15 comments/  67289 views/  95 favorites

The Spirit Girl

By: The Spirit Girl



"I wish I was as confident as you that there IS a light bulb up there," she said ruefully, tapping her temple.

"Hey... I'll be around all semester. If you're having trouble with the stats, just find me. I've tutored people through stats before." Actually, that was a little white lie. I'd hired a tutor myself the first time through, but much as I described at some point it clicked, and I ended up helping my roommate study by the end. Not quite the same as tutoring, but... 

"Are you serious?" she said with an excitement I didn't expect. 

"Yeah, I'm serious. You know where my office is, right? In the back of the training room?" At this point the other girls were no longer interested in this conversation. The one to my left was nice enough to slip behind me and let me stand next to Samantha. We continued talking while they talked about something else. 

"I can't go back there," she complained, "Most of the time we're there at the same time as the players, and we're not allowed in the team locker room when it's in use."

"I'm extension 437," I interjected, "but I suppose you'd need to use a house phone to dial it. I'll give you my cell if you want." To my surprise, she immediately reached for her phone. I gave her my number, and in the interests of etiquette she gave me hers. Cool! Not even ten minutes and I already had her number. It was for the wrong reason, but hey, a guy's gotta start somewhere. We kept talking for a good half-hour; we asked about where we went to school, and all that kind of stuff. I was getting to know her a little bit, and I wasn't picking up any psycho bitch vibes from talking to her. It felt like I was getting off to a promising start. That is, until the team arrived.

I didn't even know at first that they had arrived. All I knew is that one minute I was talking one-on-one with Samantha, and the next she was looking behind me and not hearing a word I said. I turned and found three of the players working their way through the bar, flirting with every skirt along the way. Leading the way and the center of attention was our star rookie guard Marshall Jacobs—and he was eating up all the attention. He stopped to chat to a girl with a round butt and a ridiculously short skirt. I heard the girl on my right call out "hey Jason!" Jason Newkirk, a backup center and the 12th guy on the bench, turned towards the sound; he didn't get recognized very often. He saw the girls and knew from their warm-up suits that they were girls from the Spirit Team, so he headed our way. Aha... so the warm-up suits were a way to make sure the guys from the team recognized them. Maybe the girls are prowling for the guys as much as the other way around, I thought. The third player, shooting guard Jamal Campbell, followed. A few minutes later Jacobs realized he'd lost his wing men, but since there aren't that many 7-footers he quickly spotted Jason. He excused himself and joined the group. 

Each of the girls introduced themselves to the players with big friendly smiles--not quite the same reaction I'd gotten. Newkirk then looked at me, scrunching his forehead, trying to place me. "Do I know you?"

"I'm Dave. I'm the intern using the office at the back of the training room."

"Ah. I thought you looked familiar." He held out his hand to shake mine, trying to exert his dominance by crushing my hand in the process. From that point on, I might as well have been invisible. Although I was standing right next to her, the Samantha I had just been having this nice conversation with was all googly-eyed and flirting like crazy with Marshall Jacobs. He moved closer to her to hear better. I stepped back to get out of the way, but I was now pinned against the bar. Jacobs gave me a brief look, trying to suggest that I should step aside and let him do his magic, but I couldn't if I wanted to. So instead, Samantha took that opportunity to go to the bathroom with Jenna. I moved into the corner, looking every bit as left out as I felt. The girls came back out a few minutes later, and I swear the zippers on their sweatshirts were down three inches lower, making it very easy for a tall man to gaze down and admire their...talents... Samantha went right up to Marshall, standing so close they were almost touching, talking and making eyes at him. You had to be blind to not see where this was going. 

I snuck out to go the bathroom, not because I needed to go but just to get out of there. When I came out, I returned to my earlier vantage point along the far wall. Samantha was sitting on a barstool now, and Marshall was standing right by her, engaged in animated conversation. His hand rested on her thigh, and she showed no inclination to request he remove it. I looked up at the TVs for a moment to check on the out-of-town scores. When I looked back ten minutes later, Marshall was bending over and sucking face with her. Wasn't too hard to figure out that someone was gonna score with Samantha tonight, and it wasn't gonna be me. I suppose I could have gone up and started talking to someone else, but Samantha's rejection stung my ego. With a sigh of resignation, I put down what was left of my beer and went home.

----------

Next day I was working in my office and I overheard the guys talking in the weight room. You can hear clear into the locker room if there's no one else around and the whirlpool isn't running. I overheard a voice I recognized as Marshall Jacobs talking to someone. 

"Yo, you take that girl home last night?" 

"OF course," Jacobs answered proudly. I couldn't make out what the other voice said next, but then I heard him say "that girl a FREAK man. Awesome."

"You gonna call her again?"

"You got that right. I gotta get me some MORE o'that."

"What about your girl in Mississippi?" 

"What about her? They ain't gonna run into each other at the Walmart, right?"

"So you gonna play them both?" 

"Hey-ll yeah..."

I stared at my screen without really looking at it. Not only was our star rookie was fucking the girl I wanted, but he was two-timing (or three, or four-timing) her on top of it. And what was I gonna do? Nothin', that's what. I tried to convince myself it was better this way, that I was on the rebound and might do something stupid. It was all sour grapes. And I REALLY wasn't in the mood to hear Marshall Jacobs brag about how great a lay Samantha was. I turned off my computer and headed upstairs so I wouldn't have to hear it anymore.

-------

When the team returned January 6, I was in the owner's box with my cousin Ricky. He was with a different girl, just as hot but slutty as the last one. Carmen was her name; brown-haired and Hispanic, she wore flared jeans skin tight on the ass, platform heels, and a zippered sweatshirt that ended four ribs short of her waist, providing unobstructed viewing of her pierced navel and tramp stamp. Grand-dad had gone back to Florida and my dad wasn't around, so it was just the three of us in the suite. I stared out the window watching the game—and Samantha. At one point Carmen went to the bathroom and to my surprise Ricky came up to talk to me. "Why so glum cuz?"

"I'm all right," I protested.

"All right? Just all right? You ought to be out there, tearing it up and taking no prisoners." Ricky took a sip of his beer.

I turned to look out the window at the arena floor again. "I don't have a nice car like you do, Rick, or cash to throw around. I can't play your game."

"Bull shit. You're gonna be the owner for the motherfuckin' TEAM, man. What hot-blooded chick wouldn't want a piece of THAT?" 

I just shrugged. Just at the moment, the Spirit Girls started in on one of their routines. I didn't even realize I was watching Samantha so intently until I heard Ricky comment "aha, now Ricky sees what the real problem is. Which one is it?" 

"Huh?" I was genuinely confused. 

He was scanning the Jammer Spirit as they did their routine. "I see how you're looking at those dancers. You got the hots for one of 'em. Which one is it?"

I was astounded that Ricky had figured that out, but I didn't have any reason not to fess up. "Samantha... second row, way right," I said with defeat in my voice. 

He checked her out. "Good taste, cuz. She's got some serious boot-ay."

"Yeah," I complained, "but she's givin' that boot-ay to Marshall Jacobs. He's constantly bragging about it in the locker room." 

His answer surprised me: "so?" 

"So? He's already a star, maybe rookie of the year," I argued "I'm just Dave."

"What the fuck is wrong wit' you, man," he cajoled. "You're not just Dave. You're the Dave that's gonna pay Marshall Jacobs' goddamn salary one of these days. If I was you, that's the first thing I'd say when introducing myself." I said nothing. He continued "have you talked to that dancer chick? Does she even know who you are?"

"She knows my name," I answered, "I talked with her for a while last week, over at the 5th Quarter."

"She knows your name? Did you say to her 'I'm Davis Rutherford III, and I own the motherfucking Jammers?'" My silence was answer enough. "Man, you ain't even tryin'! If she knew you were the man around here, she'd be wigglin' that tight ass of hers in your lap in no time."

I shook my head. "I guess it just doesn't come as easily for me as it does for you."

"You know what your problem is, cuz? You don't have enough CONFIDENCE. Looks and money are nice to have, but what really makes a girl respond is if you're sure of yourself. You come up to a girl with an attitude that says I've got something you want, and she's gonna want to find out what that is. If you come across like, please don't reject me... that's exactly what she's gonna do. You've lost before you even started." I looked up at him, shocked to be getting what seemed to be useful advice from my womanizing cousin. "And whatever you do, DON'T commit the cardinal sin, man."

"What's that?" I asked.

"Don't lock in one girl if she ain't buyin' what you're selling, man. That dumb-ass dancer would rather bone the point guard than team owner? Let her, cuz that's what she's gonna do anyway. Don't sit around gettin' all mad and jealous and shit. She ain't gonna end up marrying Marshall fucking Jacobs; he's playin' her. Maybe she's playin' him too. Either way it aint' gonna last, and one of these days she's gonna be lookin' around for other options. If you still like Tabitha or whatever her name is, stay cool, stay close by and keep your ears open, and be ready to pounce when opportunity knocks. In the meantime, there's a thousand other girls that would gladly put out for Mr. I Own a Motherfuckin' Basketball Team. Have yourself a BALL man!" 

At that point Carmen came back from the bathroom, and put her arm around Ricky. He said to her "Carmen, did I introduce you to my cousin? He likes to go by Dave, but his real name is Davis. Davis Rutherford III. He's gonna inherit the team someday."

"Really?" Maybe it was the kind of chick that Ricky hung out with, but it really did feel like I had suddenly become a lot more attractive in her eyes. It felt like she checking me out, looking for things she could convince herself to like. That just strengthened my conviction that I was doing the right thing by NOT telling Samantha who I was.

"Yeah, he's a good sort. He likes to party... right Dave?" 

There was something in the way he party said that pricked up my ears, like he was insinuating something. I don't know if he was thinking sharing her with me (something told me that it wouldn't have been Carmen's first three-way), but I wanted to cut that entire line of thinking off at the pass. "Yeah, but I don't know that I like to party the same way you guys do. You guys go ahead, do whatever you like. I'm gonna watch MY team try and win this game."

Ricky patted me on the back. "That's right, Dave, it's your motherfucking team. Just remember-- stay cool, and stay confident, and things will come around eventually." I nodded and watched the game. Ricky's advice really did seem to ring true--which astonished me to no end. Then he and Carmen went off and had sex in the bathroom.

----------

In a way, I followed Ricky's advice. Right after the game I went to the 5th Quarter, which I hadn't planned on doing beforehand. I didn't wait for the Spirit Girls to show, either, I just went and started talking to girls. There was a cute girl in a short flouncy dress I talked to for quite awhile, but her friends weren't having as much fun as she and were pushing her to go somewhere else. She asked me to come with them, but I begged off. I just vaguely said, "I work for the Jammers... I'm here after games pretty frequently." I told her when the next home game was, and promised I'd look for her. I bet she'd have given me her number if she asked—had I gone with them, I felt pretty confident that I could have taken her home eventually. That made me feel like less of a loser. 

When I looked around, not only were the Spirit Girls already there, but a couple of the players were, too. I went up to them anyway, and it also made me feel better to be recognized right away this time and allowed "into the circle." I talked to all of the girls instead of focusing on Samantha, keeping it cool. When Marshall finally appeared, Samantha attached herself to him and they soon left together. Yes, it pained me to watch, but hangin' with three other hotties from the squad lessened the blow. And I was doing what Ricky suggested—stay close and keeping my ears open. I wanted to be the first to know when the Samantha-Marshall thing blew up. 

From them on, I spent a lot of time at the 5th Quarter on weekends and game nights. I got pretty friendly with the clique of Spirit Girls that frequented the place. A few others came and went, but the regulars were Samantha and Jenna, Heather who I'd met with the Santa hat thing, and an Asian girl named Kim. When I learned that Jenna was Samantha's best friend and roommate, I made a point of sticking close to her. She made it clear right off the bat that she had a boyfriend in Texas had no interest in any extracurricular activities; with that out of the way, we became pretty friendly. In some ways, we were both being left behind when Samantha ran off after Marshall Jacobs--which was every night. Pretty soon he didn't even bother coming in to the bar for her anymore; she would get a text message and suddenly have to go without explanation—like we needed one. We started making jokes about it; "must be time for Jacobs to get his physical therapy." I did my best to do what Ricky suggested: biding my time, staying cool, and keeping my ears open. 

I also kept hearing the talk in the locker room. Marshall Jacobs was a real kiss-and-tell kind of guy; he couldn't WAIT to tell you who he'd been boning. As a result I knew for certain he had been involved with at least seven other girls--and I probably didn't even hear about the conquests on the road. He had 

Samantha wrapped around his little finger; he came right out and called her his booty call girl. But he also complained that she was getting suspicious of the times when he'd suddenly disappear. He complained that she was "high maintenance," which I think meant that she wasn't satisfied to sit waiting by the phone and then come running when he called. I had a difficult time imagining that Samantha viewed their relationship in quite the same way he did—but that wasn't my problem. I still didn't like to hear the talk, if only because someone I knew well enough was getting used, but it didn't keep me from doing my work anymore.

One night in about the second week of February, I got to the bar a little later than usual. To my surprise, Samantha had been looking for me. "Hey Dave... you know how you said once that you could help me in stats?" 

"Of course." 

"Did you mean it? I mean, would you be able to help me out? I'm having trouble already."

"Not a problem, just tell me when and where." I replied chivalrously. We talked a little bit more about it; I could tell she was serious because she didn't even go running out the door when her text summons came in. She waited until we had finished our conversation before taking her leave to go and service Marshall Jacobs. 

I met her at a coffee shop on a Sunday afternoon. With hair in a ponytail, little makeup, and ordinary clothing that obscured some of her show-stopping physique, I didn't recognize her on my first scan through the place. I was used to see her with her hair big, full makeup, and figure-flattering attire. She still looked mighty fine, just not exactly like I was expecting. I came up to her table and sat down. She offered to buy me coffee for taking the time, but I'd already ordered one. I spent about two hours with her on stats. Samantha actually understood the stuff just fine, she just didn't FEEL like she did. What she needed more than anything was a shot of confidence—kind of ironic, since if Ricky was right, that was just the elixir it would take if I was to ever catch her eye. In some ways, it was good that our first one-on-one time was doing stats, because by now I KNOW that stuff and couldn't help but sound confident when talking about it. Truth is, I never got any feeling that Samantha disliked me. It was just pretty clear that she liked Marshall Jacobs more.

-----------

Back in the office, the trade deadline was coming up, and dad was getting ready to trade Scott Henin to Chicago for Juvenis Igenko. Scott Henin was the most recognizable name on the team, a forward and once upon a time an all-star. But he had a big contract and his production had been declining precipitously; he had a year maybe two left in him at best. Igenko was a Russian 7-footer; no offensive skills but seemingly a decent rebounder and shot blocker. We hoped Igenko would strengthen our weak interior defense, but mostly we wanted to get out from under Henin's contract. It wasn't going to be a popular trade, however. Dad wouldn't pull the trigger unless we got another player from Chicago; he called me into the office and asked me my opinion on which of five players we should take. I asked him to give me afternoon to look into it and I'd get back to him. He gave me a 5:00 deadline, which would give him time to negotiate before the deadline. I went down and went to work. 

If it was easy to mathematically predict player performance, someone would have done it a long time ago. But I did what I could, plugging the stats of the five guys on the list into the so-so models I'd come up with. Right away, it was clear that all of the models predicted that one of those players had much more upside than the others. I did a little background research, and the more I found, the more I liked. By 4:30 I was giving my report. 

"Well Dad, as you know the models are far from perfect. But according to my research, there's one player who is far superior to the others: Stanley Jefferson." 

"Stanley Jefferson?" my dad questioned. "I don't know anything about him. I was leaning toward Jason Stallings."

I nodded. "Jason Stallings is the seventh man in the Chicago rotation, so he gets more minutes than the others on the list, and he's put up some decent offensive numbers this year. But my models suggest that he's overachieving; he will not retain this level of performance in the long run. And I think he's a liability on defense. Opponents' points-scored-per-minute increased by 30% when he's on the floor. There's a reason Chicago is willing to let him go." 

Dad raised his eyebrows at that one. "And what's the story on Jefferson?"

"Stanley Jefferson was projected to be a mid first-rounder going into his senior year, but he developed a bum ankle and his numbers fell off. Chicago took him in the late second round, but he's mostly languished on their bench since. But his physical skills and quickness suggest he's capable of good things. He's not a great stand-and-shoot player, so he's struggled in their half-court offense. Plus, Chicago is playing him out of position. He's tall, 6'9", so Chicago has been putting him at the four. But that's not his game--he's a slasher, and uses his quickness to get to the hole; he should be playing the three."


The Spirit Girl



"Stallings is a two. It would be nice to get back someone that can play Henin's position rather than create a log jam in the backcourt."

I nodded. "Plus, it's no secret that Chicago would love to be rid of him. If you take him off their hands, you might even be able to get something else in the deal."

"Draft picks?"

"They've got two second-rounders in next year's draft."

"Hmm. I'll think about it. Thanks, son." 

I went downstairs and sat staring at my computer. What was dad going to do? He'd asked my advice, but would he take it? Indeed, SHOULD he take it--how confident was I in my own recommendation? I felt good about it now, but who knew...anything could happen. The one thing I had learned already; for every model, there was at least one player who turned out to be exactly the opposite of what was predicted. I was beginning to appreciate the significance of "intangibles."

Dad ended up pulling off the trade, but did one better than my suggestion: Henin and our second-rounder for Igenko, Jefferson and their first-round pick in the upcoming draft. Poor Sandy Clark, our PR person, got all buy lynched by the local media when the trade was announced. Sports radio guys lost their minds that we'd traded the only "pro caliber" player besides Jacobs for a bucket of balls. It got so bad I went up and apologized to dad about all the flack the trade had gotten. Dad just shook his head. "You've got to have a thick skin in this business. And besides, what they're saying today doesn't mean a thing; in a year we'll be able to evaluate whether this was a good trade or not."

"I know. I just feel like I've caused all this bad press. And it can't help at the box office."

"I talked to your grandfather before I made the trade, told him everything you told me. He said if we're going to ask you to run numbers, then we're going to have to be ready to trust those numbers even if they're not what we expect. And I talked to Coach, who said he remembered good things about Jefferson in college. So if this doesn't work, it won't just be your fault. We're all on board with the trade."

That made me feel better--but not as much as being right did. Coach started Jefferson off at the three, just a few minutes a game at first, but he showed excellent offensive instincts. Better still, he showed a natural affinity with Marshall Jacobs; the two seemed to instinctively know how to find each other on the court. Within a month he was getting 20 minutes a game, scoring double-figures and threatening to break into the starting lineup. The throw-in was singlehandedly replacing Henin's production. That was a good thing, because Igenko proved to be nimble as a battleship, totally useless in our transition-style offense. He was cut at the end of the season, and went back to play in Russia. But nobody had asked me whether I thought we should have traded for HIM. 

----------

I was meeting Samantha at the coffee every Sunday afternoon to do stats, and every other week we got a lot accomplished. But on weeks when the team was in town, Samantha was always cutting our meetings short. And at the bar of course, Sam was always friendly and nice to me until she got her booty summons, at which point she was out the door. Jenna started complaining about Marshall Jennings and how badly he was treating Samantha. "I don't understand why she puts up with it. He just calls out of the blue, and ten minutes later she's out the door. He's got her on call like a fucking escort service. It doesn't matter if she's got plans; when he calls, she goes running to him and does anything he wants."

"Anything he wants, huh?" I muttered. I was all too vividly picturing Marshall shoving a big black dick into Samantha's tight little ass. The vision literally made me want to puke, but I couldn't shake it from my mind. 

I noticed that Jenna was giving me a strange look. Then mysteriously she said "Oh... I'm sorry, Dave... I didn't know..."

"Didn't know what?" I had no idea what she was talking about.

"I didn't know that you liked Sam. I'm sorry—I should shut up..."

"What makes you say I like Sam?" I asked in a last-ditch effort to keep my secret in the bag.

"It's the way you said 'anything he wants;' you were disgusted by the thought. Guys usually kind of dig hearing about girls' sex lives—unless it's a girl they like, in which case hearing about them messing around with another guy is like stabbing them in the eye."

I nodded sadly. "Guilty as charged. I guess now my secret is out."

"Don't worry Dave, I won't say anything. Believe me, I'd much rather see her going with you than whoring herself for that asshole." There was silence for a moment. "Dave, when I said she'll do anything he wants, I was talking as a girl. I just meant she'll meet him anytime and anywhere, ready to go. I think guys read different things into a statement like that. I don't know if it makes any difference, but I know for a fact that there are things Samantha will not do in bed." I smiled wanly; it did make me feel a little better that Marshall probably wasn't plowing her ass. But how much did it matter, since it was proven fact that he was plowing her everywhere else? 

Things started to come to a head on March 1. I met her to go over stats, but she was there barely a half-hour when she got a text and suddenly left, saying something had come up. I thought to myself, I don't think anything's come up yet... but I'm pretty sure it's about to. I tried to stay cool and confident, but I couldn't stop driving myself insane imagining the two of them in bed together, especially since I knew Marshall was being such a jerk to her. I sent Jenna a text; Samantha just went off to be with Marshall again. 

I got a response. I can't believe it. She was just complaining how far behind she is in stats, and still she goes running when the asshole calls. Ima kick her ass when she gets home.

Monday night Samantha called me, sounding desperate. She apologized for ditching me on Sunday, and told me she was still struggling; was there any way I could meet her to do stats? Part of me didn't want to, because now I felt like I was being used, too. But I was too smitten not to take every opportunity to be with her. It's not like I had something better to do. 

The first thing she did when we met was apologize again, then gave me a thank-you card. It had a picture of a life preserver on the front with the words "You're a Life Saver." She had hand-written a little note inside. "I really do appreciate all the time you're taking with me. There's people in my class spending $75 an hour for tutoring; you're doing all this out of the goodness of your heart, and then I give you the run-around on top of it. Most people wouldn't do what you've done, and I know it." 

I wondered to what degree she understood my motivation for continuing to help her--then again, as long as she was hooked on Marshall Jacobs, what did it matter? So I just said thank you and we sat down to work, but it was obvious right away she was distracted. I had to go through things two and three times, which I never had to do; I could literally see her zone out in the middle of an explanation. Finally I said something about it.

"I'm sorry," she moaned, "I've just got a lot on my mind." 

"Do you want to stop?" I took a sip of my coffee.

"No, no, I've got to get this done..." she protested, but immediately her gaze de-focused again. I sat silently. Out of nowhere, she asked "Dave, isn't your office pretty close to the locker room?"

"Right off the training room," I agreed.

"Do you ever hear the guys talk? I mean, do you ever overhear things?" She was drumming her pencil nervously on the table.

"Quite a bit, if the whirlpool's not on," I said cautiously. I had a pretty good idea what she was trying to find out, but it didn't seem my place to say--although I knew what she wanted to know. I wanted her to know—but I didn't want to have to be the one to tell her. 

"What kinds of things do they talk about?" she asked vaguely.

"If you want to know if they talk about the girls they're dating, yes," I said pointedly, "and of course, the girls they wish they were dating." Her gaze snapped to me. She wanted to ask, but she didn't know how to give away who she was seeing... I saved her the trouble. "Yes, Marshall Jacobs is definitely one of them." Her face looked as though she were struck by lightning. "What, did you think people didn't know? I'd imagine anyone who's been in the 5th Quarter in the last few months knows."She blinked, digesting my words, and nodded slightly. It was obvious, now that I'd pointed it out to her. Anyone who was looking could see them leave together every night.

"So... does Marshall talk about... me?"

"Sometimes. Look, Samantha, I know where you're going with this, but I'm not comfortable passing on things I overhear in the locker room. It's not my information to share, you know?" 

She searched my face, considering my statement. It was a valid concern, and she knew it. But she also accurately read between the lines. "Something tells me that you've already told me what I needed to know." 

"I didn't say anything," I begged off, waving my hands in innocence. 

"No... you didn't," she agreed, "but you wouldn't feel the need to protect him if there wasn't anything to protect." She had me there. "At least answer me this: does he talk about other girls besides me?" 

I looked at her eyes. I could see the hurt in them. I was conflicted. I wanted to out him because he was a jerk--not to mention it might open up a chance for me. But if it came out that I was passing on locker room secrets, it might lead the players to not trust ownership, which could come back to haunt us when it came time to re-sign players. Finally I said: "sometimes guys just talk, you know? Make shit up to impress each other. So I don't know whether any of what the guys say is really true or not."

"But Marshall Jacobs talks about other girls?" 

I probably didn't need to pile on, but I responded "He likes to name names, and I've heard him talk about sleeping with a lot of different girls. I'm sorry, Samantha..." It broke my heart to see her brave chin quiver. She turned away, trying to hide a tear.

"No," she croaked unsteadily, "thank you for telling me. At least now I know what a sucker I've been played for." She sat there, eyes closed tight, clenched inside, for a long moment. Then suddenly slammed her book closed, stood up and started putting on her coat. "I'm sorry... I just can't do this right now. I'm sorry I made you come all this way..."

"Don't worry about it," I soothed. "I understand. Call me whenever, OK? Even if you just want to talk--it doesn't have to be about stats."

She stood and threw her things into her bag. "OK. Thanks." Then she disappeared before she lost it completely. 

I sat for a long time, looking at my coffee. Something was going to happen--but what? Had she finally had enough of Marshall Jacobs? Somehow I doubted it. And even if she had--what were the chances she'd be interested in me? I worried about her because she had been so upset when she left. I texted Jenna to warn her about our conversation. I got a reply some time later Thx Dave. We're sitting here talking about it right now. I felt better that at least Samantha had found a shoulder to cry on.

There was a game that Tuesday. Samantha didn't let any of her pain show while she was performing, but she didn't come out to the bar after the game. Jenna she said she didn't feel like coming out that night, and that was understandable. I texted her, though. Hey sry to hear ur not up to coming out tonight. I understand, but its not the same without you.

Her reply was I'll be ok. Prob be there Friday cu then. 

She did come out Friday. About a half-hour after the girls arrived, Samantha's phone buzzed to announce a new text, but she ignored it. It happened two more times; Samantha pretended not to notice. I was encouraged, but I was also cautious. Samantha was hurt; I thought it was too soon to be receptive to another guy's advances just yet, especially since I was the one that had outed Marshall Jacobs. But I stayed close, just to make sure no one jumped in to fill the void before me.

As the girls were talking, the subject came up about a big hip-hop concert at the arena next week. The girls wanted to go, but tickets had been sold out for months. Hmm, I thought. I have access to grandpa's suite for any arena event. So I said "I wonder if I can get a hold of one of the luxury suites? They usually just sit empty during concerts; I wonder if I can get access to one and we could watch the concert from there?" 

Samantha and Jenna got all excited, asking if I really thought that was possible. I said "quite possibly, I know they're not sold for concerts because the leaseholders control rights to them. But if I can get permission from one of the leaseholders, we should be able to use it. Most of the time, even you have permission you can't get in because the box level isn't staffed except for games. But I think I can get in with my key, so that wouldn't be a problem." This kind of scared the other girls off, because it sounded like something we shouldn't be doing. But Jenna and Samantha were pumped. We worked out some logistics on how we would do this; my increased heart rate tipped me off that Samantha seemed to me standing closer to me than previous nights at the bar. I crossed my fingers that Ricky's advice might actually be paying off. 

When I went back to work Monday, I went and talked to my dad about maybe using the family suite the big concert Wednesday. He said technically we had the right to, although the promoter wouldn't be too happy, and of course usually the area was locked. I told him I'd buy general admission passes, and I wasn't planning a big party, only to see it with a couple of friends. I also said I hoped that no one would even notice we were there. I think he sensed that there was more the story, but he gave me the go-ahead. 

Things were all set. I had tickets, I'd confirmed I had keys to enter the suite level, I knew when and where I was to meet the girls. Then the night before the show, she did it to me again. Samantha called, apologizing about cancelling so late but she was no longer able to go to the concert. I was very disappointed, but what could I say? I was pretty short on the phone. After hanging up, I texted Jenna. Samantha backed out of the concert. You still want to go? 

I don't need to, Sam is the one that's so into it. Besides, I'm pissed at her right now. Two guesses why she's suddenly not available. 

I replied: But the team isn't even in town! 

Her answer was The cities on this road trip are all drivable. A bunch of the guys are coming home for the big show between games.  A moment later part two arrived: Marshall called, said he was sorry he treated her bad, and told her he had front-row seats. She fell for it.  I shook my head, lost in my thoughts. I give up. She believes every line that playa' feeds her—obviously she wants to believe them. Is it because he's famous? I certainly won't ever be famous like him. Is it because he's got money? I could tell on that I'm the heir to the team—but if that's what it would take to get her interested, I don't want her.  While Ricky would not have understood, I was firm on that one. Ever since high school my dad and my grandpa both warned me about staying away from gold-diggers. I had to look up what it meant at the time, but he was right. If you've got money, you'll always wonder whether a girl that's interested in you really likes you or just your money. That's why I introduced myself as just Dave, especially to girls I liked in more than a 12-hour diversion kind of way. After all the ways that Samantha bent over backward for Marshall Jacobs, if she suddenly found out who I was and became more interested, like Ricky's girl-of-the-hour Carmen had seemed to—well, I guess I'd have a hard time very believing it was real. I liked Samantha, and she seemed generally positive with me. But if she really came to like me, I needed it to be without her knowing my family connections. 

So instead of being at the concert, I sat home, watching basketball on TV. We were two games out of the 8th and final playoff spot at that point, but the team we were chasing was putting a whoopin' on New York, which wasn't doing much to help my foul mood. My phone chirped; a new text. I picked it up lazily to see who it was and if I wanted to bother reading it. It was from Jenna, so I did.  Are you busy? If you're free, can you come down to Rusty's? It's about Sam. Rusty's? That was a neighborhood bar frequented by college kids, a couple miles from the arena. Why Rusty's? And why would Jenna be texting me to meet her there, to talk about Sam? I was telling myself I had to wash that girl right out of my hair, but the truth was I was nowhere close to having done so. I took the bait. It would be better than sitting home alone watching the team we were trying to catch add another half-game to their lead. 

Parking sucked around Rusty's, so even though I didn't change or anything it took me a while to get there. It was dark; I could only see people right close to me when I first walked in and I didn't see Jenna. When my eyes adjusted, I finally saw Jenna sitting at a tall table in the back. She wasn't alone. All I saw was the back of a head as I first started approaching, but when it turned slightly I recognized it: Samantha. Jenna said it was ABOUT Samantha; she didn't say anything about her actually being here. I stopped for a second, not sure what I should do, but Jenna saw me waved enthusiastically my way. It was too late to duck out. 

Samantha turned to see who Jenna was waving to. Then a look of horror crossed her face and the tucked her head behind her raised arm, trying to avoid being seen. I drew nearer; I heard Samantha nearly shriek "you fucking TOLD him to come here!?!?! He's the LAST person I want to see" clearly enough that I could hear. I think Jenna's response was "you've been whining all night that you should have just gone to the concert with Dave rather than believe more of Marshall Jacobs' lies. Well, here's your wish—here's Dave." 

I arrived at the table. Jenna looked relieved, perhaps just being able to share some of the load that Samantha was dumping on her. Samantha had her head down on the table in her folded arms like a school girl at quiet time, avoiding me. It was clear they had both been drinking. As I often do in awkward situations, I resorted to humor. "Good evening. I am Sherlock Holmes, the world-famous detective. Allow me to deduce what has happened here." 

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes," Jenna replied, mimicking my faux-English voice. "And what is your deduction?"

"I deduce that Miss Sullivan was invited to attend a certain concert this evening by a certain famous personage, prompting Miss Sullivan to change her prior plans. But then said famous personage withdrew his offer, leaving Miss Sullivan hanging. The only question is, did said personage pretend to not even be in town, or merely that he wasn't able to get tickets?" 

"Pretended to not be in town," Samantha said in a voice muffled by her arms. She lifted her head; anything she was trying to hide was now out in the open anyway. She wasn't dressed to go out; she was dressed for studying. Tears had smudged her mascara and eye liner. She looked at me then turned away. "I can't even face you. I stood you up, you know it, and all because I'm too stupid to learn that Marshall Jacobs it a selfish, two-timing jerk."

"Sherlock thinks you know it," I commented in my regular speaking voice, "but for some reason you don't want to accept it. Only you can answer why that is." There was silence. Samantha wiped her cheek again. I continued, "I'm not afraid to admit it: I was kind of hoping that we would have fun at the show tonight, and if so maybe we could go out some time. But if you're still focused on Marshall Jacobs..."




The Spirit Girl



"Not anymore," came a muffled retort. She raised her head to speak more clearly. " I guess it wasn't enough that he's been two-timing me all along and treats me like a whore. But now he stood me up, made me miss a concert I  really wanted to see, and I ruined the night for two of my closest friends because of it... no more. This time he's gone too far."

"You're hurt right now; neither you nor I know how you'll feel tomorrow. But," I checked my watch, "as for missing the concert... the opening acts are done by now, but the headliners probably just got started. We could still head over and catch the second half of the set. That's when they'll play all the big hits anyway."

She checked her watch too. "Maybe... but it's not worth 60 dollars a ticket to see maybe an hour of the show," she protested. 

I patted my pocket. "I already have tickets, and they weren't sixty bucks. May as well use them. But if you want to go, we should go NOW; time's a-wasting." 

Samantha was still hesitant, but Jenna helped out. "C'mon, if we've got the tickets anyway let's go! It's better than sitting here feeling sorry for ourselves," she encouraged. 

"I'm not dressed... I'm not wearing makeup..." she fretted. 

"It doesn't matter, because you're going to be in a luxury box where no one else can see you anyway. Do you want to see the show or not?"

"OK..." she replied, sounding more positive. She hesitantly rose from her seat, slightly wobbly. 

I wondered just how much they had been drinking. "Perhaps I'd better drive," I commented.

"That would be an excellent idea," Jenna agreed with a hint of a slur.

I led the girls to my car, accompanied by intermittent giggling. I was a bit surprised that they both elected to sit in the back seat, but as I was driving I noticed in the rearview mirror that both were busy "improving" their makeup (no makeup doesn't really mean NO makeup to Samantha). We go to the show in great time, and my reserved parking space across the street meant we didn't have to park a half-mile away. We entered the arena and I let the way to the elevator. I put my key in the lock that usually prevented it from stopping at the box level, then led the way to the owner's box.

"Wow," Samantha commented as we walked in, "this box is even nicer than the others. I don't think I've ever been in this one." I wondered for a moment how she'd been in any of them, but remembered that the Spirit Team was often called upon to make peppy visitations to the big-spending customers. Just to build up excitement for the game, of course, the fact that they were scantily clad, sexy young women had nothing to do with it. Yeah, right.

Jenna agreed. "Do you know who owns this box?" 

"This is the owner's box," I said mildly.

"The OWNER'S box? Are you sure this is a good idea? Maybe we should use another one."

"I don't have permission to use the other ones," I commented.

"But you have permission to use THIS one?" 

I shrugged. "I got the OK from the team President, and this is his box, so this is the one I have permission to use. Go ahead and watch; I'll be right back." There wasn't anyone working the luxury suite floor of course, but the bar was always stocked. Years ago one of my cousins showed me where the key was; I unlocked one of the cabinets and filled bucket with beers from the cooler. I marked down what I had taken so grandpa's account could be charged when next someone was working and hurried back. 

Samantha and Jenna were already into it. They had moved aside the stools that usually sit by the countertop that rests against the plate glass window, and were now dancing and waving their hands in the air to the beat. They let out a raucous, "girls partying" whoop when the saw my bucket of beer. We all cracked one and enjoyed the show.

It was the greatest show of my life. Not the concert, mind you; I couldn't give a rat's ass about that. No, I'm talking about the show I got INSIDE the suite. These girls were professional dancers and knew how to move it, move it. Beer in hand, I raised my arms too and shook my thang, artlessly but with enthusiasm. Both girls turned to me, and we danced in a little circle, sipping beer. Then Samantha did the thing where she turned her backside to me and buffed my crotch with her butt. "Yeah baby," I encouraged like a frat boy; my pants were suddenly not quite so comfortable. Jenna, not to be outdone, bent over and did that thing where you punch one butt cheek and then the other in rapid succession, producing a sexy butt wiggle that drives the brothers inSANE. "Ooo, give me some of that," I touching her proffered butt. 

"Oh yeah?" It was one-upsmanship now, and I was the beneficiary. Samantha reached behind her and tied a knot in her T-shirt; it fit snug before, but now there were three inches of bare midriff exposed for me to see. Then she started moving it, sliding her torso left and right relative to her hips like a belly dancer. As you might imagine, her amazing abs were prominently involved in this activity. I have no idea how she could bend that way without removing her spine. My dancing slowed as my eyes were mesmerized by the sight. 

"Show off," Jenna teased. She did the same thing to her shirt, then put one leg between mine, bent her knees, and danced, rubbing her crotch against my thigh repeatedly. My lazy erection upgraded to a full throbbing hard-on. 

"Hey, no fair touching" Samantha pretended to protest. She responded by rubbing her back and butt against my torso, arms out the way the way a table dancer does to let you look over her shoulder. Too bad she wasn't wearing a shirt I could easily look down the front of.

"Touching's cool," I murmured with a slight crack in my voice. My boner was painfully pinned inside my pants, but I was not about to make this stop. 

"Do you like this, Dave?" Samantha teased. 

"Oh yeah." 

"Then I bet you'll really like this," Jenna challenged, and moved towards Samantha. Next thing I knew, the two of them, still dancing, had their arms around each other and were kissing--with mouths open. 

Holy fuck!  These girls have done this before,  I thought. "Oh yeah..." I sighed. 

All at once Jenna bent over, giggling hysterically, ending the kiss. Samantha giggled too, but did a quick dancer's 360 spin. Then she turned her attention to me. "So, did you like it?" she asked in a husky voice. I just nodded... and then realized she wasn't really asking me. Instead, her hand was sliding along the front of my pants. She had no trouble finding my boner, and rubbed it appreciatively through my jeans. "Hmm... yeah, I guess you did." 

"I think I need a little adjusting," I croaked, grabbing my waistline and trying to shake myself free of the constricting fold that had captured it. It didn't do the trick... so Samantha did. She watched me struggle for a second, then like a flash her hands were in my pants. I felt her soft, warm hand gently grasp my penis. She ran her palm up and down its length twice, which accomplished the task. Only now that she was touching it, I was harder still. 

"Whoa, whoa, not here..." I scolded, pulling my waistline out and trying to break free of her hand. Much as I liked it, I couldn't afford for pictures to make it out on the Internet of the future owner of the Jammers with a girl's hand in his pants. It's hard to see into a darkened luxury box and no one should have been looking this way, but it was still a risk I couldn't afford to take. Thankfully she cooperated and pulled her hand free. 

"Did you just stick your hand down his pants and cop a feel?" Jenna accused playfully.

"Maybe," she teased. Was it getting hot in here, or was it me? Then she slowly raised her arms up around my neck. Her eyes were fixed on me, and they seemed to be interested. I felt her tugging me down gently. I put my hands on her waist, touching the smooth bared skin of her lower back. Then our lips met. Touched each other gently at first, but soon our mouths were open and tongues explored each other. Her athletic frame seemed to mold itself to my arms. Yeah she was drunk, but this didn't feel like the casual, ill-considered kiss of a drunk girl looking to party in whatever fashion presented itself. This felt like the kiss of someone who finally felt free to act on feelings she'd had for some time. 

"Hey you guys, get a fucking room," Jenna teased. 

Samantha paused for a second to say "I thought we already had one." Then she went back to kissing me. 

"Suit yourself. You're missing the concert." She had a point there. But our kiss lingered exquisitely for many more moments before she stopped and returned her attention to the concert. But while Jenna was dancing like she was in a club, Samantha went for the slow and sensual. She pressed her backside up against me, rubbing against me while she shuffled slowly back and forth. I put my arm around her waist; she squeezed my bicep between her shoulder and her head. 

We stayed that way for almost a full song. Then Samantha bent her neck back leisurely until her face was looking up at me. I went to kiss her again. Then she whispered "well?"

"Hmm?" I mumbled.

" I copped a feel," she whispered. 

Oh man, what an invitation, I let my hand slide up and under her shirt. I felt the satiny feel of the cups of her bra. I rubbed them appreciatively, feeling a lump where the nipple should be. She swayed gently, pressing against me, giving no indication I should stop. So I found the bottom of the cup and slipped my fingers under it. I had seen that her breasts weren't very big, although appropriate for her athletic build, but holy shit, her nipples... they felt like the size of fucking gumdrops. Humongous! I held them in my fingers, tweaked them gently... tried to imagine the wonder that I held in my hand but could not see. Samantha pressed her head into me gently, reciprocating my touch. Her eyes were closed as her body responded to my touch. It was a moment of pure bliss. But then the voice in my head reminded me that a picture of me with my hand up her shirt was no better than one of her hand in my pants, so regretfully I pulled my hand back out. "Save some of that for later," I whispered. 

"OK," she breathed. I grabbed her waist, spun her towards me again, and we kissed some more. 

I'd imagine that you're thinking we slept together that night. To be honest, I was kind of feeling pretty good about my chances myself—but that's not what happened. The concert let out, and since Jenna and Samantha had been gettin' their drink for some time on they weren't ready to go home. We headed over to the 5th Quarter. What we didn't know was that some radio station was sponsoring an event there, and the place was packed. We couldn't get close to our usual seats; we were squeezed along the back wall, by the video games. That turned out to be a good place to be when the announcement came that there would be head-to-head contests at the pop-a-shot machine, with the winner of every round getting a free shot. Samantha thought that sounded like fun.

There were two pop-a-shot machines, so they put girls on one machine and guys on the other. The line for guys was pretty long, for the girls not so much. Samantha and I got in our respective lines for a chance to play. Jenna came with me, because I designated driver and I promised that if I won any shots she could drink them for me. I beat the first guy I played plus two more before getting beat. Jenna and I then went over to see how Samantha was doing, only to find that she was holding court over on the girl's machine, wiping the floor with all comers. Challengers would come and score 15, 20 points in the 30 seconds; Samantha was averaging about 40. I watched her demolish one opponent after another. She shot the ball with a sweet, effortless stroke, smooth and natural. She was probably hitting better than 50%, and putting them up at a pretty good clip too. She almost never had to look away from the rim; she would feel for the balls in the bin, find one with her left hand, and in the blink of an eye the ball was transferred and arcing gracefully toward the hoop.  THAT girl has played basketball,  I thought.  She can shoot a sweet shot like that while totally drunk!  She wasn't even drinking most of her shots, which is good because at the rate she was winning them they probably would have been enough alcohol to kill her. She must have won 25 matches in a row, not losing until she was so drunk she could barely stand. 

When she finally lost, even Samantha recognized that she was well past having had enough and had better get home. I told them to wait while I went to get the car. They waited outside, laughing hysterically at everything that happened, funny or not. Of course by the time I got back there were like four guys surrounding them, chatting, hanging out in case something interesting happened because with drunk girls you never know. They moved aside as the girls helped themselves stagger into my car. Jenna crawled in the back, while Samantha slumped in the front. She was passed out cold by the time I got them home. 

With a tinge of disappointment I got out to fetch Samantha. I unbuckled her seat belt, and since she only weighed a buck-ten or so, I was able to pick her up and carry her. Jenna led the way to their apartment, unsteadily opening doors. I carried her inside and laid her softly on her bed. I sure would have loved to continue what we had started in the suite, but maybe it was better this way... I think she would have been all over me, and I'd have been afraid to trust her ability to consent to anything as drunk as she was.

Jenna gave me a big hug in the kitchen on the way out. "Thanks Dave," she slurred with sincerity, "you were a real life-saver tonight."

"No, thank YOU," I protested. "All of this only happened because you told me to come find you."

"Did you see Marshall Jacobs?" she asked.

"No... but I didn't spend a whole lot of time looking outside of suite, period," I admitted.

"I bet... you got a pretty good show for free there," Jenna accused.

"Certainly made the tickets worthwhile," I sighed with satisfaction. "You saw Jacobs?" 

"In the second row, like he'd promised Sam. Asshole is so smug, he wore his team jacket! It was a long way away, but there was a little black girl next to him that seemed to be pressed up against him and wiggling her butt."

"You think Sam saw?" 

"I don't know--she may not have wanted to look. But if it comes up, you bet your ass I'm going to tell her," she vowed.

My concern returned. "Sam had a LOT to drink tonight. You think she's gonna be all right?" 

"Yeah," she replied confidently, "I've seen her drunk lots of times, although this is right up there with the best of them. If she throws up, she won't pass out, and if she passes out, she won't throw up. But she's gonna have a monster headache tomorrow." 

"As well might you. You should get to bed yourself." 

"Agreed," she nodded, then showed me out, locking the door behind me as I left.

---------

I got a text at work about 10:30 the next morning.  Ow. My head is exploding. AND I slept through Stats. 

 Do you remember anything from last night?  I replied. It would be shame, after making such inroads, if they had been wiped away by an alcoholic haze.

Samantha:  Yes. I remember the concert. Then I remember going to the bar. Everything after that is kind of hazy. 

Me:  You kept winning free shots playing pop-a-shot, then passed out in the car. 

Samantha:  Jen said you carried me upstairs. Thank you.  Then a follow-up:  Sorry to be such a pest, but any chance you can help me with stats tonight? 

Me:  Sure. Do you want to go to the coffee shop again? 

Samantha:  You know where I live now, so we don't have to go to neutral places anymore. You could come here, although Jen is a bit distracting when she's around. 

Me:  Want to come to my place? 

And that's how it began. I picked her up and brought her to my house. For an hour and a half we did what were supposed to, with me trying to explain the next chapter in the book. She got it, but her grasp on it was shaky. Then we started talking about other things. "I was a little disappointed when I woke up alone this morning," she noted demurely, "and yet feeling that way scares me. I never used to be the kind of girl to sleep with a man on a first date. Apparently, since Marshall, I am."

I put my arm around her and gave her a kiss. "Well, if we count yesterday plus all of the times we've studied stats, we'd be on six or seven, right? Would that make you feel better?" 

She touched her forehead to mine gently and nuzzled it. "You don't have to manufacture any accounting irregularities to lower my guilt—I want to. I guess I'm just saying... please go slowly with me. It would make me feel a lot better to make love to someone that made me feel like he cared about more than just my body." 

I had no problem with that. For months I'd be dreaming of this moment; I wanted to savor every new touch, sight, and smell. We started kissing, and soon we were lying on the couch. The more we kissed, the more our hands travelled. Somewhere along the way she tossed aside her top. My hands lovingly explored every inch of her body... that flat belly, her navel, her breasts, those huge, tender nipples. I bent slightly to cup a breast in my hand and suckled on the nipple. It had the most amazing texture when held gently between the teeth! She closed her eyes with pleasure as I sucked on it. Somehow she managed to open my pants without interrupting me, so now I felt her stroking my cock in her hand while I sucked on her tit. 

Next thing I knew, she was pleasuring me orally. Well, pleasuring was really an understatement, because when she sucked it, she made my dick sing with delight. I don't know what her secret was, but I'd have walked a thousand miles of broken glass barefoot for a blowjob like that. Maybe it was the active tongue, or the soft lips, or the way she relentlessly took it into her throat time and time again. I couldn't help but watch with wonder at how she could make me feel SO good so easily. And it wasn't that she was so practiced at it that she could do it in her sleep, like a pornstar. No, all I figure is that she seemed to really like to do it. My penis' natural reactions gave her very direct and immediate feedback, and she seemed to enjoy the feeling of empowerment she got from being able to bring about such strong reactions out of it. And she seemed to... appreciate the penis. Yeah, you have to stroke it fast to get it off, but it's still a sensitive things and it likes to be touched gently, too. Maybe that was her secret; she seemed equally adept at gentle touches and teasing as with using her mouth and throat to fuck the dick like a surrogate pussy. I remembered hearing Marshall call her a freak; perhaps I now understood why. Samantha could suck the chrome off a bumper... only it was MY dick she was sucking now! Fuck you, Marshall Jacobs!

Her oral skills were so amazing, in like five minutes I was having to hold back so I didn't nut in her mouth. And once she started sucking me, there was only so slow I could go. Fortunately, her motor seemed to be picking up speed as well. Still, I had real mixed feelings when I peeled her off my happy dick. She squeaked with surprise when I picked her up again and took her to the bedroom. I laid her gently on the bed, kissing her. We both removed all remaining pieces of clothing while kissing. Then I laid down between her legs and returned the favor. She bent and lifted her knees, and I eagerly licked her sex. She was shaved except for a neat little thatch just above her slit--I realized she would have to be to wear some of those skimpy Jammer Spirit costumes. She was glistening with excitement before I even started running my eager tongue up and down the delicate folds. She played with my hair while I ate her snatch. Her clitoris rose and became more prominent, to which I responded by dedicating more and more of my oral stimulation to it. I could hear from her breath that she was receiving great pleasure from my efforts, which encouraged me further. I peeked between her thighs from time to time; her eyes were closed and her back arched while her face wore an expression of enjoyment. It was a look that I just knew already that I would never, ever tire of seeing.




The Spirit Girl



I fully intended to lick up her juices until I felt the bed shaking, but she had other ideas. She wanted to feel me inside her belly. She pressed her thighs together and guided me up with her hands. I wore a beard of love juice, but she nary even flinched as she kissed me. Then she bent low and took my penis into her sweet mouth again. It was thoroughly unnecessary as I remained hard as a railroad spike, but her saliva wetted--and whetted--me anew. Once again I really had to concentrate to not prematurely ejaculate in her warm, unbelievably wonderful mouth. 

It didn't take long for her to be satisfied with my readiness for the main event. She lay back on the bed again, effortlessly splitting her legs wide apart with her strong dancer's thighs. There could not possibly have been a more inviting sight. Her sex glistening with desire, her thighs open like a wide valley... shaking with excitement I pressed my penis against the partly exposed opening and drove myself home. 

Oh my god! Her pussy was even more of a silk heaven than her mouth! I slipped in easily because of its wetness, but I felt a constant, gentle squeeze from the soft flesh. I pressed my pubic bone against hers, pushing my penis as far into her belly as possible, wishing I had more length just so that I could feel even more of the wondrous sensation of her pussy. And she was so beautiful as she lay there, receiving me, opening up her most private of treasures for my enjoyment. 

Our eyes met--and I noticed a vulnerability in them. She was looking up at me as I penetrated her most private sanctum, and I sensed she had some mixed emotions. Probably something to do with Marshall Jacobs... then I remembered her asking me to go slow. Without hesitation, I bent down over her, and kissed her deeply while thrusting slowly and easily. Our mouths opened, our tongues met; I felt her put her arms around me and run her nails down my back. That seemed to ease whatever concern was worrying her. Her hesitation was gradually replaced by wanton lust, her fears driven away by the pleasure she felt from our sexual union. She released her tight grip, putting her arms around me loosely. The look in her eyes now--the only way I can describe it is part love, part lust, but best of all, entirely directed towards me. I began to thrust with renewed intensity, drinking in the heady sensation that came with each new penetration. 

There are cars, and then there are Ferraris; I would likewise say there is sex, and then there is Samantha. Her body was almost surreal, both as an object of beauty to behold and as an provider of pleasurable sensations. But she didn't just lay there and take it; she was constantly active, involved, actively working to increase both her own and her partner's pleasure. And she whispered sexy encouragements like "oh baby, that feels so good... oh god... please give me more...oh..." These energized me, such that I expended more and more lovemaking effort without feeling fatigue. We were in full-fledged fuck mode, and it was mind-blowingly awesome. 

Then all at once, the open and inviting arms and legs all closed around me like a Venus flytrap. She locked her legs around my waist, and lifted herself entirely off the bed clinging to my torso. I couldn't see her face because she was holding me to tight and her head was on my shoulder, but I could feel her body shudder in orgasm. Attached to me and lifted from the bed, she shook like a leaf, held tight to the tree by the stem that was my penis. It was incredible. Time slowed and the world melted away; all that was real was her orgasm, shaking and taking me with it.

I felt a strong sense of protective tenderness towards her after the orgasm passed and she lowered herself back onto the bed. I bent down and kissed her passionately. I would have kept on kissing, but she wanted to finish what we had started. Next thing I knew I was on the bottom, and she was thrusting up and down on my penis with her strong legs. The unobstructed view of the naked symphony of her muscles working in harmony as she moved was a wonder to watch. I touched her smooth legs, her belly, her breasts as they sped by; I was getting massively stimulated without having to move a muscle. A fleeting thought passed, wondering if this too was something that Marshall Jacobs would have liked--receiving all of the pleasure without having to do any of the work. But once again, I reminded myself that that didn't matter, because it was my knob she was impaling herself on. Wow. Just how much DID this girl work out, not only to have a body like that but the stamina...

Again I felt myself coming close the brink of climax, and this time I knew I wouldn't be able to hold it back any longer. Because I preferred to finish on top, I rolled her back over. She spread her legs wide again, and I made love to her with intense single-mindedness of purpose. Her eyes met mine again, not only encouraging me but in a strange way almost challenging me to fuck her harder. I did my best to meet that challenge. I fucked her like a madman until I could delay nirvana no longer, the pleasures of her body were just too overpowering. I pushed as far as could reach and exploded into the depths of her belly with an ecstasy the likes of which I could not recall. For what seemed like a very long time I had dreamed of making love to the sexy dancer. Actually doing it was SO much better than I had ever dreamed.

---------

For the remainder of the month, Sam (as she now wanted me to refer to her) and I got used to be being a new boyfriend and girlfriend. We knew each other somewhat from going out and stats tutoring, but being a couple is different. Game nights and weekends we still spent at the 5th Quarter hanging with the girls from the team, but now Sam was constantly at my side. I usually had my arm around her protectively, by which I mean protecting her from being looked at too closely by the admiring eyes of every other guy in the joint. The players would usually come out too Marshall seemed to be a bit slow to catch on that things had changed. For the next three or four games he kept sending Sam his booty calls, even though she was no longer responding to any of his communications. When she didn't respond he'd come to the bar. When she was him, Sam would press even closer to me, and made a point to give me long, sloppy kisses in plain sight of him. Marshall just pretended that he didn't even see her, but really he was watching everything that was going on. 

Finally, one day Marshall cornered Sam as she was making her way back towards me from the bathroom. Fortunately girls never go alone, and Jenna was with her to back her up. I didn't learn about it until later; all I knew was Sam suddenly came back from the bathroom looking shaken and wanting to leave immediately. I took her home, and as we lay in bed later that night she told me that he'd confronted her. She recounted what he said: "Hey baby, how you been? I been lookin' for ya. I see you got a new boy; hey, that's great. But just cuz you got someone else, that don't mean you and I gots to stop meetin', you know what I mean? I'm cool with you seein' someone else too." Then she continued "so I said no, Marshall, I don't fuck around like you do. I'm a one-man woman, I'm dating someone else, and you and I are THROUGH. So from now on, LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE." I kissed her; I was so happy to hear that she'd told him off and explicitly chosen me over him. In retrospect, I suppose we could have predicted that Marshall Jacobs wouldn't take being told off in public very well. Even so, I wouldn't have thought that the dickhead would stoop so low as to turn Samantha in. 

That Friday night Sam and I had gone out with some of the Spirit girls that didn't usually go out after games their significant others, a couples kind of thing (Jenna didn't go, because her boyfriend was in Texas). Afterwards we were at her place; we had been alternating whose bed we would share, and that night was her turn. Since there was a Saturday game the next day, I was hanging out in the girls' apartment all day, watching games on TV and helping her with stats until it was time to go. That's the only reason I was around when the call came. 

The Jammer Spirit team leader, Susie, called and told Samantha she needed to meet with her a half-hour before the time the girls were supposed to report. Sam sensed right away that it sounded like she was in trouble. If so, we could only think of one reason why. I tried to be supportive, but I feared she was right. I drove her to the arena and showed her exactly where my office was; I told her I'd be waiting for her, and she should come by after her meeting one way or another. 

She was back not 20 minutes later. I had my back turned at first because I was using the computer, then spun my chair around. The tearful look in her eyes told me all I needed to know. "Like I thought... I've been kicked off the team." 

I frowned sympathetically. "I'm so sorry Sam."

She walked in to my office, dropping her clothes bag on the floor and sitting in one of the two cheap chairs set out on the visitor's side of my basic battleship-gray desk. "It's my own fault. The contract is very clear that fraternizing with the players is forbidden and grounds for termination. It's also a joke, because girls and players hook up all the time. Susie knows it, the club know is, and as long as no one complains everyone looks the other way. Susie wouldn't tell me who said what, but none of the girls on the squad would ever turn me in. There's only one person that had a reason to do that."

"Marshall Jacobs," I finished for her. She just nodded, then hid her face in her hands. I stood up, walked around the desk, crouched next to her chair and put my arms around her to hold her as she sobbed. "I'm sorry, honey. You know, the Spirit is an independent organization, but that rule is there because the organization requires it." And then, I was so focused on trying to comfort her that before I caught myself, I blurted out "I could maybe talk to my dad and see if we can do something about it. Hell, you're not even seeing him anymore..." 

It only took her a minute or two to regain composure. "There's no point. There's only three games left in the season anyway. It's just done. My days as a Spirit girl are over." She wiped her eyes and sighed bravely. "What would your dad have to do with anything, anyway?" 

What happened next seemed to me to be taking place in slow-motion, Matrix-like. I could see her eyes scanning my simple bare office. I was leaning on my desk right next to the one "nice" thing in my office, so naturally her eyes were drawn to it. It was a heavy oak name plate with brass engraved lettering. Dad said I'd keep that thing forever, so we may as well buy me a good one right off the bat. It seemed like I could see her eyes take in each individual letter. There was a micro-pause as it registered, and then her eyes grew big as saucers. "Davis Rutherford III????" I made kind of a guilty face. "DavIS? I just assumed that Dave was short for David. I knew your name was Rutherford, but I just figured that was a coincidence. But if you're Davis Rutherford... THE THIRD... "

"My grandfather is Davis Rutherford Sr. Owner of the Jammers. My dad is club president," I said quietly, almost whispering.

She turned her doe-eyes towards me, mouth hanging open incredulously. "If you're... what are you doing down here?"

"I really am just an intern, like I've always said. My grandfather wants me to work my way through the organization, learning how the business works before eventually I take it over..."

"Take it over?" She was having trouble swallowing all this new information. 

" Yes. I'm the eldest son of the eldest son, so I'm the heir to the team." I said softly. 

"But... but..." she stammered.

"I know what you're thinking. Yes, I have a crappy office, I drive a crappy car, and I go to State for the cheap in-state tuition. Probably not what you'd expect from the team owner's grandson—but there's a good reason for that. Since someday I'll inherit the most valuable piece of the family fortune, I don't have a trust fund or anything, like all my cousins do. "

"YOU'RE going to own the TEAM? Oh my god... Dave... I LOVE the Jammers... why didn't you TELL me?" She didn't know what to think.

I answered solemnly. "When I was younger, I had some trouble... differentiating who my true friends were from the hangers-on. So when I went away to college, I started introducing myself to everyone as just 'Dave.' If people asked me I wouldn't lie, but I liked it better if most people just didn't know."

"So..." she thought out loud "if people like you without knowing who you are... you feel you can trust them... but if they know who you are... you can't? Dave, I swear to you, I had NO idea that your family owned the team..."

"I believe you," I said gently. 

"Do you?" her eyes search me anxiously. 

I returned her gaze. Her reaction just now... I just had to believe that was real. "Yes," I responded resolutely, "I do." Then I kissed her. "Come on... let's go upstairs and watch the game. One of the perks of dating the owner's grandson--you get to see games from the owner's box."

She let me take her hand and start walking. "The owner's box... of course. How stupid could I be? You have the same name as the owner... and then for that concert you got us into the owner's box... and yet it never dawned on me that it might mean something?"

"Don't be so hard on yourself... Jenna knew all those things too, and it never dawned on her, either. You'd be SURPRISED how many people just assume my name is David." She gave me a smile. I put my arm around her waist and we boarded the elevator. 

I took her up to the suite and introduced her to Grandpa, who was sitting in his usual chair by the window. "Hey grandpa," I announced as we came in, "I want you to meet someone." Sam was walking in behind me. "This is Samantha, my new girlfriend. Samantha, this is my grandfather."

"It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Rutherford. I've been a Jammers fan since I was a little girl." She held out her hand.

"Nice to meet you, young lady. Welcome to the best seats in the house." I sat between them at the counter as we settled in for the game. When the fresh cold beers came, I handed one to Sam and commented "here's one of the benefits of not having to work during games." 

She gave me a smile and took the beer. Then her phone buzzed; there was a text from Jenna:  Susie told us you were cut. Sry gf.  She responded  It OK. I'm watching the game with Dave... in the owner's box.  "That ought to pique her curiosity," she commented. It did. A half-hour later, the Spirit Team was doing its rounds, raising the eyebrows and pulses of the rich guys in the suites. Jenna broke away for a second to peek into the owner's box to see if indeed Sam was there. Sam caught a glimpse of her, and went running out to hug her bff. Grandpa turned around briefly. The two went out into the hall to chat quickly. That's when my grandfather blew my fucking mind.

"I thought she looked familiar..." he commented. "She was one of the Jammer Spirit girls, right?" I just nodded, not wanting this conversation to go very far. She was still wearing the team's warm-up suit over her uniform, so it wasn't too hard to guess that part. But then when he added "was she the one... in the middle row, right side? With the flat belly and cute smile?" my jaw dropped open. Grandpa chuckled. "What, you think I don't notice these things? The spirit is willing long after the flesh is too weak, Davey. And now that your grandma is gone, I don't even have to feel guilty about it! So then why isn't she performing with the team... oh, I get it. Let me guess: she the one that Marshall Jacobs kept chirping about sleeping with, and someone found out about it." 

I was beyond flabbergasted. He wasn't even in town most of the time--how the HELL did he know all that? Grandpa took a look at my face and burst out laughing more heartily than I'd ever heard in my life. "Oh... that look on your face is just precious... wish I had a camera. Just remember--when it's your turn to run this team, you had better have your finger on everything that goes on around here, too, or you'll never have a winning organization." I nodded, yet another lesson learned. Then my grandfather's demeanor changed to concern. "She's not still messing around with that Jacobs fella, is she?" 

"No," I said confidently. "I was there when she told him off. We think that that got him angry, and we think he's actually the one that turned her in and got her fired." 

He shook his head. "Ah, well... that Jacobs kid--he's got potential, but he need to grow up a little. That's pretty small-time, getting revenge on a girl because she got tired of being one of his brood mares. All the REAL players through the years have known to keep their skeletons firmly locked in the closet." And by players, he didn't mean basketball. Then he clucked approvingly "well, I do hope that you're right that she's through with Jacobs, because you've chosen well, Davey. She was my favorite dancer on the team this year--and wasn't she on the team last year too?" I nodded agreement. He remembered that? I hadn't even noticed her. "Yes, I thought so. She was my favorite last year, too. She's a memorable girl. But please do me a favor--don't go screwing around in the bathroom during the game like your cousin Ricky does?" Once again my jaw was firmly on the floor, to my grandfather's immense entertainment. I had a thought:  never, ever play poker against your grandfather! 

Sam came back. As she sat, she playfully punched me in the arm. "That's from Jenna," she kidded, "she said I should smack you for not telling her were the heir to the team!" Grandfather's gaze remained fixed on the floor like he wasn't paying attention, but I could hear him muffle a snicker and he elbowed me in the ribs. Something told me he approved of my under-the-radar approach.

Because Grandpa was in town, dad came down to the box. He took the nearest available seat, which was to Sam's left. I introduced her as my new girlfriend. He didn't seem to recognize her; as club president, he probably had a lot of other things on his mind. She answered the usual polite questions gracefully; where she was from, where she went to school, that sort of thing. Then the game started and everyone watched. The Jammer's back was against the wall; our slim playoff hopes were hanging by a thread, and we were playing the team we needed to catch. In the first quarter, Jacobs played well and was clicking with Jefferson, but there were too many defensive lapses leading to easy scores. Samantha burst out "we have GOT to defend the pick and roll better!" She was absolutely right, but it surprised me that she knew that. A short time later, Jacobs drove the ball into the lane, where his shot was easily blocked by the center. I heard her grumble "grr... there's a wide open shooter on the wing! PASS THE BALL." It's funny, as much time as we'd spent around basketball, I'd never had the chance to sit next to her during a game. I'd seen her shoot, but I hadn't appreciated just how into the game she really was. It certainly wasn't lost on my dad. 

"You seem to really know your basketball, young lady."

Sam shrugged. "My dad was a coach. I was all-conference in high school."

"What position?" Dad seemed interested.

"Point guard," she replied offhandedly, eyes still fixed on the game.

I turned my chair towards her. "So that's why you're so deadly on the pop-a-shot?" 

"Guess so," she answered offhandedly. Then she bent over to whisper to me. "Did you just assume that none of the Spirit girls really understood the game?" 

"No, my dear," I whispered back, "I've seen you shoot; I knew you had to have been a player. But I did assume that you didn't get to be as good of a dancer as you are without having been a cheerleader or something in high school, so I didn't know what to think."