Date: Tue, 21 Oct 2003 23:42:51 +0000
From: Jock Lover <in2jocks@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Quarterback Club Chronicles /Chapter Five: CANE ENABLED (1) (M/M,
     Celebrity)

THE QUARTERBACK CLUB CHRONICLES
Chapter Five: Cane Enabled (1)
By in2jocks@hotmail.com

Note: The following story is fiction and is NOT intended to imply anything
about the true sexuality of any celebrities mentioned, nor any personal
knowledge about their private lives. Comments and constructive criticism and
future story ideas are welcome (if sending comments please make your e-mail
subject line distinctive to prevent flagging as spam -- thanks)!

October 1, 2003
San Francisco Bay Area

Sitting in his parent's Orinda living room, looking out over the hilly
terrain, Ken Dorsey was feeling like Leonardo DiCaprio standing on the bow
of the Titanic. After a stellar football career and a national championship
at the University of Miami, Ken had confounded the nay-saying NFL draft
experts who had written him off, and had made the San Francisco 49ers main
roster. How sweet - to actually be an NFL quarterback on the very team he
had grown up rooting for. And to be playing just a few miles from where he
had first risen to football prominence at Orinda's Miramonte High.

Just as sweet as his football prospects, Ken's sexual prospects had gone
from great to, well, stellar. Never at a loss for sexual partners in college
(a Heisman-finalist could pretty much pick and choose), things were like
being a kid in the proverbial candy store.

Just last night, for example, Ken had met up with his 49ers teammate Tim
Rattay, the primary backup quarterback, and also with Tim's super-hot
younger brother John, a QB at a Pasadena JuCo, who was in town visiting. The
three of them had spent a scorching night of nonstop carnal pleasure, with
Ken at one point alternating driving his long jock pole in and out of first
Tim's, then John's hot stud assholes. And proving he was equally adept at
receiving as he was at giving, the extremely handsome brothers then took
turns blasting loads of Rattay-batter deep into his tight jock anus.

As an encore, Ken had then watched Tim and John as they fucked he hell out
of each other, each muscular brother plowing his sibling's hairy jock
butthole with tremendous energy while Ken, mesmerized by the incredibly hot
incestuous action, urge them on with lewd talk. After Tim and John had
flooded each other's hairy fuckholes with their stud cum, they took turns
squatting directly over Ken's handsome face, enjoying the intense sensations
provided by the rookie jock's talented tongue as he savored the taste of the
stud sperm mixed with jock butt juice.

Ken was brought out of his sexual reverie by the sounds of a vehicle coming
up the gravel driveway. Kyle Wright's parents were dropping him off, and
from here Ken and Kyle would head down to Santa Clara. Ken had leased a new
townhouse just a short rive from the 49ers training facility in the Silicon
Valley town, and it was there that Ken and Kyle would spend the night.

Like Ken himself just four years previously (and like another previous
Hurricanes Heisman winner, Gino Torreta, who was from nearby Pinole Valley
high) Kyle Wright was the third star quarterback from Northern California's
Contra Costa County who had elected to cross the continent to play his
college ball at the private university renowned for sending quarterbacks to
the NFL (Jim Kelly, Bernie Kosar, Steve Walsh and Scott Covington, in
addition to Gino and Ken). Having graduated from Danville's Monte Vista High
a semester early and already in his second semester of college, Kyle had
already become familiar with the `Canes pro-style offense and was
universally regarded as the `Canes "can't-miss" quarterback of the future.

What was not commonly known was that, in October of 2002,  Kyle had actually
eliminated the Hurricanes from his short list of schools he was considering.
Knowing that another player, Brock Berlin, would probably have the starting
job locked up for two seasons, Kyle almost went to Tennessee or Southern
Cal, both of which would have afforded a chance to start immediately, or at
least earlier than at Miami.

However, he had not counted on Ken Dorsey making a "special appeal" to him
the night of his official recruiting visit to Coral Gables. What the palm
trees or the neon of South Beach could not accomplish, a night in Ken's bed
did. When Kyle flew back to California, the tall blond youngster had left
two things behind in Florida -- a signed early commitment letter, and his
virginity.

When Kyle returned in January to enroll, he and Ken continued their sexual
explorations for a short time. The timing was bad, though. Because Ken (who
had already finished his degree) had to leave for pre-Combine training, the
two Californians only had a couple of weeks to screw their brains out before
Ken's departure. After that, they were forced to make do with the phone and
with e-mails. It was better than nothing, but barely. Both of the horny QBs
were very impatient to resume their physical contact, and today it would
happen -- for a few hours, at least.

Since another teammate (the aforementioned Brock Berlin) was going to meet
up with them later in the afternoon, and since Brock didn't participate in
sex action with other jocks, Ken and Kyle would have to do their messing
around before he arrived. They were always discreet around Brock, out of
respect for his good-natured, tolerant attitude (Brock was actually very
cool for a religious guy, not at all like some of the obnoxious
God-Squadders on other teams).

= = = = = = = = = =

At about the same time, to the west in downtown San Francisco, Brock Berlin
entered the Powell Street BART station and moved down to the airport line's
designated platform. Like Kyle Wright and several of his current `Canes
teammates, Brock was taking advantage of the mid-season bye week to get away
from Miami for a few days. In his case, it had worked out perfectly: Brock
had flown out to San Francisco with his parents, where they were boarding
the Crown Princess for a trans-Panama Canal cruise. However, the trip had an
additional, altogether different purpose for Brock -- a purpose he could not
reveal to his parents, his teammates, or to anyone else for that matter (at
least not yet).

After seeing his parents off, Brock had made his way over to the City's
notorious Tenderloin area (which he had learned about on the Internet).
Entering one of the area's many adult bookstores, he quickly found exactly
what he was looking for, and left with his purchase. The two magazines and
the DVD he had picked up would help out when he was feeling horny (which was
often). He had never dared to try to buy this kind of stuff in Miami,
fearing that he might be recognized, but Brock felt safe doing it this far
away.

Now on board the southbound train, Brock took a quick look inside his
backpack, making sure the package and its contents were tucked in the back
compartment, then he zipped the flap back up. As the train moved on, Brock's
thoughts drifted back to his youth -- to his strict religious upbringing and
his years at fundamentalist Evangel Christian High in Shreveport. It had
only been in the last year or so that Brock, in spite of his outward
religious zeal, had started to acknowledge to himself his inner feelings and
desires. Up until now, the farthest he had gone was to look at web sites,
but he was nowhere near the point that he would even think about real
contact with another guy. Especially not with his teammates, although he
thought that some were extremely hot.

Brock wasn't naïve -- he realized that quite a few of college players --
including some of the guys at both the University of Florida and at Miami -
liked to engage in sexual action with other males. The general public wasn't
aware of this, since it was all done in a very discreet way. In fact, no
less than Ken Dorsey, the Hurricanes incumbent starting quarterback, had
taken Brock aside when he visited the school during the time he was
considering transferring. Knowing that some intolerant religious players at
other schools had disrupted team chemistry, Ken spoke very frankly, wanting
to be sure Brock was OK with it. Brock told Ken that he could deal with it --
which was true. Of course, Brock couldn't tell Ken about his own growing
feelings at this time. But if a guy like Ken played around, and since the
tall Californian seemed so intelligent and accepting, maybe Brock would be
able to reveal his secret to Ken when he felt ready to take that big step.

Ironically, as Brock had struggled with his self-acceptance, the fact that
he had been learned so much about biblical scholarship made it easier for
him to reach his conclusion -- that his inner faith (which was quite genuine)
was not subject to rigid dogma, and that he did not have to punish himself
for having the desires that he had. At the same time, there was no need to
rush into anything. The magazine and the DVDs would definitely help, though,
and he was looking forward to using them in the privacy of his bedroom back
in Florida.

Exiting the train at the recently opened airport station, Brock headed down
to the American Airlines baggage office and retrieved his duffel bag. The
plan now was to meet up with Ken and his freshman teammate Kyle Wright, who
had flown out two days ago and had been staying at his parents' house. Brock
wasn't 100% sure, but he suspected that Ken and Kyle had a strong attraction
to each other and were messing around. One day a few months ago, just before
Ken left Miami for pre-Combine training, Brock had gone over to return a
playbook. Answering the door at his off-campus apartment, Ken, who was
usually very friendly, had not asked Brock to come in and had in fact been
in a hurry to send him on his way. Brock put two and two together and
figured that Ken must have been "entertaining". But that was his business,
so he left.

Because a lawn sprinkler had started up, Brock returned to his car via a
circuitous route. Turning a corner, Brock walked past a car that he hadn't
noticed before, and paused. Sure enough, it was Kyle Wright's Acura RX, with
its distinctive California license plates. Brock smiled to himself as he
realized why Ken had been in a hurry. He would have done the same, he
thought, if he had a cute hottie like Kyle waiting in his bed. Brock felt
frustrated that he couldn't be more open -- maybe someday he could even
participate in a three-way with two hot guys like Ken and Kyle - but not
now, for sure.

Back in the present, since he had skipped breakfast, Brock decided to grab
some lunch before calling Ken to come and get him. Ducking into a men's room
to wash his hands, he stopped when he spotted a tan leather portfolio on the
counter. He looked around, but no one else was in the lavatory. Tucking the
folder under his arm, Brock found a seat and opened it, looking for anything
inside that would identify the owner. He started reading the top sheet,
which looked to be some sort of memorandum. But one paragraph at the bottom
of the first page caught his eye. He studied the text for a few moments,
then, all doubt disappeared. There was no mistaking it, he knew what it was
(although he didn't understand how it related to the rest of the information
on the page). Then, at the very back of the papers, Brock noticed the edge
of a business card. He was surprised when he saw that the card was for
someone from the FBI.

`Wow'! Brock thought to himself as, without hesitation, he fished his cell
phone out of his backpack and called the number on the card.

"Yeah"?

Brock thought he had a wrong number -- he had expected a business office or a
receptionist or something. "Yes, excuse me? Is this the FBI office"?

"Yes it is. I'm sorry - this number is an internal office line that usually
doesn't receive outside calls. What can I do for you, sir"?

"Well, I need to speak to, um, let's see - Special Agent David Andrews,
please"

"Just a minute, he's in the next office -- Hey, Andrews -- phone! Now!"

After a short delay, Brock heard a resonant voice. "David Andrews -- who am I
speaking to, please?"

"Um -- hi, my name's Brock Berlin, and I found something that I think belongs
to you; a tan portfolio. It has your business card in it".

"Huh? I own a tan portfolio, but it's in my briefcase - wait, that's right,
I was reading it before - tell me, did you find it in a restroom?"

"Exactly -- down by baggage claim -- that's where I am now".

"Listen, um, Rock, please stay exactly where you are. I'm about two minutes
from where you're at - I'll come right down"

"OK -- but it's Brock, not Rock".

"Sure, sure, whatever you say. Just one more thing -- did you read what was
inside"?

"Well, yes, the first page, and I saw something ..." but Brock never got to
finish the sentence as the call was abruptly ended.

Within two minutes Brock heard the footsteps of someone moving quickly
across the tiled floor. A moment later, he saw a young man wearing a dark
suit come around the corner. Brock stood up and raised his hand, waving to
indicate to the man he was the one. As the man approached, Brock could not
help but notice how young he looked -- and also how handsome. In fact, he
didn't seem much older than Brock himself. Maybe Andrews had sent an intern
to pick up the folder.

Having reached Brock, the young man reached into his suit coat and thrust
his open I.D. wallet in Brock's face, the metal of the polished gold shield
catching the reflection of the overhead lighting. Nope, it wasn't an intern.

"Andrews -- FBI. You already know that, from my card. Where's the portfolio?"

Brock reached down to the chair and retrieved the leather portfolio, passing
it to the young agent. As he did so, Brock took another quick look at
Andrews. He was not just good-looking; he was startlingly handsome - like a
fashion model or something. Such incredible clear blue eyes. Man!

"Rock, you need to come with me -- right now".

"But I'm going ..." Brock was interrupted by Andrews' firm grip on his left
arm.

"Look, buddy- we can do this discreetly or with the cuffs - your choice" The
agent's voice had taken on an assertive, almost angry, mien.

Brock was shocked -- he'd done nothing wrong. Immediately, something from his
memory clicked in. A couple of months ago during fall orientation, the team
had heard a presentation from the Big East director of security. Covering
off-the-field behavior, the man had said that if any of the players ever
found themselves under arrest for a DUI or a bar fight, to always cooperate,
no matter what. To always keep in mind that there would be plenty of time to
sort it out later.

So Brock did the only thing he really could, and silently followed agent
Andrews, who had already picked up Brock's backpack and duffel. `Oh GOD!' he
thought as they proceeded down the hallway. `What have I gotten myself into?
What's going to happen if Coach Coker finds out? Oh man -- not if, when'!

= = = = = = = = = =

Ken exited his parents' house and caught his first glimpse of his blond
buddy, who wore baggy khaki shorts and a gray Monte Vista Athletics
sweatshirt. God, Ken thought, he's even hotter than the last time I saw him.
Ken had to will his already-stirring cock to stay down, as he sure didn't
want Kyle's parents to see a boner poking through his dark red 49ers wind
pants. Ken greeted Kyle's folks, who he'd met a couple of times when they
had traveled to Coral Cables with their son, then shook hands with Kyle. The
two studs played it cool, but maintained steady eye contact as they moved
Kyle's gear into the back of Ken's car. They were ready - after Ken
reminding the elder Wrights about the comp tickets he would be leaving them
for the next 49ers home game, he and Kyle waved as the Wrights' dark blue
Expedition made its way down the driveway. A split second after the big SUV
was completely out of view, Ken and Kyle were locked in a deep embrace,
their jockboy tongues dueling as they released their pent-up fashion.

"God -- you look incredible, Kyle"

"Me? Bullshit -- look at you. I love your longer haircut. And fuck -- you
bulked up -- you look awesome".

Even under Ken's long-sleeve jersey-style t-shirt, Kyle could tell that the
stories he'd read about Ken's strenuous pre-draft workout program s were
true. From an almost scrawny 193 pounds at the end of the Fiesta Bowl, Ken
had put on at least 30 pounds of solid muscle -- his frame had indeed filled
out very flatteringly.

"You checking out my body, you fucking blond punk"?

"Yeah, big man, but I'll sure like it a lot more when that muscle bod is on
top of me. Let's quit wasting time and get going"!

The boys made their way down to Highway 24 and through the Caldecott Tunnel,
on they way to the Bay Bridge. The view of the Bay was awesome - the
cloudless sky afforded a picture-postcard view of the Golden Gate Bridge,
enshrouded by fog in the distance. But as stunning as the scenic vista was,
Ken and Kyle were only interested in the scenery seated next to them. Kyle
reached over and gently began to stroke Ken's thigh through the nylon wind
pants.

"So where's your pimp-mobile, Mr. eN -- eF - eL?" Kyle teased as Ken made a
face. "I expected to be cruising in some kind of tricked-out ride. A
customized Escalade with some of those customized spinning rims."

"Shut the hell up, you jackball! Do you realize what a seventh-round rookie
makes? And I have to pay an agent and a manager". Ken didn't mind the
ribbing, but he was well aware that his coolness factor fell far short of
someone like his flamboyant new teammate Terrel Owens. "Besides, my uncle is
working overseas, and he's letting me use his car while's gone -- it would
just sit in my parent's driveway otherwise".

"Fuck, Kenny, you know I'm just yanking your chain. I don't care what the
hell you drive. Here -- let me apologize" Kyle giggled as he moved his hand
higher, allowing him to caress and stroke the sizeable mound in Ken's wind
pants.

Ken shuddered with pleasure at the feeling of Kyle's big hand manipulating
his dick and nuts. But he had to concentrate on driving. "Damn you, stop
that -- you don't want to end your college and my pro careers before they
really get started, do you"?

"You're right, Kenny -- it's just that I've been waiting so long for this".

"Me too, Kyle, me too." He changed the subject as they headed further south
on I-280. "So tell me again, when are we supposed to pick Brock up?"

"He wasn't sure how long the cruise ship thing will take. He said he'll call
your cell phone when he had gotten back to the airport".

"Good -- that means we have at least two or three hours. Good think the
traffic isn't too bad today. I can't wait to get you naked, buddy boy. And I
see that your tan has gotten really nice and dark."

Kyle blushed at the compliment. His fair skin had indeed darkened nicely
under the Florida sun during summer workouts, also making the dusting of
blond hair on his legs and forearms stand out even more.

"Hey Kenny -- know what? There are a couple of spots where I'm not tanned
that need some mouth action. Want to volunteers"?

The mental image of licking around Kyle's tan line, of sniffing that cute
blond bush and eating that pink little asshole between Kyle's sleek buns
made Ken even crazier, and it took all of his self-control not to floor the
accelerator as they neared their destination.

= = = = = = = = = =

Sitting alone in a sparsely furnished interview room, Brock's nervous state
grew with every passing moment. While certainly not panicking, a lot of
different thoughts were coursing through his mind. His main concern was over
whether he'd officially been arrested. Andrews had taken his driver's
license from him when he left him in this room. Brock remembered a
conversation with a friendly newspaper reporter that had taken place after
one of his `Canes teammates had been in trouble. The reporter had told him
that in addition to local sources who passed along tips, many reporters also
combed nationwide computerized police records with search engines. With
public records commonly accessible on the Internet in real time, it was very
easy to cross check the names on any team's roster. So even when an arrest
occurred thousands of miles away, the media could -- and would - still find
out. Oh man, Brock wondered. Was -- was his Hurricanes career finished, after
just five starts?

Despite his concerns, Brock was able to continued thinking analytically.
Andrews must have assumed that Brock had stolen the portfolio. It was the
only plausible explanation. Surely, once his identity had been established
and he had a chance to explain everything, the young agent would understand
and let him be on his way.

His thoughts were interrupted by animated voices outside, which grew
steadily louder. One person was clearly angry and was almost yelling.
Suddenly the door to the room burst open. "Mr. Berlin?" The man asking was a
tall, distinguished-looking man with silver hair. His high-quality
pinstriped suit gave him the air of a Wall Street CEO or banker.  Standing
next to the man was an attractive, petite Asian woman whose stylish business
suit and chic hairstyle gave her a similar air of prominence. Closing the
door behind the other two was agent Andrews, who had an ashen look on his
face.

"Yes, sir", Brock responded. He was surprised as the older man extended his
arm in a handshake, which he quickly accepted.

"Mr. Berlin, sir, I'm Ed Eastwood, Special Agent-in-Charge of the San
Francisco FBI office. I'd like you to meet Pamela Wu, of the U.S. Attorney's
office"

Brock was even more surprised at, but grateful for, the older agent's
businesslike manner. Brock then reached across to accept the handshake of
Ms. Wu, whose vice-like grip would put some of the `Canes linebackers to
shame - Ouch!

"And of course you've already met Dumb and Dumber Andrews over there" agent
Eastwood said, chuckling at his own sarcastic joke. Pamela Wu stifled a
giggle as young agent Andrews sat down in a chair at the far end of the
table, saying nothing. No handshake from him.

" Mr. Berlin", Eastwood continued, "on behalf of the Bureau, I want to offer
you two things. First, let me express our sincere thanks for finding the
lost item. Second, and more importantly, I want to give you my personal
apology for the treatment you received at the hands of my asinine agent. If
he had simply asked you to spare fifteen minutes for a short interview
concerning the portfolio, you would not have had to put up with his
inexcusable, heavy-handed tactics".

Brock was simultaneously dumbfounded and relieved. Oh man - it sounded like
they wouldn't be arresting him or anything! He glanced over at agent
Andrews, whose pained face had drained completely of any color whatsoever.
He didn't hold any anger for the young agent; not at all. He was totally
relieved about not having to call Coach Coker!

Pamela Wu then spoke up "Mr. Berlin, the papers you found contained
information concerning a very sensitive information that is being jointly
conducted by Ed's and my offices."

"Call me Brock, please, ma'am".

"Thank you, Brock". She paused as Eastwood handed Brock back his driver's
license. "We've checked and know that you are a law-abiding citizen. And in
light of what has just happened, we feel we owe you some words of
explanation. We're limited as to the extent of the details that we can
provide you, so it'll only be a brief outline. But if you would give us a
verbal affirmation that you won't discuss what we tell you with anyone else,
we'll proceed".

Brock noticed Ed Eastwood taking notes. Man, this must be really important!
"Yes, ma'am. I agree."

Five minutes later, Brock was both amazed and, a little bit thrilled to be
privy to such information. A splinter group of a political organization in a
country he'd never heard of, North Lamucca, was operating a smuggling ring
in the SFO airport cargo area. The FBI and US Attorney's office had set up
an interagency task force and was running an undercover operation out of the
temporary offices they were sitting in right now). Since the operation was
ongoing, that was as specific as they could be - Brock certainly understood.
But then he remembered.

"Ms. Wu? Mr. Eastwood?" I have to tell you something.

"Please - go ahead."

"Well, as I tried to tell agent Andrews when I first gave him his portfolio,
I had read the first page of the memo. Before he went Andy Sipowitz on me, I
tried to tell him something". Wu and Eastwood both laughed at the young
man's reference to the popular television show. Andrews showed no reaction
whatsoever.

Brock continued, "Well, there was a paragraph about a coded reference -- it
said that some experts couldn't break the code"?

"Yes -- we think that they are passing messages in some form of
"open-encryption" Eastwood explained. "The current thinking is that, since
computers can crack mathematics-based codes, the bad guys use references
keyed on some innocuous word or phrase. Out in the open, so to speak. We've
had the experts at the Stanford Research Institute down the road in Palo
Alto working on this one for weeks, but they haven't come up with anything
yet".

"But" Brock hesitated, not wanting to make a fool of himself, "I think I
know what that paragraph is".

Eastwood and Wu exchanged a glance. The older man handed the portfolio to
the young federal prosecutor, who extracted the first page. "Look here"
Brock started, indicating the middle of the paragraph in question. Ed and
Pam moved closer, to better see where Brock was pointing, while agent
Andrews remained motionless in his chair, silently contemplating his
possibly ruined career.

"See these four lines here? They're reversed Bible verses. Second Kings,
from the Old Testament".

Wu and Eastwood practically leapt from their chairs, closely scrutinizing
the lines, their minds quickly trying to reverse the letters into meaningful
phrases.

"By god, Pam, he's right. It's there"

"And think about this, Ed" Wu noted. "The syntax used in the Bible would
probably throw off the computers -- I'll bet that the automated scanning
algorithms that SRI uses don't look for seventeenth-century Olde English
verbiage."

Since there was no fixed telephone in the room, Ed borrowed Pam's cell
phone, dialing a number from memory. "Brenda? Hey, Ed Eastwood here. Fine,
fine. Listen - can you get your North Lamuccan project team into a
conference call in, say, fifteen minutes? Good. Yes, definitely use the
scrambler. OK, talk to you then - goodbye".

Eastwood returned to the others and filled them in. Pam Wu spoke next;
"Brock -- if this pans out, - you could very well qualify for a fairly
substantial cash reward".

"Ma'am, I don't need any reward. Just helping you guys out is reward
enough".

"How did you figure it out"? Wu asked, once more looking at the lines of
text.

"Actually it just jumped out at me. When I was in high school at Evangel, we
used to memorize biblical verses backwards to sharpen our memorization
skills. As soon as I saw those jumbled words I knew exactly what it was. I
just didn't know the context. Wow!"

"So, Andrews!" Ed turned his attention in the direction of the still-silent
young agent. "Have you been listening to what Mr. Berlin has just said? What
do you have to say for yourself? Not did you harass and humiliate an
innocent citizen, you didn't even take the time to listen to the critical
information this young man had to offer".

"S-sir? But, I..."

"Put a lid on it, Andrews. We'll take up your disciplinary punishment later,
after the conference call".

"Uh -- Mr. Eastwood, sir?" Brock hesitated, interrupting the older man's
harangue. "Can I speak with you privately for a moment".

"Certainly". Eastwood calmed down and motioned Brock over to the opposite
corner of the rectangular room.

"Look, sir, I'm not trying to meddle or anything. But is there any way you
can go light on agent Andrews? I mean yeah, he overreacted a little, but
seeing how important this stuff is, I don't hold it against him".

Ed Eastwood was impressed at the young man's obvious sincerity. Moreover, he
agreed that Andrews had simply been overeager and nervous about the fact
that a civilian had found and read the confidential case documents. And his
work on this difficult case, up until this incident, had been outstanding --
beyond reproach.

Eastwood needed to keep his agents in line, especially his rookies, but he
wasn't a total hard-ass. "Are you sure, Brock? He at least owes you a big
apology".

Brock thought for a moment, then smiled broadly. "Tell you what, sir -- I was
about to go to lunch when I found the portfolio, and that was a while ago.
Right now I'm starving -- how about if agent Andrews buys me lunch, then we
call it even".

Eastwood forced himself to suppressed his smile -- it wouldn't be good for
his badass image, after all.

"Good as done!" Eastwood said as turned towards the opposite end of the
table.

"ANDREWS!" he boomed. "Get your butt over here". Pam Wu finished her phone
call and listened in.

"Agent Andrews, as a personal favor to Mr. Berlin" Ed paused, giving Brock a
wink, "I'm going to withhold disciplinary action. We'll work our some
additional training for you, but at Mr. Berlins request, it won't go any
farther than that". For the first time since he'd entered the room, some
color returned to Dave's face.

"Mr. Berlin has indicated that you interrupted his lunch plans. I want you
to take him to lunch, right now, wherever he chooses. Think you can handle
that?"

"Y-yes, sir".

"And don't expense it! Understand"?

Pam Wu couldn't help giggling a little, but she liked both agents a lot, and
she didn't want to add to the younger man's embarrassment. In fact, Pam had
already spoken to her bosses at the DOJ about "stealing" the brilliant young
agent (all FBI special agents have law degrees) for their San Francisco
staff.

"Pam, let's head up to the conference room. Brenda Donaldson should have the
boys and girls at SRI ready to hear about Brock's discovery. The senior
agent turned to Brock. "Thank you again, Brock. It was a true pleasure to
meet you. We'll be in touch".

This time, Brock was ready for Pam Wu's firm handshake. "A pleasure as well,
Brock, and many thanks" the attorney said as they shook hands. "Your
information should be very helpful in moving this investigation forward.

Ed halted just as he was at the door. "One more thing, Brock -- be sure you
find the most expensive thing on the menu, and order three of them!" He
allowed himself a cackle, then turned to leave. "Let's go"

Ed and Pam exited, leaving Andrews and Brock alone in the room. Still
feeling apprehensive, Andrews hesitated, but then found his voice. "Mr. --
Mr. Berlin"?

"Look -- if we're going to talk, let's drop the last names, OK"

For the first time since entering the room, the hint of a smile brightened
Dave's face. Brock was taken once more at how incredibly handsome the young
agent was. Incredible- stunning.

"S-sure, Ok, Brock. See, I got it right that time. Call me Dave" he said as
he put on his suit coat. "God, I am so sorry for what happened before".

"Dave, look. I don't want to be rude, but can we talk about it while we eat?
I could eat like three cows right about now"

In spite of what had happened, Brock's nice, disarming manner caused a
little bit of Dave's normally outgoing personality to peek through the
anguish he still felt over his screw-up.

"You know, I could probably put away a couple myself. And I know just the
place"

"Let's do it"! Brock said as he followed Dave Andrews out of the office. As
they made their way to the parking garage, Brock gulped as he caught sight
of the beautifully trim pair of buns that were concealed under the fabric of
Dave's dress pants. At least he would be able to enjoy the scenery while
they ate!

= = = = = = = = = =

"Damn -- this joint looks like an IKEA store" Kyle joked as he looked through
the different rooms of Ken's townhouse. Good-quality but not fancy, the
furnishings were ideal for a bachelor who was traveling a lot of the time.
The big-ticket items were in the living room -- the huge widescreen HDTV and
a cluster of high-quality stereo gear. But the really important item was in
the master bedroom. Being almost 6'6", Ken had spent a sizeable chunk of his
first check from the memorabilia company private signing (it still amazed
him how much a third-stringer's signature was worth) on a custom-made bed
and mattress that was a foot longer than standard, in order to accommodate
his 6'6" frame (the bed had been made by the same custom crafter in Los
Angeles that had made Shaquille O'Neal's furniture, so if was good enough
for Shaq Daddy, it was OK for him.

Ken had no idea what the Lakers superstar did on his custom bed, but his was
already seeing plenty of extracurricular activity. Like it was about to
right now. Ken had quietly moved back up the hallway, until he was behind
his unsuspecting friend. Ken then he moved in for the kill; as he felt
himself being bear-hugged, Kyle let out a yelp, but the outrageously good
feel of his jock buddy's tongue and breath nuzzling he nape of his neck soon
had him feel something different - hot and bothered!

"Take me to your bedroom, big man" Kyle commanded. The big man complied,
walking Kyle backwards, slowly so they wouldn't trip, until they were close
enough to the bed to fall backwards. Within seconds, the two tall stallions
were sprawled on the cool sheets, locked in the deepest of kisses. Each stud
exulted in the overwhelming pleasure of the touch and feel of his jock
buddy's smooth athletic flesh.

Kyle's short-clipped blond hair and fairer skin contrasted with his older
buddy's medium-length brown hair; however, they were similar in the
smoothness of their upper bodies. Kyle's long legs had a dusting of fine
blond hair, while Ken had just a smattering of hair on his equally long
limbs. Both of the jocks sported smooth chests. Ken's showed noticeably more
definition than Kyle's owing to the concentrated weight training he had done
at his pre-draft camp. Kyle lost no time noticing the additional bulk.

"Oh man, you weigh a ton now, you hippo -- I hope you don't crush me" Kyle
teased as he broke their deep kiss. Kyle realized that he himself needed to
do what Ken had done, and he silently resolved to increase his reps in the
weight room when he got back to Miami. But that was for later - right now,
there was a big hippo that was waiting to be sexually satisfied.

"Geez - complaining again?" Ken teased, pressing his body a little harder
against the big cute blond hunk They both soon lost their clothes - Ken
loved when Kyle undressed him, but today he was anxious to get his clothes
off. He swiftly wriggled out of his jersey and wind pants, and was soon
laying back on the bed in only his black Tommy Hilfiger Sport boxer briefs,
the pouch of which was already distended with his bulging manhood.

Kyle went a little slower, because he wanted to show Ken what he had on
underneath his A&F cargo shorts. Slowly moving the zipper down in such a way
as to keep covered up, he then pulled them down in one fell swoop. Ken's
face broke out in an evil grin when he saw that Kyle was wearing a jock -- oh
MAN did he get off on jockstraps. Especially when they were being worn by
blond hotties like Kyle Wright!

"See something you like, hotboy?" Kyle whispered lewdly.?

"Yeah -- something I want to get a taste of". With that, Ken began to orally
caress his blond buddy's bulging jockstrap. Using the edge of his tongue,
Ken teased the edges of the cotton fabric, where some of Kyle's wiry blond
pubes were accessible.

"Damn, Kenny, that drives me so wild" Kyle moaned, reaching down to stroke
his older friend's brown hair. Ken then turned up the heat as he began a
full frontal assault on Kyle's goodies. Ken's jaw adjusted so that he could
engulf the big mound, soaking the turgid shaft inside in his saliva. The
cotton fabric was soon soaked with copious amounts of Dorsey-drool. Kyle
reached down and lowered his jock's waistband, in order to give Ken access
to his goodies.

And what a hot sight thoise goodies were! The pink shaft, so silky smooth,
nice and hard as it stretched to its full 8 inch length, surrounded by a
forest of wiry blond hair. And as promised, Kyle's tan line really did
accent the hotness of his stud equipment. The combination of his tanned legs
against the white strip of his hairy crotch drove Ken wild.

"Oh yeah -- lick me, Kenny. Eat me up".

The very hungry Ken Dorsey settled in to eat his lunch.

= = = = = = = = = =

Brock laughed as he read the sign on the door of the restaurant, Max's Café,
which was located next to a cluster of big hotels just south of the airport.
"THIS IS A BAD PLACE FOR A DIET", it said. Well, we're at the right place.
The hostess recognized Dave and immediately hustled them to a table in an
alcove that afforded a measure of privacy. Dave had explained that he and
his fellow agents often conducted interviews here, so the staff all knew
them.

Brock was really hungry, but he didn't want to seem too piggish, so he
ordered just a bowl of soup and a deli sandwich, while Dave ordered only a
chicken Caesar salad. When the food arrived, Dave chuckled as he saw Brock
react to the enormous size of the portions that his reastaurant was famous
for. The soup was not a normal bowl but instead a medium-sized white
casserole dish, while the pastrami sandwich was a mountain of house-cured
meat between two huge slabs of rye bread. Dave's own salad would have fed an
army of ravenous rabbits. That's why he loved this place so much!

"Let's dig in" Dave said, intrigued by the fact that Brock said a silent
"grace" before tackling his French onion soup. Right - the biblical verse
thing -- it made sense.

While waiting for the food to arrive, Dave had explained that he had run
Brock's drivers license through the FBI's National Crime Information
computer. Although no formal records other than Brock's driver license and
passport application had turned up,  Dave had also seen an additional
notation.

"It said -- wait, I wrote it down here - "LOI Florida 1999 TRANSFER Miami
(FL) 2001".

"Wow -- I had no idea that the government tracks that kind of sports
information".

"Well, not the government exactly. Since 9/11, the NCI system does an
automatic crosscheck against dozens of outside systems. One of them is the
NCAA records system out in Indianapolis. The NCAA records are included
because the Bureau has jurisdiction over federal bookmaking violations. But
Brock, in all honesty it's nothing that Joe Public can't access on the NCAA
website. We would need a court order to access anything from non-published
NCAA records.

Brock believed him -- it made sense. "So it's like a big search engine -- like
Google?"

"Exactly. And speaking of Google, when I saw the NCAA notation, I put your
name into Google and almost fell out of my chair. There were over 3,000
hits".

Brock laughed. He and his teammates were always goofing around, checking
their names in Google and other search engines. Most of the entries were the
same stats displayed on hundreds of news and college sites like ESPN.com and
CNNSI.com. As they continued chatting, Brock continued his discreet studying
of Dave Andrews, The young agent, who was much more relaxed and animated,
had an infectious smile and a really nice disarming manner that Brock liked
-- a lot. It was obvious that he was very intelligent, but in no way did Dave
talk down to him. As Brock listened -- and looked -- he realized who it was
that Dave reminded him of; Cody Pickett, the Washington quarterback who he
had met once, at a Nike quarterback camp before their respective high school
senior years. And although Dave was definitely shorter than Pickett (Brock
guessed Dave to be about 5'11 against the Washington quarterback's 6'3" and
his own 6'1"), the resemblance, while certainly not identical, was not that
far off.  Brock further noticed that, with Dave's suit coat removed, there
was definitely a nice, lean frame under the young agent's tapered white
dress shirt.

"Dave, if you don't mind me saying so, you seem kind of young for an FBI
agent. Tell me about yourself -- I mean, about your background, and how you
became an FBI agent"? Dave hesitated for a moment. He always felt a little
awkward talking about his record, about his accomplishments. But Brock had
been so nice and understanding, and had even gone to bat for him with his
boss, that in this case he didn't mind.

"Well, you're right, at 23 I think I'm one of the two youngest special agent
in the bureau. Mostly, it's because I finished my law degree at an earlier
age than the other applicants".

The young man's modest explanation belied the facts. David Andrews had grown
up in Gilroy ("the garlic capital of the world, and it smells like it"), a
town about one hundred miles from the restaurant where they were sitting
right now. Having graduating from high school at age 16, Dave had then
earned his Stanford undergrad degree in just two and a half years. Next, he
had completed a prestigious double graduate program that earned him both a
J.D. and an MBA from Stanford's Top Five graduate schools -- and he had dome
so in three years, not the usual four. And all of the degrees were summa cum
laude!

After a short-term clerkship with the chief judge of the U.S. Ninth Circuit
in Pasadena, Dave had joined the Bureau and earned selection to the Bureau's
elite intelligence section, a rare achievement for a rookie agent fresh out
of the FBI's Quantico academy.

"Whoa -- I get asked for my autograph a lot, but I think I need to ask for
yours, Dave. That is so impressive. You have every right to be proud of what
you've accomplished".

Dave tried to suppress his good feelings at Brock's praise, but a smile
broke through in spite of his reticence. He WAS proud of his achievements,
but he hated boastfulness and big displays of pride. He looked at Brock -
the young man was very genuine and open and their rapport had been growing
ever since they had left the airport. The previous incident with the folder
seemed to have been completely forgotten. But Dave's sunny mood was darkened
when he heard Brock say, "I bet your parents must be really proud. And, your
wife, if you're married, that is?

Ouch. No, double ouch.

Brock had no way of knowing, but he'd hit on the two most sensitive areas of
Dave's personal life. Brock could tell right away that he'd said something
that had bothered Dave quite a lot. "Oh man -- look, it's rude of me to ask
you about personal stuff like that. I'm sort of a klutz sometimes".

"No -- Brock, you did absolutely nothing wrong". Dave paused -- thinking --
deciding. Should he? Yes. It would be better if he got it over with.

"I don't want to burden you or anything, but I -- well, if you don't mind
hearing "

"No, go ahead -- you can talk to me, buddy"

The word came out so naturally, unforced. But Dave noticed it - and like
Brock, he felt a real connection with the younger guy sitting across from
him. Dave paused as the waitress cleared the remaining plates, took a sip of
water, then he continued.

"When I was in my second quarter at Stanford, my parents had just left
Gilroy heading for Yosemite for a weekend getaway at the Ahwahnee Hotel.
They were on the Pacheco Pass highway when an old woman in a Cadillac with
0.29 blood alcohol at 10 o'clock in the morning crossed the double line and
hit them head-on at 80 miles per hour. They never had a chance".

Dave noticed that Brock's expression had instantly become crestfallen. He
paused, then said "it's OK -- it actually helps talking about it" as much to
himself as to Brock, who shifted in the restaurant booth, instinctively
drawing just a bit closer to the young agent. Dave noticed that his words
had softened Brock's expression, so he continued.

"The woman turned out to be the wife of Luigi Rooster". Dave saw the note of
recognition on Brock's face. "Exactly -- Luigi and Giuseppe Rooster Wine
Company, second-biggest vintner in the world. To make a long story short,
the prosecutors bargained the vehicular homicide charge down to a much
lighter charge, and she essentially walked".

"But that's so unfair".

"But realistic. Well, I can say that now, since I now know hat the
prosecutors were up against. Essentially, no jury is going to lock up a
seventy-eight year old woman, much less one with as much social and
political juice as Oranella Rooster. At least the judge banned her from
holding a driver's license for life as part of the deal".

"That fuckin BITCH!" Brock was a little surprised at himself, that he had
uttered the curse. He almost never used that kind of profanity, unless he
was trying to motivate his teammates on the football field.

"Hey, thanks for saying it for me. So my uncle, who was fantastic through
the whole thing, got me a great attorney and we got a big civil settlement.
After the criminal case was closed, the Rooster family went to the press
making a big stink about how they would fight our wrongful death lawsuit
tooth and nail. Then, once the press had moved on to their next story, they
settled on our terms. And Brock, that's the part that still bugs me the most
-- they just used their wealth to make it go away. The old hag never
apologized to me or to my aunt and uncle. They entered a letter of apology
into the court record, but it was written in lawyer-speak -- no way did that
come from her."

"Wow. Dave -- I'm so sorry for what happened to you".

"I appreciate that, Brock. But what happened lit a fire under me, and made
me dedicate myself to make a difference with my life. The settlement money
gives me a cushion and paid for school -- Stanford isn't exactly free, you
know - but no way will I just sponge of the money -- never!

Dave paused as the waitress delivered their check. Brock reached for his
wallet but Dave swiftly put his hand on Brock's forearm. "No way, buddy -- I
have my orders"! Both young men had felt a tingle at the touch, but neither
showed any outward reaction. Still, it was a nice sensation -- VERY nice.

"Knowing Ed, he'll demand that I show him the receipt -- just to bust my
butt".

"He seems really strict"

"Well, he has to be -- he's essentially the Bureau's senior man on the West
Coast. There are always rumors that he might become director of the entire
Bureau, but I don't think so. He's brilliant, but he doesn't have a
political bone in his body. And you need to live and breathe politics if you
go to work at Jedgar"'

"What's `Jedgar'?"

"Oh, sorry. J. Edgar Hoover Building -- the headquarters of the Bureau in
Washington." Dave loved telling civilians that one. He continued "Ed went
out on a limb to bring me into intelligence -- it's so high-visibility,
especially post-9/11. Most applicants need to serve two to three years in a
field office before they can transfer into intelligence".

"I wanted to ask you something else -- if it's ok"? Brock paused as the
waitress left with the signed credit card slip

"Go ahead".

"You told me about your uncle and aunt; do you have any other family? Any
brothers or sisters"?

"Nope. I was an only child. My aunt and uncle have a daughter close to my
age, but she works for the International Red Cross in Geneva. So, I never
get to see my only cousin".

Brock then pointed to Dave's left hand. "No ring, huh? So you must not be
married. Do you have a girlfriend? Dave, I mean, I hope you don't mind me
saying this, but you don't exactly look like Jabba the Hut -- I mean, you
mist be beating the girls off with a stick"

Dave blushed. The compliment really felt nice, especially coming from Brock.
But this one would be easy to answer -- he had these lines rehearsed down to
a `T'.

"Who has time? After the accident, I really poured myself into my studies.
With the accelerated programs, I pretty much lived in libraries and study
halls. I never even used my student tickets for football -- even the years we
hosted the Big Game -- and I like sports. So, no one right now".

Dave studied Brock. The young man seemed to accept the answer.

Dave felt a real connection with Brock. A genuine friendliness -- but wait --
was it really limited to that? Wasn't he in all honesty suppressing the
other aspect of his reaction to Brock? The fact that he thought Brock was
extremely attractive, with his strawberry blond good look and tousled hair,
his beautiful winning smile, his sparkling warm eyes? `Control it, Dave -
stay in control'.

The subject needed to be changed -- and quick. And in one of those favors
from above, Dave's cell phone picked that exact moment to sound its musical
tone. "Excuse me for a second, Brock". The younger man rose from the table
and headed in the direction of the exit, allowing Dave a little privacy for
his call. When Dave moved over to him at the door, he was smiling, so it
must have been good news.

"That was Ed. He said that SRI adjusted their codes using the information
you gave, and it was a bull's-eye. The date of the first arms shipment
attempt has been confirmed. They're going to have some unexpected company".

"That's fantastic".

"Yeah, and listen to this -- Ed was in such a good mood that he said he
changed his mind that he told me to go ahead and expense our lunch. He even
gave me the rest of the afternoon off".

"Cool"!

"Tell you what -- you said your friend lives in Santa Clara? My place is only
a few miles from there -- why don't I give you a lift there? That way, he
won't have to fight the commute traffic coming up here -- it can get pretty
bad".

."Are you sure -- you don't mind"?

"Really, it's right on my way. And, to be honest, I wouldn't mind the chance
to talk to you a little longer". As soon as he said it, Dave worried -- would
Brock think his words sounded -- well, weird?

Thankfully, Brock didn't give any outward sign of anything untoward. "Me
too, buddy. It's really nice of you to offer - and I'm sure my fired Ken
will appreciate not having to drive up".

Dave reached for his cell phone, and offered it to Brock. "Here - do you
want to call Ken for the directions"?

"Don't need to -- he sent me an e-mail with all the directions, in case he
got caught up and would be delayed in picking me up. They're in my backpack"

Dave put his phone away and started the car, idling as Brock found the paper
in his pack. Taking the printout, Dave recognized the area in question right
away. It was only about six or seven miles from his own place. "No problem --
I know that area pretty well. There's a waterfront park right near there I
like to go to".

"Is it OK if I adjust the air conditioner?" Brock asked.

"Sure. Just reach for that toggle switch right there". Dave carefully backed
out of the parking space, then headed toward the exit. Checking the cross
traffic, he was about to pull into Old Bayshore Road when a speeding red
Subaru WRX ran the red light down the block. Having grown up in the Bay
Area, Dave was always aware of the constant red-light runners, and was able
to brake in plenty of time. However, he had to hit the brake pedal pretty
hard.

He turned to apologize to Brock, but he was frozen in his tracks as he
looked down at Brock's lap. The sudden stop had caused Brock to lose grip of
his backpack, and some the contents of the pack had spilled out -- including
a DVD case whose graphic cover art and title was unmistakable as to it's
contents "TIGHT ENDS AND WIDE RECEIVERS".

A moment, seemingly frozen in time.

Thoughts -- private thoughts.

Pain, guilt, and recriminations ran through Dave's mind.

And through Brock's.

The silence. The prolonged, deafening silence.

"Dave. I -"

The young agent raised his right hand quickly, saying "Don't say anything.
Please, just don't - please.' At that moment, another car pulled in behind
Dave and honked, impatient for the big sedan to clear the driveway. He had
to get moving. Had to decide.

His future. His life.

Decide NOW!

Still saying nothing, forcing himself not to look at Brock, Dave moved
forward, but rather than heading for the nearby freeway on-ramp, he
immediately swerved into the left turn lane and entered the driveway for the
Hyatt Regency hotel.

Brock was confused. "Dave? Agent Andrews? Please -- where are we going"? Dave
didn't acknowledge the question (or more accurately, probably never heard
it). Pulling into the hotel's parking structure, Dave quickly proceeded up
to top level of the garage, which was deserted excepted for some stored
construction materials. Dave stopped the car and turned off the engine,
turning at last to face Brock.

Dave's heart was pounding. Was he, in perfect health and in superb physical
shape, having a heart attack?  He struggled to find his voice -- shaky,
nervous.

"Brock - all my life I've been careful -- extra cautious, always thinking
things through. It's ingrained in my nature, and my parent's accident only
made it more so."

Brock started to say something but stifled it. Although Dave was facing him,
his gaze seemed a million miles away. Brock way dying inside, but waited for
the young agent to let him have it -- for being a perverted disgusting sack
of dishonest shit.

"What just happened -- I --". Dave paused. He dared to take a closer look at
Brock's face -- his eyes. The blond younger man -- tall, muscular athletic --
at that moment looked like a vulnerable little kid. Dave's resolve wavered.
He was always good at making decisions. But this one was too important to
rush.

He knew what he wanted to do. Did he have the guts to do it?

Yes, goddamnit! The decision was made.

"Brock, since I made the law my vocation, I've prided myself on respect for
everyone I deal with, for being the consummate professional. He paused. Very
discreetly, he reached inside his suit coat. Yes, there it was. Dave
stealthily unlocked it, the steel cold to his touch.

"This is the most unprofessional thing I've ever done in my life, but god
fucking damn it, I'll live with the consequences." With cat-like reflexes,
Dave attacked.

Brock never knew what hit him.


To be continued (if there's any interest ?)