes' test - as if you give a shit."
Douggie snorted. "Cortes is a cock," he snarled. "You see how he's always beating himself off under his desk? It's disgusting."
"Oh, so you notice shit like that, huh? Kind of telling, isn't it? Doug chimed in.
Douggie eyed them both for a long second. "My brother was right about both of you. Little snot faggots. It's gonna be fun busting you assholes down, you know that?'
"I can't wait," Brady muttered, pushing past Douggie to the stairs. Douggie took momentary hold of Brady's lapel, but Brady knocked his hand away angrily. "Touch me again, I break your hand. Got it? Ignorant farm hicks like me know lots of ways to bust up dumb animals."
Douggie started to step closer to Brady, but froze. "Some sort of problem here, Mr. McShane?" Brady turned round to see Dean Storeman leaning out the door of his outer office. He could glimpse Miss Harder, who he'd spoken with about Edgar Bevans when registering, behind him at her desk, smiling slightly.
"No problem here at all, sir," Douggie said in a lugubrious voice. "Just welcoming some New Boys to Wilson and hoping they have a happy year. And that they learn lots," he added, staring at Brady.
"Don't you have mandatory study hall during all your free periods this semester, Mr. McShane? Help you with your average?"
"Yes, sir," Douggie responded, and Brady saw a blush rise. The sight made him feel momentarily triumphant. "Mr. Billips excused me to get my math book for next period. I had forgotten it in my room." He held up a thick grey volume as evidence.
"That was kind of him. Now that you've got it, I suggest you get back to 307."
"Yes, sir." Douggie shuffled to the stairwell, his posture angry and embarrassed. Dean Storeman watched him his face impassive, then smiled at Brady and Doug. "Gentlemen, I expect you both to resist the temptation to be less than well mannered at all times."
Brady swallowed. "Of course, sir. I don't want any kind of trouble."
"A good idea. And you, Mr, Garretson?"
Doug looked mutinous. "Sir he was -"
"Doug agrees, sir, believe me. We have to go now, we need to get books too - before chapel and stuff. Thank you." He grabbed Doug by the arm and pulled him down the stairs, Doug's face reddening with every step.
"What the fuck, man?" Doug objected loudly once they were outside on the sidewalk. "The guy was being a prick and trying to pick a fight, Storeman oughtta be told about it."
"Doug, he knew already. Why d'you think he came out into the hall? Relax, man." Brady was smiling now, relieved and amused by Doug's outrage.
Doug stared at Brady for a moment, then started laughing as well. "What an asshole," he muttered. They strode off together, shoulders bumping. He wanted to defend me, Brady thought. That's so cool.
The rest of the morning went better. His Math teacher, third period, looked amazingly old and frail, and seemed unnaturally cranky, but Brady felt he could deal with it. If he could deal with Mr. Jocko, he could deal with anybody. His English class, fourth period, was more promising. The teacher was a whippet thin man in his late 40s with a bristly black flat top haircut, an enormous nose that looked like it had taken too many left crosses, and a thick Brooklyn accent. He was relaxed, amusing, and completely accessible. Brady liked him almost at once. And, blessedly, Douggie McShane - and Ian, for that matter - were nowhere to be seen in any of his other classes.
His sole afternoon class was Earth Science, and the teacher wound up being Mr. Drake, the varsity football coach. He noticed that many of the freshman football players were in the class - himself, Doug, Evan Creed, Jack Spencer (a burly guy who looked to be the number one running back), Alan Black, three or four others. By Thursday of that first week, they were spending the last part of class watching game films.
The speed with which things fell into a routine amazed him. The week flew by. His afternoon sessions with Dr. Cortes were quickly making him feel more comfortable with the upcoming test, though he still knew he'd be lucky to do well on it. "This is a first test," Dr Cortes assured him. "I do not expect anyone to do well. Some in your class, they are juniors or seniors who did not do well last year. They will do badly, I promise you." The thought of doing at least better than Stud Douggie drove him. Having to face him in class first thing each morning was bad enough. He had at least to get better grades than he did.
New Boy Rules were largely uneventful. Carrying seniors' books, reciting information on School history from the Handbook (Brady was grateful to Bill Fieldstone for the information on Edgar Bevans, as he was the target of some fairly detailed questioning a couple of times on the subject - what he couldn't remember, he faked, with sufficient sincerity that nothing was questioned), singing the fight song in class or in halls between classes, or in the dining hall or at assemblies, was the most of it from Brady's perspective. Doug had little more to report, as did most of the guys he spoke with on his hall. It appeared that Bill Fieldstone was running things with an iron hand, preventing seniors from doing anything too outlandish with their power. Some of the seniors apparently were none too thrilled with Bill's work. Douggie McShane daily sank into a deeper and deeper funk, a development that quietly thrilled Brady. David seemed somewhat envious, as well. "You guys are getting off so Goddam easy, it pisses me off. It figures Fieldstone'd keep things under control, but I mean, shit . . ." Brady tried to use this as an opening to find out what had happened to David during his New Boy Rules experience, but David remained resolutely silent on the subject. The two were coexisting well, however, with David offering Brady help in math (Brady was only so-so in the subject, while David was already taking trigonometry as a freshman and looking to take calculus next year).
Football was also going well. Brady had settled in as a starter at tight end on offense and defensive end. Ian McShane, relegated to a guard position on offense, got his wish to be a linebacker on defense, which cheered him greatly. Doug was starting center, and the other end on defense as well. They had their first game approaching at the end of the second week of classes, against the junior varsity from Summerton High. "They don't field a frosh team, so we'll play the JV," Mr. Glendon explained. "It'll be a good test. They'll be mostly older and more experienced - sophomores, a lot of the starters, and a few juniors - so it'll be good to step up a bit. Hold us in good stead later on in the season." What coach ever talks like that, Brady thought to himself, chuckling, even as he felt a vague apprehension at playing against older boys.
He continued to call his mother nightly. Her voice was becoming bouncier, as if she nonetheless. She would rattle on about doings in Cullingstown, what people had been in the store, and how all his friends were asking after him. "Kenny was in the store today, and he just sat on the ledge and talked for the longest time. It was very sweet. I think he misses you a lot." That made Brady feel mildly guilty, though he was far from forgiving Kenny for anything.
Sometimes her words slurred a bit, but Brady deliberately ignored it.
Evan Creed and Brady were clicking well on pass plays, with Mr. Glendon even designing a delayed screen pass for him should pass rushers get too overeager attacking Evan. "I want to get you the ball sometimes in a broken field and let you use your speed, Brady," he explained. The implicit compliment made Brady feel wonderful the rest of the day.
The Spanish test came and went, and was a predictable disaster. Brady got a 67 on it, and was cheered only by the fact that the class average had been 45, with Stud Douggie getting only a 41. McShane complained loudly about this, swearing out loud to Dr. Cortes in class (to general astonishment). For his part, Dr. Cortes apparently had little or no knowledge of English obscenities (or just ignored them), and simply instructed McShane to come for special help if he wanted. His continuously flapping legs, whenever seated, were starting to crack Brady up. Maybe Stud Douggie's right and he is whacking off inside those baggy pants, he thought. The grade he got somehow enthused him. In one week he'd managed to learn four tenses of a language he barely understood enough to almost pass a grammar test. He insisted on making it a positive development in his mind, even as he remained painfully aware of what the score would to do his overall class grade. I can do this, he thought. I can make it.
Doug Garrettson and he became inseparable. This was at once deeply painful to Brady, because he knew his deepening affection for the boy would never be reciprocated in the way he pined for, and glorious - because every moment spent with Doug was precious. They laughed together, strove in football practice together, listened to music in their rooms (Dunc and David were also hitting it off, their shared love for arcane British rock music binding them fast), and generally goofing off. Brady was thankful Doug wasn't in any of his classes - being in the same room with him would have been fatal to his ability to concentrate. They quickly developed their own private jokes, began completing each other's sentences. Brady sometimes laughed at the weird irony that Doug and Stud Douggie McShane shared the same first name.
"He's my evil Siamese twin, we were cut apart at birth," Doug explained one evening as they lounged across Brady's bed, with David at his desk studying while wearing enormous headphones and muttering a song Brady had never heard. "And look! I got all the brains!"
"And all the good looks, too!" Brady exclaimed, before realizing what he'd said. He glanced at Doug anxiously, but Doug was just Laughing, his daybreak smile bursting across his face, and Brady's terror at having slipped up passed in an instant.
Doug theatrically swept his hair back from his eyes. "I'm a god, man. A fine young stallion. I'm fucking immortal."
He looked it, at that moment, with his dark hair glossy, his eyes shining, the tanned skin on his arms smooth and warm colored in the room's dim light. Brady had to look away for fear of doing something stupid. "You're almost good enough for Raquel," he managed to say teasingly. "But I got first dibs on her." He hoped that some open expression of desire for her would cover for what he'd said.
Doug roared with protesting laughter. "Man, she's in my room not yours, you can't steal my babe!" He lunged across at Brady,. And they fell into a playful wrestling match, scattering Brady's bedsheets and making the frame creak alarmingly. Brady flashed to his wrestling with Kenny, and how it had always made him desperately hard, and immediately felt himself springing upward. He squirmed away from Doug, perhaps too quickly, and stood up. "I gotta pee."
Doug was blinking a little. "What, did I hurt you or something? Bray?" David had turned, and was watching the proceedings impassively.
"No, no, I just gotta pee and all. Be right back." As he slipped from the room, he said over his shoulder, "I'm gonna kick your ass when I get back!"
"You and whose army?" Doug shouted, laughing. Luckily for Brady, evening study hall started while he was in the bathroom, and Doug had to return to his own room until it was over. Brady spent the entire period at his desk, painfully erect.
He had to jerk off twice that night after David fell asleep. Or maybe David wasn't asleep yet, he didn't really care anymore. The memory of Doug sprawled across him as they wrestled, the feeling of his lean body, seemed to run through his blood. He imagined kissing those full smiling lips, running his hand through the thick hair, feeling his perfect skin. He lay awake for a long time, imagining and despairing.
Brady was nervous that entire Friday during class. He could hardly wait for the game, yet was scared at the same time. Mr. Edwin, his English teacher, sensed his nervousness and made a few jokes about how dumb Summerton High kids were, which loosened things up a bit. After his final class, he hurried to the gym, to find many of his teammates already there and suiting up. He had barely stripped when Mr. Glendon strode through the locker room. "Let's go, boys,. Onto the Guppy, we got a kickoff time to make."
"The Guppy" turned out to be an ancient half-sized school bust painted fadedly in the Wilson school colors, with an engine that sounded like it needed to be put out of its misery even when idling. The benches were narrow, lumpy, and in need of new uncracked seat covers. They were also impossible narrow, especially when two guys tried to sit together wearing full football pads. Brady and Doug teetered on their seat the entire drive over to Summerton High, which, since it was just across town, was mercifully short.
The school was much larger than Cullingstown's. It had a track around the main football field, which seemed quite a luxury to Brady (Wilson had a full eight lane cinder track, of course, but it was a private school, after all. Cullingstown High had neither track nor a track team.). He glanced nervously about as he clambered off the bus. A few guys leaning against cars in the parking lot near them and smoking started casually shouting insults: "Hey, it's the pussy boys from Wilson!" "Hey faggots, how many cocks do you suck there in your little homo prison?"
Ian McShane made a move as if to go after them (an act on his part that, for once, Brady had some sympathy for), only to be harshly called back by Mr. Glendon. At his order, they gathered close around him. "All right, boys, this is an important lesson. They don't like us. Why? Because they envy us. Are we better than them? Maybe, matbe not, in real terms. I don't like the whole idea of people being inherently better because of where they go to school. But are we better than that couple of losers? You beet we are. And we show that we're better when we don't sink to their level. We don't call people names, we don't insult people, we don't pick fights. We are Wilson Cavaliers, and we are at all times ferocious gentlemen. And the gentlemen part is the hardest one, especially when kids like that -" he gestured back over his shoulder toward the parking lot - "are trying to bait you into something. Be mature, show how much better you are than them." He pointed to the field. "That's where we do our talking. That's where the ferocious part comes in. You want that?" The entire team shouted their assent. Brady could feel the adrenaline flowing through them all. "Then go get it!" And with a huge collective shout, the 1967 Wilson School freshman football team stormed out onto the field at Summerton High to warm up.
They were almost done with their calesthenics when a loud roar erupted behind them. Brady turned to see a river of football players sprint onto the other end of the field and form lines. Many looked huge to him. "Keep your mind on your job, gentlemen!" Mr. Glendon shouted, and they turned back to their warmup exercises. Many, however, kept stealing glances back at their opponents.
"They don't look like freshmen," whispered Chase Morgan, a stocky kid who was the other guard on offense along with McShane.
McShane pushed Morgan into position in the huddle they were forming to run through some basic plays. "They're not, asshole. Summerton always loads up when we play them, sends a lot of their varsity guys down to kick our asses. They enjoy that kind of thing."
"Wait a second," Evan Creed said, looking suddenly a bit pale. "We're going to be playing their varsity?"
"Some of 'em, at least," McShane said coolly. "They ran a lot of their varsity at us for three quarters last year until they had us down pretty bad, then they let the real freshmen and stuff play the last quarter."
"How bad was last year?" someone asked in a trembly voice.
McShane waved his hand dismissively. "42 - 7," he answered. We sucked last year, this'll be a lot better. I barely even played. Glendon's an idiot like that."
Brady glanced at Doug, whose face held the same mix of trepidation and anger that he felt rising in him. "Well, they are NOT gonna beat us like that. I'm not gonna be scared by a bunch of assholes like that!" He was shouting by the end. And the entire team roared its agreement.
Mr. Glendon sent Brady and Evan out for the coin toss. Three large Summerton players approached from their sideline. Brady quickly could see that these guys were indeed way past freshmen. The realization, again, made him both a little frightened and very angry. They shook hands wordlessly, and Summerton won the toss. As they separated, one of their captains leaned in towards Brady. "We're gonna fuck you up, little preppy boy."
"Die trying, asshole," Brady shot back. The guy grinned at him and turned away.
"Cool it, Brady, we're not supposed to take the bait, remember?" Evan castigated him as they jogged back to the sideline.
"Fuck it, they're two-bit bullies," Brady answered angrily. "They're like the guys who used to steal kids' lunch money and stuff. We go after them and don't show weakness, they'll wilt. You watch, you'll see."
The game didn't start well. Brady, kicking off, made a hash of the job, sending a broken backed low knuckleball barely to the 20 yard line. Luckily, it was so poor a kick, bouncing wildly, that it wasn't fielded cleanly or returned very far. Brady lined up at right end on defense, in a three point stance, and looked at the alarmingly big tackle across from him. It was the guy who'd taunted him at the coin toss, and as he got down into his stance, he grinned.
Brady had been hit hard before, but this was a whole new level. He felt himself lifted up and thrown sideways like a rag, the force of the blow left him seeing stars. He spun to the inside, around behind the blocker, and was run over from behind by a large truck. He got up a long second later to find that his maneuver had taken him right into the ball carrier's path, and he'd fallen over Brady's back. No gain.
Brady tried to blink his vision clear again as his teammates slapped him on the back and helmet. McShane even took his hand for a second. "Good job, Conover. Keep it up."
The next several plays went in other directions, and Brady did little but watch in dismay as the Summerton team plowed its way down the field. McShane was making many tackles on that side from his linebacker position, as was Doug at the other defensive end. Brady quickly learned that though there was no way he could stand toe to toe against the Summerton linemen, he was quicker than any of them,. And if he guessed right he could shoot gaps and create general havoc. On a play from near midfield, he did just that, squirting inside the tackle's lumbering block and hitting the Summerton quarterback from his blind side, dead in the small of his back. The strangled cry of pain the quarterback made as he buckled to the ground, the ball falling from his hand, raised some ugly atavistic emotion in Brady: he'd hurt the motherfucker, and he liked doing it. Chase Morgan, whose stocky legs were standing him in good stead as a nose guard, fell on the fumble, and the surprisingly large crowd in the stands behind the Summerton bench groaned.
Playing on offense, however, was another matter. There Brady and the rest of his team had no choice but to engage their opponents physically, and they got creamed. Amazingly, after they punted the ball, the first quarter ended, with Brady and the rest of his team feeling like they'd been in a war.
Summerton pressed hard on them in their next drive, and the Wilson line slowly buckled. Brady tried shooting a gap again, only to have a quick pitch sweep go right past him and up the sideline, the last twenty yards, for a touchdown. The Summerton fans cheered, and McShane was swearing in Brady's ear. "Stay at home, asshole! Don't lose fucking contain on 'em!" He was right, and Brady was both angry at himself and ashamed.
On the extra point, the Summerton line forgot to block Brady, and he sped in untouched toward the holder, who seemed to be trying to get the ball down for the kick in slow motion. Brady dove headlong into him, smacking his chest down where the ball was supposed to be placed. The ball skittered away, but the kicker, after an instant's hesitation, trode forward anyway and kicked Brady square in the chest. The blow luckily struck the breastplate of his pads, but it knocked the wind out of him nonetheless. He struggled to his feet, wheezing. "Nice block, asshole," the kicker sneered at him,. "See how well you play after that."
The rest of the half seemed like a continual bulldozing. Summerton scored two more touchdowns, though they botched both extra points again. The halftime score was 18 - 0, and most of the Wilson team felt they were lucky to have it that close. Mr. Glendon let them chew on orange slices and rest, in the shade of a large oak tree, for a good five minutes efore gathering them. "OK, who wants to quit? We're down, they're bigger and they've used JV and some varsity players against us, and we're hurting. Who's done?" No one spoke. "We all in together? Good. Because I have a little secret to tell you." He leaned forward, and the boys, curious, gathered closer as he spoke softly, grinning like a conspirator. "We're better than they are. We're quicker than they are. They're slow and fat not in shape, and if we start running our counters it'll open up all sorts of things. They can't chase you boys all over the field for the full game, they'll gas out. You guys didn't see it, but I did. By the end of the half they were already gassed. Are we gassed? Keep using your speed, attack with speed, and good things are going to happen."
They received the second half kickoff (Summerton's kicker doing an even worse job than Brady had), and the counter started to work. Summerton's linebackers were stumbling, unable to decide which way to pursue, and slow to react when they did decide. Evan Creed was a clever ball handler, and Jack Spencer combined size with a surprising speed that led to some big gains. After five counter runs in a row, Evan faked a run and lofted an arcing pass to Alan Black. No one came close to him, and he scored easily. In the huddle, everyone was jabbering excitedly. "Shut up, guys., we're going for two here," Evan barked.
"Run it over me, I'll kick that guy's ass." McShane had been increasingly mouthy to the Summerton defenders as the drive had unfolded.
"They expect us to run, and to go counter. We just served them a full dose of that. They'll fly after it. Brady - one count and slant in. Let's go!" Brady felt himself tremble as he lined up to the left. The tackle guy he'd been across from all day was angry, but panting alarmingly. "Come at me now, bastards," he growled.
On the snap, Brady lunged inside as if to block him for a counter play around left end. The tackle cut outside, leaving him untouched. He ran six fast strides diagonally to the center, into the end zone, turned, and just as his hands came up Evan's pass hit him squarely in the belly. He clutched it and eased up, smiling.
He never saw the opposite linebacker, who apparently didn't like being scored on. The clothesline hit was like being shot. He nearly flipped over completely, his helmet flying off, and he fell heavily, Hold on to the ball was his one clear thought as he tumbled limply, his hands practically puncturing holes in the leather. He did manage to hold on, and whistles blew all about him as the referees ran in to call a foul on the tackle.
As Brady sat up slowly, he heard more noise, and more whistles. Ian McShane had cut the legs out on the guy who'd clotheslined Brady, apparently hurting his knee, and was now doing his level best to beat him to death. Other players from both teams started to help their respective players, and an ugly fight seemed imminent. The refs shoved boys back, shouting angrily. Brady watched this spectacle with mild and foggy bemusement, as if from a great distance. Mr. Glendon was amid the flurry now, yelling at the Wilson boys to step back. All did, except McShane, who tried again to hurl himself at a Summerton player. He was swearing at the top of his lungs, and colorfully (Brady had, in two weeks of prep school, already become a connoisseur of obscenity, and he found himself making a mental note of some of McShane's better combinations).
"Bray, you OK?" Doug was kneeling next to him, trying to help him to his feet.
Brady snapped back to reality at the sound of his voice, and stood. "I'm fine," he said. Then, conscious that he still was holding the ball, he raised it over his head to show the Summerton players. He considered spiking it the way he'd seen Homer Jones of the Giants do it, but he was standing still so it wouldn't look as cool, and given the situation the refs probably wouldn't appreciate it. Mr. Glendon was now dragging McShane back toward the sideline.
"They kicked McShane and the guy who cheap shotted you out," Doug said calmly.
"Why'd they kick McShane out? The other guy deserved it."
Doug smiled. "Well, maybe he deserved something, but not the kick in the nuts McShane gave him after the ref pulled him off the guy the first time." They looked at each other and started laughing. The Summeron linebacker was now being helped off the field. Brady noticed that as he reached the sideline, he buckled over and started puking. Their laughter increased, and soon the entire Wilson team was roaring at Summeron's discontent.
Summerton fell apart. Brady's kickoff was huge, coming down at the goal line, and the returner bobbled it badly before getting buried just past the 10. Conditioning indeed began to tell. The Wilson players were faster, they couldn't be blocked by the tiring Summerton linemen. Wilson got the ball back and drove the field, with Jack Spencer crashing over for the touchdown, leaving two Summerton players on their backs. This time Jack ran in the conversion. 18 -16, as the third quarter ended.
Brady was still foggy from being hit, but also in a state of complete exhilaration. Another deep kickoff, another botched return, another defensive stand (with Brady putting another punishing blind side hit on the Summerton quarterback), and they had the ball again. "All right," Even muttered in the huddle, "they've been chasing the counter all half. Let's counter the counter." The entire huddle broke into cheers and laughter, and their laughing as they ran to line up visibly disturbed the Summerton defense.
Brady knew what he wanted to do to the tackle he'd been battling all day. At the snap, he lunged out as if to block him for a counter play to go around the end on his side, but pretended to stumble as if he'd missed the block. "Damn!" he shouted loudly. The tackle sprinted past him, following Jack Spencer to the outside, sure that he had the play. When Alan Black took the ball, at full speed, from Jack to sprint around to the other side, the entire Summerton defense froze for a moment in disbelief. The tackle stopped, and started to turn to pursue the other way. The last thing he saw was Brady, with a good five yard head of steam, hurtling toward him. The impact sent him tumbling backwards, almost flipping over completely. He made no effort to get up. Brady stood over him for a moment. "You just got had, pal."
The play got them down to the Summerton 5.
A new tackle replaced the guy Brady had been facing (that boy needing some help to leave the field). He was likewise big, and older looking, but his face was fearful. Brady had beaten the guy ahead of him, and he was scared of what Brady might do to him. Brady glanced down the line, and saw the same fear in the rest of the Summeron defense. The battle was won, even before Jack Spencer ran straight over the middle linebacker, sending him flying even more theatrically than what Brady had done to his man, to score the touchdown that put Wilson ahead to stay.
The clock ran out on a 24-18 victory, and Brady felt like a god. He, Evan, Jack Spencer, and Doug hugged on the field, bouncing up and down, and shouting. Alan Black leaped headlong into their midst screaming inarticulately and scattering them. Doug took Brady into a crushing embrace. The bridge of Doug's nose was cracked open and bleeding, his face was streaked with his blood and dirt and sweat, and he was the most beautiful thing Brady had ever seen. Their embrace lasted far longer than it should have.
The only member of the Wilson team not celebrating was Ian McShane. He was in the Guppy, shoulder pads off, slouched in the back row.
Mr. Glendon gathered them together after several minutes. "So, was this fun?" They roared. "Was this how Cavaliers fight?" Another roar. "Was this a win?" The loudest one yet. "All right, now listen: You boys just essentially beat their varsity. You might not have realized it, but they brought more and more of their first string guys over as the game got out of hand towards the end, not to mention the boys they used on you all game long. You fought, you were better conditioned, and you were all ferocious gentlemen - almost." His lips compressed a bit, and everyone knew who he was referring to.
Brady felt obligated to speak up. "Sir, I know Ian got out of hand but he was defending me after I got cheap shotted -"
"I know what happened, Conover. And the referees called it. That boy was going to be ejected from the game anyway. Ian lost his composure, and got himself ejected too, which weakened us. That loss of composure let all of you down. I know the desire to protect a teammate, and I appreciate it. But you do it within the rules. I won't have anyone on this team pull a stunt like that again. Clear?" The response was less enthusiastic this time. "All right, let's get loaded up, you all need some dinner."
McShane looked like he wanted to kick someone else in the balls when they got on the bus. Brady hesitated a moment, then went back to him. "Look, I - I'm sorry you got, you know, thrown out. I - I appreciate you standing up for -"
"Can it. If you'd had half a brain you'd have protected yourself and it never would have happened. All this is your fault."
"Ian, I -"
"I don't want fucking sympathy from some ignorant hick who doesn't know how to play football and belongs with those assholes instead of with us. Go fuck yourself, Conover."
Brady was torn between anger and pity for a moment. He decided to leave it. "OK, well, anyway, thanks again."
"Bite me."
The shower room back at the gym was boisterous, with Jack and Evan snapping wet towels at everyone they could. Alan Black got a nasty looking welt on his left asscheek, though he laughed about it even as he groaned from the sting. Brady found himself idly musing about what a really nice ass Alan had. Doug started singing the fight song loudly and off key, and the rest of the team soon joined in. The laughter was infectious and irrepressible, the closeness palpable. They became a team that day, that hour, in those few minutes together, celebrating exhausted and un-self-consciously naked together in an overheated shower room.
Brady was towelling his hair when Doug appeared next to him, in front of their lockers. He smiled at Brady a moment, then hugged him tightly. Their nude bodies slapped together. Brady was conscious of Doug's penis against his leg, and of his own jabbing into Doug's hip. The skin was velvety, the muscles beneath smooth and supple. He couldn't breathe, or move. "Oh God," he croaked out.
"I know," Doug whispered into his ear, the warmth of his breath raising goose flesh down Brady's neck. "This was so cool, wasn't it?" He pulled back, hands still on Brady's shoulders, and looked at him.
"God, Doug, your nose looks awful," Brady said, raising a finger to trace the gouge that ran between his eyebrows. He wanted to kiss it, caress it, heal it.
"It'll be OK, I already had Mr. Otis look at it. I don't even need stitches, just a better fitting helmet." He laughed. "We kicked their asses, Bray. Their fucking varsity!" His fingers were digging into Brady's shoulders. Brady's hands were on Doug's sides, just above his waist.
They fell silent and gazed at each other for a long second. Brady's hands started to slide down a bit onto Doug's hips. He was breathing in shallow gasps. He was starting to get hard. He abruptly turned and sat down, tossing his towel over his lap in what he hoped would appear to be a casual manner. "That was so neat, I know. You were great, Doug, you know that, right?"
Doug stood a moment, then moved back to his locker. "Thanks, so were you." He yanked his underwear up, facing away from Brady. The distance between them, the chasm that Brady knew he didn't dare to cross, was agonizing. Brady looked down, couldn't look up at him again. If he did, he'd say it, and it would all be lost. A moment later, Doug wordlessly strode out from his locker, headed for the dining hall. Brady sat, head down. He didn't care if he was late for dinner or got stung for it. He couldn't face his life, not right then, for a little while.
Why did all his best moments in life now seem reduced to nothing, simply because he couldn't have Doug? How pathetic was this? For the first time, dark thoughts entered his mind: this isn't worth it, I need to just end everything. I can't do this. God, what can I do?
The night he was in was pitch black, and the longer he contemplated things, the less he saw any way out.