Feels like I might start to fistfight
when I lose control
I sleep right all night
say I won't bite
but that never holds
-Dealership, "I Start To Explode"
***
Fulton
It's been a long time since I could hear Dean's snore without any guilt.
I'm usually the first one to wake up, though not this early. I lie in Dean's arms in his bed and listen to him snore away his troubles in his nearly lifeless state. Soon enough, sunrise will fill the room with gold and orange hues, and another grueling day of practice will come upon us. Being a cold night, we opted not to undress, but my hand found its way under his shirt, rubbing his chest. His only responses were those rhythmic and low snores that form the strangely soothing melody. It's been quite a while since I was this satisfied.
Yet, my consternation never subsides. Did Dean really mean that he'd do all of that for me, or was he just nodding his head in indifference? Will nothing come between us ever again? Permanence was never Dean's strong suit, so I had a good reason to worry.
As if that wasn't enough, there was another thing that was running through the back of my head (other than Dean's fingers). He didn't take that split-up last night with Amber too well. Maybe it was speculation, but I don't think he takes accusations too well. Then I remember back to when we were seniors in high school. There was this one incident where this water polo kid named Harvey Yost was beaten up by some football jocks of our year. From what I was later told, it looked as though it was all planned out. These guys wanted payback because they learned (or so they thought they learned) that Yost crashed his car into one of the jocks' brand-new Chevy Malibu, outside school grounds. What they did was that, that very night, the three jocks hid in his dorm room, wearing ski masks and wearing all black to blend themselves into the darkness. When the guy came in, the three attacked him violently, only to see that, upon turning on the light, it wasn't Yost! They taped his mouth and kept waiting. When their actual target came in, they outdid themselves with an even more violent attack. After they were done, the three left through the door like nothing. It was only through a miracle that, an hour later, Portman and I came in to see Yost about some project we had to do together. Surely enough, there they were: The two of them on the floor, bruised at the stomach and face, and bleeding. Portman called for help, and I stayed to assist their injuries. The two were rushed to the hospital, but we didn't come along.
It was there that Yost told Dean Buckley (remember him?) about the car accident, the beating, and the two hooded assailants. The first suspect was, of course, James Harwood, the star linebacker who owned the now-totaled car. The problem was that the dean always took sides with the football team, so when Harwood told (actually made up in front of) Buckley he heard some rumors that it was, oh, I don't know, us, Buckley quickly bought it and came slamming his fist on the door of our dorm the next morning, with no less than four security guards.
"Reed!? Portman!? Open the damn door!"
Groggily, I pry my eyes and yawn at the blast of his muffled voice. "What now?" I mumbled.
"Open the door! You're in serious trouble, mister, the both of you!" Buckley was never the one for colorful language.
"What? Is it about that damn mess on the cafeteria floor yesterday? I swear I didn't know Averman can laugh that hard."
After I finally stood up, while Portman was still snoring away, the door becomes unlocked, and the four officers swarm in the room as though water broke out of a dam. Like nothing, they grabbed my arms and handcuffed me. "Wait, what's going on?" Then, while Portman was still sleeping, another guard cuffed his hands. Realizing that he was cuffed, Portman wakes up by muttering, "Oh, Fult, aren't you the naughty one!" But then, as he opened his eyes, he saw that this was no porn flick. He was really being arrested, and they certainly weren't interested in giving "punishment" to Portman. "What the fuck!?" But it was too late. We were escorted (better yet, paraded) in our sleeping wear down the hall. Of course, all the Ducks were there, but they were just as confused as we were.
It was there, in the presence of the four gargantuan security guards, that Buckley told us about what Harwood said. At this, Portman immediately cried, "No fuckin' way!" and stood up in frustration, only to be pushed back to his seat by the admittedly stronger guards.
"I did not have anything to do with that, Dean!" Portman went. Somehow, I could foresee where more confusion would come.
"Then why did Harwood tell me otherwise, Dean?"
Without a concrete answer, Portman winged it by saying, "I don't know.-- What the fuck would I know!?"
"I don't know, Dean, and that's why I'm asking you!"
"I don't know, either, Dean!"
"And I don't believe you! I happen to know Harwood very closely, and he would never lie about such a serious matter!"
"And what if he was lying!? I'm not! I was with my friends the whole night, Dean, the whole night!"
"Who are these friends, so that we can bring them here?"
"Uh, they were all in Guy's room. We were with Guy that night. Fulton, Averman, Moreau, uh, Goldberg, and that was it, I swear!"
Then, as Buckley ordered one of the guards to find the other four Ducks, one of Harwood's friends, Garey Alton, came in the room with this nasty grin.
"Look at what we found in the Bash Brothers' room!" He plopped down a black ski mask on the Dean's table. Buckley's eyes were as big with shock as one could ever imagine them to be. Portman and I were confused at seeing the mask.
Then Buckley addressed us in this stern but calm manner as he held up the mask, "Is this yours?"
"No!" Portman answers sulkily, "I never had one of those things! Fulton?"
"He's right. It's neither his nor mine. Sorry to disappoint your finger pointing." I retorted back.
"Don't play around with me! You're looking at expulsion for your deeds!"
"What!?" Portman slams his fists on the desk and gets up in frustration. He brushes the sweat off his brow and goes to Buckley, "I can't be expelled! We came to Yost's room because we had this report to do, and we found the door open, and there they were, on the floor, all banged up! We found them like that, and we didn't do anything to them except I called for help and Fulton stayed to help them out! But please don't expel us! There are scouts out there wanting us, and this whole mess will kill us! I don't know about that ski mask or whatever the hell it means. I swear it's the honest-to-God truth!"
Our dean ran his hand through his hair in frustration along with my Dean.
I then ask, "Did Yost tell you who actually beat them up?"
"What does it matter to you? You want to know if he told us you did it, so that you can further your vengeance."
"No," I said as cool as I could, "why would I or Portman have something against Yost? All we have that binds us is this report that we're supposed to work on."
Seeing that Buckley had little else to work with, he asks, "Well, were there problems with this report?"
"No, everything was fine."
Suddenly, Buckley gave this puzzling look. "Yost told me about a car accident with Harwood. You know anything about that?"
Portman and I looked at each other with a look that was just as puzzling. He sits down and says, "No, we don't. This is the first."
Buckley just sighs at that.
Then I go, "Sir, if that is the case, about this car accident with Harwood, then wouldn't it make more sense that Harwood would've done something about it? He could've sued Yost or he could've beaten him up, give or take. And, sir, it's not our car that was totaled because I don't own a car and neither does Portman, much less own a totaled car, so we wouldn't have a gripe with Yost."
After hearing that, Buckley seemed to hit with reason. Still he asks, "Then what was that ski mask doing in your dorm?"
"What does the ski mask have to do with this?" I ask before Portman starts up again.
"Yost and his friend said the three men were wearing ski masks."
Then I look at the man who brought the ski mask in, Alton. Of course, it was planted there!
But why did they want to pin it on us, or how I would convince Buckley that it wasn't us, I didn't know. Fortunately, the Ducks finally came and told them their side of the story. Fortunately, Buckley trusted their word, so after a tense while we were finally out of the office. Once outside, I embraced Portman, who was quivering a little. The thought of getting expelled and having his future as a hockey player ruined was, and I bet still is, devastating to him.
(We did eventually figure out what happened. Harwood's dorm was checked, and the other two masks were found clumsily on the floor by the Dean. Long-story-short, Harwood, Alton, and another guy, Bryan Temple, were expelled. Last time I heard, Temple was in the semi-pros but had an alcohol problem, Alton was convicted of statutory rape, and Harwood was doing gay porno flicks, of which Dean and I just happened to stumble upon in our later years!)
It was how Portman handled that situation that made it so disturbingly memorable. It was so... un-Portman-like.
Portman
Uh-oh, it's 6 A.M. Time to wake up to the sunshine, but Fulton's snoring away with his hand under my shirt. I get out of bed and let Fulton sleep away his worries. I was going to make him some breakfast, as a little token of thanks to my best friend, boyfriend, and, maybe, maybe, maybe, future husband.
Damn, I wish I didn't have to say all those maybes.
I better hurry up. Today we have to go to the gym, and then it's time for hockey practice, so we have to eat right and start the day with sunshine on our faces. I do the whole bit: Bacon, eggs, some pancakes, O.J., and hash browns, just the way Portman does 'em and Fulton loves 'em!
It's only a matter of time that the smell of Canadian bacon floats to my bedroom and into Fulton's nose. As I prepare our dishes and clean up the table for the two of us (which just means to swipe my arm to push the crap on it onto the floor), Fulton comes in his cool but groggy mood. He cleans his eyes and takes off his bandana.
"You made breakfast? Kick-ass."
"C'mon, bro, the stars are waiting for us today!"
I go to clean my hands in the sink, when I realize that I still had my engagement ring on. I try to take it off, but it's too tight. I use some soap, but that doesn't work, either. Then Fulton comes to caress me, and sees my dilemma as he kisses me on my neck.
"Hey, bro, you need help with that?"
"It's all yours."
"No, you push it, and I pull it. We'll get more force that way."
And that's what we did. In no time flat, the ring came off. Then, I took the ring and threw it in the kitchen sink, letting it fall into the plumbing.
"Dude, I could've gotten a refund."
"Trust me, it's not worth the refund."
I kiss him on the lips, but then Fulton stops and says, "Morning breath."
To that, I give a joking "Fuck you!" and push him aside. Crap, the food's getting cold! "Bro, eat up!"
Fulton
Okay, at the gym, I finally made it back to 250 lbs on the bench press! Then, practice was as typical as any other, except this:
At the end of practice, Kemp held Portman, Bosco, and I over for a while to tell us that Pepsi refused to shell out a contract with Bosco. Bosco looked naturally upset and left our presence, suddenly slamming one of the lockers in anger, which was so un-Bosco-like.
"What's your problem!?" Polanski goes.
"Oh, sorry, Polanski, I didn't know it was your locker." Then, I could overhear Bosco talking in a low voice to Polanski about the deal.
After that, Polanski goes, "Well, don't blame me! My agent is Jerry Maguire!"
So now I'm in Portman's Porsche as he drives around the Twin Cities. At one point he pulls the car over this somewhat busy highway. He takes off my bandana, then unties it, and reties it to cover my eyes.
"Bro, I always dreamed of being executed in a Porsche. Where's my cigarette?"
"No, bro, I got a little surprise for you!"
"A surprise? Not like last time, I hope."
"No, it's better than dancing lobsters!"
"That's not saying much."
"You just wait and see, Fult. You'll love it!" So I follow along, and, in a while, the car stops again. Then, my door opens and Portman takes me out. He takes off the bandana to let me see what it is.
"Sanford Miniature Golf?" I go. Sanford Miniature Golf?
"Yeah! You said you wanted to be a golfer, so I thought I could, you know, 'expand your horizons.'"
I have mixed feelings about this, but Portman smiles along and says, "Do something that makes you feel like you're going somewhere. That's what I say."
I smile back at that, and take his offer.
And that's how we spend the night. Now, mind you, I have terrible aim when it came to hitting pucks with a wide-faced wooden stick and into huge goal nets or old trunks. You can only imagine me hitting golf balls, with clubs that have far smaller faces, into a far tinier hole. Add my uncanny strength, and you can safely bet that a few psycho golf balls will be flying.
And that's exactly what happened when we came to our first shot, a little pink castle. The first ball hit this 8-year-old boy, but seeing that we were the Bash Brothers, instead of threatening us with a lawsuit, he asks us to sign what was in his hand: The ball we just hit him with! The second ball managed to pierce through this big net as well as a windshield. Immediately, we coolly walk away from the scene.
Seeing my problem, Portman comes behind me, then wraps his arms over me and holds his hands with mine on the club. I can hear him saying, "Be the pond, bro, be calm like the pond." I close my eyes and let Portman do the dirty work. He moves the club only maybe an inch up, then softly swings it back to hit the ball. I open my eyes and see the spectacle. The ball magically rolls into the castle and close to the hole that was on the other side. Portman and I move to the hole and survey the ball and hole.
"Bro, I still need your help." I claim through my grin.
"No problemo." Dean goes into the same position as before, but this time, as he presses against me, I can feel he's getting a little hard.
"Bro," I whisper to him as I try to contain my smirk, "you picked a bad time for this."
"Just play along, bro. You're doing great!" He moves the club with me again and gently hits the ball into the hole. Instantly, he raises the club and screams, "Yes!" as he goes into a little dance. I look down and laugh a bit.
We play the rest of the night, and then, as we make it to the windmill, it dawned on him:
"What do you think?" He winks with a smile as he tilts his head towards the windmill.
Knowing what he wants, I say with that same smirk, "Dude, I think you're insane."
"And I think you need to get laid."
I look at him, and he gives the goofiest expression I have ever seen. There were people all around us, for goodness sake. "How the hell do you plan to pull this off?"
Dean then putts the ball into the windmill, but it doesn't come out the other side.
In his mock monotone, Dean says, "I lost my ball inside the windmill. Could you help me find it?"
I burst into laughter at that, and my face transforms into a blushing red. I nod in agreement, and I follow Dean inside.
I can't even start to explain how we did what we did inside that tiny windmill, but it was nothing short of fantastic. Add that to the exciting feeling that we could get caught with our pants down, it was the most orgasmic thing we have ever felt. We could barely maintain our moans to a minimum! It was like a dream come true, to make love with the man you love and will love for the rest of your life!