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Archive name: soccer.txt (Mf, inc)
Authors name: Holly Rennick (jlrennick@yahoo.com)
Story title : Soccer Boundaries

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This work is copyrighted to the author (c) 2004.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story.  You may post freely to non-commercial
"free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites.
Thank you for your consideration.
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Soccer Boundaries
by Holly Rennick (jlrennick@yahoo.com)

***

Widen the field, and what happens to the scoring? (Mf, 
inc)

***

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Perusing the Internet, I noted a 
submission, "Soccer Mom". (OK, "football" to you non-
Americans, but you might not appreciate the phenomenon 
of Saturday kids' sports.

Dad: "Come on, son. Run, goddamnit, run!"

Mom: "I brought them orange slices for halftime. Plus 
some napkins."

Only later did it pop into my lagging wit how evocative 
was the title. But I didn't go in search of the 
original. Had I done so, wherever I might have marched 
would already be charted. And I think it rather rude 
("unprofessional", I'd rather say, but I don't get 
paid) to hijack a title. So how about "Soccer Dad" to 
expand the perspective? Not about the jerk who wants to 
boss his kid's weekends, but about one I'd like as an 
assistant if I knew how to be a coach.

But then I went with "Soccer Boundaries".

COACHING

As it was Barb's job, the girls called her "Coach". 
Carl was her assistant and the girls called him "Carl". 
Barb knew soccer, knew how to make the kids work their 
butts off and love it. Barb knew how to drop a corner 
kick five feet from the net. Carl wasn't especially 
athletic, but was happy to trot around, the encourager. 
"Nice pass, Heather. Watch the out-of-bounds, though."

On the field, Barb was "Coach" to Carl as well. "You 
bet, Coach," he'd confirm as he drilled his group on 
crossovers. "Not until you see the ball in the air!" 
said with certainty. He hoped the girls thought he'd 
known that himself. Barb, ponytail pushed out the back 
of her bill cap, gave him a thumbs-up.

Basically, Carl loved being out there with the kids, 
cheering them on, talking about tournaments as if they 
were so important. Win or loose, the girls were 
learning about working hard, thinking ahead, seeing 
themselves as winners. In three or four more years 
they'd be college-bound, probably none to compete 
intercollegiatally, but with what they'd learned at 14 
as tools toward the arts, engineering, medicine, 
wherever they aimed.

Schedule-wise, Carl made it fit. Two late-afternoon 
practices a week plus Saturdays plus Sundays when they 
did tournaments just meant balancing his projects.

His daughter Kathy and Barb's Andrea were best friends, 
but also happened to be the team's scoring machine. 
Kathy could pass and Andrea had the footwork of a 
coach's progeny. Long pass, fake, goal! But as much as 
coach and assistant wanted the points, they also 
ensured everybody's playing time. Sometimes a girl 
who'd never scored got her skills together and dribbled 
one right in.

Barb and Carl plus a clutch of eighth and ninth graders 
together made for good soccer.

Carl might have phrased it in light of helping the 
girls, or maybe even staying in shape himself, but the 
fact was that he truly enjoyed working with ("for," 
he'd concede with a grin) Barb. They knew each other 
well. Did they not know each other so well, he 
realized, they might come to know each other too well, 
the "so" vs. "too" distinction being significant.

The elements were obviously there for boundary 
crossings. Divorced female. Divorced male. Excitement 
of the game. A hug. Needing to talk. Forget a playing 
field's sidelines and the game ends up behind the 
bleachers.

The elements were there for boundary crossings except 
for two who didn't want to ruin their friendship. Barb 
knew all about crossing lines. Her divorce, she said, 
was because, treated casually, such lines fade. "Don't 
let that shit happen," as she bluntly put it, "without 
thinking way ahead."

Probably some folks thought that the two did have a 
thing going. What's to stop two adults? They don't go 
to church or anything. So what? But folks who presume 
it tend to be the same ones screwing up their own 
lives. Coach and Assistant Coach knew that boundaries 
have reasons.

But Barb also knew the frivolity of a boundary. A 
little raunchiness, never intense, never perpetuated, 
works well if both sides know the rules. Familiarity, 
sure, but in-bounds familiarity.

Carl, in turn, knew that their companionship worked 
because he was careful. For tournaments requiring 
overnight stay, for example, he'd have his own room and 
Barb would end up with however many of the team could 
pack into hers. Hotels never cared about their extra 
sleeping bags, as any number of girls causes less wear 
and tear than just two from a boys' team. But parents 
don't want their girls rooming with a male, even a 
trustworthy one.

Once after dinner (Sizzler, the girls had voted), Barb 
had brought her paperback to Carl's room to escape the 
hyper-teenage cluster. When she dozed off on the other 
bed, he'd fetched some of the team to wake her, not 
wanting to be in the position of being alone with her 
sleeping. Stupid? Uptight? Not one bit! That's why it 
worked.

Carl could have crowded against Barb in the huddle, but 
he'd scrunch the other way. They might crawl over each 
other a bit when cramming gear into her van, sure, and 
she'd not act violated. It wasn't that he didn't like 
the push of a breast across his arm. But deliberate 
brushing, he realized, could become a habit. For a male 
coach in a girls' league, that sort of thing is 
noticed.

Barb had even once said, "There's no reason mine need 
the damn thing, but a guy's eyes never stop wandering," 
going back to her van to slip on her sports bra under 
her Hawkeye sweatshirt. It had been his eyes, he knew, 
though he'd tried to avert them. She'd seemed even a 
little amused, as if, "What say I go topless, good 
buddy, because they're not much and then we'll work the 
girls on zone defence?" She had that sort of ease about 
her. We're sexual, sure, but not going to let it 
overwhelm camaraderie. We're a team that's out to have 
fun playing soccer.

Carl figured himself to be smart enough to avoid the 
obvious pitfalls. The sex he needed he got with his old 
right hand, he told himself. Not that often, but 
enough. Wendy, his ex, implied he was a wimp for not 
jumping up to fuck every time she felt a little bored. 
She knew how to get better sex elsewhere and to hell 
with him!

But Barb knew Carl maybe better than Wendy had. "You're 
not gay. Shit, you and Wendy made a baby. We could 
compare notes, maybe," making him blush. "You're plenty 
curious about my underwear, right? Ohmigod, did I 
forget mine?" feigning horror, laughing and adding, 
"You get burned; you back off. Makes sense to me. Hang 
in there, buddy."

The girls had given Coach the Iowa Hawkeye shirt, 
despite her protest that she was an Iowa Stater, a 
Cyclone. It was because she never missed seeing 
anything. Carl agreed.

Carl and Barb shared the tribulations of raising 
strong-willed girls, PTA, Bluebirds, science fairs, 
orchestra concerts with no two violins tuned quite the 
same. Soccer was the girls' passion now, but as 
parents, they'd probably be comparing notes on dating 
rules in a year or two.

"You know why things work between us?" Barb asked one 
day.

"Respect, an exaggerated sense of what's ridiculous, 
understanding of goalkeeping, lots of things, right?" 
Carl actually did think he understood about what a 
goalie should do -- charge against a one-on-one 
breakthrough, etc.

"Sure, but why do things stay solid?" she followed.

"Why?"

"Boundaries. We know ours."

Carl thought. "Yeah, I guess we do." He knew good and 
well to what she referred. He'd felt her breast when 
they were loading the van.

"We do," she laughed the laugh he loved. "But shit, you 
know what? You're so rulebook that you think mine is up 
here," drawing a line at her forehead. "But maybe it's 
here and you never figured it out," she flustered, not 
a Barb sort of thing to do, and moved the line to her 
neck.

"For some lucky guy, maybe."

"But just so you know, I know that you know that I'm a 
girl." She wrinkled her brow. "Too many 'knows', 
maybe?"

Barb picked up the ball bag, "So here's a question for 
a math-boy."

"Fire away."

"Say this field is 50 by 100 yards. So if the area 
remains the same and we move the touch lines to 60, 
what happens to the distance between the goal lines?" 
To Carl, they were the "sidelines" she was widening, 
but Barb knew the correct terminology.

"They get closer, but I'd need a calculator."

"Smart boy! And why'd there be more scoring?"

Carl envisioned X's and O's on a clipboard. "Because 
the defence gets spread, I'd think."

"Two out of two! So in addition to athletics, in what 
social activity is the objective also 'to score'." 
Barb's grin tipped off Carl that he was being set up.

He laughed when he caught the gist. "You're terrible, 
especially for a woman."

"It helps to widen the boundaries," Barb answered 
herself. "To score more, I mean. Now why's that 
terrible, us talking about soccer, Mr. Assistant?"

Carl could never josh around like that with another 
woman.

THE PILL

It was later in the season. "Carl?"

He knew from Barb's voice that something weighed on her 
mind. Had he gazed too closely at one of the girls? He 
supposed he did some times, but Barb wouldn't put him 
down for noticing, would she? She knew that he'd not go 
anywhere.

Shoot, when he and Barb joked about a player "growing 
up", it was usually in the context of physical 
attributes. "Better get that one a bigger jersey," for 
one filling out her figure. Or perhaps, "Better size 
than one down," for a yet flat-chested one with top 
loose enough to see soccer shoes from her neckline. 
Barb knew he noticed. She'd even share tidbits gleaned 
from Andrea, information to which coaches should be 
sensitive. Lana, a halfback, they knew had "gone too 
far" and was moody for weeks. "This isn't the time to 
rag a girl about teamwork. She's thinking a bit closer 
to home, for God's sakes. Scared she'll miss her 
period." Carl better know what makes a girl tick, or in 
this case, what might make Lana's ticking a bit more 
complex.

Barb continued about her concern. "Kathy's your 
daughter, not mine, and you're a good dad to her."

Carl looked at his friend. Did Barb read his thoughts 
about even his own kid? Not thoughts, even, just 
noticing. "It's nothing," he denied, thus admitting.

"It may be whatever," she countered, "but it's not 
nothing," busying herself gathering the practice 
jerseys, obviously not wanting to enumerate.

Barb waited till the two were walking to the parking 
lot. "We notice them all, both of us. You're not some 
sort of weirdo."

"I hope not," he agreed.

"She's not either."

Carl found this an odd twist. Kathy? But before he 
could sort it out, Barb continued, "Sometimes you find 
out something second-hand."

"Most everything I ever find out, actually," he agreed.

"Well, here's something that I think you better know... 
Kathy wants to get on the pill."

"The pill?"

"You know what I mean. She doesn't want to get knocked 
up."

"But she's just... How do you know?" realizing that the 
"just 14" wasn't an argument.

"Andrea told me."

"Andrea?"

"My kid's sexually active, Carl." Barb's voice was 
flat, almost masked. "We can't just ignore it, assume 
it makes them all grown up."

Carl put his hand on Barb's.

She looked down, "All you can warn is don't fuck 
somebody who doesn't respect you. Don't catch 
something. Don't get pregnant. The guys can get 
rubbers, but even still I told Andrea to get on the 
pill. Sooner or later he forgets or it comes off or 
some shit. If she's old enough, she better be old 
enough to take care of things."

"Jesus," was all Carl could muster.

"Probably half the team gets stuff from that health 
office. But if we marched in and raise hell, we'd just 
deny them getting medical advice."

"With who? Kathy, I mean... I guess I don't have to 
know, but she's my kid!"

"With nobody yet, but she's decided to."

Carl saw some light. "I'll talk her out of it. You can 
help, I mean."

"Carl, now listen. Every one of them is going to start 
some time or another. You don't talk these girls out of 
something they know is going to happen. It never works. 
It's about not rushing. You listen and try to hear."

"Hear what? That she wants to screw?" Carl was 
frustrated.

"But here's where it's harder to explain," not 
bothering to affirm his query. "I suppose you'll figure 
out why it's me saying this sooner or later, but that's 
not the point. She wants to have sex because that's 
what girls do. That much makes sense?"

"Sure."

"And she wants to have it with somebody who loves her. 
Is this weird?"

"No."

"OK, then." Barb swallowed and looked fully at Carl. 
"She said she's going to sleep with her dad if he'll do 
it."

Carl sat stunned. With him? Sure they loved each other. 
Sure he found her attractive; how could he not? Sure 
she'd probably idolized him at some time. But sexually? 
Him? His daughter? He felt pale. Where had he failed?

"It's not that weird, Carl, for a girl to want that. 
Shit, it's common as hell. Maybe usually nothing comes 
of it; some puke-face boyfriend bangs her and she 
halfway forgets. But sometimes, especially for a girl 
who goes for what she wants, it happens. She sleeps 
with dad a few times. That simple. Just a few times. 
They keep loving each other."

"But Barb, she's just a kid. You know I'd..."

"I don't know crap sometimes about anybody. And 
sometimes maybe you don't know squat about yourself."

"But even still..."

"So here's what I say. Take it for what it's worth."

Carl listened for the escape plan. Barb would know.

"The pill takes three or four weeks to get things 
stable. She's got that much time to think." Barb 
weighed her advice and frowned. "Like it's this big 
thoughtful thing! Shit! So you've got a little time, 
anyway. Pay attention to her. Getting ready is a tough 
time for a girl, not like you zipper brains." She 
smiled. "Be a real dad, OK?"

"OK." But that wasn't telling him where to go, he 
realized.

Barb continued, "It's her thing to figure out what she 
wants; it has to be. Maybe she says yes and you say no 
and you deal with that." She smiled. "You know how to 
say no. You're no zipper brain. No sirree."

Carl interrupted. "I've got to wait to say that?"

"We don't always know what we'll say."

"It won't happen."

"So don't spook her, then," Barb was emphatic. Letting 
that much sink in, she seemed to back up. "She'll want 
you to be the boss, the dad. Just don't. You'll hurt 
her down there because you don't know."

"Just don't. That's what I just said."

"No, stupid! Don't be the boss. Let her move the 
boundary at her own pace. She's not used to it, the 
physical part... Fucking is serious shit."

"You're telling me?"

"You know how much I trust you? Enough to tell you 
about having sex with your daughter, forgodsakes!"

Barb was saying that it would happen! Maybe in three or 
four weeks!

No it won't.

PONDERINGS

Driving home, Carl was torn between shock and 
confusion. Kathy? Sex? There was no pretending that 
Barb had inferred otherwise. Barb would have held back 
on thoughts not fairly nailed down. She wouldn't have 
flown off projecting teenage fantasies. She'd talked 
with Andrea and Kathy wouldn't lie to her best friend. 
Barb had spoken with knowledge that such things occur. 
Why shoot the messenger?

Fathers can't think this stuff about their kid, can 
they? It's not natural. Well, maybe it's biologically 
natural, but it's not supposed to happen. It's not 
right! Everybody knows that. It's plain wrong to have 
sex together. Sex is something...

Nothing would happen because Carl knew it wasn't right.

It's just so complicated. Sex is something...

Sure, Kathy might feel ready to become a woman (a 
shallow view of it, anyway, he recognized, but she's 
just 14), but why wouldn't it happen wrestling with 
some 16-year-old boy with a driver's license? He 
answered that one before he'd finished the question. 
The kid believes in herself, in a future. She'd look at 
the relationship. She probably already saw beyond what 
a 16-year-old could return. Sure, he knew, she'd sooner 
or later digress to a back-seat mentality, but maybe 
she wasn't out to hurry it.

So what would she see in him? Well, a dad she could 
trust. She'd probably picked up that she could flirt 
with him, could get his attention. She'd noticed his 
glance when she'd fly by in a towel. She knew he'd 
smile after planting her good morning kiss. Sure, he 
admitted, she saw someone who in turn saw her as a 
young woman.

Was he handsome to her? Surely not, as she saw too much 
of him. But then, how would handsome even fit into her 
equation? He was safe.

At dinner that night, she was exactly the same. No 
fluttery eyes or comments about being scared of the 
dark. Conversation revolved around the school chorus. 
She wanted out. Fair enough, he realized; she was 
making more of her own decisions.

But looking at Kathy eating peas and chatting about 
tryouts for Junior Rally next year, he saw things he'd 
never noticed before -- the vibrancy, the sweetest 
smile, the fuller face, the necklace. Shoot, he 
admitted, he saw somebody whom in his own school days 
he'd have wanted to know better.

When she took a second helping of fried onions, he saw 
the cup of her bra. He'd seen his daughter's bra 
probably that morning, but hadn't really seen it. It 
was nothing of consequence. Now it was very much 
pictured, a very pretty bra.

No, he told himself, it didn't give him an erotic 
feeling. Her breast was just pretty, was all. He was 
her dad, like Barb had said. He looked again; it looked 
rounder, fuller than it once did. If he brushed against 
her while clearing the table, it would be soft.

It was soft.

And this was just the first evening.

The four weeks rollercoastered, Kathy everyday giving 
more signals. He'd tried not to see, but there they 
were! Not that he'd not noticed Kathy's emergence 
before, but her sexuality was now so apparent. Not only 
her femininity, he realized, but her playful openness 
with it for him.

At least he had a friend to help him deal with it. Talk 
a little and it's easier to get perspective. If only 
Barb could tell him how to stop it, but Barb stood 
firm, "Let her think for herself. Butt into her world, 
tell her what not to think, spook her and you know the 
rest -- some pimple-face with a blister on his dick! 
Save your venting for me, buddy. I've got the time and, 
what matters, I care."

*** "She's kissing me different at breakfast. I can 
feel it. You know it's not going to happen, Barb. You 
know that!"

"Tongue? Hardly, right?" Barb answering herself as she 
was prone to do. "Maybe she's just getting bigger lips 
or something. Kids get bigger by the week sometimes. 
Kiss her back like a dad should. Brush your teeth 
first, though."

*** "She leaves her panties on the top of the laundry 
pile!" He didn't add about noticing which color she'd 
chosen when revealing above the back of her belt. Today 
they were her pale blue ones. She was reaching for the 
grapefruit juice when he saw.

"So just dump the laundry in the machine. If you know 
how to tell, though, her panties might tell where she 
is with her pills."

How would you tell, wondered Carl, but he didn't ask. 
He couldn't see anything different.

*** "She doesn't even tighten up her bra half the 
time."

Barb gave him her withering look. "So you say, 'Here 
girlie, let me fiddle around with your strap?' God no! 
Just don't get your nose stuck down there."

*** "Maybe I just don't know how to show her I love 
her. She wouldn't want the sex to prove it.""

"What I know is that you're the dad that Kathy needs."

*** Once when Kathy pretended to steal his cap after 
practice, he'd grabbed her, getting maybe goosed in 
return. It was surely just an accident, an elbow maybe. 
But that kid's so clever. He'd felt her breast with his 
forearm, accidentally slid over it and them back down, 
but he didn't tell Barb that part.

"You weren't hard or anything, right?" in Barb's 
unabashed mode, as if they'd talked about erections 
before. Of course not. "But afterwards?" she'd 
continued. Well, not especially, at first anyway. "It'd 
be normal as hell," she'd concluded, but then added, 
"Plus getting that way remembering about it," but not 
pursuing it.

*** When Carl had jogged around too much on the 
sidelines (the girls ran 20 times more without such 
wear), Kathy would rub his neck before dinner. She knew 
he liked it enough that sometimes she wouldn't make him 
even fib about having muscle cramps. Her fingers could 
relax tendons several layers in. Is this OK?

"Your neck?" Barb twisted at it as a trainer might. 
"I'd think so. Think she's planning on going lower? 
Once those fingers get to walking, you're asking me for 
the map?"

She laughed, "Tell you what though, if Kathy starts 
getting fresh, you just come to me and I'll whack you 
for a while."

*** A breast sometimes showed when Kathy wore pyjamas. 
Hers were a young women's areole, not widened like 
Wendy's had become by motherhood. Larger diameter for a 
baby's target, Carl expected, would be the Darwinian 
explanation. He tried to think of the scientific part.

Barb said that Kathy's boobs were totally normal, that 
this was the age when the nipples started to pop out 
more. He'd noticed that too.

*** Showering made Kathy's teasing pretty obvious. 
She'd leave the door unlocked, suggesting "Sometimes 
somebody has to pee." He'd of course never gone in, but 
knew that the sliding shower wall wouldn't obscure 
much.

When he at last succumbed, "Dad, is that you?" she'd 
asked from behind the glass. "It's OK. It's foggy," 
she'd assured.

He'd almost backed out, but instead chimed, "Just need 
to brush my teeth." He'd not planned to linger, though 
he'd thought enough about the dilemma of Kathy asking 
him to do her shoulders. She didn't, fortunately. 
Though she was standing away from the partition, he 
could discern the flesh tones of her figure. It was too 
foggy to really see, but between her legs was dark.

"Shut the door, Dad. It lets in the cold." He'd exited 
panicked.

When he admitted the encounter to Barb, she was 
adamant. "Keep your slimy ass out of that bathroom. 
She's not safe yet."

*** Sometimes father and daughter would watch TV -- 
"Mash", sometimes a movie. If the movie had an actor 
servicing a bare-breasted actress (thus why the 
subscription channels made money, Carl guessed), Kathy 
wouldn't pretend not to watch while Carl pretended to 
doze off. It wasn't porn because maybe the plot was 
about a writer's life, just a life that included 
breathy fornication. He'd listen to the sounds, knowing 
that she saw the pictured.

"Could you see their organs?" Barb asked, as if the 
actors played for a church service. No. Being Mr. 
Censor would just tell Kathy to watch X-rated ones at 
her friends', Barb agreed. Let the kid be honest about 
her curiosity.

*** "Barb, this is sort of strange, but, you know, it's 
just Kathy and me in our house. I could just be in her 
room or something. Or she could come into mine. If 
something like that happened and her pill's not working 
yet..."

"So don't go in there to check on her window, or 
whatever," Barb thought obvious. "Don't tell her 
there's someplace more comfortable when she rubs your 
neck. You got a sofa."

*** Watching TV together posed Carl a less-passive 
challenge. Sometimes Kathy would drift off, and some of 
those times she'd be almost against him.

"Like that time at the hotel, Carl," Barb remembered, 
"when you got the girls to wake me up. Maybe I ribbed 
you a little about not ravishing me, but honestly, 
you're a real gentleman. So be that way with Kathy, 
OK?"

He pointed out that there weren't teammates to call 
upon.

"Carl, did you touch her?" Just where his hand was on 
her side. "That's all?" Well, maybe a little more. "Did 
you reach in, maybe?" No, he was adamant. He didn't add 
how his hand had slid up her sleeve from where it would 
have been so easy to slip inside to her collarbone. But 
he'd not. He wasn't sure how it would have been, had 
she been in a shirt with buttons. He'd imagined one or 
two coming undone.

"Shit fire!" Barb started when she read Carl's mind. 
"She could have woken up! Like she's wondering about 
sex and she wakes up with dad squeezing her tit! 
Goddamnit, Carl, you want me to run on you? Then keep 
your act together! Don't spook her! You could go to 
jail and get your butt fucked!"

Barb was shook, he could tell. She'd all but told him 
she knew he'd end up doing it, and here she finds out 
how nearly right she was. She's surprised? It seemed 
strange to Carl, but not high on his "to solve" list.

But Barb was there for more than guidance about not 
being seduced.

When Carl felt totally confused was when Barb did her 
best coaching. It was usually pretty simple. "Women get 
frustrated. Men get frustrated. Same thing. We deal 
with it. We got to clear our systems. Shit, if the two 
of us decided to be lovers, that's what we'd do. But we 
got the boundaries we agreed on. So do you and Kathy. 
She's not ready yet, the pill bit. You still deal with 
it, but maybe more on your own. Shit, it's how we're 
wired. You don't tell me crap, OK, but just blink your 
eye or something so I'll know."

The two managed a smile. Barb added, "You won't go 
blind or anything."

PLAYOFF

"Carl, we got to talk." Coach and Assistant Coach were 
on the sidelines, watching the girls jog their final 
lap. They'd practiced well.

This was playoff time, Carl knew, the real one. Barb 
wouldn't "got to talk" about a soccer game. Kathy was 
ready to go through with it, her choice only too 
obvious. But himself? It wasn't about being able or 
wanting to. God, did he want to! He'd gone to sleep too 
many nights picturing Kathy. She'd pull him to her on 
the sofa. She'd strip. Naked, she'd crawl upon his lap, 
facing, her breasts pressing, virginity yielding, 
closing around him. She'd be in charge, like Barb had 
said. When at last his seed satisfied her, they'd kiss. 
Carl would drift off in the fullness of it. Having done 
a good job. Her being so happy!

But still he wanted Barb to steady his resolve. To give 
him the assurance that he'll do OK, be a loving dad. To 
tell him again that it's for Kathy. Barb knows.

"I'm ready," he agreed. "I love the kid, but I needed 
these weeks to get here, too. Like you said, I'll let 
her set our pace. Maybe we just start out cuddling.""

Barb spoke slowly. "Carl, it's like the grass is 
listening. Can we go someplace?" turning to at a bench 
some yards behind.

"Yeah. Not on the field." The two waved the off team 
and sat down. "It's time, right? She told Andrea it's 
time."

"No, Carl. She's not."

"Not?"

"She stopped the pill and isn't going sleep with you."

"She isn't?" Carl felt the emptiness before he could 
deny it. She didn't want to?

Barb took his hand to warm it. "She knows she's too 
young."

"She's almost 15. Lots of countries, that's when they 
get married!"

"Well, she's not there, I guess." Barb rubbed the back 
of his knuckles. "You're OK?"

"I guess," a mumble.

"You guess. Carl, damn it, you guess? Look at me! 
You're goddamn ready to cry!"

"No, I'm not."

"Well, be a dumbass then and act like a statue. You 
want Kathy to take you down on your damn sofa! You 
think I've been nowhere?"

"I don't know... It's just that she's so ready."

"Like you aren't?" as if to wake him. "Like who's 
seducing who?"

"Does she love me still?"

"Shit yes. She's just not ready. Maybe she should wait 
for somebody her own age," Barb suggested. "Sex not 
working out; it's regular shit, Carl."

"Oh, God, Barb. It has been working out, Kathy and me, 
you know, together."

"Oh, hell," he heard her groan. But she didn't let go 
of his hand.

A minute ago he'd been building a life around Kathy. 
Maybe it would look odd, father and daughter living 
together, but people would get used to it. They'd have 
their two rooms. Maybe they could have a baby and say 
she adopted it or something. Consummation would lead to 
everything.

Now nothing. When he'd divorced, he'd at least had a 
little girl to plan for. Now what? A teenager who gives 
him a fly-by kiss and runs off to rally practice.

"Like it's lonely all of a sudden?" Barb interrupted 
his thoughts. " But Carl, it's not over if a friend is 
still there."

He looked more closely at his companion. She was close. 
"That's you. You've been with me," he realized. 
Somehow, she looked like Kathy, even.

"Kathy's the one who did the work, who you almost made 
love to. You need to make love, Carl, a lover, over and 
over. You do. I'm not Kathy, but I'm me."

"You're you."

A kiss was how they sealed it.

Barb looked up, then behind, "Look back there, Carl. 
See that basketball hoop? He looked. "You know, Carl, 
my dad was my basketball coach." She thought a moment. 
"And Ms. Griffin, we called her Claire, was his 
assistant. So it was different than now, but it was the 
same.

"And I loved my dad. Always have. Maybe it was a dumb 
decision, but maybe it wasn't. Anyway, it was my 
choice. Shit, after that I fucked my way out of every 
boundary there ever was, but at least I figured it out.

"And hell yes, Dad and Claire got to be lovers. It must 
have been at a barbecue or something where I saw them 
wander toward the garage and I knew sure as shit. There 
they were, holding hands, just like us. I skedaddled, 
already knew the rest. Claire's my step-mom now," 
brightening at the outcome.

"Any way, like I said," Barb returned to the more 
personal, "I fucked things up for myself, hadn't 
figured out about limits. We always have them." She 
raised his hand and got him to see her eyes. "But a few 
yards wider, maybe?"

Carl reflected. "How would I know?"

"I'm not your coach, just maybe a partner."

Carl nodded, paused and squeezed her hand. "Why me?"

"Because we've been teammates for a hell of a long 
time, good teammates." He'd always loved they way she 
laughed, didn't expect more of him than he could do, 
but asked maybe more than he sometimes evidenced.

"But," almost forgetting about Kathy, "you've never 
seen me play."

"So we just do a try-out," resting her hand behind his 
elbow and looking around. "Maybe not here, though."

Without allowing himself a chance to doubt his 
instincts, "One-on-one?" his decision.

Barb reached behind him, as if for some unseen object, 
and Carl stilled as her breast drug across his arm. 
"Shit! We had that damn boundary somewhere, but it just 
got away. I guess it will turn up, you think?" she'd 
explained, not needing an answer.

SEASON'S END

Barb told the team that this would be her last year. 
They'd been an inspiration, given her confidence in 
herself. Some of them would keep playing, she hoped, 
but what she really knew was that they'd all do 
positive things. Some might move up and some would find 
new options to check out. "Heck, girls. I went to 
basketball after mean coaches yelling for years to keep 
my hands off the ball." They'd laughed. Carl was always 
amazed how she'd say "heck" to them when she meant 
"shit".

She'd admitted to Carl afterwards, "Coaching's no snap. 
How a season turns out is sometimes more about what you 
tell them than it is about moving the ball. You tell 
them what they need to hear to be winners. But 
sometimes you don't tell them all the same stuff."

Why Kathy had backed so suddenly away from sex with 
him, Carl never figured out. Teenagers can just change 
directions so fast. It was almost as if she'd never 
been on the pill. He took Barb's advice, of course -- 
Don't ask, not with your kid, anyway. It made things 
easier, just acting like nothing ever occurred, he'd 
admit to Barb's smile.

If Barb hadn't been there to hold him together when 
Kathy backed away, what would he have done? If he'd 
learned that he was ready to make love, that was 
something important to know, she coached.

Andrea and Kathy had the offensive skills to stay with 
soccer next year, but they'd made their minds to move 
on. Volleyball, maybe. Drama where they could sing? 
After the team's final huddle, the two walked home. 
Walking meant, let's talk.

"It was weird, Andrea, that month, my dad and all," 
reflected Kathy.

"Well, Mom said that it's pretty regular for a dad to 
see his kid a little differently when she's changing."

"Like stumble around, looking like he wants to have sex 
with her?" wondered the other.

"It's a middle-age crisis thing, she said. They don't 
do much, unless they're shit-heads."

"Well she's right on that, just bumped my tits a few 
times and tried to see me naked. Masturbated like hell 
sometimes. Like he doesn't even think who does the 
laundry?"

"Mom says it's not their fault," ruled Andrea. "Like 
she said, if you let 'em solve it themselves, it's 
done. The best ones just take longer. Make a big deal 
and shit hits the fan. I'm glad you listened to her 
about not spooking him, even if she's just my mom."

"So I'm about ready to tell the counsellor he's a 
pervert, and all of a sudden, I'm just his little girl 
again. Back to those forehead kisses! I didn't mind him 
noticing a little, you know? Well, like your mom told 
me, keep my mouth shut."

"Don't be a dumb-ass about the why. We saw them making 
out by the soccer field. Good thing only Mom looked 
up."

"They weren't making out, just kissing," corrected 
Kathy.

"See Mom do his arm? When she says that then was their 
first kiss, I believe it, actually. Now they're fucking 
like your hamsters. Like we can't hear? Think we'll be 
step sisters or whatever?"

"Probably," agreed Kathy. "I'm pretty good on knowing 
where my dad's head is."

"Hey, you know that Gary is going to take his driver's 
test next month?"

"Really?"

"Shit, if I could just get curfew upped to 12:30, he'd 
take me out," mused Andrea.

"And pop your little cherry, right?"

"Gotta pretty soon, right? Maybe I should get on the 
pill or something?"

"Probably. Lana says they're OK. So maybe we could 
double, you in the front, me in the back!"

"No way! I don't want you watching."

"OK. So here's how to get better curfews. I tell Dad 
that yours is changing to 12:30 and you tell your mom 
the same about me. Then they'll both think it's OK. 
Those two are so big on limits! Like the world has 
limits?"

"The old different-stories-to-different-people trick? 
Mom probably knows it," guessed Andrea.

THE END

Holly on the Web

Wherever you found this story on the web, thank you to 
the server. My problem is that I've no systematic way 
to update the various servers. As literary errors (or 
just poor word usages) are made known to me, I'll 
repair that which is salvageable on 
/~Holly_Rennick/. My website's not 
much graphically, I admit, but HTML isn't my native 
language.

You can contact me via the site's message form, that 
HTML code by the smart people at ASSTR.

I won't be changing the story significantly, so if you 
didn't like it before, that much will remain the same. 
But if you did like it, an update may read a bit more 
cleanly.

Holly

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Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of
the hands of children. They should be outside playing
in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations.

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Kristen's collection - Directory 27