Playing To Win Playing The Game IIChapter 5 Tournament Weekend
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Playing To Win: Playing The Game IIChapter 25: A Better Kiss free porn video
Monday was a really good day. My mom took the morning off from work again, and I took the morning off from school, and we went to the doctor's office to have all my stitches taken out. After examining my various healing wounds, the doctor pronounced me as progressing nicely, and he removed almost all restrictions from activities. He did caution me that my ribs would still need a lot of time, and he told me not to go into the weight room and stress my arm for a couple more weeks. On the other hand, he also told me that he didn't need to see me again unless a problem cropped up, giving me pretty much a clean bill of health.
I was at school by lunchtime, and I slid into my customary seat next to Luscious, who was happy to take my hand and hold it in her lap, as usual. I quickly got caught up on the main topic of gossip for that morning, which was the temporary return of Jilly Del Toro to school. Dr. Osgood, apparently having been tipped off to the return of Jilly, was standing at the main entrance, waiting for him, and he hustled Del Toro into his office as he entered school. There was a lot of speculation about what Jilly's fate at school would be, especially when it was learned that his mother was called in to speak to Dr. Osgood, too. The smart money was on the prospect of Jilly being assigned to "Outreach Alternative Learning," our education board's euphemism for reform school.
The other members of his little band of outlaws, Joey Amonte, Harold Barnes, Vinnie Arilio, Pammy Lipschutz, and the others, were all staying after school each and every night for detention, in an open- ended sentence that was agreed upon by both the school administration and each kid's parents. They were watched over in one of the study hall rooms by Miss Gladys Epstein, a tough, no-nonsense, battleship of a schoolteacher who brooked absolutely no nonsense under her watch. Miss Epstein stood over each of them in turn, looking over their shoulders as they hunched down and did schoolwork. If, either through a lenient teacher or through some attempt at deception, any of them claimed not to have any schoolwork to do, Miss Epstein, a member of our high school's English Department for over thirty-five years, assigned her own work to do. The first time she did this, it was reported, Vinnie protested, threatening to go to Dr. Osgood to complain. The next day at detention, Dr. Osgood, himself a former history teacher, was in attendance with Miss Epstein, and supported her intent to keep the miscreants busy through additional assignments by giving each of them a history project they had to do for him, in addition to their regular homework and the work assigned by Miss Epstein.
If nothing else, Miss Epstein was bound and determined to teach the rascals something in an intellectual capacity before they left her sphere of influence, according to kids who had to suffer a day or two in the same detention room as the Bulls. She was steely in her determination, even if it meant having the bunch of them in the room with her five days a week, until the end of the school year. The mere prospect of enduring Miss Epstein's detention room for the foreseeable future was enough, according to the rumors floating about, to make at least Harold and Pammy consider dropping out of school altogether.
The other interesting topic of conversation concerned the article that Matthew Hartigan wrote for our local paper. The top headline of the sports section read Bears Extend Streak to 12-0, not a particularly surprising headline about the soccer team. What disconcerted me, however, was the sub-head, just below the headline and in slightly smaller type, but still large: Porter Injured; Sits Out Game.
Jesus H. Freakin' Christ, I thought to myself. Why is the fact that I sat out a game so newsworthy?
The article started out: "The Bears soccer team, ranked as one of the best in the state, extended their unbeaten streak to twelve in a row, beating the Lakewood Huskies 7-3 on the offensive firepower of Trent Abbott and Eric Johnson. Surprisingly, the win was achieved without the defensive help of Sean Porter, the All-State defenseman for the Bears, who was sidelined with an injury. Worse news for the Bears is that Porter may be out for their next game, against the always tough Rockton Heights Jaguars."
Just great, I thought glumly. Now the whole world knows.
Determined to try to recapture my good mood, I asked Kayla how her date on Saturday went. She pointedly ignored my question, so I wisely let the subject lapse. Sometimes I was fortunate enough to remember not to stick my foot firmly between my molars, and that happened to be one of those times. We finished up lunch by not talking about the past weekend, nor mentioning the coming one.
That afternoon I suited up with the rest of the team in my practice gear, and joined them as they headed out to the track to run some warm-up laps. I had removed the bindings from around my chest, and I was feeling deliciously free and reasonably healthy, now that I was down to just a small covering over my healing arm. That feeling lasted about three-quarters of the way around the track, until reality hit. I started trying to take deeper breaths as I jogged, and found that my ribs still were going to restrict me from exerting myself too much.
I let Eric and Trent move out ahead of me as I slowed to a more sedate speed, trying to find a balance between my need for aerobic exercise and my efforts to keep from breathing too deeply. By the time I finished my second lap, I was down to practically a walk, and the rest of the team had lapped me at least once. Weasel, Eric, Jorge, and Anthony had passed me twice. Eric slapped my back each time he passed me by, almost like he was telling me that my betters were gliding on past, as if I didn't realize already that I was slowing down practically with each step.
As we gathered on the sidelines of the main practice field and stretched out, Prince jogged over to Coach Neville. I happened to be near enough to hear most of the conversation.
"Coach?" asked Weasel. "Since I played the entire second half of the game, are you going to keep me in the starting lineup?"
Coach didn't even look up from his clipboard. "No," was all he said.
Weasel's face got red, but his voice was calm. "Why not, Coach?"
Coach Neville now looked up, his face carefully neutral. "Because Mr. Ingrams is the designated starter in that position."
"But..."
"End of discussion, Mr. Prince," said Coach, going back to studying his notes on his clipboard.
Weasel's posture spoke of defiance. "Okay, then, in that case, I want to issue a challenge to Ingrams for his spot," said Weasel.
Coach looked up at him, over the rim of his glasses, and sighed. "You do insist on being an irritant," he said. "However, I can see that you will be persistent in this, won't you? All right, I will abide by the rules I set out at the beginning of the season. You may challenge Mr. Ingrams. Challenge match to be played tomorrow at practice." He looked hard at Weasel, conveying his displeasure. He spoke in chopped words. "Is. There. Anything. Else. Mr. Prince."
Weasel gulped, backpedaling a couple of steps. "No, sir," he said. "Thank you, Coach." And he turned back to the team, a satisfied smile on his face until he saw his twenty teammates, all scowling at him. His smile faltered as he realized he might have a problem finding someone who would be willing to partner up with him on this challenge.
When Coach Simonson was done setting up the field for the day's drills, Coach Neville blew his whistle and explained the day's activities. I participated the best I could during the passing and shooting drills. After about an hour, we headed in to the physical education classroom to watch the film of our previous game. I knew a number of players who were not going to enjoy the analysis that was coming, especially Rich Ingrams, but for once, I didn't have to concentrate too hard on what the tape would show. I settled back to watch.
After our warm-up laps on Tuesday, Coach Neville announced that it was time for the challenge to be played.
"Mr. Prince, who is your teammate?"
Weasel stood up. "Brett," he said, pointing to our stopper.
Brett looked pretty disgusted, but he stood, anyway.
"Mr. Ingrams?"
Rich stood, and said, "Jimmy Brooks."
Jimmy hopped up, having apparently agreed previously to play for Rich. Coach Neville took the four boys with him over to another field, and Coach Simonson got the rest of us to our feet to work on passing schemes. We all just kind of stumbled around, half-heartedly working at the drill, more interested in finding out how the challenge would turn out.
It didn't take long, and we could tell by the body language of the returning players that Weasel had won his challenge. Jimmy and Brett were just walking along, as if nothing much had happened, while Rich was trudging behind them, head down. Weasel, on the other hand, was jigging and jogging up in front, next to Coach Neville, yelling and pumping his fist in the air. Eric turned to Trent and me.
"Shit. Now he's gonna be even more obnoxious to be around," he said sourly.
"Look on the bright side," said Trent. "We're playing Rockland on Friday night. Maybe he'll get burned even worse than Rich did last week."
Eric just looked at him. "That's the bright side?" he asked. "We could lose big against a strong team like that, if that's the case."
"So what?" said Trent. "One loss all season long? We'll still carry home field advantage into the playoffs."
"Only if we don't lose the next game, too," reminded Eric.
Trent's face fell. "Oh, yeah," he said. He turned to me. "But you'll be back for that game, won't you, Sean?"
"Maybe," I said. "But that might not mean much. The way I've been able to play so far doesn't bode well for a very successful return."
"Ah, I wouldn't worry too much about it, Porter," said Eric. "Even hurt and practically bled out, you'd still play stronger than Ingrams or Weasel."
"Maybe you think so," I said. "But from the inside looking out, let me tell you, it hurts."
"Well," said Eric, eyeing my face critically, "I'd say, by the look of it, from the inside your face must hurt like hell, because it's killing me to have to look at the outside of it."
I swung at him, but he easily stepped back, as both he and Trent laughed hard at my expense.
Jake and Kayla were still coming over to my house after school most evenings, so we could all do our homework together. After practice on Monday, I had told them about how decrepit I had felt trying to run laps. Jake was getting enough of a workout at football practice every night, but Kay suggested that she could bring some running clothes, and she and I could go for short runs after we finished our homework. We decided that, beginning Tuesday, Jake would load up his car with Kay's books and backpack and stuff after we had finished our work and drive back home. Kay and I would jog together back to their house, where I would drop her off, and jog back home. I figured it was as good a way as I knew to get my legs and my wind back.
That first night, Kayla stepped into our downstairs bathroom and changed out of her school clothes into running gear. She came out and handed her duffel bag to her brother to put in his car. He took it and headed out the front door, while I just stood and stared. Her pale blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail that still reached to below her shoulders, with just a few wisps floating free to frame the sides of her face. She was wearing a shorty pink t-shirt that left her flat tummy bare, and baggy black silk running shorts that seemed to accentuate her long, lean legs. She had a zippered, hooded sweatshirt over her arm as she stopped, fully aware of my admiring gaze. She smiled and struck a pose.
"You approve?" she asked with a smile.
"Do I ever," I said admiringly, struck anew by how absolutely gorgeous she was.
"Sean?"
I started, having been caught staring. "Uh, yeah?" I said hoarsely.
"Don't you think you should change, too?"
"Yeah," I mumbled. "I'll go change." I stumbled toward the stairs. "But you, Luscious," I added, "don't you ever change."
She smiled at me, a bright and happy grin that made her even more beautiful. I found it difficult to turn away from her and clomp up the stairs so I could throw on running clothes.
By the time I got back downstairs, Jake had already taken off. I called out to my mom, in the family room, that I would be back from jogging within an hour. Kayla had already put on her sweatshirt, and we headed out the back door and walked down the sidewalk.
"An hour?" she asked.
"Well, it's only a couple of blocks to your house," I said. "We need to take the long way there."
So we started out, heading in the opposite direction from her house. We intended to jog about a mile, circling around in the direction of the park where I had worked with the boys, and coming back toward the Lehigh residence from the other side. We went slowly, and even at that, I had to stop every couple of blocks to walk for about one hundred feet to catch my breath. We would step it back up for another quarter of a mile or so, and then walk again, until, about forty minutes later, we were walking the last partial block to Kayla's house. I was wheezing, hands on my hips as I walked, trying without much success to get my aching ribs to stop squeezing, and yet Kayla looked relaxed and flush and ready to go a few more miles.
I walked her to her back door. The outside light was on, a pool of yellow light splashing across the wooden steps. She stepped up onto the first step, and turned back to me in anticipation. I leaned forward and up, now that she was just over my height, and kissed her softly. She put her arms around my neck, holding me close to her as she gave in to the kiss. After a few moments, we broke the kiss, but she held on to me, looking me straight in the eye.
"Is your lip okay now?" she whispered.
"Yeah, it's fine," I said.
"No pain? No swelling?"
"Nope. It's okay. A little tender, but no pain."
"So you can give me a good kiss, then?" she asked, a gleam in her eye.
"That wasn't a good kiss?" I asked teasingly.
She looked at me, her head slightly cocked. "I've had better," she said, a saucy gleam in her eye.
"Oh, really?" I asked. "From who?"
She gave me one last, quick peck on the lips, and let go. As she leapt up the last two steps and grasped the door handle, she turned back to me. "Whom," she said.
"What?" I asked, confused again.
"No, not 'what'. And not 'who', either. It's not 'from who', it's 'from whom'. Ain't you had no proper schooling?" And, with a giggle, she slipped through the open door, and I was alone again. I just shook my head, confused as usual, and started slowly jogging back home, wondering where my grasp of our conversation had slipped from my question to her slick evasion. It was like she was having a battle of wits with a woefully unarmed adversary.
It was amazing how quickly a reasonably fit and healthy young body could recuperate. Between working with the team and jogging with Kayla, by Friday I was feeling more and more like I was supposed to. I still had to take it pretty easy, but I was able to control the spasms my ribs would create to make me slow down. I could run, slowly, for much longer, and I didn't have to concentrate so much on placing one foot in front of the other.
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