The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever

by Jennifer Tate

  Brad was excited about playing the best of the northern universities. He was confident that the Gray Ghosts would appear from out of nowhere and kick butt.

  The Gray Ghost's hockey season flew by. Almost too soon, it was over. The Florida Panthers had taken Brad as their third round draft pick, but the Leafs and the Red Wings were trying to acquire his rights. The intense interest in Brad had begun when the Gray Ghosts did kick butt at the NCAA Invitational Tournament, and Brad was the tournament's star. His eight goals and eight assists won him the Herbie Miller award for the most outstanding player. In America, Brad Raiden was becoming known in hockey circles.

  The Florida Panthers had Brad out to a few of their practices, and he fit right in with their new run-and-gun style of play. The clutch and grab, grind-it-out defensive tactics of the Trap had worked well for the Panthers in their first season as a NHL expansion team, but their fans were bored. They wanted action. So midway through their second year, the Panthers decided to emphasize offense, and nobody was more offensively minded than Brad Raiden. The Panthers offered him the third line center position, and a one million dollar signing bonus.

  * * *

  After all the years of working, and dreaming, Brad had arrived; the beer flowed as the celebration party ran into the early morning hours—and it was a fine party, because Tawny Cat was being especially naughty.

  "How often," he asked her, "does anyone get everything they've wished for from life, and more? You've divided my life in two—LBT and LAT."

  "LBT and LAT?"

  He grinned at her. "Life before Tawny Cat and life after Tawny Cat. Before you came into my life there was a huge empty hole. You've filled that hole, and now what used to be an empty hole is the best part of my life." Betty-Jo wound him in her arms, and started to misbehave. "Now my only serious goal is to be with you. I've discovered that time not spent with you, is a part of my life that's been wasted."

  Betty-Jo gave Brad her best full-bodied kiss. "You know nothing about goals, my friend. Goals are supposed to have only a fifty- percent chance of success. Your number one goal is a certainty."

  "Don't say that! You might put a hex it!"

  And maybe she was hexing it, because Brad's love for Tawny and his NHL dream were on a diverging path.

  * * *

  On Olympus, Venus was in a foul mood. "I have to do something to cheer myself up," she said, as she dumped a bucket of piranha infested water on a catnapping Old Hairball. The aging pussycat let out a cry of anguish, and tore across the great hall.

  Venus laughed sadistically. "What's the matter, Hairball, the cat and fish game getting you down?" She ripped a piranha off Hairball, and tossed it back into the piranha pool. Then she dug her nails into the back of her hand, until she drew blood. Pain always made her feel better. "The American Princess and her Bradley are much too happy. But not to worry, you ugly puss, their happy days are about to end."

  -34-

  BETTY-JO CHANCE

  Drifting on Dreams

  Brad was on Betty-Jo's mind constantly. Her tennis was suffering, but she didn't care. She was can't-stop-thinking-about-him in love. Half the time the lights were on, but she wasn't home. She was drifting on dreams or loafing on love. Everything was perfect—everything except for the vile Tooth Fairy.

  In the morning, if she awoke before Brad, she'd watch him sleep, and the rhymes would come:

  He's cuddly as a kitten

  A sexy koala bear

  Tastier than chocolate

  In his underwear.

  I've lost it, she thought.

  He's sweeter much than honey

  Cheerful as a clown

  Goofy as a gopher

  When he lays me down.

  Stupid! I know nothing about gophers—no idea if they're goofy or not.

  I really cannot stand it

  He's an aphrodisiac

  He's doing it on purpose

  And I want my money back.

  "From now on I'm going to let you wake up first. And besides, what are my chances of getting my money back, now that I've almost worn you out?" She pounced on her sleeping lover and bit him. "Why do I have this urge to bite you?" she asked a disoriented Brad, as she ruffled his early morning feathers.

  Before the day was even christened, she found herself missing him terribly. Then, all day long, she would ask herself, "Tawny Cat, what's your bear's name?" And she would answer, "I Love Only You Brad." For variety, she would ask herself the name of Brad's beauty spot, but that only made things worse

  Everything he did: the way he drank a beer, leaned back on a chair, or tied his Adidas, seemed erotic to her. No sooner would they stop making love, than she would find herself wanting him again. Often, she would dance herself around campus, pretending she was dancing with him. But you can only dance with yourself for so long before people begin to talk, especially if you're chatting to yourself while you dance.

  "How have I allowed myself to become so dependent on you, Bad Brad?" she wanted to know. The answer eluded her. "Maybe if I hadn't allowed you to name your cupcakes Fun and More Fun. Stupid names for breasts anyway. Besides, I can never remember which is which." She smiled while she twirled. "Although it is nice that he knows which is which. But then he should, 'cause he's the goof who named them."

  Part of her problem, she knew, was all the hugging. She loved to hug and be hugged. Brad's hugs were the long and enchanting kind. Often, what started out innocently enough as a hug, ended up with Brad inside her, but that was tricky while standing, because of their height differential. So Brad, after considering the problem, had her stand on The Random House Encyclopedia. The encyclopedia assisted inner hugs, or 'hug-ins', as they called them, were marvelous. With Brad inside her, and fitting her perfectly, they could inner hug forever. And, as an added bonus, she controlled the hug-in action—it was initiated when she stood on her toes, and then eased down onto him.

  Betty-Jo soon came up with a plan to get even more inner hugs. When Brad was at one of his hockey practices, she went to the lumber yard, and had them cut her enough plywood and boards to make five hug-in boxes: three feet long, one foot wide, and four inches deep. She drilled the necessary holes, screwed the boxes together, covered them with black satin, and then put one in each room. When she heard Brad's key in the lock, she stood on the box in the living room. As an added incentive to encourage him to do what she wanted, she wore only a smile and her black choker.

  * * *

  When Brad returned home, he found his Tawny Cat standing, au naturel, on the living room, hug-in box. When he couldn't see any pictures that needed hanging, he knew what he was expected to do.

  "How many of these satin boxes do we own?" he asked.

  "Five. One for each room."

  "But what if I want to inner hug with you in the closet?"

  She smiled. "Take a look," she said.

  He picked her up, and carried her to the closet. On the floor was 'The Random House Encyclopedia'. He eased her onto it and hugged her.

  "Promise you'll never show anyone but me how proficient you've become at inner hugging," he said.

  She laughed at him. "I promise," she said.

  * * *

  Brad wanted at least four hugs a day. Much of the time he initiated the hugging, but Betty-Jo was responsible for meeting the hugging quota. Failure to satisfy the minimum requirement meant that she could find herself playfully positioned over his knee.

  The way he watched her go about her daily routine gave her a warm womanly feeling. He makes me feel so very hot.

  "I could spend hours watching you move," he told her.

  "And I love it when you watch me," she replied, a little embarrassed.

  Brad purchased lights, a tripod, and a Canon A-2. With a picture speed of five frames per second, the A-2 was similar to cameras used by professional model-photographers.

  "Your eyes tell me you're mine—that you belong to me," he said. "They undo me even as they're promising me heaven on earth."

 
"That's useful information."

  "I want to capture them on film when they have that special look." And he did. He blew up his favorite picture of her to two feet by three feet. Then he framed it. "Tawny, you could be a super model if voluptuous women are ever back in vogue."

  She grinned at him. "Meaning I'm fat, but because you love me, you'll do me anyway."

  "Getting you done is loads of fun. I wouldn't trade you for two Twiggies."

  "Not even if the Twiggies were oversexed?"

  "Hell no. One of you is better entertainment than any double feature. You've given me beauty and laughter, and best of all, you've given me love."

  On February the 17th, Betty-Jo took off her clothes, wrapped herself up, and gave herself to her Aquarius birthday boy. She was certain that finding her naked under the wrapping paper would be present enough for him. But she had another surprise for him: a red, heart-shaped tattoo enclosed his beauty mark, and etched in the crescent-shaped upper portion of the heart, were his initials.

  "Now you know for sure who this tawny cat belongs to," she said, before she pulled his head closer to give him a better look....

  Brad was the unprophesied adventure in Betty-Jo's life—a life that no longer seemed real. Impossibly in love, she could tussle tigers without crying, or grapple lions without dying. But there was a problem. Not that the Tooth Fairy was Brad's fault, but then again, maybe she was.

  After she had moved in with Brad, she had given out his number so she could be reached. One afternoon, when she arrived home before he did, the red light on the answering machine was blinking. She was expecting a call from Coach Bender, so she ran the message playback.

  "Hi, terrible Grasshopper," the answering machine said, "it's your favorite tooth fairy. How's the bite mark? Why don't you give me a call? Miss you—Bye." That message ruined her evening. She knew that Brad loved her, and that he was devoted to her, but she also knew that with tooth fairies you could never be too careful. There was, after all, that bite mark on his arm.

  She found she was unable to tell him that she knew about the tooth fairy.

  Am I jealous? Am I suffering? she asked herself. Darn rights I am!

  -35-

  BETTY-JO CHANCE & BRAD RAIDEN

  Training for Glory

  Betty-Jo's dream of standing triumphantly in the middle of Stadium Court, at the U.S. Open, was slipping into the quagmire. Chrissy Evert had won her first U.S. Open when she was twenty, so Betty-Jo still held onto the slim hope of being able match her heroine in that respect, but it was discouraging, when to date, all she had in common with Chrissy was hair color.

  Where's Chrissy's grit? Where's her consistency? Where's her burning desire to win? I'm making the wrong moves to advance my career. I should be playing on the pro Tour, but if I go on the Tour I'll have to go without Brad—and I won't do that.

  In women's tennis, teenyboppers burst onto the scene to contend for grand slam titles; Tracy Austin and Jennifer Capriatti had arrived in their early teens, and now, at fourteen, the Swiss Miss was playing at Wimbledon. Betty-Jo was six years older than Martina Hingis, and that infuriated her.

  True, the crowds at my matches are getting larger, but how heartening is that when my game is so ragged? Then she came to her senses. Foolish girl, she admonished herself, forget your game. Brad's love is miracle enough in your life.

  * * *

  Brad encouraged Betty-Jo to work hard to improve her game. "It's easier for me to be a hockey star than it is for you to be a tennis great," he told her. "For starters, relatively few people in this world play hockey."

  "That's difficult to believe when getting whacked with a stick looks like such fun," was her retort.

  "Then, if you're talented enough to play professionally, there are twenty-six NHL teams with twenty-seven players on each team. That's seven hundred players in the league. Those guys are paid hundreds of thou a year minimum, a couple of million bucks on average."

  Betty-Jo smiled, kissed him, and snuggled up to him. "I knew I had a good reason for wanting to be your only groupie."

  "In professional tennis, women from all over the world scratch and claw to make it to the final sixteen so they can earn a few dollars. The top WTA Tour money winner only makes a couple of mill a year, and fewer than forty players make over two hundred grand."

  "They'd make more if they did the hockey thing, and hit each other with their racquets."

  He ignored her. "I'd guess that for you to make the same bucks playing tennis that I might make playing hockey, you'd have to be three times better at your sport than I am at mine. You'd really have to want it."

  "What I really want is you." Her hand went on a scavenger hunt for his joystick.

  "I give up. Perhaps making love with me is also a worthy life's ambition for you."

  * * *

  Although Betty-Jo didn't realize it, her game was improving, thanks to Brad. Fun conditioning came from playing Saturday morning ball-hockey with the guys, on the tennis courts off Chanticleer Drive East. She had always roller skated, and two years earlier she'd started to blade—so she was good, albeit, not as skillful or rough as the jocks on Brad's hockey team. The guys had been happy to let her join their game; they loved to watch her move, especially when she showed up one day wearing her figure enhancing halter-top. They promptly forgot about the florescent, orange ball they were supposed to be chasing.

  "Who's Pamela Anderson-Lee?" one jock wanted to know.

  "Wear elbow pads, knee pads, a helmet, and hockey gloves," Brad told her.

  At first she refused, because the guys didn't wear them. Brad didn't argue with her, but he also didn't let her play. So she wore the protective gear, and it was fortunate that she did, because the guys only treated her differently for the first fifteen minutes of the game. Then their competitive instincts surfaced, and she became one of them—the one on her bum. But she could take it. Brad often told her how impressed he was with the way she handled herself. At least that's what he told her, until she took him out with the hip check he'd taught her.

  She was revved. "Sting like those killer bees you were going to feed me to," she said, apparently unconcerned that she'd flattened her favorite and only lover.

  Brad struggled to his feet. "What happened to my chickadee? I'm ashamed of myself for turning you into a vicious scorpion."

  She laughed at him. "A mega-vicious, killer scorpion. Unlike you guys, women have hips, and we know how to swing them."

  "The only good to come from this, is that I'll never again fear a hip check from a mere mortal."

  Brad also encouraged her to do serious strengthening and flexibility exercises, which she did wearing only her black velvet choker. In his favorite exercise, the hanging jackknife, she hung upside down from a bar that was attached to the ceiling—then she did sit-ups with her hands clasped behind her head. Before long, when she tensed her stomach muscles, she could take a solid punch.

  "I'm not your average powder-puff anymore," she told him. But she questioned his motivation for having her do the hanging jackknife. He enjoyed watching her do it too much. "Why is it that every time I show you my impression of a hanging jackknife on a bar, I then have to show you my impression of a spread-eagle on satin sheets?"

  He just laughed. "Who'd have guessed that jackknives and eagles have so much in common?"

  And he had her do weight repetitions for the muscles in her upper and lower legs.

  "Tawny Cat, you have to carry Fun and More Fun all over the court, so we have to power up your leggy grandeur."

  He also insisted that she do his hockey exercises with him, on the golf course, behind their cottage.

  "I need company," he said. So she did his Fartlek conditioning with him until her legs ached, and even her choker was exhausted. What she didn't initially appreciate was how much Fartlek was boosting her endurance, and her ability to quickly change direction on the court.

  Fartlek included jogging for four minutes, alternately sprinting and jogging for another four
minutes, running at a brisk pace for seven or eight minutes, and running backward and forward for a minute at maximum speed. Then she would hop on one foot, and then on the other. She knew that Brad loved to watch her hop, and on occasion, she would tease him by hopping without a bra. Finally, she would complete her program with an easy two-minute jog, followed by a thirty-second wind sprint.

  One evening, halfway through the program, she decided that she'd had enough. But she knew that Brad wouldn't be amused.

  "You keep making me do this Fartlek stuff, and I'll do something you won't like!"

  He laughed. "Like what?"

  She took off across the golf course, running as fast as she could. "Like run!" she yelled over her shoulder.

  "Stop now, and nothing bad will happen to you," he hollered after her.

  That's what you always say, just before something bad does happen to me!

  Soon she heard him gaining on her. Why am I trying to outrun him? He probably gave me a head start just to make the chase more sporting. He always catches me. And that is exactly what happened as she scampered across the fourth green. He hauled her down and rolled her onto her back.

  "I'll bet until now you thought that the Cheetah was the world's fastest animal."

  Having expended so much energy trying to outrun him, she was too exhausted to prevent him from taking what he wanted....

  Later he exclaimed, "My first ever hole-in-one!"

  "Animal!" This is just wonderful, she thought. The world's fastest animal gets a hole-in-one, and I get a grass stained butt. And tomorrow I'll be back doing Fartlek as usual. Must admit though, the hole-in-one part was fun. "I really am good for you, Mr. World's Fastest Animal. You don't golf, so without me, a hole-in-one would never have been more than a fantasy for you."