6 Sexy Three Can Play Stories Read online

  Looking up at the 12th floor, I can't stop thinking that how wonderful little surprises are. Today has certainly been one of the better of them.

  Trailing The Soft Studs

  The Super Fan

  Mary Henderson, 25 years old, has a near psychotic love of the Soft Studs.

  So every girl has to have a hobby, right? I mean what's so wrong about a young woman of 25 screaming and hollering (much like a bloke watching a truly filthy strip show might) at the sight of a bunch of hot athletic guys – sweaty, sexy, and playing with their ball – running about a great big pitch of Oregon green?

  Nothing in my mind, but some around me today have differing opinions.

  I'm standing on the front lines this time with my arms super wide and my green and white Soft Studs t-shirt clinging tight to my large chest as I heave in a big heavy breath and cry “Go, go, soft Studs, go, go!!!” at the top of my lungs.

  My arms wave about in long circular motions and I stomp my small feet hard enough to make the long wooden bleachers at the edge of the field rattle. I'm facing the crowd as I do this, so everyone from right in front of me to way-way up back can see me at it.

  The problem with that is that it's only me cheering. The game at my back is a clash of big strong bodies hammering into big strong bodies. Under the wide blue sky our men fight with brave vigor to overcome the twin agonies of an overly hot Oregon summer day – well into the 80s today – and the limited traction of a pitch that is still a little moist from the previous day's rain storm. Everyone watching from the bleachers that surround the green can tell that this is more a battle of 'slip and slide' than real football.

  I grit my bleached white teeth, suck in another long breath that tastes of the hot dogs and cheap beer that the crowd on our side are drowning themselves in and cry the same chant all over.

  None of the rabid supporters that I imagine are out there stand to share my praise of the mighty Soft Studs. Nope, they are on their ass with their hands under their thighs and their faces hanging low like little unhappy puppies after their master took their favorite soft toy away.

  On the opposite side of the pitch from where I'm standing, the great big Bluster's Beer digital scoreboard shows that it is past half time and that the score is 30 to 1. The 1 is the Soft Studs. The 30 is the soon to be winners of this round of football – the Gerico Michells.

  I stare at the score hatefully before spinning back to the crowd to stomp my right foot into the bleachers with such strength that the wood cracks. They are lazily wobbling about in their seats, drunk and fueled, in their deep depression, by cheap meat and white bread alone. It inspires a nasty rage in me and I turn it on them with a rough efficiency.

  “Come on, you pansies! What's got you in a bush? None of you got any balls, eh?” That's what I yell, word for word, as I beat my arms in the air in a wild fit of anger that would make my Irish mother, who isn't on the tamer side of ladylikeness either, very proud.

  Beside me an old man of graying hair and double chins dares to roll his eyes as he licks his soft cream in silence. I see him shake his head at the 'over-enthusiasm of youngsters today' out of the corner of my eye and give him the finger up close and personal.

  The old fart now dealt with I throw up my hands once more and try to lead the true fans among this heaving mass of weak minded morons into a long chorus of one of Z to A (a famous Soft Studs cheering tune composed by yours truly) before giving a long winding speech on why the Soft Studs will turn it around. Half way through one fatso in the back tries to shut me up, but I tell him to go find a screwdriver and drill himself before continuing onward unaffected.

  30 minutes passes in this fashion until, unfortunately, the big old game horn rattles out the final call and it is confirmed: The Soft Studs have lost again.

  I hang my head in shame like the others and stumble helpless and broken from the wooden bleachers to the car park to catch the bus back into the city.

  Another loss. That's 3 in a row now. When are the Soft Studs going to regain their mojo?

  If only I knew that I would be a central player in getting it back. I might have been a little more cheerful.

  The Player and The Fan

  Andy Jackson, 32 years old, Soft Studs offensive line captain.

  It's dead quiet tonight just like he expected.

  The large man in a black beany and blue and white workout sweats, closes the big heavy wooden door to McMullen's Bar, locking out the creeping grip of the 9 o'clock chill at the same time, and casually strolls across the deep mahogany finish of the floor – his worn trainers squeaking on the polish – up to the large black and brown wooden bar to slide up on a hard leather capped stool to put a single finger up.

  Behind the counter the aging bartender – gray flecked hair and lines on his face that indicate that his furrowed brow has been like that for some time over the years – glances up from where he is polishing the glass of a lightly sweating beer fridge and nods his head in acknowledgment.

  A cool beer is procured and placed down on a brand new McMullen's coaster in front of the large man.

  “Another loss tonight, eh, Andy?” Walter McMullen, the owner and manager of the bar, says with a hint of sadness touching his voice.

  “Yeah, not sure what happened this time.”

  The big sportsman picks up his beer, feels the pleasant chill of it in his palm for a time and then gulps down half before setting it down without adding any more. It's post match for him and he knows he shouldn't be out drinking, but tonight is special. It's the second anniversary of what happened and he needs a drink to calm the rage that wells up on nights like this.

  The aging bartender throws a crooked skinny elbow out on the spotless wooden counter top and presses a scarred palm into his unshaven jaw. He throws his tired gray-blue eyes over the small but active crowd gathered in his little place on West and Park and sighs in a long out press of air.

  “Reckon we are going to lose clientele if this keeps up,” the man starts like he always does on days when the resident team loses.

  He jerks his thumb at a group of university students in white and green who are moping around on one side of the bar near a bunch of pictures of Soft Studs players. “The regulars aren't happy,” he says.

  Walter twists his hand and lazily turns his thumb in the opposite direction of the small group to the other side of the brown polished wood decorated bar interior of his bar to where a bunch of equally young men in red are boisterously cheering the highlight reel playing on the six blaring TVs above the counter. “The competition are though.”

  The old man angrily snatches up a clean white cloth, sprays some stale smelling green gunk from a bottle onto the bar and sets to vigorously running it round in tight little circles on the already much too clean bar top.

  “I'm thinking about changing to karaoke,” he admits finally after a fair few circles of the cloth on the slick, clean surface. “You guys were a great draw card when you were winning, but maybe it's time to get with the times.” The old man flips the cloth into a nearby bin with a look of distaste and adds, “Everyone likes to sing, I hear. It's not dependent on someone's favorite team winning or losing.”

  The tall man doesn't show any signs of acknowledge the older man's comments. He quietly dumps down the rest of his beer in three long glugs and puts up his finger for another.

  Andy has been about these parts his whole life. When he was 18, he used to sneak in here after practice down at the local university grounds to watch the Stud games that the old man reruns day after day. He knows that Walter is actually one of their biggest fans and every time they lose, which has been more often of late admittedly, he goes on and on like this to anyone that might listen. In Andy's memory this is the 20th time that he's suggested changing to karaoke and not once has Walter even bothered to check a catalog or call in a rep to ask about pricing. The player gets the feeling that that is something that probably won't change for as long as the oldster continues to support the Studs.

&
nbsp; “I'm going to grab a table seat before it crowds out,” Andy says after picking up his beer and kicking his stool back into place.

  The aging bartender lazily waves a hand at him and goes back to watching the two groups of happy and unhappy revelers. He doesn't look to happy right now.

  Lumbering across the bar, Andy takes a seat near the small colored glass windows that line one wall. This is where he used to sit when she was around. They'd talk and chat and everything was good. Heck, life was good. How many days has it been since she...?

  CRASH! The large wooden door hammers back against the wall and a feminine voice shouting for someone to follow on behind echoes off the walls.

  Andy quietly turns his gaze from the window to the door. There's a short woman and a bunch of very tough looking hooligans standing there. They scan the bar from one side to the other with dark eyes loaded with malice. An aura of violence and pent up rage seems to sit on their shoulders like a lion about to leap forward and bite the head off any who dares get in their way. Of all of them, it's the woman that embodies this most. A spitfire and a lethal one by the curve of her knuckles which are aching white from the tightness of her fists.

  She makes a rude gesture at the group of young men celebrating then makes a bee line with the rest of her gang for the university guys in green and white. The big man's eyebrows raise when he sees how the fiery blond slaps the bigger men on the back with enough roughness to have them nearly falling over. Clearly she's the leader of the pack and a hard one at that.

  Quietly sipping his beer, Andy chooses to ignore the rabid fans and that crazy woman for a view out the window of the street and time to entertain his dark thoughts.

  A loud shout that rattles his table quickly brings them back to the woman. She's small and slim and has huge breasts for the trimness of her waist, but she boisterous for her size.

  The clonk of a glass being removed from a table behind him catches his attention. He glances back.

  “Who is she?”

  Walter is clearing some discarded drinks into a green shopping basket. “That's Mary Henderson,” he says without further explanation.

  “A fan?”

  The man snorts loudly.

  “A rabid bitch in heat I'd say. She goes to all the games. I've seen her out there; crazy doesn't half describe how that woman is.”

  He steps up beside Andy.

  “You mind my words and be careful around that one,” he says in a low voice. “Some says she's a psycho, but I'll let you know she's Irish and hell fire to any man that even makes a pass. I've seen her beat a man five times her size around the ears for saying something negative about the Studs too. She's given me my share of bruises getting her out.”

  Irish? It makes sense. She might not have the red hair, but every second word out of her mouth seems to be a curse word. Andy nods his head and goes back to the remainders of his beer.

  Unfortunately, each time he tries to turn his mind back to his personal situation, that mad woman bursts in with her voice or a slapping of her hand against the table or some other annoyance. It's very hard to get a thought in when every thought is punctuated by her voice shouting that damn Z to A cheer all the time. Andy has a hard enough time dealing with that during games without it following him into his favorite watering hole.

  After awhile the noise becomes too much for him. He briefly notes that the fans of the Gerico Michells aren't taking it well before heading to the bathroom. That woman is as nutty as Walter says she is. Andy hopes she's gone before he returns.

  A Sly Deal

  Roger Keen, 23 years old, quarterback and captain of the Soft Studs.

  The balled up fist that was thrown and knocked Andy Jackson, star offensive team captain and a very big guy by anyone's standards, was apparently coated in Detroit steel. A set of mean looking brass knuckles lent to the Mary Henderson by a bald headed hooligan covered in tattoos of Jesus and the saints going by the name of Joey Smooth (probably not his real name) were sitting right across the bridge of her petite four and landed with surprising accuracy right in the middle of Andy's forehead just as he exited the toilet at about 8:30pm at McMullen's, the young man's favorite bar.

  Of course, according to her account, they weren't aimed at him specifically, but they connected all the same in what would later be said was the smoothest one punch knockout anyone had ever seen.

  Obviously, there was no need for the 10 count in this situation. Andy was already well and truly out of the fight.

  10 seconds after the aforementioned punch all all hell broke loose in the form of a bar fight between a gang of hooligans, several university students, a bunch of rival team supporters and later the staff and police attending the scene.

  Men hit men and, reportedly, Ms. Mary Henderson, unmarried, 25 years of age, and clearly very Irish despite her lack of red hair, got the stout end of the bar manager's 'sorting stick' (a 30cm rubber baton) on her rump while the grisly oldster was trying to explain that, in her madness, she had knocked out the offensive team captain of the Soft Studs – a team that she apparently loves more than life itself – and was in big trouble because of it.

  Chock on sixty more minutes to that and Roger Keen, quarterback and captain of the Soft Studs, has her in the hallway of the team's apartments near their home stadium. Inwardly, he's thinking that she's the best thing that has happened to him and the team all month. Outwardly, he looks pretty pissed.

  “So you say you were aiming for one of the Gerico supporters?” he asks in his usual overly casual voice from his position next to her outside his offensive team captain's room.

  Mary's head is down. Her face is contorted into what looks like an ample amount of worry from where Roger is standing. That makes sense, of course: The team manager was pretty angry and even said he might ban her for what she did if Andy doesn't wake up soon. For a fan like her that would be near enough to divine punishment as one could get.

  “Yeah,” she admits quietly in that thick Irish accent that, in Roger's opinion, doesn't suit a tiny blond of her quite pretty appearance one bit. “I kinda missed and hit him square in the head.”

  Well, at least she's honest, Roger thinks to himself. That's going to make conning her into what he has planned a lot easier.

  A cool breeze wafts in through the door that leads to the fire escape a short distance away. Out there is one of the best views of the field one can find and tonight the lights are on as the cleaning crews do their things. If Roger was standing there like he was before, enjoying the night's view and the cool crisp air on his aching body, then he is sure that the view would calm him in this moment. With what he has on his mind, he's going to need it in the next half hour.

  The quarterback smiles understandingly and shakes his head.

  “I wouldn't worry too much about it. It's been a few months since Andy got knocked out like that and he is quick to get back on his feet.” Roger raises an eyebrow and scratches his nose. “You must have walloped him pretty good, you know. I've seen some of the other teams hit him with some dirty stuff and he's never went down that easy.”

  She blushes at his words.

  Roger carefully runs his eyes down her trim body. Those breasts are larger than they look and they are caged in a bra that is confining them to a point where they are bulging around the straps. Her stomach is smooth and slim and her hips small and tight. A glance over back tells him that the butt is just as well put together. This woman is just right for the job that he has planned. Hopefully, her temperament doesn't end with beating down men. She's going to need everything she's got to make this work for them all.

  He clears his throat and kicks off the wall.

  “I'll tell you, Mary, there's only one way that you can appease the manager and avoid being banned from all of our games for life,” he starts out slyly.

  The woman looks at him hard and perks up a little when she sees the honesty in his brown eyes.

  “Is there?” she asks without needing much more prompting.

&nb
sp; Roger nods and quietly assures himself that this is for the good of the team.

  “Yeah. There is.”

  Quarterback Roger Keens very carefully leans in and lifts a few locks of her blond hair to whisper for a good few minutes into her ear. The situation and the team's dirty little secrets are delivered. How he hopes she can change things raises some eyebrows, but that wasn't unexpected given his idea. In the end, she stares at him, licks her lips and, quite shockingly, smiles broadly with a mannish lust that is truly becoming of the woman that the police told him was bat shit crazy over the Soft Studs.

  Her voice is low and amused when she responds. “Damn, if you said I'd get to do all that then I would have knocked one of you guys out sooner.”

  Roger Keens shakes his head in quiet shock and smiles back.

  “I'm sure you'll knock them out nice and good with other things very soon.”

  A single look into her eyes confirms that this one really is a spit fire. It's exactly what they need to save the team and it dropped right into Roger Keen's lap.

  Despite himself he actually feels excited. This could change everything.

  Four Man Merry-Go-Round

  Back to Andy Jackson. Currently semi-conscious.

  What a horrible way to wake up.

  The three biggest assholes on the planet are standing around him in a small semi-circle looking a lot like someone went and stuck a carrot up each of their butts (which is something that Andy feels wholeheartedly they deserve). At the base of the bed is that crazy freak of a woman who knocked him out just as he was zipping up on the way out of the men's and beside her with his slim arms crossed and his usually overly casual expression of boredom on his face is Roger Keens, who also seems to have an odd look of satisfaction in his eyes that doesn't bode well for Andy considering what the man probably has planned (a mass beating to finish him off perhaps?)