Page 93 of Out of Bounds

“Oh, is he your boyfriend?” Altshuler asked mockingly.

“Again. None of your business.”

“What?” The scary vein crested in Altshuler’s forehead. “Shut up, freshman!”

“It’s mine.” Carpenter stepped forward.

“No, it’s not,” Altshuler said.

“Because it’s mine,” Dell said. “Don’t people in Maine just use maple sap for lube?”

“Are you sure it’s not mine?” Cudia asked. “Because I only use water-based lube.”

“It’s mine,” another player said.

“Mine, too,” and another.

Chills went through Cliff’s body with each admission. He couldn’t believe what was happening. Neither could Altshuler.

“Will everyone shut up! This is serious!” He threw a crutch into the bleachers.

“It’s mine,” said another first-string player. “My girlfriend will use her finger sometimes.” He looked at the floor. “And I like it.”

“A finger is really good sometimes,” Dell said.

Cliff stared at his teammates in disbelief. Maybe nobody was vanilla.

“Everyone shut up!!” Altshuler screamed so loud the vein in his forehead was about to burst.

“No, you shut up, Altshuler,” Coach Trainor said, blowing his whistle. Teammates cut a path for him to enter. “What Cliff does in his personal life - so long as it isn’t illegal - is nobody’s business. And please tell us how you obtained this artifact from Cliff’s room when you don’t have a key.”

“It was, uh, unlocked.” Altshuler puffed-out chest deflated.

Coach was having none of it. “And you once called yourself a captain?” He got in Altshuler’s face, his face coalescing into a growl. “If I were you, I would go home, put some more ice on your foot, and think very hard about how you want to treat your teammates once you heal - on the court and off. It would be a shame to get cut your senior year.”

“Coach.” Altshuler looked helplessly around the court, but nobody came to his defense. “But--”

“Uh uh.” Coach held up his hand. “Go. Before you say another word that gets you into more trouble.”

Althsuler limped to his thrown crutch, picked it up quietly, and hobbled off the court. It was a muted finish. Cliff almost felt bad for him.

Almost.

“And you,” Coach turned to Mr. Wyndham in a ferocious pivot that made the multi-millionaire cower. “My players are here to play the game, not be paraded in front of your church groups and private clubs and rich friends. They aren’t props, and they aren’t for sale. And if that means you don’t want to build us a new arena, so be it.”

Mr. Wyndham held up his hands and nodded quietly. Nobody got on Coach’s bad side. Nobody.

“And stop showing up at my office whenever you damn want. Call the athletics department and make an appointment.”

“You got it, Bob.”

“And I hate when people call me Bob,” Coach said. “Practices are closed to the general public.” He did a head jerk at the door.

Mr. Wyndham gave him a scowl to show that he wasn’t going to be cowered, but he was smart enough to realize this wasn’t the time for a pissing contest with Coach. He held his head high, turned on his heel, and left.

And then there was Cliff, surrounded by his teammates. He wished he knew what they were thinking. They nodded at him. One team. Together. Nothing else needed to be said.

“Can we get back to our goddamned practice?” Coach said with a clap of his hands.