Phalen

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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