Message-ID: <45225asstr$1068379807@assm.asstr-mirror.org> From: johndear@softhome.net X-Original-Message-ID: X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Sat, 08 Nov 2003 22:25:37 -0700 Subject: {ASSM} All's Fair by johndear X-Original-Subject: ASSM =?iso-8859-1?Q?=22All's=20Fair=22?= by johndear Date: Sun, 9 Nov 2003 07:10:07 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, RuiJorge <1st attachment, "all'sfair.txt" begin> Author: johndear Title: All's Fair Summary: A high school basketball coach juggles lives and loves pursing what is fair. Keywords: love story Length: 1,927 words Copyright: c. 2003 All's Fair by johndear "Time out!" With one eye on the lines that mark the coach's box, the other on the ref, Nan Thomas cups her hands to yell above the crowd, then winces at the whistle, shrill beside her ear. An expletive, suppressed, she saves the Tee. Takes charge. A tiny, blonde Napoleon looks up at sweat- drenched girls that stoop to meet her gaze. Decisive in the huddle, she doesn't second-guess her arrows drawn across the clipboard. She never hesitates. Her clear commands convince them they can have it all, can stay inside the rules, can beat the odds, can win. Twenty seconds. Done. The horn. She holds the weight of all their teenage hands on hers, a sheaf of gaudy, close- trimmed nails and chants with them in unison, "Go! Cowgirls! De-fence!" Then she lets them spring away from her as if she pops them from a toaster back into the fray. _Her_ girls, each one as special as the next, more special than they know. While number six reties a lace, while both teams jostle with their checks, Nan lets a fan in section seven catch her eye and hold her mind, allows a flash of yesterday while Kathy, number three, stands waiting for the ball. ========================================================= Kathy's mother, Ginger, worked at home. She cooked the meals, and washed the clothing. Swept the floors and did the shopping. Measured days in Internet flirtations; measured self in smiles from family, until she found another passion, someone secret, soft and self-assured, someone who respected motherhood, who kissed with equanimity. Her daughter's high school coach now taught her dignity in private, easy lessons. One hour, seven minutes, fifty-seven seconds, stolen from their spouses and the school, a busybody secretary kept the time, knew Mrs. Thomas wasn't given latitude to exit until four. "Nancy? Leaving early?" "Eye appointment, Gladys. Could you leave a note for Jonas?" "No practice for your girls the day before a game?" "Just drills. Liz can run it just this once." "Don't be late for that appointment. Good luck tomorrow!" "Thanks." Neither husband, home from work; Kathy was at practice; James, Nan's son, at Band. An hour was luxury. They lived in brief encounters: a Saturday at Southgate Mall or brushing past each other at a do, a parent-coach exchange or emails spiced with imagery indelicate for Moms. Nan drizzled water playfully along each thigh, dragged the facecloth slowly north ... then east and west ... then south again, while Ginger slid down deeper in the shallow bath and giggled like a child. She moaned as lather creamed between her legs. "You trust me?" "Of course." "All off? Completely?" "Every hair." "As smooth and soft as ... you ... inside" "Mmmm." After rinsing off the razor, Nan joined her in the tub, sat across her chest and leaned to lick the last few flecks of lather, licked the flecks of urgency and oil. Nan slopped water on the floor when Ginger came, then helped her tidy up before she had to leave. "Please, Nan, five minutes more," standing in a foyer-slow- embrace. "I miss you when you're gone." "I'll write tonight. I promise." ============================================================ In bounds. The Cowgirls set their pick and tie the score with Kathy's graceful finger-roll. Minutes drag while points are traded back and forth. Nan checks the time. Two, twenty-eight to go. She knows that they will lose. The score has been too close all game to risk the bench. Now time is draining out as if the clock has sprung a leak. She taps the shoulders of three substitutes, speaks quietly to each, "You can do it. Just make them play your game. You _can_ this time. You can." Knows, of course, they can't, and sends the first to wait beside the scorer's table for a whistle and a wave. It isn't fair. They could've pulled an upset. She knows they know it, too, if she would let them play, would make the others ride the bench until the horn, would let the starting five play on until the end. But, no. She's made a promise. She's told them since Day One, "You work at every practice; you play in every game. Simple. This is not for money; it's for fun. If we win, we win. 'We' means all of us ... Okay?" It sounded good. They smiled. They lost their first three games. An easy set. A steal. A three! Cowgirls down by five in twelve short seconds. The tight defensive battle that has raged all afternoon is now a rout. Cups hands again, "Come on! Some _Dee_!" to hide her doubts, to make them know she cares. She steals a glance behind her. Kathy: fists clenching at her side, teeth set in lethal glares. Nan turns back toward the game, to watch her players lose their poise and confidence as scores begin to tumble on the board like snowflakes, drifting steadily from Visitors to Home. Nan chokes back their pain and, for a moment, loses track of time. =========================================================== The night before, James squared his shoulders. "I don't get it," as if he wouldn't have to, as if his mom might say, _Okay, love, if algebra is hard just skip it_. "It's just a puzzle, James. You do the opposite." "Duh? It's stupid." "James, look." She'd got home earlier than usual for a practice-afternoon. She'd hoped for time to start their supper, but James was there already. "Band was cancelled, Mom." "Did you have a snack? I'll find you something. A carrot?" "Pop, okay?" "Look. First, just copy out the problem. There. Now what's the operation?" Nan made stew with dumplings, seared the steak and peeled the veggies. Later as she filled the washer racks with dirty plates, she budgeted her feelings. James, attached to telephone; Ronald, in a meeting. She'd find a place for everyone. Just organize. Just multitask and shuffle. It was doable, for sure, and fair. They needed her; they did. She halved the tea towel, draped it on the oven door. "James. Let's see that homework now. One hour, forty-nine. She'd placed her hand beside his ear; she'd run her fingers deep inside the rich black mane and tousled it. "Hey!" "Sorry, James. You make me very proud." "Aww, Mom." "You do." "You're so busy." "You're busy, too. With Band. And friends. I hardly see you." "We start to march next week." "I'd love to come and watch." ============================================================ Post-game, the office door swings open. No knock predicts the storm of Cowgirl number three. "Kath?" Nan sees Kathy's mouth begin to work as if there'd been rehearsals, then second-thoughts: sentences adults were used to hearing, swears erased, reason sprinkled for effect. Mute. Nan sees Kathy struggle on in vain. A tremble twists the face, and tears erupt in rivulets across her cheeks. She turns. Nan catches fingers on her shoulder. "Kath." "Let me go." "Slow down. Come sit." "Why? We played so hard." "Come." An arm around a shoulder guides her to a chair. "She blew it. She can't dribble. She can't shoot. She has no right to be out there." "Say her name, Kath." "I don't want to." "Kath." "I quit is all." "You can't." "I do." "I won't let you quit. There's still a game and one more tournament. Just say her name out loud." "Why?" "Because she's a person, Kathy. She has a name. Mostly, she just watches. She comes to every practice. She earns her playing time. The same as everyone." "She made us lose." "You played a great game. That's all that counts." "We could've won." "It's _how_ you played that's most important." "It's just not fair. They didn't play their bench at all." "Life isn't always fair. What's most important here?" "I can't talk about it." "Have some fun tonight. Relax. We'll talk tomorrow after practice." When Kathy slams the door, Nan puts her head down on the desk for just a moment's peace. Thinks about her yesterday. A check beside "to do". ============================================================= Last night she slid her body close to his in bed. "How was your meeting?" "I'm sorry, Nan. I won't be at your game tomorrow. I tried. This merger thing has gone berserk." "Ronald, no. I understand. It's not _my_ game, anyway. It's theirs. I know you're busy." He'd kissed her on the lips. Lightly. Almost neutral. "How'd practice go? You push them. Like you push yourself." "Don't ask." She laughed to hide her guilt and stroked the salt-and-pepper curl from off his brow. "You need a haircut." "Just had one. I'm letting it get long." "A hippie C.E.O.? I could find some candles and some beads?" "Is James asleep?" "I think." She roughed the shock of hair. "What's on your mind?" "Just you." She reached between his thighs and found him hard. Caressed the pulsing member. "It's exciting? Making love to a losing coach?" "Maybe she needs cheering up?" "Maybe." "You work too hard. With all those practices. With school. With helping James." "I love it." "I miss you, Nan. You're all worn out most nights." "I'm not." She kissed him tenderly to take away his frown. "You'll be tired in the morning." "Maybe." Took his kiss and then returned it. Let him pull the nightie through her hair. Burrowed close, skin to skin, and nibbled on his lower lip. Roamed across his chest to tease his nipples, cupped his buttocks, stroked his groin. Thirty-six minutes, nine seconds. Still, overtime to play. For when he'd fallen deeply into slumber, her eyes still wide, a promise near-forgotten, she slid outside the covers. She sneaked downstairs and logged onto the Net, wrote with yearning to the woman that she'd shaved that afternoon. =========================================================== The day is uneventful. She marks her papers. She teaches all the kids she serves in almost-equal measure. Nan hopes her team can rebound from defeat. She'll _make_ them. She pumps them up and gives them hope at practice; prays that they forgive her. She watches Kathy, sullen, inch toward the free throw line as if it is a cliff. Dribble twice. Eye the basket. "Visualize the ball into the ring," Nan softly mentors. "Find the same seam with your fingers every time." Kathy's face contorts. A gentle word. All net. Then, "Kath. How's life today?" Silence. "Kathy?" "We need to talk." "Not talk of quitting, Kath." "Whatever." "Winning isn't everything." "Losing sucks." "What's wrong, Kath." "Something happened." Nan walks her to a corner of the gym. "Talk to me. What happened?" "Last night. Mom got a phone call from her sister." "And?" "She just had a baby." "That's wonderful." "She was reading her mail when the call came. The phone's upstairs." Nan almost says, _I know. Beside the kitchen door_. Doesn't see where this is going. She watches practice; her mind drifts off to Ginger, making supper now, alone. Horny. No band today. James is home alone with algebra, stuffing cookies in his mouth. Ronald? Rushing through some meeting, dreaming of her lips between his legs? Her students, hard at homework? Her team, at doing drills. "She ran upstairs to take the call. I went to check my download. She forgot to log off." "Kath?" "I read your letter. The one you wrote to her." The youthful face grows hard. "We'll win. Next game. No matter what you think is fair." Sees the tear scar Kathy's eye. Absentmindedly, Nan's fingers touch her whistle as if considering a twenty-second "Time". Speechless. Shoulders slump as one by one the well- spaced columns that support a life begin to crumble. Watches helpless as her player turns and, head held high, retreats across the polished hardwood floor. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Please comment to johndear@softhome.net This story first appeared in Desdmona's Fish Tank where it benefited greatly from the insights of many talented writers and careful readers. The original drafts and comments are posted at http://www.desdmona.com/login.asp. Other works by johndear can be seen at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/johndear and http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/johndear <1st attachment end> ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ Notice: This post has been modified from its original format. 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