Date: Wed, 6 Jul 2011 10:43:34 -0600
From: Roy <roynm@mac.com>
Subject: Phalen - Reputation and Honor, chapter 6 - Gay College Section

Phalen - Reputation and Honor

Chapter Six

By Roy Reinikainen


	"Thanks for meting with me, Coach," Greg began, after thanking the
waitress for his and the coach's extra-large mugs of coffee.  "I just
thought you'd be interested to know that I met with Randy Shaw yesterday."
Coach Bowen's eyes widened.

	"How's the young man doing?  Better I hope.  He looked like death
warmed over when he came to tell me he needed some family medical leave."
Coach Bowen pursed his lips.  "Someone has been trying to tell me that his
absence indicated trouble with the law, or drugs, or some such thing.  I'd
said that couldn't possibly be the case.  Drugs and legal troubles aren't
Randy's style.  He's a straight shooter.  Whatever he says he'll do, he
does.  It was really him who needed time, wasn't it?  Not his family?  I
mean, he looked awful.  You say he's doing better?"

	"Better yes, though he's far from recovered."  Greg had debated
with himself until the wee hours of the morning about what he was going to
say next.  He knew that he was walking a fine line between betraying a
trust, and fulfilling a legal responsibility.  He pressed his lips
together.

	"Coach, Randy told me everything that happened to him.  I'm not at
liberty to divulge the majority of what he said.  In fact, I've still got
an internal war going on as to whether I should even be here with you,
telling you anything, but . . . " Greg shrugged.  "Here we are."  He licked
his lips.

	"This is serious, isn't it, Doctor?"  Greg nodded.  "Is it about my
boys?  Does it affect more people than just Randy?"

	"It's about the guys on your team, and any other male athlete.
Doctor Layson took a deep breath.  "Coach, Randy was abused . . . sexually.
He was raped repeatedly, over a period of months.  He initially knew he was
getting into a sexual situation, and was comfortable with that.  What he
wasn't prepared for though, was having his life . . . his mind . . . and
much of his body . . . torn apart like it was.  Repeatedly.  He's in
counseling now.  His external wounds are healing.  His mental ones will
take much longer.  I'm not sure he'll ever be able to completely recover.

	Coach Bowen covered his eyes with a hand and shook his bowed head.
Randy's problem was worse than he had imagined . . . much worse.

	"Coach, he is a changed man.  His emotions are fragile."

	"You know who did . . . this?" Ed Bowen asked, his voice grim.

	Greg shook his head.  "No, Randy won't tell.  He says that he's
spoken to the authorities, but he hasn't convinced me of that.  I think he
intends to speak to the police, and is working up the nerve.  He has a
lawyer, and a counselor, and, of course, he has me as his physician.  He
thinks he's got things under control, but I'm not so sure.  He's angry,
coach.  He wants to see this guy brought down, but I'm worried that not
divulging the information right away might be a mistake.  His lawyer has
urged him to take immediate action, if for no other reason than to prevent
this from happening to another young man, but Randy is adamant that his
wishes be met.  He's told me that he's . . . warned the one person he
thinks will most likely be a . . . a target.

	"Coach, I'm speaking to you, not because I believe this incident is
in some way related to your team, or your personnel.  I'm speaking to you
because Randy is one of your men, and I know how much you care about all of
them.  If I knew for certain that another young man, an athlete, had been
abused in this way, I'd be telling their coach to keep an eye out, too.

	"All I can ask you is to keep an eye out for any unusual behavior
on the part of your players . . . anything out of the ordinary.  If you
spot something, send that person to me.  I'll see what I can do.  Many
times, a person will talk to their doctor, when they've no one else they
think they can turn to."

	"You can't give me any more information than this?"

	Greg shook his head.  "I'm sorry.  I can't.  Actually, I don't know
much more than I've told you.  Both of us will have to trust that Randy is
indeed tending to the legal aspect of what happened to him.

	Suddenly, Greg sat back, tenting his fingers before his mouth and
taking on a distant, troubled, look.

	"Coach Bowen," he began, causing the Head Coach to sit up straight,
at the formal tone.  "I've been entrusted with some information critical to
the welfare of Randy Shaw, as well as other players on the baseball team,
and elsewhere.  I must insist that you do not divulge to anyone what
information I've just given you, and I do mean anyone.  Not your wife, your
assistant coaches, your trainers, anyone on your team, your priest, anyone.
Say absolutely nothing about what you have learned.  Please.  I am sorry,
but I should have gotten your agreement before I told you what was
happening.  I hope you don't feel as if I've tricked you.  That wasn't my
intention.  When I say anyone, Coach Bowen, I mean anyone."  Greg paused.
"Really.  Other boys' welfare may be at stake, but, if the person who did
this finds out, or even suspects, that you know what he did, Randy Shaw's
life may be forfeit."


----------


	"Been out for lunch?"  Jackson Cline asked his uncle, as the older
man entered the office wearing a preoccupied expression.

	"What?" The coached focused on his nephew seemingly realizing where
he was for the first time.  "Oh," he grinned.  "Yes.  One of the doctors
from the Clinic," he paused, as he pretended to drink from his take-home
coffee cup, "and I."  He swallowed what he'd been about to say, along with
the coffee.  After all, doctor Layson had stressed that he was to tell no
one about what he knew.  "I've made it a habit to meet with someone from
the Clinic every couple weeks during the season to discuss the health of
the guys on the team.  Thankfully, everyone's doing fine."

	"Hm," Coach Cline snorted.  "I didn't know you did that."

	Coach Bowen laughed.  "There are many things I do which you know
nothing about, Jackson, just as I'm sure there are things you do which you
prefer to not have me aware of."

	"Not me," Jackson Cline laughed.  "My life's an open book."

	His uncle looked at him over his glasses.  "Yeah, right.  My
nephew, pure as the driven snow."  He snorted amusement, as Coach Cline
fidgeted.  "We all have our dirty little secrets, Jackson.  Those secrets
only become dangerous when they are ignored and left to grow into something
monstrous."  Ed Bowen shook his head and grinned.  "Geez, I sound like a
philosopher or something."

	"What about Mister Shaw?" Jackson asked, changing the subject,
perching on the edge of a desk, in a pose of studied nonchalance.  Jackson
had tried to hide his anger when he'd been told that Randy had taken a
leave of absence.  'The ingrate!' he had wanted to shout.  When Randy had
at first refused to answer his cell phone, then had changed the number,
Jackson's anger had blossomed.  The manager of Randy's apartment complex
had refused to answer any questions, saying only that Randy no longer lived
there.  No one seemed to know anything.  Calls to his parents had gone
unanswered, even after he had hinted at the possibility that their son had
been the victim of foul play.  The bathroom door of Jackson's apartment had
taken the brunt of his anger, on a night when he desperately wanted
release.  Then, to make matters worse, that panty-waist, Marty Kelly, was
playing hard to get, hanging out with that Phalen kid, and some
Asian-looking guy.  That kid even had the nerve to put his arm around
Marty's shoulders, as if he had a fuckin' right.  'The boy is mine!  You
can have him when I'm done with him!' he wanted to shout, as he bashed the
show-off against a wall.  He'd even had the nerve, the nerve, to be sassy
in front of both Phalen and Marty . . . trying to play the big man, no
doubt.

	"Any word when Randy'll be back?"  Jackson was pleased at his
casual tone of voice.  "He's left a big hole in the lineup, taking off like
he did, with no explanation.  Do you have any idea where he is?  I'd like
to go see him . . . give him support in a time of need . . . that sort of
thing."

	Coach Bowen shook his head.  "Nope, I have no idea where he is.  He
didn't tell me and I didn't ask.  It's none of my business.  As for when
he'll be back, your guess is as good as mine.  I'm assuming, before coming
to see me, Randy went to the folks at the clinic, to handle whatever
problem he experienced.  You know doctors, though.  They can only speak in
generalities, never about a specific patient, even to telling one of us
coaches anything.  I'm not sure, though, that Randy's problems are medical.
When he spoke to me, he just told me there was a family emergency of some
sort.  He looked terrible, so I'm inclined to believe him.  He's never been
a slacker before; I doubt he's suddenly become one.  I've been presented
the appropriate request forms, so I had no choice but to let him tend to
his affairs, no matter how large a hole he left in the roster."

	"Drugs," Coach Cline said, out of the blue.  "Like I've said
before, I'm convinced he's into illegal drugs.  Performance enhancing
stuff, heroin, cocaine, you name it, I would not be surprised if he's into
it."  Coach Bowen looked at his nephew through slitted eyes.  "Sooner or
later," Coach Cline continued, 'that type of person always shoots
themselves in the foot.  They don't know when to stop.  Yep," he said,
leaning against the office door jamb with crossed arms.

	'Randy, you bastard,' he thought, 'you're not going to get away
from me so easily.  When I'm finished with you, you'll wish you were dead.
What business did you have to go to the Clinic?  Probably just wanted
someone over there to admire your asshole.'

	Coach Bowen rocked back in his chair.  "I don't believe drugs have
anything to do with Randy's problems.  I've seen enough young men who gave
in to the temptation of drugs.  Randy doesn't fit the profile.  I believe
Randy is exactly as he said . . . troubled with personal problems."

	"If it's not drugs," Coach Cline persisted, "what could it be?"

	The head coach shrugged.  "Whatever it is, Randy's smart enough to
know that he can't carry such a large burden around without getting some
help.  In fact, he as much as told me that he had enlisted the help of a
number of people to help him . . . a doctor, lawyer, or whatever."  Ed
Bowen sank back in his seat, momentarily lost in thought, and didn't notice
the slight widening of his nephew's eyes.  "I hate to have one of my boys
facing something traumatic.  Each one of them is like a member of the
family.  I've always told anyone coming to me like Mister Shaw did, that it
was essential for them to speak to someone about their troubles, and not
keep things bottled up inside, hoping they'd be able to handle whatever was
going on, on their own.  Like I said, I've told the same thing to . . . I
don't know how many young men.  Of course, I never know if my advice is
heeded, just as one never knows if they'll ever be able to recover."  The
coach shook his head, as if driving away thoughts of young men in the past
who didn't quite recover from personal tragedies, then looked up and
smiled, not understanding his nephew's tight-lipped expression.

	"Now, let's get busy taking apart that game film those kind folks
at Southern Cal sent us, shall we?"


----------


	"Hey, Brad," Eric smiled, standing at Brad's apartment door.
"Howzit?"  It was late afternoon, a time Eric knew when Brad had no classes
and Marty was carrying out his duties with the team.  For a good portion of
the afternoon, Eric had sat at the edge of the Zen garden in the Nakai
Saburo Dojo, his karate school, and meditated on what was the right thing
to do.  'I can do nothing, hoping that Marty has, at least, told Brad about
the person stalking him, or I can add some weight to what I hope Marty has
already said.  It may mean more, coming from more than one person.  I trust
him to do the right thing, but I want to make sure that he has made Brad
aware of the seriousness of the problem.  This is not something Marty can
deal with on his own.  That's why I'm getting involved.  I'm not playing
busybody!  Besides, I . . . care for Marty.'  After he'd assured himself of
his laudable goals, he called Brad, and asked if he could come by.  "If you
and your partner aren't busy," he added.  Brad had laughed.

	"Curt's not here.  He's off gallivanting across the country,
selling advertising campaigns for things no one needs, or wants to buy.
After seeing one of his campaigns, even I want to go out and buy a
. . . whatever . . . just so we can say we have one.  Fortunately," Brad
grinned, guiding Eric into the apartment's living room, whose windows were
framing a glorious sunset over jagged western peaks, "Curt is normally able
to persuade me that we don't actually need the product, and that, like
everyone else, I've fallen for his sales pitch."  Brad shook his head in
disbelief.  "Whenever that happens, I feel like a fool.  He feels great
that he could even sway me.  That man could sell sand to a person living in
the desert and make them think their life will suddenly improve if they buy
a couple cartons full."  In a more introspective voice, Brad continued.
"Curt always was very persuasive.  Sometimes I've wished he were less so."

	Eric stood on the opposite side of the counter and watched as Brad
rummaged in the refrigerator, then took out a pitcher and filled a couple
glasses.  "Now, what can I do for you?" he smiled, handing Eric a glass of
fruit juice.  They sat in the living room, facing one another across a
small glass table, while Brad, familiar with Eric's deliberate approach to
most things, waited.  Brad grinned to himself.  At times, Eric seemed to be
the happy-go-lucky guy, always laughing and joking in his Hawaiian pidgin,
leaving people scratching their heads, not quite sure what he's saying.
The laughter and teasing hid a serious person, who was supremely confident
in himself and his abilities.  Brad suspected though, that Eric's
confidence was a fragile thing.  That was one reason he thought Marty and
Eric would be so good for one another.  They were similar in many ways, and
he knew that neither would ever knowingly do something to hurt the other.

	Eric cleared his throat.  "Has Marty been over in the last couple
days . . . to talk?" Eric asked, sipping the tart red fruit drink, and
watching Brad over the rim of the glass.  "I asked him to talk to you about
something he's facing.  It's important to me that he did as he promised."
Eric began to relax.  Now that the first step had been taken, he no longer
had to worry if he was doing the right thing.  It was done.  He relaxed
slightly, sinking into the sofa.  The glow of the sun added bright
highlights to his black hair, and tinted his Hawaiian skin with a golden
glow.

	"Oh?" Brad asked, noncommittally.

	Eric grinned.  "Brad, I care for Marty a lot.  In fact, I'm only
just beginning to realize how much.  I'm not breaking any confidences,
though I hope he's already told you about what I'm going to say."  Brad
made a small go-ahead gesture with one hand.  Eric took a deep breath.
"Marty's told me about a coach who's stalking him.  I asked him to tell
people, beginning with you.  Has he . . . told you, I mean?"  In an
under-voice, he added, "I'm hoping so; otherwise, I'm going to have a lot
of explaining to do, both to you and to him."  He grinned.  "I don't want
to hound him about things, but, at the same time, I can't sit still and do
nothing.  Marty's become too important to me."

	Brad set his glass aside.  "Yes, he's spoken with me.  I've been
trying to figure out what, if anything, I should do.  Marty's old enough to
make his own decisions, but," Brad shrugged, wearing a crooked smile, "that
doesn't mean that I don't still want to look out for him, just as you
apparently do.  I know he's nineteen, but he still seems like the little
guy I grew up with."

	Eric smiled and nodded.  "I feel the same way."  He took a deep
breath.  "Brad . . . y'know, when you introduced us, I teased him about
being the perfect height to kiss."  Eric smiled.  "He's not only that, he's
about as perfect a guy as I've ever met.  He's so considerate, so gentle,
so full of love.  He's just waiting to open up and give himself to someone.
So," Eric rubbed his hands over the fabric of his shorts, "the other reason
I'm here is to ask your opinion of how your family would accept me, a guy
of mixed heritage, if Marty and I get serious."

	Brad watched his normally self-assured friend, try to stop his
fidgeting.  "If Marty loves you, then my family will love you, too.  You
have nothing to worry about."

	Eric released a breath he'd not been fully aware he'd been holding.
"Now, if my folks are as understanding of me falling for a white man," he
grinned crookedly.  "I don't expect that will be a huge problem, especially
since I'm Hapa Haole.  Half Japanese, half White," he added, in
explanation.  "If I were pure Hawaiian, things might be different."  Eric
looked into the middle distance, then back to Brad, and grinned.  "Some
native Hawaiians . . . some . . . are angry at anyone who they judge not to
be pure.  They want the islands to . . . I don't know . . . to return to
before Captain Cook, or something.  Even though some are way militant,
others are," he shrugged, "not into hate or stuff.  I don't believe any of
my in-laws believe that way, especially the men who married my sisters.
Their families seemed to not have any problem with my sisters being of
mixed heritage."  He grinned uncomfortably.  "It's something I've never had
to think about before, primarily since I've never been that interested in
anyone I've met, but also because those guys I have been interested in have
been from Hawaii."

	Eric swirled the remnants of his fruit drink around the bottom of
the glass, as the sky faded from lavender to dark purple, and an automatic
light came on in the kitchen.  He glanced in that direction, then at Brad,
who was watching him with his full attention.  "Enough said, about possible
in-laws," Eric grinned.  I'm here to talk about Marty."

	"The guy's still pressuring him?" Brad asked.

	Eric nodded his bowed head.  "I went to meet Marty, at the gym the
other night.  I questioned him, after dinner, about what had been going on
before I arrived.  He . . . reluctantly . . . told me the guy had come into
the showers, and had thrust his hips forward, and was waving his dick
around.  I tell you, Brad, . . . when I arrived, Marty was positively
white.  He tries to make everyone believe that he's not all that bothered
by what's happening, but take it from me, he is terrified.  Thankfully,
he's been trying to keep someone around to prevent the harassment from
getting worse.  In this case, Phalen was with him, which made things
better, but when we all left to go out to dinner, da lolo buggah was giving
me mean stinkeye!"

	Eric grinned.  I probably shouldn't have done it, but, I walked
over, close to where he was standing in the showers, and threw some pidgin
at him."  Eric's grin blossomed into a smile of recollection.  "That threw
him off balance.  You should have seen him!  There he was, naked as the day
he was born, a big . . . sausage . . . dangling between his legs, all soapy
. . . looking at me as if I had sprouted horns, or something.  It was all I
could do not to laugh.  So, to keep him from seeing me smile, I turned back
to the guys and put an arm over Marty's shoulder, and we left the building.
I wanted to let the guy know that Marty was not available."

	"Phalen?" Brad asked, his eyes brightening.  "Phalen knows Marty?"

	Eric smiled.  "Yes, they've become good friends.  They practice
together with a group of other guys from the baseball team, though I don't
know that Phalen knows you and Marty are related.  From what I saw at
dinner the other night, Marty has become pretty popular with the whole
team.  I was happy to see that they treat him as an equal, not as a
trainer, who's tagged along.  I know Marty's gone over to Phalen's for
dinner a couple times, but," he shrugged, "other than that, I don't know
much.  Marty and I are still pretty new with one another.  We talk a lot,
but we also spend lots of time just enjoying one another's company, holding
hands, and things.  I love that.  Being with him is like meditation.  It's
soothing.  He's afraid of moving too fast into a relationship, and I am
afraid of doing anything which might make him think I'm impatient.

	"I really do like him, Brad."  Eric smiled.  "I think he likes me
too."

	Eric's face lit as Brad answered.  "I think he likes you, too.
You'd be good for one another, Eric," Brad grinned.  "I'm thinking that the
stuff with Marty was the main reason you came by today, but equally
important were my thoughts about your relationship."  Eric blushed, and
bowed his head.

	"You're a wonderful person, my Hawaiian friend.  If Marty loves
you, my folks and brothers will, too.  Have no worries.  Marty is a good
man.  He's more sensitive than I think is good for him, but . . . that's
him.  I believe he'd be a wonderful lover."

	Eric grinned.  "I believe so, too."  He looked at Brad with a
mischievous look.  "He certainly can kiss."


----------


	Kerin paced back and forth across his and Thian's living room.  "I
feel so damned useless!"  He threw out his arms, giving his injured arm a
withering glance, then pivoted and turned to his brother.  "I can't do
anything!  I can't practice, I can't work out; hell, I can't even have sex
with you, properly.  I don't like being a bottom all the time, and," he
held out a warning hand, "before you say it, laying on my back with you
bouncing on my dick does not make me a top, at least in my estimation."

	"I'm frustrated.  I'm angry."  He made a face.  "I'm jealous that
you can do everything, and I can't.  I'm upset that I'm upset.  I know that
my arm is getting better, but it's not getting better fast enough."

	Kerin plopped onto one of the large easy chairs and winced, as his
arm was jostled.  "I'm just cranky, I know.  I'm friggin' tired of being
cranky, and Doctor Layson won't even allow me to do stretching exercises,
or anything!  Hell, by the time, I'm recovered, I'm not gonna be able to
touch my freakin' toes, I'll be so stiff."


-----------


	Phalen studied the half-dozen guys arrayed around the restaurant
table.  At Phalen's insistence, they'd all arrived early for their regular
burger lunch.  All of the men were on the baseball team; yet, since
beginning their extra practice sessions, they'd become close friends rather
than mere teammates.  "Where's Marty?" Bobby Pickett asked, glancing
around.  "Isn't he gonna join us?"

	Phalen nodded. "Yes, but I wanted to get you guys together. before
he showed up, to ask you something."  Everyone nodded.  Phalen licked his
lips.

	"I don't know what's going on, but Marty's facing . . . something,
and needs our help."  Each of the guys looked troubled.  Even before Marty
had begun to practice with them, he was highly thought of.  Now, it was as
if he was already a member of the team.  If he needed help, everyone was
willing to listen.  "We've all seen how jumpy Marty has suddenly become."
The guys slowly nodded.  Marty had been off his game recently, seemingly
distracted by something.  "I don't know what's causing it, but I'm sure it
has something to do with his duties as assistant trainer, or the locker
room, or something.  I'm sorry, but I really don't know more than that.
Personally, I think someone may be picking on him, or something.  He's not
complained to me . . ."

	"He wouldn't," pitcher Ross McCree interrupted.  "He's not a
whiner.  How can we help out, Phalen?  Marty would bend over backward to
help any one of us.  We can do no less for him."  Ross' comment was met
with nods from everyone.

	"Our schedules aren't that different from Marty's," Phalen began.
"I'm hoping that we can work out something where one of us is nearby Marty,
if not all the time, at least most of the time when he's in the locker
room, or trainer's office.  Maybe our presence will make things easier for
him.  We also might be able to figure out what's causing his problem.  We
don't need to let him know we're looking out for him; just our presence
will do that."  He looked around.  "Does that sound like a plan?"

	Center fielder, Dennis Chaves cleared his throat in warning, as he
held up a hand.  "Hey, Marty!" he called.  "Over here."

	"Hey, guys," Marty smiled, as he sat in the chair reserved for him.
"Sorry I'm late.  What were you all talking about?"  Marty grinned his
thanks at the waitress, as she brought him his soda.

	"We've been talking about the importance of friends," Phalen said,
"and how we all look out for one another."

	Marty's smile broadened.  He raised his glass of soda, inviting a
toast.  "To good friends," he said, glancing from one face to another.  "To
all of you!"

	"And to you, Marty," Ross McCree added.

	"To Marty," Bobby Pickett added.  "One of the best guys around."


----------


	Head baseball coach Ed Bowen stared out the window of his office in
the athletic complex.  'Something is going on.'  First, Dr. Layson's
bombshell, suggesting that someone in or near his department had abused
Randy Shaw.  Now, he'd received a request for a meeting by someone he
didn't know, but who said he had some important information that, as a
coach, he needed to be aware of.  The coach looked up as the team trotted
past his office, all full of energy.  They were a bunch of good guys, some
of the best he'd ever coached.  Randy Shaw's absence left a large hole in
the lineup, though; one it didn't appear, as a coach, he'd soon fill.

	Coach Bowen's nephew, assistant Coach Cline, paused at the door.
"Y'ready?" he asked, his voice clear in the sudden quiet of the empty
locker room.  Today was a major practice.  Everyone, from the best player
to the trainers, was out at the stadium, practicing under game conditions.

	"You go ahead.  I've got a meeting to take care of first.  I'll be
along soon."  Coach Bowen's nephew gave his uncle an unreadable look, then
turned and jogged down the hallway.  Coach Bowen swung his chair toward the
large windows in his office, and stared out to the green practice fields,
and the mountains surrounding the valley beyond.  'Why do I feel as if
something awful is heading my way and there's not a thing I can do to
prevent it?'  He rubbed his forehead, hoping to ward off what promised to
be a major headache, then looked up with a start at the knock on his door.

	"Coach Bowen?" the young man asked.  "You agreed to meet with me
for a few minutes."


----------


	Dani Aarons scanned through the student newspaper.  His first story
was supposed to be in today's issue.  Journalism class was not his
favorite; still, he was anxious to see the printed results of his work.
'I'm not the type of guy who'd make a good reporter,' he told himself.
'I'm too shy.'

	Then, he'd happened to draw the worst possible assignment - writing
about an expanded investigation into the unexplained deaths of two
university students within the past two years.  All he could think of was
his brother Denis; yet Denis' death was, as far as the police were
concerned, explained.  It was suicide, plain and simple.  Dani doubted that
was true, with all his heart.  Denis' death definitely was a suicide, but
there was nothing simple about it.  No one had yet explained why it had
happened.  That was what was important to Dani.  He knew Denis would never
return, but he needed, more than anything, to know why Denis had chosen to
do what he did.

	The headline had been printed in especially bold type, "Explanation
Sought for Unexplained Deaths."

	"University, Tempe City, and Phoenix City police departments have
joined forces," the article read, "to broaden the scope of investigations
into at least two unexplained deaths of male students during the past two
years.

	"According to press releases, and interviews with law enforcement
officials close to the investigation, the two known deaths follow a similar
pattern.  The students, both of whom worked in different capacities within
the University's athletic department, developed sudden changes in behavior,
which worsened over a period of two to three months.  Extensive interviews
with athletic department officials, family members, and friends, have
offered no further clues to why these two young men took their own lives.

	'Something is going on, something that our combined law enforcement
forces intend to get to the bottom of,' said Tempe police chief Ivan
McCavanaugh.  'We're asking anyone who has any information which might help
us find a reason for these two men's deaths, to contact us.  And, secondly,
we're asking if anyone is aware of any other situations similar to the two
we already know about, to get in touch immediately.  If these cases are
connected, we want to find out how, and see that other young men do not
suffer the same fate."

	Dani sank into the chair, and closed his eyes.  'Is it possible
that my brother's death is in some way connected?  Denis fits the profile.
He worked in the athletic department; he seemed fine; then suddenly became
withdrawn, even with me.  Then,' Dani swallowed, 'then Mom told me that
he'd been found . . . dead.  He'd killed himself.  He and I had hardly ever
been apart, until then.  He died alone, unwilling to trust anyone with
enough information to help him . . . In his own mind, he died without a
friend.'

	A tear escaped from beneath Dani's closed eyelids and slid over his
cheek.  'There was no note; there was no reason.  He was just . . . gone,
leaving me . . . to go on.'


----------


	Coach Bowen stood and shook Brad's hand, gesturing to a chair as he
closed his office door.

	Brad waited until the older man sat, before taking his own seat.
"Coach, when I called you, I was intentionally vague about my last name,
because I didn't want you to speak to anyone about my . . . visit.  It's
Kelly.  I'm your trainer's, Marty Kelly, older brother, and he has
absolutely no idea that I'm here.  If he did know, I expect he'd be very
upset.  You see, I feel it's necessary to tell you about something he told
me; something that I'm sure he never expected to go any further.  I've also
been told the same story by another person, a friend of Marty's, in whom
he'd confided, and who has witnessed some of the things I need to speak
of."

	"I understand, Mister Kelly.  I seem to suddenly be the person
people are turning to with their darkest secrets."  His snort definitely
did not signal amusement.  "Go on, please," he said, idly toying with a
fountain pen.

	"Sir, I'm sure that you won't take anything that I tell you at face
value.  I'm sure you'll want to conduct your own investigation, but please,
don't let . . . anyone . . . know that Marty was the source of the
information I'm about . . ."

	Coach Bowen smiled kindly.  "I know the routine, Mr. Kelly.  I
appreciate your trying to protect your brother, but if he's done something
wrong or . . ."

	Brad held up a hand.  "He hasn't.  It's assistant Coach Cline who
has."  Brad stopped speaking, as the color seemed to drain from the Coach
Bowen's face.

	"Coach Cline?"

	Brad warily nodded.

	"He's my nephew."  It was Brad's turn to be shocked.

	"Oh," he said, bowing his head.  "Damn, Marty didn't say anything
about that."

	"I hate to ask, but what exactly did your brother tell you that
involves Coach Cline?"  Brad noticed that the coach was no longer idly
toying with the fountain pen.  He now held it between both hands, whose
knuckles were pale, with the pressure he was exerting.

	"Marty believes Coach Cline is . . . stalking . . . him."  Brad
cleared his throat.  "According to my brother, Coach Cline has offered to
make a place for him on the team . . . if . . ."

	"Go ahead."  The coach said, in a voice like rough sandpaper.

	"If, Marty would go to bed with him."

	The fountain pen snapped in two.  Brad flinched, as blue ink
stained the man's hand, and splattered across the desk in a fine spray of
blue droplets.  The coach's anger seemed barely held in check, as the
muscles of his arms stood out in sharp definition, while he maintained a
death grip on each half of the unfortunate pen.  He silently ground his
teeth, as he stared, unseeing, into the distance, unaware that both he and
the desk were peppered with ink stains.

	"And, you trust your brother's word in this matter?" he managed to
say, his voice hoarse.

	"Yes, sir, I do.  When he told me, he was on the verge of tears.
He was trembling so badly he could barely talk.  He didn't come to me to
tell me . . . this, but when I saw how he was behaving, I knew something
was awfully wrong.  I guess I sorta hounded him until he told me."  Brad
leaned forward.  "Coach, I've never known Marty to tell a lie.  I believe
him.  I also believe his friend.  He came to me to make sure Marty had
spoken to me about what was going on.  Marty and I have always been close.
I trust they're both being truthful.  If I didn't, I certainly wouldn't be
here, talking to you," his voice lowered, "about your nephew."  Brad bowed
his head and massaged his forehead.  "Aw, geez."  He looked up.  "I'm
sorry."

	The coach looked at his hands and clothing, first with surprise,
then disgust.  "I guess I did this," he nodded toward his hands.  All Brad
could do was acknowledge the coach's words with a nod.  "Well . . . damn.
I have no idea what I'm going to do with two blue hands."  He paused.  "And
my clothes!"

	"Coach . . ."

	Coach Bowen held up a . . . blue . . . hand.  "I'm not ignoring
what you've told me, Mister Kelly.  I'm just finding it difficult to
assimilate it all.  Give me a few moments.  And," he continued, "you have
nothing to be sorry for, nor does Marty.  He's a fine young man.  You
should be proud of him.  I believe he would also be proud of you, and how
you're looking out for his welfare."

	"I am proud of him, sir.  He's been carrying around a lot on his
shoulders recently.  I hope that everything will work out . . . for
everyone.  Not just Marty, but Coach Cline, too."

	"You're too generous, Mister Kelly.  If my nephew has indeed been
doing what you and your brother accuse him of, there is no way things will
. . . work out, for him.  He will certainly not have me going to bat for
him, nor the rest of the family, if I have anything to say about it.  If
what you say is true, he's using his position of authority to get . . . sex
partners!  Certainly, Marty cannot be the first young man he's approached."

	The coach suddenly looked up.  "Has Marty succumbed to these
. . . advances?  God, I hope not."  He raised a hand to his face, then
thought better of it, remembering the ink.

	Brad shook his head.  "No, sir.  He's torn though.  His greatest
dream, during his whole life, has been to be on your team.  It was all he
talked about as he was growing up, all he worked for.  All he did was study
and practice ball.  Everything he did was geared toward eventually being on
your team.  I can't begin to describe how devastated he was when he was
turned down.  It was as if his world had ended.  The fact that he was given
an academic scholarship meant little to him.  It took him weeks before he
was able to even talk about his rejection.  Then, he surprised everyone in
the family, and applied for a position as trainer.  It was as if he wanted
to torture himself, surrounding himself in the thing he had dreamt of, but
wasn't good enough to achieve."  Bard shook his head.  "It's been rough for
him . . . now, this!"

	Coach Bowen could easily imagine the young man he knew, being able
to maintain a single-minded focus for years.  Yet, here he is, working with
us, and doing an admirable job.  "It must be . . . painful . . . for him,
being so close, yet knowing he can't do what he wants."

	Brad nodded.  "That's why, no matter how much he hates the idea of
doing what the coach is asking, he can't help but wonder if . . . maybe
. . ."

	Coach Bowen shook his head.  "That would never happen!  I depend on
my assistant coaches for many things, but never to help with final
scholarship selection.  That is my job.  They have input, but that's all.
I make the decisions.  Coach Cline knows how things operate.  If he has
done as you say, and I have every reason to believe he has, and for the
reasons you've given me . . . I am more disappointed in his behavior than I
can say."

	Coach Bowen sat back and stared into the distance for a moment
before returning his attention to the man who sat across the desk from him.
"Turn about's fair play, Mister Kelly.  You've told me something I have to
keep quiet about, so I'll tell you something."

	"Sir?"

	"Your brother has been the topic of conversation between an old
friend of mine, his high school coach, and me.  It turns out, my friend was
very . . . let's just say, irritated with me, for not having offered Marty
a scholarship.  My friend always was one to vent his opinions."  The coach
heaved a sigh.  "In this case, I'm coming to the conclusion that he may be
right."  His eyes focused on Brad's.

	"Now, Mister Kelly, here is the bit that you cannot divulge."

	"Sir?"

	"I . . . would like to offer your brother a scholarship.  I've seen
him play.  He would be an asset to the team, but . . ." Ed Bowen held up a
hand as Brad's face lit.  "But," the coach continued, "I have only so many
scholarships available.  At the moment, I have one player who has
requested, and has been granted, permission to tend to family matters.  I
do not know if he will return to the team.  I'm hoping he does, because
he's a very good player.  So . . . the bottom line is, I would like to have
Marty on our team.  Like the other player I mentioned, he would be a
valuable asset.  But, for the moment, at least, I don't see how adding
Marty to the roster is going to be possible.

	"I can say that if a scholarship comes available, it will be
offered to Marty, but for god's sake, do not give him the slightest hint
that such an eventuality is a possibility, because . . . it may not come to
pass.  I hope that it will, but if it does, it will mean that another of my
boys has left the team, and I won't like that to happen.  My team . . . my
boys, Mister Kelly, are like my own sons to me.  I care about them
. . . deeply . . . probably more than they'll ever realize.  I believe that
I've been a good father to my own sons, and I've always sought to be a good
. . . coach . . . to the young men on the team, a father to them while
they're away from their own.  That's why it's incomprehensible that one of
the men I hired, my nephew, has apparently abused his position."  The coach
shook his head in disbelief.

	"I know this hasn't been easy for you, Brad," The coach paused, as
Brad nodded his permission to use his first name, "but I do appreciate you
coming to me with your accusations, no matter how painful they may be, for
both of us."  He grinned.  "I'd offer to shake your hand, but . . ." he
chuckled.

	He gestured toward the noise outside the door.  "It appears my
charges have returned from practice, so I'd better make an appearance, eh?"
Both he and Brad stood.

	"Thank you for listening, coach."  Brad opened the door and stepped
into a herd of sweating ballplayers, who were trooping past.

	"Brad!" He turned at the voice.  "What are you doing here?" Marty
asked, trying to maintain control of a bag of equipment nearly as large as
he.

	Coach Bowen answered, saving Brad from having to fabricate a story
on the spot.  "He came by looking for you in hopes of inviting you to
dinner.  We've been shooting the bull, waiting for you guys to finish.  Why
don't you go get a quick shower?  I'll have someone else tend to your
duties, just this once."

	"But . . . I shouldn't.  It's my job."

	"I'm telling you to take off.  Have a good dinner."  He winked.
"If it'll make you feel better, I'll think of some especially onerous task
to give you tomorrow."

	"Oh," Marty's eyes brightened.  "In that case," he laughed, then
gestured for Brad to follow.  "C'mon Brad, lemme show you my office.  Brad
hefted one of the bags his brother had been carrying, and trailed
alongside, raising his hand in thanks as he and Marty headed for the
office.

	Brad sat on the edge of one of the exam tables as his brother
stripped; then, with an impish smile, looked over his shoulder and wiggled
his bare butt in his older brother's direction.  "Better'n Curt's, huh?" he
laughed, then crossed the hall to join the team in the showers, leaving
Brad to cool his heels, with nothing better to do than look around the
office at all the trainer's paraphernalia.

	He looked up as someone cleared their throat.  "May I help you?"
the person asked.  Instantly, Brad knew who this person was.  As Marty had
said, he was very good looking, in an arrogant sort of way.  His shorts and
t-shirt clung to him like a second skin.  His dark wavy hair matched his
flawless tanned skin perfectly.

	'Damn,' Brad thought, as he watched the man move, 'Compared to this
guy, I look like something the cat coughed up.'  The man's arrogance
overrode everything one might say good about him, though.  His movements
were studied to achieve the greatest impact, and Brad had to admit that he
definitely did feel an . . . impact.  The sheer raw charisma of the man
caused a totally involuntary twitch in his groin.  'How can any gay man
resist this guy?' he wondered.  'If I didn't know what he was really like,
I'd want to roll over with my legs in the air and beg.'  His appreciation
of his brother's . . . control . . . skyrocketed.

	Brad shook his head, drawing himself back to the conversation with
difficulty.  He hated that the bastard knew exactly what he was thinking.
"No, thanks.  I don't need any help," Brad answered, surprised at how calm
his voice sounded.  "I'm waiting for my brother to finish his shower, then
we're heading to dinner."

	"And your brother is . . .?"

	"Marty Kelly," Brad supplied.  There was a slight widening of the
man's eyes.

	"He shouldn't be inviting . . . relatives . . . into the locker
room."

	"Oh, he didn't invite me," Brad casually laughed.  I invited
myself.  I thought the practice ended earlier than it did, so I've just
been hanging out, waiting for him, visiting with the head coach."  He
smiled, as he watched the assistant coach attempt to decipher what he'd
just been told.

	"Ah, Jackson," Coach Bowen said, in a genial voice.  "Just the man
I wanted to see.  I assigned Marty's duties to someone else for this
afternoon.  I promised I'd come up with something extra to do tomorrow, to
ease his conscience, but I wanted him to have a chance to have dinner with
his brother.  He didn't like the idea of leaving early, even though I told
him to."  He looked into the small office and saw Brad sitting on the
table.  "I take it you two have met one another?"



~ to be continued ~


	Thank you for taking the time to read my work.  I welcome your
email and enjoy hearing your thoughts.  If you would like me to send a pic
of the character(s), please ask.  roynm@mac.com