Dave looked sly. "I heard it involves a cheerleader."

Dave, Jake and I had our little confab with Coach Wilson about how things were going to go Friday night. The rest of the team did drills under assistant coach Pasco's guidance. The senior cheerleader squad was also meeting at the far end of the field.

I saw Megan with them and resisted the urge to wave at her. Coach Wilson would disapprove of the distraction. She wasn't hard to pick out of the small crowd of girls with her dark skin and hair. Joanna, the head cheerleader and Jake's squeeze, wasn't difficult to spot either; she was easily the tallest blonde on the squad.

I felt some mixed emotions, what with everything that had happened between Megan and me over the weekend, but Coach called my attention back to our off-field huddle.

Jake wasn't going to concede that he likely would not be able to play Friday, but he didn't refuse to advise Dave. "Remember, the Bulldogs are aggressive. It's their style. They're going to try to come after you. I think the coach somehow rewards guys who get a sack."

Coach snorted. "That's just a rumor. All they get is an attaboy, same as I give you guys for doing your job."

Dave looked sly. "I heard it involves a cheerleader."

Coach Wilson just shook his head. Dave and Jake snorted amusement.

I have no idea what my face looked like at that moment, but I must have seemed pretty sour because Dave frowned.

"What?" I asked.

Coach turned to me, "And I think we're going to have to get you more protection, Pete. You've been carrying the ball a lot, and last week's performance kind of cemented it: you're the best running back in the league, and if they can't stop you, they aren't going to win."

I shrugged, but Jake looked stricken. I didn't want to think about why. "They'll have to catch me to stop me," I said.

Coach frowned. "You're most vulnerable at the line of scrimmage, and yes, if you get past their defenders, their big problem is catching you." I grinned. Our most productive running play was a simple strong-side hand-off with the right tackle, Matt Poole, blocking and our tight end, Lew Epstein, running ahead of me to worry their linebackers.

Lew was the tallest guy on the team, an inch or so taller than Jake, and mostly known as "Upsteen" or just "Up," with long arms and sticky fingers. There was always the danger for the other team that he might actually be setting up to catch a pass while my run was just a distraction, but I could count on him to take out a late defender if I got free.

And my getting free usually depended on Matt Poole, who sort of defined what it meant to be an offensive tackle, at least at the high school level. A big guy, but quick, Matt generally took out the first defender facing him before the guy had time to realize I was looking for a hole. "Be the hole" was Matt's motto, and I loved to hear the wallop sound he made colliding with someone trying to stop me.

We discussed the audibles that Jake, or Dave, could use to adjust play for changing circumstances, but Coach warned our junior quarterback not to think he was smart enough or experienced enough to be able to count on knowing when to use them. "Better to keep your mouth shut," Coach advised.

We even did some strategizing. "They haven't a clue about you as quarterback, Garcia," said Coach, "and they know what a threat Kitten is, so we use that. First half, we see if you can find a receiver on every play we can, and if you're coming through with some completions, they'll stop watching Pete closely. Then after the break, we roll out a running game and make them really sweat."

Dave looked doubtful, and Jake glared at the ground, but it sounded good to me. We worked out what sort of drills we could run to practice our planned attack then we did the required wind sprints and ran a couple laps around the field. Coach Wilson was of the firm opinion that stamina won more football games than fancy footwork, and there was a lot to be said for his approach. Some of it printable.

Jake tried running with us, but having his arm in a sling made it awkward and painful, so he sat on the bench and glared at us as we went by. I wasn't sure whether to be annoyed at his attitude or amused by it. He was still taking every chance he got to protest to me about my playing football at all.

The real miracle in my situation became my not strangling him for being such a downer. But practice ended a bit before 5 p.m, and I trudged toward the gym with everybody else.

* * *

I definitely needed a shower after all the running, and the coach's bathroom would provide the privacy I had to have but getting there presented a problem that I hadn't considered. About half the team had got to the gym before me, and most of them had quickly stripped off their gear and were lining up in their altogethers to get their own showers.

Why should a smelly room full of half-naked boys be a problem to me? I dunno, but it was. Where could I look? Was my face as red as it felt? I hurried past them, trying not to look. Dave stood on one of the benches, naked, what he still had that I no longer possessed on display as he defended his perch with snaps of a gym towel.

He quickly jumped off his mountain throne when he spotted Coach Wilson coming into the locker room behind me. I glanced back to be sure Coach was not following me to the inner hallway between the coaches' offices and their own locker room.

I discarded my helmet on the wall of hooks by the field exit and hurried toward the sanctuary without anyone except probably Jake aware of where I had actually gone.

I tried to put how disturbing I had found exposure to naked male flesh out of my mind. My excuse for needing a secluded place to get naked would work for this week and maybe the next, but how long could I keep from being seen?

Five people already know my secret, maybe more if Joanna is really as much of a blabbermouth as Megan said. According to Megan, the other girls on the cheering squad didn't believe the story, and Joanna didn't try to convince them.

But seeing is believing, if anyone else sees me, especially if they catch me naked in the boy's locker room, I won't be able to play football.

I hurried through the coaches' office and down the hidden hall to get a shower as quick as I could. Just being in the gym at all was a risk to my planning. I felt my face twist up, so I ran right on into the shower room, pulling off my jersey and pads, and stuck my head into the stall, turning on the cold water to hit myself in the face.

I stripped the rest of my uniform off, changed the temperature to medium hot and got inside the stall so that steam might give me some protection from being seen if someone blundered into the room.

I soaped myself up good, especially down there, which had been surprisingly sweaty. I didn't want to think about it, so I rinsed off with cool water again and grabbed several of the thick towels to get dry.