index


Message-ID: <34445asstr$1010113810@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "empath :{)" <empath69@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} "Sleeping With the Enemy" {Empath} (MF rom)
Date: Thu,  3 Jan 2002 22:10:10 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d


I'm not dead - just haven't been writing much.  My Xmas vacation gave me a 
chance to finish this story off from last year. (omg; tempus fugit, doesn't 
it?:)

Just wanted to prove that I've still got it.:)
Enjoy.

Empath
(p.s. and that warning I wrote was provoked by a bad mood - don't take it 
personally:)


_________________________________________________________________
MSN Photos is the easiest way to share and print your photos: 
http://photos.msn.com/support/worldwide.aspx


<1st attachment, "Enemy.txt" begin>

SUBJECT LINE:
{ASSM} "Sleeping With the Enemy" {Empath} (MF rom)


Warnings:  Smoking makes you stink.  Alcohol makes you
behave like an asshole.  And reading this stuff too much
can make you go blind.  Oh, and 'no' FUCKING WELL MEANS
'no,' you idiot, leave her alone!

(What? Oh, right)

If you're not of legal age and read this, I'll find out and
tell your parents.


Copyright notice: I, the author of this tawdry pile of
maudlin feelings masquerading as smut, hold all rights of
reproduction to this work of prose.  Private copies for
personal perusal and archives for NON-commercial
distribution are permitted.


Plea for attention: If you liked this, email me.  If you
didn't like this, email me and tell me why.  I'm not
getting paid to do this, and I swear I don't harvest email
addys.  Just remember how good you'll make me feel that you
actually READ this.  After all, Mark Twain said, "The best
way to cheer yourself up is to try to cheer someone else
up."  You may contact me at <empath69@hotmail.com>


Author's Note: Yeah, another 'vanilla romance' - big
surprise! :D  I've accepted that this is all I'm able to
think about sexually, probably because I'm a married man
who's been unwillingly separated from his darling wife and
hasn't even HELD her for F*I*V*E M_O_N_T_H_S now; I'm
surprised I can still remember enough to write *erotica*!
;)

(Update sidenote: It's now been ten months, a quick two-
week visit, and another two months; let's just say I'm the
'master of my domain'. :)

The setting for this one is a little different, but
typically something I've been thinking about at the time; a
'friend' got me hooked on pro hockey again - two guesses as
to which team.:) I will say this - I've gotten my money's
worth out of that playoff series! :D

-------


Sleeping With the Enemy
By Empath
Copyright, 2001
===============

Jersey-Baal:  Yep, just one more game and we've got this
one wrapped up.

Cane-Master:  Shut yer cakehole!  We're on our home ice
this time, and your goon Stevens isn't going to lure us off
like last time - we burned off our anger.

Jersey-Baal:  Sure - in the penalty boox!  And it was your
OWN box, I might add, so don't crow about home-ice
advantage.  AND Stevens is still in fine shape, I see...

Cane-Master:  Yeah, and you're probably pleased as punch at
Willis and Francis laid up, you jherk!

Storm-Warning:  Master!  Lay off!  You know what Baal feels
about that - he's said his piece!

Jersey-Baal:  <pouting>  Yes - thanks Storm - I've already
given my sympathies for your injured players; I never
wanted to see anyone laid up be they in red, black and
white, or...red, white and black? heh. :J

Cane-Master:  maybe...maybe.  but you were gloating, baal.

Jersey-Baal:  youre right - i'm sorry for rubbing it in;
but can you blame me?

Cane-Master: dang right I can!

Storm-Warning:  Yes, we can, baal. <g>

Jersey-Baal:  LOL  Okay, okay my bad.

NO1-NJfan:  Hey guys - I finally got that thesis finished;
have we won the cup again yet?

Cane-Master:  <giving raspberry>

Storm-Warning:  Deep sigh.

Jersey-Baal:  <shaking head>  Fanone?  Give 'em their due -
they've got a decent enforcer (even *I* have to admit it)
and possibly the best goalie in the league

Storm-Warning:  WHOA - what's this; Baal spouting blasphemy
against the Great Brodeur?!?

Cane-Master:  gimme a break - now youre just kissing up,
baal! <g>

Jersey-Baal:  Hey, hey - I did say 'possibly'  I think
Irbe's got more endurance than Marty; he's smaller too -
factor that in!


I sat back and restrained the urge to add that I'd seen
little 'Archie' stop enough goals first-hand to know his
ability; as far as anyone in my favorite chat room was
concerned, I was just a New Jersey Devils fan, not actually
a PLAYER...

           *           *           *           *

Finally, some ice time!  I know I wasn't getting much - we
needed Scott Gomez to zip through and score goals more than
ol' Reggie 'Rabbit' Hoffman to dodge the enforcers and set
things up.

I'm one of the faster skaters in the league, and the
undisputed champion in one statistic it seems only I bother
keeping; I've never been hit hard since I started playing
hockey.  Never injured or concussed - not when I was in
high school, nor when I played minor league.  Not when I
got on the Saint John Flames - Calgary's farm team, nor in
the season I played for the Big Flames.  And not once in
about an hour of playing time with the Devils this season.
Yes, I've been checked plenty of times, but every time
someone comes in fast and hard to punish me, I always slip
clear of it.  And I'll let you in on a secret - it's 'cause
I'm psychic.

Or something like that - I can't speak with your dead
uncle, or anything!  I just seem to have this 'sixth sense'
that acts like a proximity alarm.  If someone's barreling
down at me - even from behind - I know it and can react to
either get clear completely, or shift enough so he'll sort
of make a glancing blow and most of the force misses me.
Maybe it's just a savant-ish ability to visualize the rink,
everyone on it and track their movements; which means I've
got a good career waiting for me in air traffic control
when I start to get old!  Maybe I've got a guardian angel,
or some kind of ESP.  I don't know which it is, but I'm not
complaining.

So that's my strength - my weakness is I can't shoot worth
a damn.  Passing's just fine - I'm okay with stick- and
puck handling - but I if I hit the puck with the force for
a shot on goal, I lose all my accuracy.  It's been tracked
down to a broken arm I had when I was a kid - the bones
knitted together a little weird and my wrist tends to
'break' when I need it to hold.  I've worked hard for YEARS
and never been able to improve.  And I have a goose egg in
that 'goals' column of my career stats because of it.

And I'm not the biggest guy, either, so that eliminates me
from enforcer duty.  I'm good at keeping the puck from the
other player, so I'm on the 'penalty-killing team' - and
not likely to get long periods of ice-time: two minutes
here, a minute there.

So that's why getting this little bit of ice-time was so
important to me; it was game four of our series with last-
place Carolina.  They were trailing by three games and this
would almost certainly be the final nail in their coffin.
This probably also influenced Robinson's decision to put me
on the starting lineup - New Jersey could afford to 'rest
up' their best players a little.  Like I said, I'm good at
what I do (avoiding hits) but my only talent wasn't
terribly useful for gaining a lead.

Marek Malik - Carolina's chief enforcer - was after me
right from the start.  He stayed close to me and was in my
face every time the puck came within fifteen feet.  I kept
him at arm's length, if not stick's length, but soon I
started avoiding the puck - to keep Malik away from the
shooters.

It worked but soon we were down one goal. I got rotated off
to let the goal-getters do their work.  So be it - I'd done
my bit to help the team by drawing off that goon.

About three minutes before the first intermission - and
after we'd caught up with the Hurricanes - I got sent back
in and was hanging near the center line and along the
boards on our left side, Malik drifting a little further
than usual - a mistake.  Arnott passed to me and I kicked
it into gear, getting past Malik and shooting the puck back
to Arnott before we crossed the blue line.

At this point the pressure on Carolina's left side
distracted their enforcer and he forgot about me.  I
hovered about eight feet from the right corner of the net,
and got my chance - a sloppy block by Irbe came in my
direction.  The goalie was obscured by my teammate Mogilny
and Malik wasn't anywhere in sight.  I trapped the puck,
leaned off and made a medium-strength shot for the near
corner.

It was perfect; the puck flew straight and true, heading
for a point about three inches in from the pipes.  And then
that...that BASTARD leaned back and deflected it!  A
perfect shot - something I *never* managed - and Archie
*couldn't* have seen it coming, yet the little fucker
blocked it as if it was sending out warning signals!

The puck had gone into the crowd, and we had a short break
before a face-off.  I skated up to the goal, frustrated.
Shifting my mouth guard, I hollered "Dammit, Irbe!  I had a
clear shot that you couldn't have seen; how'd you DO that?"

The small goalie in red looked at me with a twinkle in his
eye and retorted "Come on, Reggie.  Everyone knows that
Archie outsmarts the rich kid before the end of the comic!"

I stared at him dumbfounded for a moment, then burst out
laughing.  I skated back to my spot on the face-off circle
with my left glove obscuring my face to keep the cameras
picking up rather atypical behavior in a pro hockey player.

I still had a smile on my face when the puck slipped past
me to the boards.  I trapped it...and felt someone coming.
And closer than usual.  Shit.  I was stationary, and facing
the boards.  I fired the puck off to my left and dodged to
the right as much as I could...

It didn't work this time.  The check winded me as I was
smacked into the boards, my helmet hitting the glass.  Then
I felt a hand grab my head and pull me back.  Oh fuck -
this was probably Malik looking to scare off the 'Rabbit'!

Time slowed as my head came forward to meet the glass, and
I looked beyond it into the crowd.  A big sea of red and
white jerseys with screaming faces above them.  Great, this
bunch of home team fans would be happy to see 'the vile
bad-guy' beaten before them.

But one wasn't.  She was sitting right in front of me - I
had no choice but look at her.  She was wearing a Carolina
home jersey, and her hair - possibly blonde - was dyed red.
But her eyes had a look of fear and concern in them, not
rage and bloodlust.  That stunned me almost as much as the
hit against the glass.

Well, maybe not.  My right temple burst in pain, and my
whole head ached - this was going to be my first major-
league concussion.  Hah - sorry for the double-entendre.  I
dropped my stick and felt my knees give out as the stadium
decided to tilt around a little.  My last conscious thought
was the other odd feature about the worried 'Canes fan -
she had a red-and-black marking on either cheek; a black
square surrounded by a larger red one.  That was a harbor
signal flag.  Storm warning.

           *           *           *           *

Then someone ripped all my nose hairs out.  Well, that's
what it seemed like at first.  As the ammonia took hold, I
shot back to consciousness with a body-wide spasm.  My eyes
teared a little, and I started snorting to get the painful
smell out of my nose.

"Easy!  Easy, Reggie."  Someone held me down, but let me
bring my hand up to wipe my eyes and waft some fresh air
toward my nose.  "Shit - I hate that stuff; isn't there any
other way of waking someone up?"

"Worked, didn't it?"  The team doctor's face appeared above
my own, surrounded by a halo created by fluorescent lights.
He shone a light in my eyes.  "Yep, you're out of it -
that's a nasty concussion you've got; you might not play on
Friday."

"Friday?  Nobody'll be playing Friday!  Oh, no - don't tell
me.  How long have I been out?"  The doctor left my vision.

"It's halfway through the second and we're down by one.
We've had plenty of time to patch up that eyebrow of yours.
If it's any consolation, Stevens here took Malik out for
you."  I turned my head with a little pain to look at our
captain getting his nose examined.

"Get into a little fist-up, Scott?"

The doctor responded for the injured man.  "Nah, he had
Marek face down on the ice and was sitting on him.  Got
jumped by - oh, what's his name?"

"Langdon," Stevens replied with a nasal tone.

"Yeah, the little guy gave this one here a taste of his own
medicine."

Scott grunted.  The doc finished with him, and he stood to
check me out.  "So, Rabbit; sorry to see your hit-free
record end."

I waved thanks.  "Ah, it's Irbe's fault."  That made him
look at me weird.  "Seriously, he cracked a joke after
blocking my *beautiful* shot, and I was still laughing at
it when Malik snuck up on me."

"Tsk.  Oh, well - you won't have to worry about him for a
game or two."

"Yeah, but what's the point?  He doesn't have to worry
about ME for a game or two, either!"  We chuckled and I
urged him back out to the game.

Then the doc came over checked my vision.  "How many
fingers, Reggie?"

"Two up, two down and a thumb stuck out sideways - does
that count?"

He laughed.  "It'll do; let's try sitting you up."

That wasn't fun; the back of my head started aching the
moment it left the bench, and the room swayed a little as I
changed my position.  My stomach lurched, and after gagging
for a second, I asked, "Did Malik suck the fluid from my
ears while he was at it?  Damn!"  I put an arm out to
buttress my body that wanted to sit about thirty degrees
out of straight up.

"Nah, that's just the concussion.  What - is this your
first?"

"As far as I can remember."

"Well, the big thing is no sleeping until I'm sure you're
safe.  No moving around if you don't have to - as you've
discovered your balance is shot.  No TV or computers, and
if you want to listen to music, no headphones."

"Shit - nag, nag, nag.  If you thought I went out of my way
to avoid heavy hits, just watch me NOW!"

           *           *           *           *

It was almost eight the next morning before the doc said my
concussion had cleared enough to let me sleep.  I was
disappointed to hear we lost in overtime; now I'd actually
miss a game due to injury.

Because my sleep had been delayed so long, I missed
travelling with the rest of the team back to New Jersey.
The doctor stayed with me, and we caught a later flight,
leaving me to arrive at the stadium halfway through the
practice.  I stepped out into the stands in plain clothes -
the doc hadn't given me clearance to play - and watched my
teammates go at it.

"So, the Rabbit finally got bit by a hound.  Feeling
better?"  It was the coach, Mr. Larry Robinson, looking at
me through the glass around the players' bench.

"Eh, okay.  The doc says I'm not ready to play today, but
I'll be clear for tomorrow.  Not that you'll let me play
after my performance."  I shrugged and gave a one-sided
smile to indicate no malice in that statement.

"Why not?  You almost scored a goal - a miraculous feat
considering your shooting ability.  And you indirectly took
out Carolina's chief enforcer, not to mention keeping him
busy for much of the first period."

"So you mean-"

"No, but not for any fault of yours - we've lost the
momentum and have to concentrate our best players against
them now.  No offense, Reggie."

"None taken.  Think anyone'll mind if I blow?"

"What good are you?  You can't play and you're too ugly
to cheer!"

"Thanks coach, thanks a lot."  I made for the exit with a
smile on my face.

           *           *           *           *

Most of my email was Spam - you'll be glad to hear us
'famous celebrities' get just as much as you 'peons'.  Mom
had sent me some pictures of dad in his new boat; a little
thing with a lug sail for puttering around the bay in.  He
looked like a child at Christmas - the old boy had been a
fisherman all his life, and even though I send enough money
home to take care of them, he still wanted to get out on
the water.

The next email was from Coach Robinson, thanking me for
'taking one for the team' and hoping I would be able to
suit up and keep my usual place on the bench warm.  I
checked the time - when he sent it I was still in Raleigh.

Then I checked out my 'chat' email account.  There were a
couple of 'Where are you?' letters, and one from "Cane-
Master" gloating right back - he assumed I didn't log on
after the game out of shame.  As usual, he kept his goading
humorous, and I finished a retort back at him with a smile
on my face.

The last one was from an unrecognized email address, and I
was on my guard - more than one person had divined my email
and sent me threats.  Then I reminded myself that that was
with my 'Reggie Hoffman' email - here I was just an
anonymous Devils fan; strangers weren't to be automatically
suspected of being stalkers.

This one had the subject "Reggie gets foiled by redhead
Archie, then pounded by 'Moose' Malik" - I chuckled but
still debated whether to open it or not; curiosity got the
better of me.

-----

To: Jersey-Baal@yahoo.com
From: SandraW91@aol.com
Subject: Reggie gets foiled by redhead Archie, then pounded
by 'Moose' Malik
Date: 04-19-2001, 0839h EDT

Hi.  I hope I've gotten this right, if not I apologize,
'Baal' for taking up your time with inappropriate 'fanmail'

That said, I'm going to assume I'm right in my guess - hi,
Reggie.  I've had some suspicions that you were an actual
PLAYER from the way you talk on the chats.  When 'Baal'
never logged on last night - the night you, Mr. Hoffman,
got that horrible hit from Malik, I was fairly convinced
*which* player you were.

And I must apologize for that hit - I was in a position to
see every gruesome detail.  I think you've got a convert in
the 'down with goon hockey' crusade, now that I've seen one
such hit up close!

I hope you recover soon, and aren't in too much pain or
discomfort.  I also hope you're able to come back to the
chat room soon!

Again, if this isn't Reginald Hoffman of the New Jersey
Devils, I apologize.  And if not, I beg of you, "Jersey-
Baal", to keep this embarrassing situation between us.  As
a guarantee, I'm using my main email address and not my
'Storm Warning' one.

Sincere wishes for good health regardless,
Sandra "Storm Warning" Warner

P.S. Another reason I hope you're able to suit up for
Sunday's game - you're rather cute and I wouldn't mind
having something to look at when you trounce us! ;^)

-----

I sat at the computer, dumbfounded.  She'd figured me out!
I had tried to restrain myself whenever I could so I
wouldn't give clues that I was a member of the NHLPA - or
let slip stuff about the Devils that shouldn't be publicly
known!  And yet, there'd been enough for 'Sandra' here to
suspect something, and this damn concussion had been the
'smoking gun' for her!

My head spun a little and I looked away from the screen.
'Keep your perspective, Reg,' I told myself, 'so a fan -
well, not even a fan, a friend on a chat board - has found
a chat alias of yours.  Big deal - if she gets to be a
problem, you can always just drop this account and alias,
and get another one.  It's not like you've been caught
fondling women's underwear at a store or something!'

I closed down the email without logging off, and got up to
get a soda.  The postscript nagged at me most, though.
'Storm' thought I was cute.  This was flattering, but I
couldn't reciprocate even if I did reply.  I'd seen her at
the game, but couldn't remember anything about her!  I
didn't know if she was tall or short - she'd been sitting,
after all.  That oversized jersey hid whether she was fat
or skinny.  And I couldn't tell - from the brief glance I'd
had - if she was cute, plain or butt-ugly; the face paint
and long, dyed hair obscured some of it, but my concussion
prevented me from remembering any features beyond a pair of
worried blue eyes!

In fact, all I knew about her...was a fair deal, actually.
'Storm-Warning' had been on the chat boards for at least as
long as my eight months.  She was a mild fan of her team -
more than once she'd given public praise for someone else's
team doing quite well.  She was moderate on political
issues and didn't seem to have any 'sacred cows' there;
she'd poke fun at government and politicians as easily as
players, owners, media people or fans that deserved it.

In short, she was the 'New Jersey - Carolina playoff' chat
room's voice of reason; if people got personal or out of
hand, and Storm was around, she could be counted on to calm
things down.

We'd passed emails back and forth for a couple of months,
and that really helped me learn what she was like - what
she believed in, her political and religious opinions, her
taste in music.

I blushed when I also remembered that she and I had gotten
rather...intimate for a while, not too long ago.  It was
one thing when it was totally anonymous, with no risk of
real-life contact.  Now?  Now it was unsettling; there was
a real body attached to that disembodied mind I'd been
dealing with.  Harmless flirtation had changed into
something...else.

And then there was the loss of privacy and anonymity - she
knew who I was...or did she?  I could always deny it; make
her think she'd jumped to the wrong conclusion.  She *had*
couched her conclusion with some disclaiming apologies.
Maybe I could -

My train of thought stopped; did I *want* to do this?  So
she knew who I was - Storm had always proved herself to be
a dependable person; I thought of her as a friend, even
though we'd never met.  She wasn't the sort to blab it all
over the chat boards.  Of anyone, she was just about the
only person I chatted with who *wouldn't* do this - right
now, the Carolina fans would use it against me, and the New
Jersey fans would flood me with questions and well-wishes,
bringing around almost the same result!

No, better to be honest with her; I sat back down and wrote
the following reply:

-----
To: SandraW91@aol.com, Storm-Warning@yahoo.com
From: Jersey-Baal@yahoo.com
Subject:  One snared Rabbit! :-)
Date: 04-19-2001, 1451h EDT

Well.  I guess it was just a matter of time.  I'm relieved
that it was a discreet person such as you; even an ardent
supporter like 'NO1-NJfan' would make things uncomfortable
for me on the boards!

Yes, Reginald 'Rabbit' Hoffman and 'Jersey-Baal' are one in
the same.  I'd hoped to keep my posts to the chats
anonymous enough, but I suppose a BRILLIANT deductive mind
such as yours would have found me out before long.
</suck-up>

The concussion is almost cleared up, but I still don't know
whether I'll be able to suit up for Sunday's game.  Odds
are I won't be playing in any case - the pressure's back on
for my team!  I imagine YOU'RE happy about the standings -
at least SOMEONE is! <g>

You know?  This actually feels a little liberating - now I
have someone I can speak honestly to.  Now I can dump all
my problems with my peers and my bosses on you! <j/k>

Anyway, good job in sniffing me out, 'hound!'  I'm feeling
well enough and thanks for the sympathy!

Reggie 'Jersey-Baal' Hoffman

P.S. I assume you ARE going to be close-lipped about this
discovery, aren't you? :-)

-----

I looked at the screen - why had I left my playability to
question?  The team doctor was confident that the
concussion would have cleared up completely by game time.
Then something popped into my head; an idea.

           *           *           *           *

Game night.  Part of my soul ached at being up in the
stands, but my common sense reminded the wistful me that
I'd only be sitting watching the game anyway.

I made my way along the stairs, looking around as if I was
trying to find my seat.  In fact I was trying to locate the
small enclaves of Hurricanes fans - who *were* present, but
somewhat subdued by the overwhelming presence of the
locals.  A friend in the ticket office was guessing the
ticket sales would break twenty thousand - quite an
increase; the away loss had stirred up interest, and the
owners would be happy for this turn of events.

I was finding plenty of 'redcoats', and even one or two
with dyed hair, but none had the face paint I was looking
for.  I think one or two people recognized me in my neutral
outfit of a CAT baseball cap and an unmarked jacket with
the collar turned up, but no one mentioned anything - we
benchwarmers can get around fairly well.

I was making my way back to the tunnels to check another
section when a security guard approached me.  "Excuse me,
sir - are you have trouble finding your seat?  Maybe I
could help you if you'd show me your ticket stub?"

Busted.  I pulled down my collar and got my wallet out.
The security guard's frown disappeared when I showed him
some ID.  "Oh!  Sorry, Mr. Hoffman.  I didn't recognize
you."

"Good; that was rather the intention, wasn't it?" I
grinned.

"I guess so.  Sorry you couldn't suit up tonight."

I noticed nobody was saying 'Sorry you couldn't *play*
tonight,' but pushed this thought aside and shrugged.
"Wouldn't have made much difference - they need the first-
string on tonight.  No, I just wanted to watch the game as
a fan, anyway.  Only part of me wants to leave."

"I understand, sir.  If you need anything..."

"That's too kind of you.  I think I'll probably grab a hot
dog or something and find just the right pillar to lean
against and watch the game - don't want to take someone's
seat."

"Okay then; hope you enjoy the game."

"And you, thanks."  I went to the nearest concession stand
- I was getting rather hungry.  I didn't eat much on game
nights on the off chance I'd actually play - throwing up on
the ice once after a sneaky gut-check back in my high
school days was the origin of that.  Now I could eat
without fear of the food disturbing my playing ability.

Reasonably satiated (and totally broke) I resumed my hunt
for 'Storm Warning' - checking with that friend in the
ticket office had brought up a goose-egg on "Sandra
Warner", which made me wonder if she was going to be
watching the game on her TV...

No.  No, she wasn't.  There she was - three rows down and
halfway between the railing and the stairs.  There was
plenty of room around her; we weren't exactly up against
the glass, so I slipped past a couple of obvious Hurricanes
fans to take a seat on the row behind her.

There was still a few minutes before the ceremonies began,
so I took advantage of the lull.  Slipping into the seat
next to her I said, "So you really think I'm cute?"

She jumped half out of her seat, then calmed down when she
recognized me.  "Oh!  You're...here?"

"Yeah, I was a little dizzy, and the doc wasn't certain
about me playing - another hard hit, and..." I shrugged.

"So.  You're really Baal?"  She seemed a little
intimidated.

"That's me," I replied, nodding.

Her hand reached up for my forehead; what was she-?  Oh, my
split eyebrow.  "Oh, that looks bad - does it hurt?"

"Nah, not until someone touches it."  She jerked her hand
away as if electrocuted, making me laugh.  "I'm sorry -
couldn't help it!  It's fine, actually."

"Yes, you're Baal all right!  So how do you take all us
ignorant people ragging about 'lazy players who shouldn't
bother suiting up'?"

"I keep a salt shaker next to the keyboard.  Seriously, I
shrug most of them off as fans speaking solely from their
own limited viewpoint; they want us to entertain them -
preferably by winning games.  We want them to pay us for
the privilege and - like any workers - want to do as little
as possible for it."

"Yeah, but most employees don't have the kind of
occupational hazards that you do!  And an insurance agent
has a longer career than the average player."

"Ah, here comes Stormy the player-defender; I remember you
saying much the same thing back in February."

The woman frowned at me.  "And I recall a certain Devils
fan taking the opposite viewpoint!"

I smiled smugly and examined my fingernails.  "Must've been
someone else - I'm a Devils PLAYER."

My companion was prevented from debating with me further by
the national anthem; we stood and took part like the rest
of the crowd.

When that was over, the game itself drew our attention.  I
enjoyed the different perspective - you could see more of
the game from higher up.  The level of detachment was
greater, too; I was able to enjoy both sides' masterful
moves.

After a few minutes the game began to settle into its
rhythm, and Sandra asked "So, how do you take all this
physical punishment that your 'job' entails?  Wow, I've
never had a chance to talk with an honest-to-goodness
NHL'er!"

I sighed and put my arm around her shoulders.  Smiling, I
told her "And with all due respect, Ms. Warner, you still
don't have the chance - how about we watch the game?  No
offense, but I have the feeling the next little while is
going to be rather important."

She returned her attention to the ice.  "Oh, why - did you
see a special line-up come out?"

"No, it's just that every game this series has been won by
the team that scores the first goal."

"That's bull - superstition!"

"That's statistics; it may be a coincidence, but we'll have
to wait and see.  Besides, athletes are very superstitious
creatures."

We settled down to watching the game, Storm giving me a
half-smile as she did so.  We enjoyed the up-down feeling
of both sides getting scoring opportunities, only to have
these two impassible goalies show their stuff.  We looked
at each other in askance as a pair of players got penalized
for rough play.  "Not exactly a power-play opportunity, is
it?" Storm commented with a mixed expression.  I chuckled.

I'd also taken the opportunity to check out my companion
for the first time. Her height was the easiest to judge -
just a little under my height while sitting, so if we both
were in the same proportion, she'd be a couple of inches
shorter than my 5'10" frame.

Her body was again hidden by that loose jersey - a red
'away' one this time - but I managed to notice a full bust
as well as a bit of a belly on this woman.  So be it - it
wasn't obvious, and didn't influence her behavior.

I hadn't thought much about her looks when I sat down, and
I now realized that was partly because of her get-up; the
face-paint hid a pair of cute dimples, and the red dye
didn't give her hair much help - though her roots looked a
nice color.  Even without the masking, Sandra wasn't an
'attention-grabbing beauty,' but she was definitely a few
levels above 'plain' - particularly when she smiled or
looked hopeful.

Then, halfway through the period, she had plenty of reason
for both expressions - her team scored.  I jerked my head
back to the game with a pleasantly surprised expression.
Storm bounced in her seat a little and reached over to hug
me - I happily reciprocated.  She stiffened in my arms and
withdrew.  "Sorry."

"Why?  I didn't think it was unpleasant!"

"Oh...thanks.  But I mean gloating over-"

"Again, why?  Your team scored; an enjoyable goal, too."

"But it was against your team."

"And I'm on a injury break right now - I'm not here to
cheer for the Devils, I'm here to watch a fun game and
enjoy myself."

Storm looked at me with a slack jaw and an impressed
expression.

I stared off into the rafters and frowned.  "How did that
go again?  'Hockey is a spectator sport - we as fans watch
to enjoy ourselves.  Why should we limit our enjoyment
simply because that amazing goal or sneaky play was against
'our' team?  Loyalty to one team can be fun, but I'm not
going to let it ruin my appreciation of the game.'"

"Wow - nice quote.  Who said that; Don Cherry?"

"No.  Storm-Warning did."

She just stared.  "Come on - it was only a week ago when
you calmed down some angry Toronto and Ottawa fans with
that very statement.  I was so impressed I clipped it and
saved it on my hard drive."

"You did?"

Yeah - if you don't believe me we can stop by my apartment
after the game."  I caught her expression.  "Oh!  Not
that...um, I'd - well," I thought quickly, "Actually I
might have it on my laptop, which is in the locker room."

"You mean-" Storm was cut off by a roar from the crowd.
"Ohshit; what happened?"

"I *think* we scored."  We waited for the details to be
announced.  "Ah, Scotty!" I said with a grin.

"You like Gomez, don't you - you've had a lot of good
things to say about him on the boards."

I shrugged.  "I admire him - he can shoot worth a damn."

"Hey, you're not that bad."

"Yes I am - but I've got an excuse.  Back when I was a kid
I broke my forearm.  When the bones knitted, my wrist got a
little weak, meaning I lose any accuracy when I swing
hard."

"I'm sorry, Reg."  She put her hand on mine.

I shrugged.  "I can't help it - Que sera, sera.  I'm also
one NASTY duffer at golf!"

We laughed and returned to the game.  Soon Carolina was
back up by one - we both cheered that goal.

"See?  First goal gets game.  This isn't the first time
people have noticed this."

Storm looked at me with a grin.  "You're right, some people
can be really superstitious."

"Oh!  That reminds me."  I took my cap off, ran my hand
through my hair three times, replaced my hat with a
deliberate air, stood, turned around counter-clockwise and
sat back with a satisfied smile.

"What's that supposed to do; break the 'first goal' curse?"
she asked, trying not to laugh.

"No," I replied with a sly grin, "just make you laugh."
She did.

As the first intermission came, Sandra looked around.  "I'm
getting hungry - you want to come with me and get
something?"

"In these crowds?"

"That's why I'm asking you quickly, 'Rabbit' - maybe you
can help me slip past some of the crowd."

"Be happy to, but I don't need anything - I pigged out
before the game began."

"Oh, yeah - probably had caviar and pate up in the owner's
box, huh?"

"Hardly!  I got twenty bucks of hot dogs - which isn't as
much as it sounds."

"Yeah, well 'we fans pay your salaries, you puke!'" she
retorted in a whiny voice.  I laughed and led her through
the crowd, sticking close to the wall.

She was right, I like dodging.  I think we managed to cut
past about half the crowd before we got into line.  Mind
you, I had to drag Storm through some tight squeezes and
was almost constantly apologizing.  It was good exercise,
too; I was hungry by the time our line neared the counter
of the kiosk.

"Um, Sandy?"

"Sandra - I'd rather you called me Sandra."

"Sorry - mental note: call her Sandra or maybe 'Storm'.
Um, I don't know how to say this, but I *am* peckish again,
and I didn't bring much cash..."

"You're broke?"

"I only had a twenty in my wallet and I've never eaten
around game time!"

"You mean they made you pay?" she asked, pointing at the
vendors.

"I'm incognito, remember?  And it's not like I'm Holik or
Gomez or Arnott; they can't be expected to recognize every
fourth-stringer!"

"Oh, all right - you're getting a plain hot dog, though."

"Jeez, they SAY they want equal rights, but-" an elbow in
the ribs cut me off and we both laughed.

           *           *           *           *

We took our time getting back to our seats - a little
karmic 'apology' for the toes I'd stubbed on the way out -
and sat down to find the game already under way.

"So, this first goal superstition.  Are you certain about
it?"

I thought before answering.  "Yeah, I think so - this isn't
the first time that I've noticed it.  It doesn't always
happen, but I *feel* this is the case here - Carolina will
take this game."

"Willing to bet on it?  If the 'Canes win, I buy you a
beer; if the Devils come back, you owe me one."

I looked at her.  She was smiling eagerly and offering her
hand.  What the hell?  I shrugged and shook on it.  "Deal."
And we turned our attention to the game.

The second period was inconclusive, but leaning in my
direction - though there were a couple of power plays, and
some good chances on both sides, the score remained
unchanged.

We spent the second intermission talking about the other
playoff teams: how Ottawa, who had been doing so well, had
suddenly died against the Leafs.  How Pittsburgh was faring
against Washington.  How The LA - Detroit competition was
shaping up.

The third period had the usual short burst of energy at the
start, and both teams made plenty of drives against the
goal.  After the umpteenth Carolina attack, Marty ran out
of skill and luck - the score was three to one.

"There, see?  Carolina's two up again - first goal gets
game.  You owe me a beer."

"Hang on, hang on...there might be hope yet."

"What are you talking about?  You're painted up Hurricanes
from head to toe; why would you want them to LOSE?"

"Bullshit pride for myself is more important than for a
team."  She smiled and ran a thumb against her cheek,
smearing the 'flag' painted there.

"You're nuts, woman; look - there's less than a minute to
go."

"Oh, and I want to see you struggle to buy me a beer with
an empty wallet."  Damn, I'd forgotten about that.  Now I
*really* wanted my team to lose - I'd given my credit cards
and ATM card to the team doctor, on the off chance my
concussion made me 'go crazy' like a Buffalo player the doc
knew ages ago who'd gotten punch drunk and bought a
merchant ship.

We must have made an odd couple, an obvious Carolina fan
cheering on the New Jersey offense, and - if you looked
close and knew the teams well - a Devils player urging his
opponents' goalie and defense.

And it looked like Stormy was more convincing in her pleas
- Holik slipped the puck past Archie.  We stood and
cheered, for differing reasons.

"See?  Never get overconfident of the end result."  Sandra
waggled a finger in my face.  "You Devils assumed you'd
sweep us in four straight games.  And you yourself figured
this game was all done."

I shook my head.  "Okay, but there's twenty seconds left."

The woman next to me slipped her arm behind my back and
smiled.  "It's not impossible."  I smiled back and
conspicuously crossed my fingers.

In the end, I was seen through; Irbe and his comrades kept
the puck out of their net.  Storm pursed her lips and said
in a mocking tone "Darn - I lost."

"And also won.  I think I've been suckered."

"Quit bitchin' - I owe you a drink, AND you may well get a
chance to play on Sunday."

"It's an ill wind that blows no one any good."

"Wind, as in 'Storm'?  Funny."

I shrugged.  "Sorry; wasn't intentional.  So want me to
grab my laptop and prove your 'quotability'?"

"Yes.  Even if I do believe you, it'll make me feel good to
know someone's saving comments of mine."

"Right."  We stood and surveyed the crowd.  "We'll have to
get some help to make it past this horde to the locker
room."

"Wait - your locker room?  The Devils' locker room?"

"Yeah.  I *am* a player - that's where I keep my stuff.  In
my locker."

Stormy was temporarily star-struck.  "Oh.  Uh.  Well, I
dunno...hang on; I won't be welcome in there - look at me!"
She threw her arms back and displayed her state of dress.

I smiled.  "Relax, you might make a couple of the guys mope
a little, but they won't hound you out of the room in a
hail of jockstraps and rolls of stick tape!  We ARE grown
men."

The full implications of my last statement struck my
companion.  Her eyes unfocused for a moment and then she
said "Oh.  Oh.  Yeah.  I...guess - but I think we should be
quick about it - I don't want to seem like I'm gloating."

It was harder to find a security guard than it was to get
the rest of our maneuver accomplished; after a few rushed
minutes we were standing in the entrance of the New Jersey
Devils' locker room.

Sandra was agog.  Her jaw was slack and her eyes darted
around to take in the wide variety of details.  She ran her
fingers reverentially over the tag on my locker.  I smiled
as I shifted some clothes around to get at my travel bag.

"Hey, Rabbit!  You do know this loss was YOUR fault!"  Aw,
crap - so much for a quick 'surgical strike.'

Stormy flopped back on the bench as my team captain came
over with a smile, a towel and little else. "You-you-you,
you're..."

"Scott Stevens, team captain, defenceman and designated
tormentor of your team!"  Scott beamed at her and offered
her a hand to shake.  She put her hand in his and let him
pump it in a friendly manner.  "What's up, Reggie - not
satisfied with jinxing us, you're bringing the enemy into
our inner sanctum?"

"Aw, give her a break, Scott!  She's a friend of mine from
the Internet - she figured out who I really was when I
never logged on the night I got concussed.  We spent the
game watching from the stands and talking."

"And your lucky rabbit's foot wasn't on the team bench
where it should have been!"  Scott was poking me playfully
as I took out my laptop and shut my locker.

"Hey, leave him alone - he's still on the injured list!"
Scott and I both looked on her - she'd gotten over her awe
and looked as animated as she was watching the game - back
to her 'old self' you might say.

"Ah, she speaks!  I'm sorry if I upset you there - Reggie
and I tease each other like this all the time.  I'm sorry;
I didn't catch your name."

"Uh, Sandra."

"Well Sandra, in all honesty, the fault for tonight's loss
is probably mine.  Your boys didn't take the bait I was
laying down and decided to play their game instead of
mine."  He shrugged.  "Oh well, we're going to have to out-
score you instead of out-hit."

"Oh.  I'd have to agree with you on that.  But...um, Mr.
Stevens?"  Stormy was still a little intimidated, but
recovering enough to think in addition to talking.

"Yes?"

"Don't take this the wrong way, but...well, I hate you."

Scott threw his head back and laughed uproariously.  "Oh,
SHIT!  Thank you, Sandra - I think you just made my night!
See you at the airport, Rabbit?"  I nodded and he waved
good-bye to us.  "Have a good night, folks!"

Sandra looked me in the eye, her face a mess of conflicting
emotions.  "What the hell just happened?"

"You're in 'Hades', remember - the devils take their horns
off in here.  Scott's just like a professional-wrestling
'villain' - his job is to stir up a desire to attend the
game as much as take out opposing players; he delights in
being booed and hated.  You probably cheered him up to no
end!"

"Oh.  Okay."  She shook her head to clear it and looked at
me.  "So where do you want that beer?"

I smiled.  "You'll forgive me if I don't invite you to my
usual watering hole?  That style of dress probably wouldn't
be welcome."

"Oh, I can change - I'll need someplace to do so, but I've
got other clothes in my car."

"Okay - wanna swing by my apartment?  You can wash off the
cheek-flags.  But you're going to keep the hair, aren't
you?"

"Oh yeah.  I don't wash this out until we drop out of the
playoffs or hoist the Cup."

"Fair enough - I'll have to play hard to see if your blonde
hair is as pretty as I think it is."  That made her look at
me funny as we left the locker room.

           *           *           *           *

Grabbing my laptop turned out to be unnecessary if we were
stopping at my apartment.  Sandra drove us there - I was
still advised against driving and had been planning to
hitch a lift with a teammate.

When we got to my place, I showed her to my bathroom and
chivalrously closed the door to let her clean up and change
undisturbed.  Then I sat down in front of my computer and
started up my Internet service.  I had time to weed out the
Spam from my email before Sandra stepped into the room and
announced her arrival with a corny "Ta-daaa!"

She was just as cute as I imagined: an adorable, cherubic
face, large bust and a subtly prominent belly wrapped in a
satiny white blouse.  Black slacks covered her long legs
but were tight enough to show off their curves.  I gave her
an impressed smile and applauded.

"So - where's this saved quote of mine?"  She stepped up
behind me and looked over my shoulder.  I smirked at her
chipper demeanor and cleared the screen of my open
applications.  "Hey, why're you closing everything..."
Then she saw it.

"You put it on your *wallpaper*?"

"Why not?  It's an excellent 'reality check' quote - a call
for a sense of perspective; even I get a *little* biased at
times."

"I...I'm impressed."

"You should be - of your own eloquence."  I reopened the
web browser and logged out of my email, then the Internet.
When I stood, I crooked my arm for her to join me.  "So, do
I get that beer?"  She smiled and we went off to her car.

           *           *           *           *

The drink became several; 'you don't want that poor beer to
be all alone in your stomach, do you?' sounded like a
convincing argument at the time.  Sandra had just worked
slowly on her one drink in the few hours we spent chatting
and soaking up the atmosphere.

After I'd finished my third beer, I noticed Sandra had
finished hers.  I asked her if she wanted another.  She
shook her head no, and pointed at her watch.

It was fairly late - I normally hit the sack early, and I
was a little woozy, more from the beer than any leftover
concussion.

"Ah, yeah - we'd better get going; would you be kind enough
to give me a lift home?"

"Certainly."

"So where are you staying?  You're not planning on driving
back to Raleigh tonight, are you?"

Stormy shook her head as we got up to leave.  "Nah.  I'm
camping on a friend's couch tonight; I've got all day
tomorrow to wend my way back to North Carolina."

We drove back to my apartment building, chatting amiably
about music (the conversation was provoked by a song on
the radio).  When she pulled up in front of the door, she
looked around the car, then slapped her forehead.  "Damn!
I left my bag and game clothes up in your bathroom!"

I shrugged.  "Come on up and get 'em."  As I stood out of
the car, I wobbled a little from the beer and cold air.
"Besides, I think I'll need a little help with the elevator
buttons."  We laughed as she parked the car and took my
arm, guiding me into the lobby.

Soon we were back in my apartment.  I directed her back to
the bathroom with an elaborate flourish that left me a
little off-balance.  Sandra sat me in a chair then went and
got her things.  When she came back, she looked me over
with concern.

"Reg?  Are you gonna be okay?  I seem to recall that people
with concussions should be careful when sleeping.  Also
they should avoid alcohol and, well...you've had a few."

"Bah - I'll be fine.  The sleep thing is when the
concussion starts; you spend a day under observation.  And
the alcohol I've taken in isn't usually much by my
standards.  It's been plenty of time since my hit for my
brain to recover.  The main reason I didn't suit up tonight
was to see you."  Whoops, maybe I was drunker than I
thought.

My last comment had the effect I imagined it would. "Oh.
Okay.  Aha.  Well, thank you.  I guess I'm flattered."

In for a penny, in for a pound.  "It was your parting
comment in the email - you thought I was cute, and I got to
thinking about what you looked like."

"Oh.  And?"  Sandra was worried now - I must've missed some
signals if she was this worried about what I thought of
her.

"And my appraisal matches yours - cute.  No supermodel -
not that that's a bad thing, mind you - but definitely
worth looking at and pleasant to the eye.  I still don't
know how the hair looks normally, but the red actually
looks pretty good on you."

"Thank you.  That's sweet of you to say."

The beer was making me a little belligerent.  "Because it's
true!" I retorted forcefully.

"Please, I know I'm fat-"

I grabbed Sandra and sat her on my knee.  "Then you don't
know as much as you think you do - you look FINE.  If
you're fat, I'm short."

"But you're not-"

"And neither are you fat.  Or ugly.  I'd definitely be
interested in fucking you."  Oh SHIT - I still can't
believe I said that!

Sandra blushed and stammered an unintelligible reply.
"Damn.  I'm sorry - I didn't mean to say that; well, I did,
but - oh crap!  I think the beer has had more effect than I
thought."

She patted my shoulder gently as she stood up.  "Yeah, I'd
better get you to bed; should I call a doctor to check on
you?"

I shook my head. "Nah; I think it's mostly that I'm up past
my bedtime - we athletes go by the 'early to bed, early to
rise' schedule.  That combined with the beer AND the dregs
of this head injury..."

She took my hand and I let her lead me to the bedroom -
even though she'd never been there, it was the only other
room in the apartment; simple deduction guided her to the
right door.

She pulled down the quilt, then had me sit while she pulled
off my shoes and socks, then looked at me for a minute,
kneeling beside me.  I was dazed - tired mostly - but also
afraid of speaking in light of what I'd already blurted
out.

Sandra shrugged and then unfastened my belt, unzipped my
jeans, and had me stand again.  She pulled my pants down,
then sat me down and pulled my feet free of the denim.
Then she coaxed me into bed and tucked me in.  I felt all
warm and fuzzy; partly from the beer, partly from this
pampering.

When she leaned down to speak with me, I thanked her for
the care and attention.  "Reg?  Two things.  One: does your
door have a spring lock?"

I shook my head.  "Nah.  Tell you what, though - you can
take my door key from the ring.  Lock the deadbolt from
outside when you leave and then shove the key under the
door.  The key chain is on the desk next to my computer -
by the mouse, I think."

"Okay.  You're obviously not too drunk to think."

"More tired than drunk."  I smiled up at her.

"Yeah; you have sweet dreams, rabbit - of big, defenseless
carrots!"

"Okay, Ms. redhead," I joked.

We both smiled at my comment.  "And two?"

"Huh?"

"You said you had two things to say."

"Oh, right.  Two is thank you.  I know what you meant to
say earlier.  I know you're right, but sometimes a person
forgets important things..."

I pulled an arm clear of the quilt and stroked her cheek.
"I meant what I said; you're very attractive and I'd be
interested..." I petered off as I realized I didn't know
what else I was going to say.

"But?"

"You know, I've just been thinking, and I can't think of a
single 'but' - you're not married, are you?"

Sandra smiled.  "No."

"Going steady with someone?"

"No."

"On the rag?  Got the clap?"  She shook her head to both
questions.

"Are ya a dyke?"  We chuckled at my lack of decorum, but I
got the answer I expected.  I pulled the covers back and
said, "Then come on in!"

That got her laughing.  I grinned as she sat on the bed
next to me.  "Oh, thank you, Reg.  You have a point, but
the 'but' you were looking for is that we barely know each
other."

"Wrong," I replied in a singsong voice.  "Apart from
recently learning your name and appearance, I know you
quite well."

She crossed her arms at this.  "Oh, really.  Give me an
example."

"For example, I know you're a big Carolina hockey fan -
natch."  I started ticking off fingers.  "I also know you
voted for Dubya last November, even though you're a
Democrat.  You like cats, Italian food, a good, light-
hearted argument.  And if your cybersex is at all
accurate, you're multi-orgasmic.  Remember Baal & Stormy
have been conversing for months now, and we got quite
intimate about a month ago."

Sandra looked at me with a faintly bewildered expression;
she'd been pleasantly surprised.  "But...but-"

"The only butt I'm concerned with is sitting on top of the
quilt instead of lying under it."  I patted her behind to
emphasize my point.  "You've let me think this over, and
the more I think, the more certain I am.  I want to make
love to you.  You're pretty, healthy, and I *know* you've
got a damn sexy mind up there.  And the most important
criterion for a guy that you fill: you're HERE!"

Sandra is normally just pretty or cute; at that moment she
was beautiful.  Her eyes glowed, her smile shone, and those
damn dimples were begging to be kissed.  She was like this
because she was being admired, and knew it.  Everyone
deserves to feel like she did.

Her voice was barely above a whisper as she said, "Thank
you, Reg.  You're very sweet."  She leaned down to kiss me,
and I let her.

It was soft, gentle and warm.  And even though I could have
held her down to lengthen it, I didn't have to - Sandra
kept it up as long as I wanted.  When I broke off to
breathe, she propped herself up with an arm to look at me
with blazing eyes and flushed cheeks.

"I'll be right back, Reggie.  Just have to do three things.
First I'm gonna turn the deadbolt on your door, then I'll
call my friend and tell her I won't need that couch."

"And third?"

She looked at me with a sexy smile, and licked my lips.
"The third thing is I'm gonna put in my diaphragm."

           *           *           *           *

I'm still a little hazy on the sex - I was tired, drunk and
concussed; I'm just happy I was able to perform under those
circumstances.  I recall that Sandra is quite flexible; I
had her legs bent up by her shoulders at one point.

Another 'scene' I recall is her astride my hips, bouncing
on my erection, leaning forward to be held up by my hands
holding her breasts.

And I remember doing her doggy-style, her face pressed into
the pillows as she moaned in delight.

In the end, I was right: Sandra is sexy as hell.

During one of our 'intermissions', I made the crack that I
was going to get smacked around more often if this was the
end result.

Sandra smiled back, and said "Go right ahead - you've got
someone more than willing to keep you up at night to make
sure you don't sleep with a concussion.  In fact, here's
hoping we go to seven games and you get hit just hard
enough to need some assistance right after the game, but
recover enough to play in the next one!"

I kissed her at that, and we got busy again.

In the end, it didn't last - we beat Carolina in the sixth
game, and went on to win the cup again.  It was my first
time, so I'm glad that happened.  Raising Lord Stanley's
cup above my head was the second greatest experience of my
life.

The first?  Well, that was using my cup ring to propose to
a certain sexy woman.

fin


===============

Author's Postscript: I've taken liberties with game four of
the NJ/Car quarterfinals, and possibly* with the
personalities of New Jersey and Carolina players and staff;
that's artistic license.  And no - TTBOMK there's no
Reginald Hoffman in the NHL, let alone on the Devils -
gimme a break! :)

* - I don't know ANY of either, so I must be guessing;
maybe I'm right?:)

And any email addresses given in the course of the story
are assumed to be fictional - please don't send anything to
them...because they probably DO exist (or will exist soon)
when you consider the growth rate of the Internet...


Author's FINAL Postscript:

Created: Sunday, April 22, 2001 8:32:00 AM
Modified: Thursday, December 13, 2001 4:37:06 PM

GOD DAMN!  As I finally finish this story off, I realize
it's been eight months since I started it, and it's almost
completely off-topic and dated now!  I'd started writing
this back when the few games I'm talking about had just
happened; then got that wonderful job that will allow me
to support myself and Dancer, but sucks up all my free
time and energy.  I suppose it was worth the wait...for
Carolina & NJ hockey fans, maybe. :D

Well, here's hoping you enjoyed it anyway,

empath

<1st attachment end>


----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------
Notice: This post has been modified from its original
format.  The post was sent as an email attachment and
has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software.
----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html>  Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository |
|<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations.         |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+