Honor Among Thieves, Part 2

HONOR AMONG THIEVES 
By Smokehut 

PART TWO 

At lunch the following day, all parties -- team, band, cheerleaders -- were 
together. After everyone ate, the cheerleaders stood on stage and performed 
several cheers, then they all danced as the band sang the fight song. The 
cheerleaders exited and the band conducted an additional 15-minute concert. 

Josh limped over to chat with Jessica, who met him in the wings. 

"How you feeling, champ?" she cooed. 

"Better," he replied, under his breath, conspiratorially. "I think the 
whirlpool did as much for my dick as it did for my back." 

Jessica started laughing uproariously. Heads turned. 

"Well, when are you going to be healthy enough to ..." 

"Practice football again? Maybe tomorrow." 

"Well, that wasn't what I had in mind," said Jessica. "Tell you what? You 
go out there and play your tight little ass off tomorrow, then meet me in 
the we hours -- what was it, about 3? -- and we'll get you even more 
refreshed." 

"I don't exactly feel refreshed right now," said Josh. "I'm running on 
empty." 

"Well, if you can just make it through the week, you'll have all the 
weekend to recover," she said, then trotted away with her pompons waving, 
not waiting for any further discussion. 

All afternoon, Josh split time between the training room and the sidelines. 
He was supposed to be paying attention as the coaching staff installed all 
the plays. He daydreamed incessantly, thinking only of Jessica, imagining 
the warm feel of her creamy cigarette smoke enshrouding his manhood and the 
delightful nibbling away ever so tantalizingly at his penis. He felt her 
taste on his tongue. He wanted to jack off and actually considered doing it 
while most of his body was submerged in the warm whirlpool waters. 

"OK, Tomlinson," the trainer barked. "Get out. Time for some ice. Twenty 
minutes, then back in the tub." 

It scared Josh for a moment. At first, it didn't occur to him that the 
trainer wasn't talking about his dick. 

Out on the practice field, standing behind the offensive huddle, Josh 
wanted a cigarette. He kept imagining the smell in the air. He could feign 
attention because, as a senior, he already knew the plays. There really 
wasn't much left for him to learn here. On the other hand, he wanted to 
study Jessica Riggs intensely. He wanted to learn about her. He wanted to 
major in her. He wanted a postgraduate degree in her. He wanted to plant 
it. 



Coach Hargett was at odds with his trainer, whom he kept pushing to get 
Josh ready. He tried to send Josh to the weight room but finally yielded to 
the unavoidable advice to the effect that it would be impossible for Josh 
to use his legs or arms without the likelihood of it aggravating the back 
strain. The back pain was subsiding a bit, but the bruised ribs were still 
painful. When Josh got out of the whirlpool, he didn't feel too badly, but 
it was only a matter of minutes before the soreness returned. Favoring the 
back caused him to walk differently, and now Josh's calves were tightening 
up. 

But Josh wanted back out there, not because it would make the team better 
or him better. Josh wanted to fuck Jessica Riggs' brains out. And 
vice-versa. Health for football was now completely secondary to health for 
sex. 

"Son, you think you can get back out there tomorrow?" asked Hargett. 

"Yeah, Coach, I'm there," Josh replied. "Can't make the club in the tub!" 

"You goddamn right," said Hargett. "Son, you gonna be all right. I like 
your attitude." 

"Whatever it takes, Coach," said Josh. "I gotta be ready to roll tomorrow." 

And rock, too, he thought. All night long. 



The next morning Josh was a maniac: up at six again, he alternated ice and 
whirlpool again, then took five Aleves on the way to breakfast. The normal 
dosage was supposedly two. 

The Faulkner Falcons practiced twice that day. Josh Tomlinson was the best 
player on the field. He never dropped a pass all day in scrimmage. Blocking 
out front on a toss sweep near the end of the day, he dropped Marcus 
Lindsay like a used rubber. Knocked him out cold and opened a wound on his 
chin that required eight stitches to close. 

"Why'd you nail his ass like that?" asked Tom Patterson, the tight end. 

"Fuck, d'you see what he did to me?" 

"Yeah, man, but Lindsay's good, man. We need him." 

"Fuck him," Josh replied. "I'm not through." 

"But you don't want to hurt him, man." 

"That's right, Tomboy. I want to fuckin' kill him." 

Patterson much have said something to the coaches. Hargett wanted to talk 
to Josh. The head coach couldn't muster much enthusiasm for telling Josh to 
turn it down a notch where Marcus Lindsay was concerned. In his presence, 
though, Josh said all the right things. He apologized for holding some 
bitterness toward someone who might conceivably help the team. He said he 
had only been kidding Patterson and this remarks had been taken the wrong 
way. He said he shouldn't have been so irreverent, and maybe he was just 
trying to be cool and macho talking with a teammate. 

"I don't want you to cut it off, son. I just want you do what's best for 
the team, and I know in my heart you'll do that," Hargett said. 

"Whatever it takes," Josh said. "Whatever it takes. I'm gon' do whatever it 
takes to help this team win." 

As he watched Josh trot up the the path through the woods, Harry Hargett 
loved Josh Tomlinson. 



Late to the locker room, Josh was all alone outside as he supped from a 
water fountain where two halls met. Maniacally thirsty, he didn't notice 
that Jessica Riggs had appeared beside him. 

"Kiss me," she said. 

Josh looked around for, like, a millisecond. Coast was clear. Their lips 
met. 

Jessica deposited a load of smoke into his lungs. 

Josh almost dropped to his knees. 

"See ya later," she said, laughing and disappearing as suddenly as she had 
arrived. 

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