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Welcome to the Church of The Reverend Cotton Mather.  This story is
the sole property of the author, and may not be copied or downloaded 
for the intent of profit. Permission is freely given for anyone to 
download or copy for their personal pleasure or use, as long as 
there is no intent to charge money or barter for the privilege of 
acquiring this material.

   (Copyright 2005, revisions c. 2007, R.C. Mather)

E-Mail all comments to RevCottonMather at hotmail dot com
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THE COMPETITIVE EDGE:
PLAYING THE GAME III

A Novel

by R.C. Mather



- 35 -

THE THOUSAND-MILE CHAIN



As soon as Spencer and I got settled in our apartment, I began to
write to Kayla. I needed to attack my mistake, take the aggressor's
role. Tough to do when you're a thousand miles away, but I had to
try. I had the time to compose the proper letters, as we were there
for a couple of weeks before classes started. There were a few kids
who had spent the summer working in Gainesville or going to summer
school who were in town, so aside from the townies, the campus was
pretty much populated by the jocks. The football players, the soccer
team, and the track and field athletes were about the only ones
around.

We had practice twice a day, a combination of position tryouts and
conditioning, along with studying film of last year's games. Eddie
Whitehead and I had analyzed those films until we knew them so well I
could envision what was happening on the screen even with my eyes
closed, and Pick relied on the copious notes and reports Eddie and I
had made on each game as he made his comments for the team.

We had three scholarship freshmen coming in. Harlan Lightfine, the
speedster from California, was a frail-looking kid with bushy dark
hair. He was a throwback to the sixties, calling everybody "Dude" and
"Gremmy" and sprinkling his conversation with "Right On" and "Far
Out." I couldn't wait to take him to meet Stone and Skye over at the
Glass Onion.

And fast? We had nobody on our team who could keep up with him. In
fact, just for grins, one day Pick brought in the University of
Florida's conference record-holding 400-Meter Relay team. The team
included Arthur Majors, a world-class sprinter who had broken the
American record for the two-twenty dash the previous season while
running for the Gators. We all ran five hundred-meter sprints, the
soccer team and hopefuls spread out along the goal line with the
members of the relay team sprinkled among us. Arthur won every one of
them, but surprisingly, Lightspeed finished a very respectable third
in two of the sprints. Arthur and Edu Banda, the other sprinter who
consistently finished second, looked like they were being pushed just
a little by Lightspeed in a couple of those footraces. I could see
the four track runners talking to each other, occasionally glancing
over toward Harlan. It was a true eye-opener.

The other two freshmen were a midfielder from Colorado named Chris
Bolden and a backup keeper from a small town in Central Florida,
Barry Marshall.

"Call me Sugar," Barry said the first day we met him.

"Why would I want to do that?" asked Jesse.

"When you see me play, you'll say, 'Why, that boy is just as sweet
as sugar.'" He winked. "At least that's what all the little girls
say," he claimed.

Bryan rolled his eyes, muttering, "It's going to be a long season."

I liked the guy. He kind of reminded me of Jake, a big lug of a guy
who was a friend to everybody - unless you did something to cross him.
He was big, wide across the shoulders, with a wingspan that served
him well as a keeper, and yet he was very agile, able to switch
directions and dive for the ball as quickly as anybody I had seen. I
had the feeling he would be our starter in the net by the time he was
a sophomore.

We went through a week of workouts before Pick made his cuts. We had
quite a few new guys, particularly freshmen and sophomores, who came
to campus early to try to make the team as walk-ons. Most of them
seemed like they had been role players at the high school level,
though a couple of them might have been their small-town team's
stars. Some of them even went through the week reasonably well. They
might have been able to play at the college level at a Division Three
school, and done well. Division One was a different animal
altogether, though, and all these kids were in way over their heads.

I learned another hard truth during that first week, too. Spending
as much time in the car as I did all summer long didn't do anything
for my conditioning. By the end of the week, I didn't think there was
a muscle left anywhere in my body that wasn't complaining of abuse.
By the end of each day I could hardly walk, and even talking was a
chore. Fortunately, I discovered the rejuvenating effects of the
whirlpool. I became a frequent visitor to the trainer's rooms at the
end of the day.

Spencer, having benefited from spending his summer on the field,
felt fine. In fact, a couple of nights he even went out with a bunch
of friends, while I, on the other hand, could barely manage to crawl
into my bed. He tried to get me to go along, but there was no way I
was putting myself through any additional abuse. Besides, I had
letters to write. I was trying to do a long-distance repair job on my
love life, and it was hard work.

I also had an appointment with my counselor the following week. I
was serious about declaring business as my major. If I was going to
own one, I figured I might as well learn the mechanics. Even though I
had Danielle essentially running it for me, I needed to know what was
involved behind the scenes. Some day, Trent was going to sweep her
away from me, and the two of them were going to strike off on their
own. I wanted to be armed with enough knowledge to be able to step in
and run my own business on that day.

At the end of the first week of soccer, Pick had his starting lineup
set. Jesse, Bryan, and Luke were our forwards; Lightspeed, Spencer,
and Jeremy were the front midfielders. Frenchy was defending the
left, Dan Ortega and Stuart Early were our sweeper and stopper, and
our keeper was a senior, Stan Voigt. I was assigned the right
defensive spot. We had a very strong offensive line, we had good
defenders, and we had very fast players in the middle. Our weakest
spots were right in front of the goal, but I had the feeling few
teams would ever get the opportunity to test that soft spot. It was
going to be a fun season.

There was further occasion to celebrate the end of the first week: I
got my first letter from Kayla in the mail. It was a response to one
of the first letters I had sent to her, so she was answering
questions I had a little trouble recalling. Still, she wrote, and it
made me very happy. I redoubled my efforts to write to her, knowing
full well that once classes began, my ability to consistently write
to her would be compromised. I filled my letters with gossip from
campus, news about tryouts and the work Pick was assaulting us with,
and stuff about Spencer, Jesse, and Bryan and my first days living in
an apartment. It was everyday stuff, unremarkable except that it was
happening for the first time to me, and I didn't have trouble filling
several pages with the most inconsequential news. It made for thick
envelopes, which I figured was attractive in its own way. If I
overburdened her with letters, the chances of getting her to reply
went up. Or, at least, that's how my reasoning went. 

I also made a very pleasant discovery. I had more money than I
thought I had. Even after paying out bonuses to my senior
instructors, my clinics had made a tidy profit, which was now mine. I
still had to watch my pennies now that I was in an apartment and
paying for my own food, but I felt I had enough in reserve I could
actually make use of the telephone. Just as long as I played it
conservatively, I would be fine. Reggie had told me about her phone
bill the first month she was away at school, when she and Elvis were
missing each other so much. Between the two of them, they had a long-
distance phone bill that rivaled the federal deficit. I really didn't
want to make that mistake. And so, on Friday evening, I made my first
call from Florida to Kayla, direct-dial. I put my watch beside me on
the kitchen counter so I could keep an eye on the time, and I hoped
we would have something to say to each other. If we could talk,
perhaps we could get beyond the problems we were having. I didn't
have a lot of hope riding on the plan, though. All I knew was it was
the best plan I had.

Nervously, I dialed, and I sat there as her telephone rang six
times. I was just about to give up when Kayla answered, a little
breathlessly.

"Hello?"

"Kay? Hi, It's me."

"Sean?" She was so surprised she practically squealed. "Really? It's
you?"

I laughed. "Of course it's me. What's going on over there?"

"I'm having a sleepover. Jaimie's here, and Tara, and Sam, and
Taylor, and..."

"Whoa, slow down," I said. "Sam? Taylor? You're having a sleepover
with boys?"

Kayla laughed out loud. "No, silly," she said. "Sam is Samantha
Williams, Taylor is Taylor Brewster, I don't think you know her, and
Tracy is here, and Lina Stone, and Vanessa Wanamaker. Do you remember
Vanna?"

Did I ever. After Kayla and Molly, Vanna was probably the hottest
girl in school. She was in Jaimie's graduating class, a year ahead of
Kayla. "Sure," I said, trying to sound noncommittal.

"Of course you do," Kayla said with just the hint of a snicker.

"So, all the best-looking girls are stuck without dates on a Friday
night?"

"Our choice," she replied. "We decided we needed a bitch session."

"A bitching session?"

"That too," she said with a giggle. "Bitches bitching about boys."

"Uh-oh," I said.

"Uh-oh is right," she said saucily. "Your name has been prominently
mentioned."

"Uh-oh again," I said.

"Oh, don't worry," she said breezily. "You've got a defender among
the crowd."

"Really? You're standing up for me?"

"Not me. No way." I could hear her trying to suppress a laugh,
though. "It's Tracy. I think she likes you."

I heard squeals of protest in the background, and there were sounds
of a scuffle before the handset clunked. I listened, glancing at my
watch and envisioning dollar bills bursting into flame, until a
scraping sound came through the line. Somebody was picking up.

"Hi, Sean?" It was Tracy Evanson's voice. "Ow! No, I'm talking to
him now," she said, her voice muffled as she held the phone away from
somebody for a moment.

"Hello?" I didn't want to end the call, but this was getting
expensive for no real reason. I had thought I was going to have a
nice conversation with Luscious, and here I was trying to referee a
wrestling match by long-distance.

"Sean?" Tracy sounded like she was struggling to keep the phone. "If
Kayla doesn't want you, will you ask me out?" She shrieked, and I
imagined Kayla trying to tackle her to take the phone away. All I
could do was shake my head. Spencer, watching television in the next
room, glanced over. I shrugged my shoulders and held the phone away
from my ear. He could probably hear the commotion across the room. He
just smiled and shook his head.

"Hello? Sean? Are you still there?" It was Kayla. Apparently, she
had won the contest. The background noises got muffled as she closed
the door on the others.

"Yeah. What's going on?"

"Female madness. I'm sorry."

"It's fine. Really. You should go back to your party."

"I will in a minute. Is everything okay?"

"Sure," I said. "I... I just wanted to say hi."

"Oh." Did she sound a little disappointed?

"And... and I wanted to hear your voice."

"Oh." One little word, repeated, but the impression was one of
pleasure.

"I've been trying to be good about writing," I ventured.

She giggled. "I know," she said. "Our mailman's going to have to get
himself a back brace."

"Should I feel sorry for him?" I asked, smiling.

"Nope," she said. "Keep on making his life miserable, would you?"

"I can do that," I said.

Kayla hesitated, and then said, "I should get back in there."

"Yeah, okay," I said. I was disappointed, and I knew I sounded like
it.

"Thanks for calling, Sean," she said softly. "I... Thanks."

"Kay?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think I should get Tracy's number from her, just in case?"

She laughed out loud. 'Whew,' I whispered to myself. 

"Not yet," she said.

"Okay," I said. In my head though, I was shouting, 'All right!'



* * * * * * * * * *


Over the weekend, students began to show up to move into apartments
and dorms. Freshman orientation was beginning, and a lot of the
upperclassmen also came back to school to party it up before classes
began. Jesse's girlfriend, Brittany Erickson, was in an apartment a
couple of blocks away from us. Jesse began spending less time with
us, and more time with Brittany and her roommates. I couldn't blame
him. She was certainly prettier than Spencer, Bryan, or me. Probably
kissed him better than we did, too.

And of course, we never saw much of Bryan, since he and Melanie
Forsythe both stayed in Gainesville over the summer. I didn't know
why they didn't just get their own apartment, since they were
practically inseparable anyway.

Watching all the kids moving in made me wonder about Alex and Erin.
Were they in town yet? And did I want to see them?

Stupid question. Of course I want to see them. They were friends.
The question I was really asking myself was this: would I be willing
to continue being the beneficiary of their largesse? Thorny questions
for a mind unaccustomed to thinking such deep thoughts.



* * * * * * * * * *



Alex called me on Wednesday night.

"Hey, Porter, I'm back," she said without preamble. "Remember me?"

"Sure I do," I said with a smile. "It's Angela, or Elaine, or
something, right?"

"Still the smartass, are we?" she said, laughing. "I thought that
girl back home would have beaten that attitude out of you by now."

"The girl back home isn't quite so much my girl back home," I
grumbled.

"Uh-oh. Do I detect a little trouble in paradise?"

"Let's just say it was an... unusual summer and leave it at that," I
said.

"Didn't get any, huh? Well, I might be able to come up with a
solution for you, if you're nice."

"Uh... Alex..."

"Ah," she said, picking up on my hesitation right away. 'Why can't I
be as instinctive about relationships as Alex seems to be?' Another
unanswerable question for the ages. "Sore subject. Never mind,
Porter. Forget that I opened my big mouth."

"It's nothing, Alex. My fault."

"You want to go out this weekend? I'm dying to see what's happening
at The Warehouse. Do a little dancing?"

I was about to say no, but something made me change my mind. "Yeah,
maybe. Coach should be letting up on us by Saturday, and maybe I
won't have jelly legs by then. Sounds good."

"Great! I'll pick you up around nine."

"Uh... Alex?"

"Yes, gorgeous?"

Gorgeous? Did she really call me gorgeous? I must be hearing things.
"How about if I pick you up instead? I'd like to arrive alive on my
first visit of the year."

She laughed, and just hung up on me. I took that as an okay to
drive. I found myself whistling as I headed into the kitchen for a
beer.

Gorgeous?



* * * * * * * * * *



Bryan and Dan Ortega were selected as co-captains of our team. Dan
was not the strongest player on our team, or even the strongest
defender, but he was well respected by everybody. He was designated a
starter for the season as a senior, and he had never grumbled or
complained about his role as a bench player in his previous three
seasons playing for Pick. He was as unselfish as an athlete could
possibly be.

Unfortunately, he was also unimaginative. I brought up the subject
to Pick and Eddie one afternoon. We were in the film room, along with
Jesse and Bryan, and Eddie was looping another film through the
projector. We were watching games from the previous year's NCAA
tournament, gauging possible opponents.

"For a guy with skills and strength, Dan might be too conventional
in his spot," I said.

Pick chuckled. "Son, he's a leader for us, especially off the field.
I certainly don't expect him to be the one directin' the movement of
the team on the field, though."

"That's the keeper's job anyway," I pointed out.

Pick guffawed, and even Eddie had to laugh. "You are a one, boy. You
really are a one."

Jesse rolled his eyes at me, and Bryan just shook his head. 'I get
that a lot,' I thought to myself ruefully. 'You'd think I'd be smarter
than this by now.'

"Nope, I believe you and Spencer Goldman are going to be the traffic
cops on the field," said Pick. Both Jesse and Bryan looked up in
surprise at that announcement.

"Spencer? But I thought..." Bryan's face was turning a little red.

"Now, don't go gettin' your sense all twisted up there, son," warned
Pick. "You are the co-captain, elected by your teammates, and I
personally think it's a damned fine choice. But think on it a minute,
son. You're my forward in the center. How you going to direct traffic
from there, when all you're going to see is the net?"

Bryan thought about it for a moment. "I guess you're right, but even
so..."

"Now here's what I see happenin'," continued Pick, unperturbed. "Ol'
Porter, here, and Goldman, they are keepin' the phone lines open
between each other, see? And when they start movin' folks around, as
is their wont, all sorts of cowpies start flyin'. Okay, let's say the
situation develops in such a way that Porter and Goldman, I'll be
damned, find themselves up and in the corners, with Harlan Lightfine
between 'em. What happens now?"

He looked around at us with a happy smile. Jesse, Bryan, and I all
looked at each other. I saw what Pick was getting at. Did the other
two?

Jesse ventured, "The decision-making just got rotated, didn't it?"

"A kewpie doll for the winner!" cried out Pick. "Eddie? Requisition
an attaboy for ol' Jesse here."

"Will do, Boss," said Eddie. He bent back to his task of threading
film into the projector.

"Now, here's the tricky part," continued Pick. "We got to keep the
wardens in charge of the asylum, so to speak. So even though Porter
and Goldman are the Great Communicators, once one of 'em is outa
position, I need y'all, you and you ex-specially," and he jabbed his
finger at Jesse and Bryan in turn, "to keep churnin' the positions.
Young Mr. Porter here," and now he pointed at me, "he gots an
instinct for this, so he's gonna be the one to defer to whenever he's
in a position to see the field. If'n he's out of range, either back
too far or up too close, you boys are charged with keepin' things
together until Porter gets back into an advantageous position."

"Will everybody take direction from a sophomore?" I asked.

Pick stared at each of us in turn. He pointedly asked Bryan,
"Anybody you know got a problem with takin' direction from a
sophomore?"

Bryan returned Pick's stare. "No," he said. He glanced over to me.
"He got our attention last year with his skills. He proved himself in
the spring at the clinics. There's no problem. As long as he doesn't
fuck up again."

Pick turned to me. "You plannin' on fuckin' up again, Porter?"

"No, sir," I said. "Once was enough for me."

Pick chuckled. "Yah, me too," he said. "Don't want to revisit last
season, nosirree." He strode over and clapped me on the back, nearly
knocking me over. "You'll be all right, son," he said. "Just keep an
eye on them freshmen. They're a hungry lot."



* * * * * * * * * *



Saturday was an easy day, fortunately. It was hot and humid as the
four of us walked back from the fieldhouse toward our apartment.
Bryan and Jesse were taking their girls to the movies, and were
arguing about what to see. I was walking alongside Spencer.

"Hey, dude, you want to come with Alex and me to The Warehouse?" I
asked.

"No, thanks," he said. "I'm meeting some friends later at a place.
Maybe another time."

"Sure," I said. He had dated a really nice girl named Cynthia
Yamamoto for a few weeks, but he hadn't really seemed to have any
steady dates since Cynthia, preferring instead to go out with groups
of friends. I had the feeling he also had some friends-with-benefits,
similar to my own situation with Alex and Erin, though he was very
close-mouthed about it all. To each his own.

I took another shower and shaved the stubble off my chin. Spencer
had ordered a pizza for us, and I gobbled a few slices as I wandered
around getting ready. Spencer was lounging in front of the
television, watching music videos on MTV as he ate. I stood behind
him and watched the Police video of "Every Breath You Take," and
couldn't help but think of Kayla as Sting crooned of his stalking
tendencies.

At a few minutes before nine, I was ready. My recalcitrant hair was
sprayed and poufed into place, I had on my best Chicago Cubs t-shirt,
and I was ready for the heat in light cutoffs. 'Bring on the dance
music,' I said to myself as I glanced one last time in the mirror.

I pulled up outside Alex's apartment right on time. She was sitting
on the porch, waiting for me. I hopped out, and she came skipping
down the sidewalk and into my arms. She reached up, put her arms
around my neck, and pulled herself up to give me a kiss, pressing her
gymnast's body tightly against me. She wasn't wearing a bra, and she
made sure I knew it.

"Hmmmm, I missed you, Porter," she murmured. She leaned back and
looked me in the eye, a teasing smile playing across her lips.
"Y'know, we could just skip the dance," she suggested. She wriggled
against me for emphasis. "Do a little horizontal dancing, maybe."

I gently pulled her arms from around my neck. "Come on, you little
tramp. Let's go."

She stuck her tongue out at me, but she smiled just the same and
allowed me to open the car door for her.

"Okay," she warned, "but that might be the last time I offer tonight."

"Whew," I said, and she laughed.

Chugs was at the door, like always, and he greeted us both like we
were old friends.

"How you doin', Sean Porter?" he asked. "Good to see you back."

"Good to see you, too," I said. "Was it a quiet summer?"

"Nah. Hot as hell, lot of townies every weekend. Lot of fights. Got
me a lot of exercise."

"Shit, you'd think they'd learn the first time you kicked somebody's
ass."

Chugs laughed. "Oh, it was never the same ones twice. Take my word
for it."

Inside, it was like an oven, just like it always was. The bartenders
were filling glasses and pitchers with beer as fast as they could. I
got in the semblance of a line and waited my turn. I got a pitcher
and two glasses and wandered around until I found Alex. I filled the
two glasses and handed one to her.

"It better be cold," she said. "It's a cooker in here."

"Wait until the band starts up," I said. "It'll heat up some more,
I'd guess."

The featured group was a country band called Texas Two-Step. They
had been around one time before that I knew of, and I was expecting a
lot of line dancing with a little bit of Southern rock thrown into
the mix. There was a nice crowd, and the place would be hopping right
from the first note.

We were most of the way through the first pitcher of beer when the
band started up. We sat back and watched the crowd start to form
their lines, and then we hopped up to join them. We held hands as we
waded into the maelstrom, and we jigged and hopped the night away.

Three hours later, we staggered out of the warehouse, into the
cooler night air. I didn't think I had any moisture left in my body.
I had left it all inside, on the dance floor. Alex looked nearly as
wrung out as I felt. I didn't want to put my arm across her shoulder,
or even hold her hand, because both of us were sweaty, hot, and
sticky. We walked side by side over to my car. I opened the passenger
door for her, and then I crawled behind the wheel. I was just
snapping on my safety belt when she knelt up on the seat, reached
over, and grabbed me by the sides of my head. She cranked my head
around to her and planted a hot and juicy kiss on me, her tongue
working its way between my lips and into my mouth.

When she finally broke the kiss, we both gasped. She sat back and
just stared at me as I looked at her.

"I'm a perpetually horny college kid," I said. "Don't go starting
something you can't finish."

She snorted, knowing full well my threat was empty. "Take me home,"
she instructed. "I'm just yanking your chain. It's about a thousand
miles long, your chain, so there's lots to play with."

"Yeah, thanks a lot," I grumbled as I started the car. "It's gonna
be a long year, isn't it?"

Alex chuckled, an almost sinister sound coming from such a small
person. "Oh, yeah," she said, sounding happy about it. "A long, fun
year."





(Continued in Chapter 36)


  
CE35