The conversation happened fast; a girl he knew from English, vaguely because she had a boyfriend that was aggressive in patrolling around her, managed to fall into him, and he was the guy that got to break her fall; he and Carl were fairly big dudes, six footers themselves, and it was easy enough to provide the necessary balance to help keep it all from turning into a pileup; Jared didn't think offering a gallant forearm to help the girl up would offend the boyfriend, who, quite frankly, had other things on his mind anyway.

"No prob," in response to the apology.

The game didn't seem to be going so well; the offense wasn't hitting hard enough with the running game and the Panthers were free to deploy more secondaries to provide excellent pass coverage. The defensive line...well, one of those guys, name of Keitaro Tauati, was taking everything on and dominating the Bears' offensive line; Livingston got sacked twice because the linebackers were able to put on pressure, because Tauati was eating up the o-line's attention. It was bad news for the Bears, even if a dark part of Jared, the one that remembered Livingston's bro-gressive treatment toward Jared, enjoyed the sacks a bit.

It was halftime and they could hear the coach's voice from over here; some of the local newspaper reporters were no doubt noting the color of the man's face as it flushed red.

Carl was about to say, [i]"Hell yeah, get drunk? I'm in!"[/i] but Jared, because the two of them had been stuck in practice long enough, and even worked together at the Cane Corso, cut in, "Well, Carl and I gotta stay dry, but we'll be there." He said that with a sidelong glance at Carl. Part of his problem in the baseball team as a JV player was the fact that he was a good catcher but an undisciplined party case. But he'd never had a Jared, riding herd like that. 

"Yeah, we'll be there. Even if this crazy muthafucka won't even let a brotha have juice." But it was said with a grin and a gleam in his eye; Carl figured on good odds that him sober and them drunk, he'd score.

As the ladies made their exit, after making sure to invite the two of them, Carl glanced over, "Yeah, Trenton's rich as fuck, dude, you didn't know that? She's got that big old house to party in. I mean, I guess her folks just don't GIVE a fuck, cause that girl's parties are off the chain."

Play was starting, Bears possession, a punt return and then the start of a new drive at about the thirty two, a decent punt return. Jared nodded, "Yeah, and she's got a big old boyfriend that switches on the alpha douche mode in English. So let's go in and keep it cool, man...holy FACK!" he squawked in fluent Bostonese, "That didn't just happen, did it?"

"That" was Keitaro Tauati, tearing a hole in the O-line for two linebackers to practically skip through on their way to force Livingston to pass quickly, and that turned into an interception.

"Dayummmmmm. That muthafucka is relentless."

"Hope he doesn't skate."

"No worries, dawg, Panthers got a real pussy team on ice."

"That's what the other guys are saying about us."

---

The second half of the game was just uglier and uglier; the Panthers defense was this juggernaut, but with one big Samoan defensive tackle just dominating the game, Livingston and the guy they brought in to replace Holmes just weren't getting anywhere. They tried the run to no avail, and the pass coverage made the options all suck. And even if the Panthers had a mediocre offense, that defense was forcing the turnovers and grinding the Bears into an ignominious end of the season.

People breathed easy when it was finally over, that's how bad the game wound up being. The Panthers moved on and the Bears fans were left licking wounds. The coach was livid, but even the principal, Doctor Grant, was like, "Coach, there is no way you can possibly beat up these kids any harder than they've already been beaten. So drop it."

Carl's car, paid for from the work he did at the Cane Corso, was a beaten up old Toyota, but the key here was that it was a car. Still, there were nicer cars parked around Ricki's house, and they'd gotten there a lot sooner, so Jared and Carl had a bit of a walk up to the place. By the sound of it, the party was already on.

"Man, I shoulda played hockey a lot earlier, man, I don't know why I didn't do it earlier. You see all those hotties giving us the eyefuck at that game?" Much as Carl once feared hockey practice, he seemed to relish the sweat and the toil after the results came in; he and Jared were both running around with bigger shoulders, smaller waists, and a spring to the step. Dubois had them on diets, something Jared had never done before in his life, but the oatmeal, yogurt and lean meat was agreeing with him.

"Yeah, man, nothing like it for burning calories. But you wanna know what'll really seal the deal?"

"What?"

"Winning."

Carl rolled his eyes, "Man, you startin' to sound like Coach, Jared."

"Yeah, but am I wrong? Does this high school not love a winner and abhor a loser?" It was rhetoric, but centered around sex, something Carl cared about deeply.

"So what does that mean?"

"It means that the more shots you stop, the more parties at Pretty Ricki's we get to attend. And the more you, Carl Littlejohn, get laid. If you think they're eye-fucking you now, wait until we win. We only got invited here because they bumped into us, but if you want a next time, better make it happen."

"Tight, son. I'mma stop all the fuckin' shots, just you wait."

Jared grinned; whatever it took, get Carl psyched to win games.

"Remember, we aren't here to drink. Chase all the pussy you want, but stay dry."

That was said as he hit the doorbell. They could hear the music, some sort of hip-hop, going through the walls of the house, and the party was clearly underway -- they'd seen some people drinking in the stands and there was a definite appearance that things were getting out of hand quickly in there. The door swung open, but it was Maureen; "Hey, uh, Carl and errr, Jerry?" waving with a drink cup in hand, "Come on in!"