Date: Thu, 14 Jul 2011 16:00:18 -0600
From: Roy <roynm@mac.com>
Subject: Phalen, chapter 12, Gay college section

Reputation and Honor

Chapter twelve

By Roy Reinikainen


	"Okay," Bobby said, leaning his forearms on the small table.  He
and Randy had finished a delicious dinner, and Randy, with the help of
three beers, was feeling content.  The small, twinkling lights, strung
through the low branches of the tree overhead, cast a pleasant glow,
echoing Randy's mood, while Gus curled at his feet.  Bobby sat back, the
tiny lights highlighting the curls of his dark hair.  "Okay," he repeated,
matter-of-factly, "tell me what's been going on."  He held up a hand.
"I've already promised I won't tell anyone that I've seen you, so I
definitely won't tell anyone what you choose to tell me."  He leaned
forward, his voice lowering.  "Randy, I care about you.  Something rotten
must have happened to you to make you leave the team and to be behaving
like you did back at the grocery store.  Tell me about it, okay?  I'm
curious, sure, but I also want to help, if I can."  His mouth twisted into
a smile.  "I'm thinking that talking about whatever it is, will be a big
load off your mind."

	"I'm gay, Bobby," Randy said, expecting an instantaneous reaction.
Instead, all he got was a blink.

	"Is that what's bothering you?"  Before Randy had a chance to
respond, Bobby continued.  "Hell, there are at least three of us on the
team.  It's no big deal!"

	"You're gay?" Randy asked.  Bobby sat back, as if stunned.

	"Oops," he sheepishly smiled.  "Seems we're both telling all." He
leaned forward, once again.  "But, Randy, really, you shouldn't get all
broken up about being gay.  Coach Bowen's a cool guy.  He doesn't care, and
the other guys on the team are all comfortable, except for one or two, and
they stick to themselves, reading their Bibles, n'stuff," he made a face,
"and leave everyone else alone."

	"Bobby, I'm not broken up about being gay, I'm broken up because I
. . ." he glanced at the man across the table, "because . . . I . . . was
abused by someone . . . badly."  He snorted an unamused laugh.  "Hell, I'm
frightened by my own shadow.  Wherever I go, I'm convinced I'll see him.  I
haven't had a good night's sleep since . . . I can't remember.  I hear his
voice in my sleep, or his laugh.  I feel him touching me.  I can't sleep,
due to the nightmares.  I've finally stopped vomiting every time I think
about even being touched by another guy.  I've gained some of my weight
back, but I 'bout scared a poor guy to death the other night, just because
he touched me."

	Bobby reached across the table and took Randy's hand.  Randy
flinched, but didn't pull away.  "Easy, easy," he murmured, trying to
soothe Randy's growing tension.  "He's not here.  It's only you n'me,
n'Gus.  Take a deep breath," Bobby urged.

	When Randy slowly exhaled, Bobby tried to smile.  "Better?" he
asked.

	Randy squeezed Bobby's hand, in thanks, but was unable to look at
his friend.  "I'm doing better . . . than I was . . . earlier, I mean.  At
least I'm able to keep food down, now, and I'm not curled up in a corner of
a dark room, crying, both from humiliation and from the pain he caused."

	Bobby bowed his head.  "Aw, shit," he murmured, sitting quietly for
a moment, lost in thought.  When he looked up, his eyes were intent.  "It
was Coach Cline who did it to you, wasn't it?"

	Randy slowly took a deep breath.  "Why do you say that?" he asked,
in a voice barely above a whisper.

	"Eric and I overheard him talking with Coach Bowen.  Oh, in case
you don't know," Bobby absently gestured, "Eric is Marty's boyfriend.  You
know, Marty, the team's trainer?"  Randy nodded, as Bobby continued
speaking.  "Well, Eric was at the gym to meet Marty, but since he's on
Phalen's practice team, and those guys were still out on the field, Eric
decided to wait.  We were in the team lounge, you know . . . close to Coach
Bowen's office?"  Randy nodded.

	"Well, Coach Cline was talking loud, bad mouthing Marty and Phalen,
and trying to get Coach Bowen to say something about you.  It was like he
was fishing for information, or something, but if Coach Bowen knew
anything, he kept his mouth shut.  It was all very tense, and Eric had
gotten real quiet, the moment Coach Cline began talking about Marty.  Until
then, I didn't know Marty was gay.  I mean, I knew he was friends with
Eric, but that's all.  It was like I was hearing stuff I had no right to
hear . . . sorta like eavesdropping.

	Bobby scooted forward on his chair.  "Geez, Randy, you wouldn't
have believed it!  Eric's not a real big guy, but he stood up to Coach
Cline."  Bobby laughed.  When the coach left Bowen's office, he ordered
Eric to leave the gym.  I mean, ordered!  I mean, he pointed a finger at
the door and everything . . . just like in some cheesy movie, or
something."  Bobby chuckled, in recollection of the scene.  "And, there
Eric sat, behaving as if nothing unusual was happening.  By then, the
practice team was standing nearby, all of 'em sorta freaked by what was
going on.  So . . . Coach Cline, all red n'stuff, orders Eric to leave,
pointing to the door n'all, again, and what does Eric do?"  Before Randy
could hazard a guess, Bobby continued.  "He tells the coach, 'no'!"  Bobby
laughed.  "Simple as that!  Imagine, someone telling that guy, 'no'!

	"Hell, I thought the coach was gonna go ballistic, which I didn't
want, because I was sitting next to Eric and I would have been in the
direct line of fire.  But, Coach Bowen sticks his head out of his office
and tells his nephew to leave.  Sorta anti-climactic, but geez.  And, all
the while, there sat Eric, cool as a cucumber."

	Bobby sobered.  "It was Coach Cline who worked you over, wasn't
it?"  He reached across the table and rested a hand on top of Randy's.
"It's okay not to answer.  I know what you'd say.  Are . . . are you doing
better?  I mean . . . do you need someone to hold you?  Someone
non-threatening?"  The corners of his lips twitched upward.  "I'm hoping
you do, 'cause I'm sorta available . . . at the moment, n'all
. . . y'know."

	In a single move, Randy stood, rounded the table, and stepped into
Bobby's open arms, resting his head on his shoulder.  "It's okay," Bobby
said, soothingly, rubbing a hand slowly up and down Randy's back as Randy
clutched him tightly.  "You never have to be afraid of me."  He turned and
tenderly kissed Randy's hair.  "Never."


----------


	Randy ran his tongue over his suddenly-dry lips and tried to coax
some moisture into his mouth.  He was alone . . . at the city police
headquarters . . . doing something he had wanted, no, intended, to do since
the evening he left Coach Cline's apartment and had called Doctor Layson.
The doctor had volunteered to accompany him to the station, as had Doctor
Johnston, his psychiatrist, or Bobby, the man who was increasingly becoming
more important to him.  He'd turned each of them down, assuring them that
he'd be able to handle things himself.  Now, waiting for the police
captain, he wasn't so sure.  The small room was large enough for a small
round table, four chairs, and nothing else.  The view of a busy Tempe
street, one floor below, was partially blocked by the leaves of a palm,
moving lazily in an afternoon breeze.

	Meeting with the police, and having to recount all the details of
what had happened to him, was difficult enough, but had been made more
difficult by the Sergeant with whom he'd initially met.  The man, while
sympathetic and attentive on the surface, took every opportunity to paint
Randy in a bad light, asking him what he'd done to lead the older man on,
or saying things like, "if you were afraid of being treated badly, why'd
you decide to go for a romp with the man in the first place."  When the
Sergeant referred to the trauma Randy had suffered, as, "nothing more than
a sordid domestic squabble," Randy had had enough.

	At first, he'd asked for, then demanded that the Sergeant's
supervisor sit in on the meeting.  He'd crossed his arms, sat back in his
chair and stared at the officer, who returned the glare, unmoving.  "Shall
I go find the person in charge?" Randy finally asked, breaking the
stalemate.  "I believe that the person who is responsible for my treatment
may also be at the root of the suicides the newspapers have been reporting
on."  He cleared his throat, "If the fact that you do not personally
approve of gay people keeps you from doing your job, I'd be happy to speak
to anyone who isn't so . . . prejudiced."  Randy smiled, pleasantly.

	The pep talks Bobby had given him, over the last few days, combined
with the encouragement of his psychiatrist, had given Randy the courage,
both to go to the police, and to stand up for himself.

	Finally, the Sergeant slowly scooted his chair back and left the
room, his muttered, "impertinent faggot," comment trailing after him.  The
wait for someone else to show up seemed interminable, causing him to
imagine all sorts of things the Sergeant could be telling his supervisor
about the, "faggot," in room B.

	Randy scooted his chair back and stood, as the door to the room
opened, and another officer entered the small conference room.  The
Sergeant was one step behind, but was prevented from taking a seat when his
supervisor thanked him, then told him he could return to his duties.

	"I'm Captain Morris," the bulky man said, smiling as he introduced
himself and shook Randy's hand.  He gestured to the chair.  "Please, have a
seat.  The kind Sergeant has told me about your meeting, and how difficult
a person you are.  I apologize for his behavior.  I won't attempt to
justify anything he's said.  Suffice it to say that he will be spoken to.
The captain's lips compressed into a thin line, as he contemplated what he
might say to the unlucky Sergeant.

	"Now," the captain smiled attentively, as he opened a notebook,
"please start over.  Tell me everything you told the kind Sergeant.  I want
to know what happened to you, why you think it happened, and, how you think
your experience might relate to the suicides we're investigating."

	Randy cleared his throat.  He told the Captain how the coach had
approached him, making promises which would be granted in return for sex.
He spoke of how he viewed himself, before giving in to the coach's
advances.  "I was cocky, Captain.  I thought that, because of the way I
look, guys should be anxious to go to bed with me.  I never forced anyone,
or anything.  It's just that I was . . ." he paused, "very confident."
There was another pause.  "Too confident.  I never had any idea that giving
in to the coach's advances would lead where it did."

	Randy spoke of his growing fears, as each night spent with the
coach brought more humiliation, more pain, and mental anguish, as control
over his life seemed to be slipping away.  He spoke of how bad he felt,
letting his teammates on the baseball team down by not being able to play
at his best, and of how awful it had been not being able to talk to his
parents for fear the coach might find a way to pressure them into revealing
his whereabouts.  He told the captain of the final encounter, when, hardly
able to walk, he finally decided that something had to be done, no matter
the consequences, and he'd called Doctor Layson.

	The Captain listened as Randy spoke of his recovery, and of
learning that the police were investigating two, possibly three, suicides
of young men who had had some connection with the University Athletics
Center, and his belief that somehow Coach Cline was connected.

	"If Doctor Layson hadn't given me the support he did," Randy
continued, "I don't know . . . I could have easily considered suicide."  He
leaned forward.  "Captain, I always considered myself pretty strong, able
to withstand things thrown at me, y'know?"  The captain nodded.  "Well,
this man manipulated me in such a way that I felt as if I had absolutely no
control.  He robbed me of that and my self-esteem.  All I knew was that I
hurt.  My body hurt, my mind hurt.  I would have done anything to not
hurt."  There was a lengthy pause, where the only sound in the room was the
traffic on the street below.  "Yet," Randy continued, speaking in a voice
devoid of emotion, "if he had ordered me back to his bed, I would have
gone.  The one thing which ruled my life more than pain was fear.  I knew
for a fact, that if I failed to show up, he would find me, and that what
I'd experienced before would be like child's play compared with what he
would do to me.

	"I'm ashamed of . . . the things I did . . . of how I behaved,
but," Randy looked up, meeting the Captain's gaze, through a watery blur,
"I am proud of the steps I have taken to recover.  And," he gestured to the
room, "I am proud that I had the courage to come here and tell you about
what happened to me.  I think of myself as a survivor, Captain.  I survived
what he did to me.  There may be more guys, like me, who suffered at Coach
Cline's hands, and, for whatever reason, have never come forward, and,
sadly, there may be some who did not survive.  I'm here, representing the
guys who never had the courage to talk to you, as well as the ones who
can't speak for themselves."


----------


	Marty finished unbinding Ross McCree's wrist, slapped him on the
leg, and pitched the wad of tape into the trash container.  "There you go,"
he grinned, "if you'd ease-up on some of your pitches you wouldn't need so
much binding."  Both men looked up at a slight sound, to see Coach Cline
leaning against the door jamb, his muscular arms crossed, and his
ever-present sunglasses resting high on his forehead.  His burgundy-colored
shirt, emblazoned with the university's name, was stained with sweat and
clung to his chest and belly like a second skin.  His shorts, tighter than
most coaches wore, showed off the bulge of his groin, while his bronzed
skin glistened with a fine sheen of perspiration.  His boyish smile,
misleading at all times, was absent today, replaced by a look of grim
determination.

	'Where're the rest of the guys?' Marty asked himself, stealing a
glance at the clock.  'Surely they'll be coming in soon, and Eric's
supposed to be here to pick me up.'  He swallowed.  'He can't attack me
here . . . can he?'

	The coach nodded to Ross, and spoke in voice which brooked no
disagreement.  "He's done with you.  It's time to leave."

	Ross flicked a glance at Marty, then back to the coach, unsure
whether to obey the coach or abandon Marty, the one thing he'd been told,
under any circumstances, not to do.  "I said, you're done," the coach
repeated.  "There's no need to check with him for what to do next.  I told
you to leave."  Ross scooted off the edge of the exam table, and sidled out
the door, sparing one glance at the two men through the windows surrounding
the small office.  He didn't want the coach to see him run, but he knew he
needed to get help for Marty.  The look in Coach Cline's eyes spoke of
nothing but trouble, and, since the locker room was empty, Marty would be
facing it alone.

	"Well, it's a fine mess you've gotten me into," Ross heard the
coach say, as he hurried toward the doors leading to the practice fields.
Ross glanced over his shoulder and saw the coach enter the office and
approach Marty, who was standing his ground.

	'Good for him,' Ross thought, breaking into a run the moment he
thought Coach Cline wouldn't notice.  He ran past the head coach's office,
then burst through the doors, jogging toward the practice fields.
"Phalen!" he shouted, at the top of his lungs, waving his arms and jumping,
to attract attention.  His second shout was echoed by someone on the field,
who pointed in his direction.  Ross saw Phalen follow the player's gesture,
then raise his arm in acknowledgment, and run toward Coach Bowen who was
watching from the dugout with his fists on his hips.  Phalen stood before
the coach, making wild gestures, pointing toward the gym, and Ross, who
continued waving his arms, bouncing on the balls of his feet, anxious for
someone to come and rescue Marty.

	Coach Bowen nodded, then both he and Phalen trotted toward the gym.
"Wait out here, Ross," the coach said, patting him on the shoulder.
"Thanks for alerting us."  Phalen's expression, as he passed, was grim,
though he, too, paused long enough to express his thanks with a pat on the
shoulder and a request that Ross keep the team out of the locker room for a
while.  Ross nodded numbly, wondering what Phalen thought might be going to
happen.

	As the head coach and Phalen entered the locker room, they could
hear Coach Cline's voice.  Coach Bowen held out an arm, preventing Phalen
from rushing toward Marty's office, then ordered silence with a quick
negative jerk of his head and a finger to his lips.  They silently moved
past the rows of lockers, until they were close enough to hear every word
spoken in the office.

	"Well," Coach Cline's voice dripped venom, "seems as if you, and
that Phalen bastard, have told the cops that I've been pressuring you into
having sex."  Coach Bowen sneaked a peak around the lockers and saw his
nephew standing only inches from Marty, who looked up at the taller man,
defiant in the face of a man much larger than himself.

	"What?" Marty spat.  "I have never spoken with the police about
what you wanted from me.  There was no reason to.  You propositioned me; I
said 'no' . . . end of story.  You never touched me.  If you had touched
me," Marty's voice changed, "it would have been a different story.  I think
what you are doing is dead wrong, and you must know it, too; otherwise, why
would you always confront me when no one else is around?  You prey on
people, Coach Cline; people who are supposed to look up to you for
guidance.  Some guidance!" he snorted.  Coach Bowen was proud of how Marty
stood up to his intimidating nephew.  His cheeks were flushed, but
otherwise, he seemed in complete control of himself.

	Cline barked an unbelieving laugh.  "Likely story.  You talked to
the police, there's no need denying it."  He stepped closer, forcing Marty
to back up against a wall.  "I offered you the thing that you wanted most
in life, Mister Kelly, a position on the team.  It would have been all so
easy."  He poked a finger into Marty's chest, as if pinning him to the
wall.  "All it would have taken would be to let me pound your butthole a
couple times, yet you turned me down!"  The coach's voice lowered.  "You
have yet to learn, little man, that no one turns me down."  There was
another poke in the chest, "no one."

	Coach Cline stepped back a step, lowering his voice in an attempt
to appear reasonable.  "So . . . Marty . . . what's it going to be?  This
is your last chance."

	Phalen touched the coach's shoulder, and nodded toward where Eric
had entered the far end of the locker rooms.  He had paused a moment,
listening to the shouting, then began walking slowly toward the training
room.

	"This is the last chance," Coach Cline repeated.  "All you have to
do is come to my place for a few nights and let me pound your hole."  His
voice lowered, once again becoming menacing.  "I am going to be the one to
take your virginity, Mister Kelly; not that kid you're hanging around with.
Do what I ask, and you'll be guaranteed a spot on the team.  Hell," he
laughed, "I can even make you a starter!  Is getting fucked a couple times
by this monster between my legs too much to ask for being a starter?"

	Eric was now standing, unmoving, outside the office door.  Phalen
bit his lip, and he noticed Coach Bowen's knuckles were white, where he was
grabbing an open locker door.  Eric nodded to Phalen and the Head Coach,
acknowledging their presence, but saying nothing.

	"I've already given you my answer, Coach," Marty said, with only a
slight waiver in his voice.  Phalen was sure he had to be aware of Eric's
presence.  "It is the same today as it has been each time you've asked me.
'No'.  I will not go to bed with you.  I will not allow you to touch me,
much less have sex with me.  I have sex with whom I choose, and I do
. . . not . . . choose . . . you.  You can not intimidate me because you're
larger than me.  You cannot intimidate me because of your position as a
coach, and you cannot tempt me with a position on the team, a promise I do
not believe, for a minute, you have the power to grant.  All you want is to
blow a load up my butt, and that, I will not let you do.  So, for the last
time," Marty repeated, wearily, "my answer to your proposition is still,
'no'!"

	"What did you just say to me?" Coach Cline shouted, in disbelief.

	"He said 'no'.  What part of, 'no,' don't you understand
. . . Coach?" Eric spoke into the charged silence, in a calm voice,
standing two steps away from the office's open doorway, seemingly at ease.

	Coach Cline rounded on the intruder.  "You!" he shouted.  "You
don't seem to understand, small man.  Marty doesn't want you, he wants me!
I'm the one with the goods.  You're not going to be the one to take his
virginity.  I am.  Once he's been plowed by me, he'll laugh at the puny
thing you're carrying between your legs."  Coach Cline lewdly groped
himself.  "Every man I've ever had has begged to have me mount them again."

	"Like Randy?" Eric asked, in a deceptively mild voice, "or Denis,
he added?"

	"You!"  Coach Cline took a step closer.  "You're the person who's
been bad-mouthing me to the police.  "Randy and Denis came to me begging me
to spread their butt cheeks and climb on top of them, just like Marty did.
Hell, Marty's a little cock-teaser, leading a guy on, wiggling that sexy
ass of his; then, once a guy takes the bait, he tells him, 'no'.  Randy,
Denis, Marty, and the others needed a strong man in their lives."

	"Like . . . you?"

	"Yes!  Like me.  I gave 'em what they wanted, yet all they did was
act like a girl and moan and groan about how much it hurt, or cry, like
that panty-waist, Denis, running out of my apartment half-dressed, like a
two-bit whore.  Deep down, he loved getting plowed by me.  They both did.
I took control of them . . . gave them what they wanted."

	"So much so that Denis killed himself to keep from being tormented
by you?"

	"Why you bastard!" The coach took two steps toward Eric.  Phalen
held his breath, but just when Coach Cline reached out to grab Eric, Eric
grabbed the coach, kicked, twisted, turned, and flipped the much heavier
coach onto his back, skidding him across the ceramic tile floor of the
locker room, and into the showers, where he came to a stop in a puddle of
standing water, with a loud umpf of expelled breath.

	The coach raised himself up on his elbows and shook his head, then
looked at the man who was calmly watching him, with not a hair out of
place, 'other than that freak hair-do,' the coach thought, lumbering to his
feet and approaching the smaller man, intent on showing him exactly who was
boss.  'How hard can it be to take down this . . . kid?' he asked himself,
a moment before he lunged.

	The world seemed to spin before his eyes.  He felt his feet leave
the ground.  The next moment he was on his back, sliding into the showers.
When he looked up, he saw his uncle looming over him, while behind, in the
door to the office, Marty stood alongside the kid who'd stolen his dignity,
and the Phalen bastard.  Coach Cline propped himself up on his elbows, then
reached out for his sunglasses.  His uncle interrupted his move, and
intentionally stepped on the glasses, grinding them into the ceramic tile
floor, and sending pieces of dark plastic flying.  Coach Cline looked from
the remnants of his sunglasses to his uncle, then slowly stood, attempting
to gather as much dignity as possible around himself.

	He nodded toward Eric.  "Did you see how that guy attacked me,
Uncle?  He needs to be strung-up and shot!  No respect for authority.  I
warned you.  He'll attack you next; just watch."  Coach Cline brushed at
his clothing, still unsure where to find his dignity.  'Damn those fuckin'
kids watching the old man play at being stern.  What can he do to me?  He's
family?'

	"I believe the young man showed admirable restraint," Coach Bowen
said, with a nod toward Eric.  "If it had been me, I would have done my
level best to punch your head through that wall.  And, if I didn't succeed
the first time, I would have kept on trying until you were a bleeding
pulp."

	"What?  Pulp?  Didn't you see?  You couldn't have, otherwise you
wouldn't be taking his side against me."

	"Oh, yes . . . Jackson, I saw what Eric did to you.  I also heard
what you told Marty . . . Jackson.  I . . . heard . . . every . . . word,"
he purred.  "I heard how you tried to use your position to intimidate Marty
and to recruit him as a sex partner.  I heard how you promised him a
position on the team.  You have no authority to grant such a thing, and you
know it.  So . . . I am left thinking that you intended to lure Marty into
a sexual situation with the bait of a position on the team, have your way
with him, then claim that I stymied your attempts to get him on the team.
I'm right, aren't I?" Coach Bowen said, raising his voice even further.
"Aren't I?" he shouted, at the top of his lungs.

	"You have abused Marty, Jackson, not to mention my trust in you.
You should be ashamed of how you have behaved.  I certainly am.  I have
also been told, by other sources, what you have been doing, but I couldn't
believe it.  I kept telling myself that they were wrong.  I couldn't
believe that you . . . my favorite nephew . . . would or could do such a
thing.  Hell, I don't care if you go to bed with guys.  That's your own
business, but to use your position to entice bed partners with false
promises, and threats, is definitely . . . not . . . cool."  He crunched
the sunglasses beneath his shoe.

	"It is not only not cool, it is criminal."

	Coach Bowen's voice lowered.  "Let's talk about Randy Shaw for a
moment, shall we?  You caused him all the problems he's having, didn't
you?"  His menacing step closer caused his nephew to retreat a step.  "You
claim that he came to you, which I seriously doubt.  But, even if he did,
you so traumatized him that, afterward, he could barely function as a human
being.  I saw him, Jackson.  He wasn't the same man who I knew only weeks
earlier.  I saw the medical reports . . . Jackson.  I saw what you did to
him, physically.  It was described to me in great . . . detail."  He
paused.  "God only knows what you did to him mentally.  I have no idea how
long it'll take him to recover, or even if it is possible for him to become
what he once was.

	Coach Cline made the mistake of snorting his opinion of Randy.  His
uncle grabbed his t-shirt at the neck and focused his nephew's attention
with the fist immediately below his chin.

	"How many others have there been, Jackson?  Have you driven any of
your . . . conquests . . . to suicide, as our young friend has alleged?
Are you the missing link in the suicides the campus newspaper is writing
about all the time?  Are you responsible for men killing themselves rather
than having to face you?  Is that an indication of how bad a person you
are?  My favorite nephew," he sneered, "a predator, a murderer
. . . nothing but scum.

	"Look at me!" Coach Bowen shouted into the sullen silence, shaking
his nephew whom he continued to hold captive with the bunched fabric of his
t-shirt in his fist.  "I would bet that you are responsible for their
deaths.  As far as I'm concerned you can spend the rest of your sorry life,
wherever it may be spent, contemplating those boy's deaths.  For, sure as I
am standing here, you killed them, just as if you pulled the trigger.  My
nephew a murderer!  I will see that you pay, Jackson," Coach Bowen hissed.
"I will do everything in my power to roast your sorry ass.

	"But," he straightened, releasing his nephew, all anger seemingly
spent.  "We will reserve the pleasant task of skewering you for later,
shall we?" he smiled, in an abrupt change of mood.  "Right now, you are to
leave here and email . . . do not deliver . . . your resignation, within
the next fifteen minutes.  I do not ever want to speak with you again.  I
am sure your mother, father, sisters and brothers will agree with me.  I
know the rest of the family will abhor what you have done.  So . . . get
. . . out, and know that you have no family.  No one loves you, Mister
Cline.  You have no friends, and . . . hopefully, soon . . . you will have
no freedom."  Coach Bowen pointed to the locker room door.

	Jackson Cline's eyes shifted from Marty, to Eric and Phalen, and
lastly to his uncle, then turned straight-backed, and pushed the locker
room door open.

	"He's going to get a surprise," Eric said, drawing everyone's
attention away from the departing figure.  When Coach Bowen raised his
brows, Eric explained.  "The police are outside.  I walked past them as
they were getting set up.  They didn't want to let me in, but, before they
could stop me, I walked past them.  I figured something must be brewing, so
I ignored them."  He looked to the man standing next to him.  "I wanted to
make sure Marty was okay."


----------


	Jackson Cline felt the stares of the people he hated most boring
into his back as he left the gym.  They had done this to him.  They would
pay.  He didn't know how, or when, or what he would have to do, but they
would pay.  He pushed the locker room door open and stopped.  There were
three police officers blocking his exit.

	"They're all in there," he said, stepping through the door to allow
the police officers to pass.  "Everyone you want is in there."

	One of the officers held up a restraining hand.

	"Is your name Jackson Cline, an assistant coach with the baseball
team?" one of the men asked.  The others stepped closer, a formidable wall.

	"Yeah, that's me."

	The officer gestured, and one of the officers opened the back door
of a squad car.  Jackson's back went rigid and he hissed an indrawn breath,
as Randy Shaw, looking much better than the last time he'd seen him,
stepped out, squinting into the late afternoon sunlight.  Jackson took a
step forward, his fists clinched at his sides.  'This one will also pay for
what he's done to me,' he vowed.

	"Is this the man you claim abused you, Mister Shaw?" the officer
asked.  Randy fixed his eyes on Jackson's.

	'Just try coming after me, you asshole,' Randy said to himself,
grinding his teeth together.  'Ridicule me now, will you?  Taunt me!  Tell
me I should have considered all possibilities before agreeing to go to bed
with you!'  "Yes, he's the one," Randy said, his eyes never leaving those
of his tormentor.

	Jackson's sudden move toward Randy was stopped by the restraining
hands of the officers at his side.  He barely heard the officer who read
him his rights, he was so intent on conveying the depth of his hatred to
the . . . crybaby . . . Randy.  One of the other officers restrained his
arms behind his back with plastic ties, before he actually realized what
was happening.  "Why you . . ." he began, futilely struggling to free
himself, his eyes never leaving Randy.

	"Remember, sir," the officer warned, "anything you say may be used
against you.  I would advise you to remain silent, keeping your thoughts to
yourself.  This gentleman has filed . . . numerous charges against you,
both as an individual, and as a coach for the school.  You will have an
opportunity to refute those charges at a future date."  Jackson tore his
eyes away from Randy's and was met with the unflinching gaze of the police
officer, causing him to quiet.

	"You asked to say something, young man?" the officer asked, turning
to Randy.

	Randy nodded.  He crossed the distance separating him from the
captive man, stopping within arm's reach.  "You told me once, not too long
ago, that I had to live with my decisions," he began.  "I made the wrong
decision, falling for the series of lies you fed me, and I'll have to live
with that error of judgement.  You, on the other hand, failed to consider
the consequences when you began to abuse me.  That's something that you're
going to have to live with.  You expected that after you finished with me,
I would be too frightened or humiliated to go to anyone in authority
because I would have to tell them that I'm gay."  Randy huffed a laugh.

	"That was another miscalculation on your part.  You're afraid to
tell someone you're gay.  I'm not ashamed of who I am.  You were applying
your fears to me.  That was a mistake.  So . . . Jac," he said, using the
name he knew Jackson loathed, "I'm hoping that when this entire thing is
over, you'll have plenty of time to review your decisions, in a place where
you'll be nothing more than a pretty face, among guys who really know how
to inflict pain.  Just . . . imagine, for a minute, what they will do to
you."

	Randy smiled and stepped away, as Jackson was taken to the police
car, and the head coach, Phalen, Marty, and the boy who'd stolen his
dignity, stepped from the locker room into the afternoon heat.

	"Randy!" Head Coach Bowen called, holding his arms wide, pleasure
coloring his voice.  "Welcome back!"  In the background, Randy could hear
the police radio, and conversation coming from the car, but that, and all
it stood for, was behind him now.  He couldn't help but smile, knowing that
his tormentor was now in custody, and he was being welcomed by the people
who had always stood by him.  He held out a hand, intending to shake the
coach's hand, but was swept into a tight embrace.

	"I'm so sorry, son," Coach Bowen, said, loud enough for all those
nearby to hear.  "I should have known."  Any further comments were drowned
out as everyone gathered around him, offering hugs and pats on the back.

	Everyone looked up as Bobby Pickett rounded the corner of the
building, running at full speed, a baseball bat in one hand, appearing as
if he was poised to attack.  "Randy?" he wailed, skidding to a stop on the
gravelly pavement, madly glancing toward the police cars, turning one way,
then the other, trying to think of what to do.

	"Here!" Randy called, from behind him, backing away from Coach
Bowen and holding up an arm, a smile turning up the corners of his lips.
"Here," he repeated, in a lower voice as Bobby swung, still poised to
attack, blinking as if he was seeing the group of people standing nearby,
for the first time.

	"Randy?" Bobby asked, slowly lowering the bat, wondering why
everyone was smiling.  "Are you okay?"  He absently gestured to the gym.
"Ross told me there was some sort of trouble with the coach and Marty.  I
knew . . . I was afraid you'd be involved, somehow, especially after you'd
gone to the police.  I thought maybe he'd gotten you, or something."  He
looked closer.  "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice rising, uncomfortable
with being the center of attention, the adrenaline-high beginning to
dissipate, causing him to shake.

	Randy took the few steps toward Bobby, and laid an arm across his
shoulders, as Bobby dropped the bat.  "I'm okay.  For real," he added, when
he saw Bobby wasn't convinced.  "Thanks for coming to my rescue," he
grinned, then leaned close.  "I'll show my appreciation when we get home,
okay?"

	Bobby nodded, numb with relief, and gestured toward the police
cars, questioning their presence.  "Who?" he asked.

	"Cline," Randy said, not using the man's ex-title.  They picked him
up.  He's going where he can't harm anyone else."

	Eric stood apart from both the celebration and the reunion, and
watched as the police squad car prepared to turn around.  From the
backseat, Jackson Cline was watching, loathing painting his face.  As the
car began to pull away, Eric caught the prisoner's attention, and gave him
an ironic salute, unable to hide his smile as the man violently reacted to
the small gesture.  Marty was now free.  That man would no longer be an
unseen presence wherever they went.  He looked up and smiled, as Marty put
an arm around his waist.

	"Thank you," Marty murmured, "I don't know what I would have done
if you hadn't shown up when you did."  He bowed his head, looking very
troubled.

	Marty's reaction was precisely what Eric had feared.  He turned to
the man standing next to him.  "Marty," he said, his voice firm.  "I
. . . did . . . not . . . save . . . you."  He raised his brows.  "Do you
understand me?  I mean really understand?  You were standing up to that
buggah, you had already won, he was just so thick-headed, he hadn't
realized it yet.  By standing up to him over and over again, during the
past few months, you showed more strength than most people would have been
able to manage.  You should be proud of yourself.  I know I am."  He
grinned.  "Do you believe me?"

	Marty, his head still bowed, shrugged slightly.  "I don't know
. . . I . . . I guess.  I felt so helpless, though, Eric.  If he had come
at me, like he did you, I would have been trapped."

	"If you feel that way, I can show you a few things to help you
learn to protect yourself."  Marty's eyes lit.

	"That'd be great!  I'm not too old, or something?"

	Eric grinned.  "The only problem is that when I throw someone, at
my martial arts school, I don't want to fall on top of them and kiss them,
like I would you."

	Marty grinned.  "I'm still pretty shaken up by the whole thing.  I
mean, it's over, but it's not, really . . . is it?  I mean, I . . . we
. . . will probably be dragged through everything when Cline is charged.
And, what will happen if it's found that he is responsible for Dani's
brother's death?"  He shuddered.  "I want to go home so you can hold me.  I
feel like I'm gonna start shaking when the adrenaline burns off.  Can we
leave?"

	Coach Ed Bowen stood at Phalen's side, and chuckled at the two pair
of men standing side-by-side, doing their best to hide their emotions.
"Well, Phalen," he smiled, turning to the man at his side.  "I guess this
leaves only you and me."

	Phalen's eyes widened in surprise.  "You're not asking what I think
you are . . . are you?  Because, if you are, I'm already taken!  Besides, I
don't kiss strangers . . . at least not too often," he added.


----------


	The homecoming was all Randy could have dreamt of.

	The locker room was quiet, as all the players stood, either singly
or in small groups, wondering what was going on with their coaches.  Ross
had been able to give only enough detail to let everyone know that
something terrible was happening.  They hadn't known what to expect, when
they entered the locker room after practice.  What they found, was silence
. . . an abandoned room.  As one, they looked up when the locker room doors
opened.

	"Hey, men!" Coach Bowen shouted, sounding excited.  "Great news!"
He held out a hand and drew Randy forward.  "Randy Shaw is back with us!"

	The room burst into excited chatter, as everyone gathered round to
shake Randy's hand, pat him on the back, and tell him how glad they were to
have him back.  'How could I ever have thought that I had no friends?' he
asked himself, pulling Bobby to his side, as his teammates finished
welcoming him back and went back to their lockers.  'This whole thing has
been awful, but I've come away from it surrounded by friends, and standing
next to a man who was ready to attack anyone for me, with a baseball bat,
no less, to make sure I was okay."  He grinned, turning to Bobby, who
smiled back.

	He leaned close to Bobby, as if to say something amidst the noise
of the locker room.  "I don't believe I've ever told you that I love you,
have I?" he asked, resting a hand on Bobby's shoulders, then rubbing it up
and down over Bobby's back.  'This is the one man I'm not afraid to touch,
or have touch me,' he thought.  'This is the man with the wonderful smile
who isn't freaked by what's happened to me.'  Randy grinned, having
recently realized that, before everything with Cline had happened, Bobby
had always been nearby, unfailingly smiling.  He had taken those smiles for
granted, never looking for a deeper meaning.

	"You do?  For real?" Bobby asked, his eyes wide, his voice rising.
"I mean, this isn't one of those
falling-in-love-at-the-time-of-crisis-things, is it?"  Randy shook his
head.

	"Oh, geez!" Bobby looked around, almost bouncing with excitement.
"I've gotta tell someone.  It's okay, if I do, isn't it?" he asked, turning
to Randy with a pleading look.  "I mean, I'm so . . . this is great!"  He
stood on tiptoe to look over the heads of the players who were returning to
their lockers.  "Phalen!" Bobby shouted.  "Marty!  Hey, come here!" he
waved his arm, smiling ear-to-ear.

	"Randy says he loves me," he told both men, when they'd trotted up
to him, both expecting some new crisis to have manifested itself.  "I had
to tell you guys.  I mean . . . Randy!  Me!"  He looked over his shoulder
and gestured to the man standing next to him.  "Randy!"  He suddenly seemed
to deflate.  "Aw, geez," he groaned, covering his eyes with a hand.  "I
think I'm gonna cry, or something, I'm so happy."

	"Hey," Phalen said, gesturing Marty close, to hide the man who was
doing his best to control his emotions.  "Why shouldn't Randy fall for
you?"

	Bobby sniffed, and gave Phalen a look of disbelief.  "He's . . . so
. . . I," Bobby hesitated.  "It's not something I would never have
expected, is all," he finished, wiping the sleeve of his uniform across his
eyes.  He shook his head.  "Randy," he said, as if trying to convince
himself.

	"Does all this mean I'm invited to go home with you?" Randy asked,
moved, more than he would have imagined, by Bobby's reaction to his
statement.  "I really would like to, you know.  Not only for tonight," he
added, reaching out and running a tender finger over Bobby's tear-wet
cheek.  "I've sorta gotten attached to you and Gus, y'know."

	Phalen leaned close to Marty and muttered.  "Who's Gus?"


~ to be continued ~


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