THE ONE WITH CARLA
—–
“Come on, Peter, get the lead out!” I shouted encouragingly to the lanky freshman who was laboring down the back straightway on lap three of eight in the 3, 000 meter JV race. Only the 4x400m relays (Varsity, Girls, and JV) were left after this race, and while we on varsity had already mathematically lost our meet, the JV still had a slim chance for the win… if Peter, or Timmy, who was ten yards behind Peter, could catch the fat kid from the other team just ahead of them. We had first and second in the bag already. A 1-2-3 sweep would tighten the score just enough that the relay would decide the match. If that fat kid held on for third, JV would lose before their pretty good relay team had their chance.
Peter was thin, weak, and lacked confidence. In other words, he was me as a freshman. Given that, Coach Parvis had secretly assigned him to me as my project back during Cross-Country season in the fall. Most days, I felt like it was a pretty hopeless assignment, but every now and then, Peter showed me some guts. Today needed to be of those times.
I’d have said more, but we are not allowed to run alongside racers and he had gone on too far to keep talking. Fortunately, Bridget was just past me on the track, waiting. The girls’ meet was also already decided, except they had won theirs. Bridget was still a little blown from her own 3, 000 meter race just before this one, but she knew the JV score, too. “Alright Peter,” she said warmly, “I know you can do this.” Jesus, Bridget, I thought. Kid has enough problems without you giving him a hard-on. “You don’t need to catch him yet, just get back close enough to make him think!” She called out as Peter lumbered past.
“Come on, Phelps,” I yelled at Timmy, as he ran along near me, now twenty yards behind Peter. “Peter needs you, get up there and push him.” There were two things I knew for certain in the universe: Apples do not fall upward, and Timmy was as close to Peter now as he would be for the rest of the race.
Peter did not know it, but the entire meet hinged on him somehow finishing third, ahead of the fat kid. He should have known it, but he didn’t. He had not yet learned to follow the overall score. I walked over to Bridget. We had a minute before the race came around to where we stood again.
“For the first time in his life,” I observed, “Peter has an entire team’s chances on his bony-ass little shoulders. Think he’ll come through?”
“Hell if I know,” shrugged Bridget, watching Peter come off the last turn, passing by three of his JV teammates and two varsity sprinters who were all cheering him on. “But he is getting that ultra cool experience of having a lot of teammates like you cheering him on intently like they never have before. Maybe he responds.”
I privately thought that the more powerful motivation for Peter could be the girls like Charity McLain the sophomore pole vaulter, and Bridget herself, rather than old geezers like me. Whatever it would take.
By the fifth lap, I started to believe he was going to catch his prey. His form was good, and he had closed most of the distance. As he approached me, he looked me in the eyes and I made sure I showed confidence in mine. “When you catch him,” I called out (not if, but when), “don’t pass right away. Make him listen to your footsteps for a hundred yards.”
Damned if, by the start of the bell lap, Peter had not caught the fat kid and was cruising along, breathing down his neck. His eyes met mine and I knew he hadn’t passed yet because I had told him not to. Once he passed me and then Bridget, with 170 meters to go, he went for the power move and started to pass while still on the turn. And he did it. Hitting the straightaway, Peter had a full five yard lead.
But the fat kid had a kick in him, and Peter didn’t. Our little freshman lost by ten feet, and with him, so did the whole JV team. He didn’t know, thank goodness.
All he knew was that a bunch of Seniors, guys and even girls like Bridget, swung by to tell him he ran a great race. It really was a great race, too. The best he had ever run in his life, and we all had noticed.
It just hadn’t been enough on that day.
We had a good team; smart and supportive. If we had had anything in the way of physical talent, we would have been a threat. I didn’t know how things would be the next year. The potential leaders among the current juniors were mostly a bunch of douche nozzles.
So I just slapped Peter on the shoulder and dragged him to his feet by the hand. “Get up, asshole. There’s no sitting in Track,” I said good-naturedly and led him off to the backstretch to watch the relays, none of which mattered to the meet score anymore.
*
My buddies Adam and Tres had come up to watch most of the meet, but had already bailed to hit the dining room after the boys’ varsity became mathematically out of it… the faithless punks. That left me to walk back to school with my track chicks, Bridget, Carla, and Beth.
Carla was walking along easily, loose and comfortable. She’s a high jumper. They never get sore or tired-just pissed or elated. Bridget and I both had run two races and were sore as hell. Beth had won the 100 meter, stank up the 200 meter after a bad start, and had given the girl’s relay team an insurmountable lead in the third leg of the 4×400. She was a little wobbly and characteristically disheveled.
We walked down the long, open hill from the isolated track down to main campus in companionable silence. Silence, at least, until they inevitably decided it was time to fuck with me.
Carla clapped my shoulder and drawled, “Hey! So when is our newly minted ladies’ man going to hook up with a girl here at school?”
“Piss off, Carla,” I growled, good-naturedly. It was still bizarre to find myself not being politely left out when the subject of dating came up among the four of us. “When did you last have a date?”
“Not since Christmas,” Carla replied defiantly, tossing her long blonde ponytail. “That is why I’m hoping to live vicariously through your shenanigans… now that you have shenanigans, Alistaire!”
“Give him a break,” Bridget said easily. “He can’t screw two hot chicks every week.”
“He should start with one, then,” Carla replied, grinning.
“Can’t argue with that,” Beth chirped, looking at me. “Ready to ask out Sherri Stroheim, Alistaire?”
I silently looked at Beth, the image of her naked body humping up and down on my cock, her pretty, delicate tits bouncing wildly until she came like thunder Monday night, leapt into my mind–unbidden, but most welcome. She looked back at me blandly. “I am not going out with Sherri,” I said sternly. “She’s just not…” I cut my thought off. Too late.