"Carrie," Duncan whispers, pulling back and beginning to pump in and out of me. I can't believe it. It feels so good, and I feel full, complete, and the waves of pleasure that wash through me are deeper, different than anything else I've ever felt. I grip the table, pushing back as best I can, and this time, Duncan is gentler, not with the animal ferocity and power of our first time, but tender as his cock slides in and out.
It doesn't stop the wave of my orgasm from building, and I'm soon gasping, groaning in need and want as it builds inside me. "Duncan, I'm going to come . . ."
His hips speed up, and his cock is blurring the lines between fantasy and reality as my body is taken over and over by this man that I want and need. Duncan grabs my waist and holds me tight as he thrusts harder, faster, until he's also trembling, both of us right on the edge.
I feel him swell inside me, and with a shuddering groan, he pulls out as I hear him cry out, pushing me over the edge. I feel a tightness in my chest as I come, my breath stopping and the entire world ringing as I come hard. I can't breathe, but if I die right now, it'd be worth it to feel this amazing sensation.
When it passes, I almost collapse onto the table, unable to hold myself up any longer. Sweat rolls down my face, and I'm smiling even though I’m spent. Duncan's still behind me, his breath ragged in the darkness. "So that's why it's called a Hart Attack."
"Hmm?"
"It felt so good, I swear my heart stopped for a moment," I whisper, looking back over my shoulder at him. "And it's addictive as hell, too."
Duncan smiles, helping me stand to turn around and kiss him before he drops to a knee, stopping my heart again for a moment before I realize he's trying to help me with my jeans. "You scared me there for a second."
“Huh?” he asks, and I feel warmth spread up my neck to my cheeks.
"Because for a second there, I thought you were going to ask me to marry you."
Duncan stops, realizing before he laughs. "A little too fast for that, don't you think? But I did have another idea in mind."
"What's that?"
"Why wait until next semester to move in with me?"
I think about it, and I nod. “Tell you what, maybe I’ll just stay with you on the weekends,” I say, unable to hold back my smile. “I’ve still got residence in the dorm for the rest of the semester, and my parents would shit themselves if they knew I moved in with you. My dad already kind of hates you. But weekends for sure."
"And tonight," Duncan says, gathering me in his arms and holding me close. “Don’t tell me you’re changing your mind about tonight.”
"Yes, of course, tonight."
My stomach grumbles, and Duncan laughs. "Come on. Let's go home, and I'll see what I have in the fridge.”
Chapter 15
Duncan
Monday night. An away game. It seems strange to be saying that, but it feels good at the same time.
"Hey, get used to it," Tyler says to me as we jog onto the field. The lights are bright, and it's our second night game in a row. "Starting next year, you're going to be playing a lot on Sunday and Monday, right?"
"Damn right," I answer, smacking him on the shoulder. "Let's take care of these guys first."
When our schedule was first determined, a matchup of the Western Bulldogs versus the Carolina Swamp Foxes sounded like a hell of a fight. West Coast against East Coast, Western Conference against the South Atlantic Conference. There was even star power, as Carolina was bringing back not only a star quarterback, but two All-American defensive players.
Unfortunately for them, but great for us, one of the Carolina All-Americans, outside linebacker, Marcus Winston, tore up his shoulder in the second game of the season, and with him out of action, their other All-American on defense, tackle Jerome Lattimore, was more easily contained. Tyler is still going to have his hands full, but we've got the advantage.
"Man, I'm just glad you're not doing suicide squad again this week," Tyler says as we wait for the kickoff. "You were sucking wind at the end of last game."
"Don't sweat it. I've got inspiration tonight."
Tyler nods, then leans in. "Hey . . . just to let you know, a lot of the guys aren't happy about the way the Honor Board is treating your girl. You notice that Chelsea ain't around."
"I noticed," I say, looking at the staff that came with us. Since this is a televised game, the network popped for the extra three tickets, and some of the training interns came along this time. Still, none of them were Carrie, and I flexed my elbow in response. "It'll work itself out. I’m making it my mission to make sure things are set right.”
"Well, let's roll. Our ball!"
Tyler and I run out to the huddle with the rest of the starting offense, feeling it. The Carolina crowd isn't friendly, booing us loudly, but we expect that. "Time to be the bad guy," I yell as we huddle up. "Let's go ruin someone's night."
I line up, and Tyler sends me in motion, and I 'wiggle' across, cutting upfield as soon as the ball snaps into a ten-yard out pattern, catching the ball off a perfect lead by Tyler. I turn up field and gain another seven yards before getting tackled, and it's on.
We line up again, and I grin at the Carolina player on the other side, who's dressed in his black and light blue and still feeling like there's a chance. "What, no shit talk?" he asks as we get set. "Thought you were famous for it. I was looking forward to shutting you up.”
"Don't need it anymore," I reply, and when the ball snaps, I blast him with a double-punch to the shoulder pads before cutting across the middle. I'm actually the second option on the play, but when I turn my head back, I see Tyler already releasing the ball in my direction. It's a little high, but not too bad, and I can take it in with a running jump, landing and cutting up the field with a step on my defender. Forty-seven yards later, and Western is up by a touchdown, and the noisy Carolina crowd goes, at least temporarily, quiet.
Unfortunately, the Carolina offense fires back quickly, and we find ourselves in a Monday night shootout. Great for the stat monkeys, that's for damn sure, because by halftime, we've combined for sixty-six points of scoring between us, and we're up thirty-five to thirty-one.
"Fuck, it's a goddamn Madden game out there!" Tyler gasps as we sit in the locker room. "Defense, give us at least one fucking stop!"
"Tyler, chill," I say, putting my hand on his shoulder. “We’ve got this.”
Tyler looks at me for a moment, then laughs. "You're right. Okay. Go spread some sunshine and rainbows, Hero."
It's my new nickname from the team after Tyler spread the word that 'Touchdown' was forever retired. I shake my head and pick up my helmet. "You guys have to think of a new one. That's even worse than the old."
After discussing some adjustments, we head out for the second half, and I see Joe and the rest of the defense go to work. The adjustments they made are effective, and for the first time tonight, the Carolina Swamp Foxes punt the ball. We return the ball to our forty, and as the offense goes out, we know there's a chance to start to stretch our lead.
We line up, and as the ball snaps, I explode across the line, directly into the side of Jerome Lattimore, who was passed by our guard and tackle. He's huge, and has nearly fifty pounds on me, but I've got speed and surprise, and as he gets driven to the turf, I feel something jump over me and hear the roar of the crowd.
I scramble up to see our running back off to the races, nobody in front of him, and we go in with one play for a sixty-yard touchdown.
"Nice block," Coach Thibedeau says when I have a seat. "The old Duncan wouldn't have hit that hard."
"You think?" I ask, smirking. "Remember, Coach, if I throw some pancakes out there, that gets me a better draft position too, you know."
Coach shakes his head and chuckles. "Right. Well, get ready. See if this stays together."
In the end, we take Carolina's heart and win the game handily. Afterward, in our locker room, you'd expect that we'd sound like a party was going on, but we are all just too damn tired—jet lag and the idea tha
t we have a Saturday game coming up—and we're quiet as we change and get back on the bus to take us to the airport.
"I know you're all wishing we could fly home tomorrow morning, but we've got a short week, gentlemen," Coach Bainridge says as the bus starts rolling. "Try to get some sleep. Tomorrow's a no-pads day.”
"Thank God it's an easy game Saturday,” someone behind me grumbles.
It is true. NMAE is one of the worst teams in our conference, but we can't slack off. I feel still at least a little awake, so I pull out my phone and fire up my text messenger. It's still only a little after seven back in California.
Hey, how's it going?
Carrie: Just got done watching the post-game. Congrats.
It was a tough one, but fun. How was ur day?
Carrie: Pretty terrible. Word's gotten out, and I felt like ppl were staring at me all day.
Ouch. U OK?
Carrie: I will be when U get here. I'm at ur apt.
No Dorm?
Carrie: Didn’t want to b there. At least here, I can wear ur t-shirt.
Oh my.
My phone goes silent for a bit before buzzing again. It's a picture from Carrie, and I open it to feel my mouth drop open, as she's posing in my bedroom with just one of my team t-shirts on, and from the looks of it, nothing else, her blonde hair flowing around her shoulders and a devilish-angelic smile on her face, her doe eyes glinting in amusement. There's a caption.
Go Bulldogs.
Chapter 16
Carrie
Looking down, I realize that I'm scared absolutely out of my mind. I'm wearing my most professional looking clothes, a black pencil-ish skirt and white blouse that makes me feel more like I'm showing up for a job interview than a hearing that could change my entire life.
You really should have taken Duncan up on his offer to stay the night at the apartment.
Maybe, but I was too worried that I wouldn't get any sleep. Of course, I still didn't, as I stayed up most of the night worrying about the hearing. Now, standing in front of the Honor Building, I'm still sleep-deprived and nervous that Duncan isn't by my side.
"Don't worry," he told me this morning as we talked over the phone. "I've got a nine o'clock class, then I'll be there. The hearing starts at ten, so at most, I'll miss the opening statements. Don't worry. I have your back."
I take a deep breath again and open the door, going up to the second floor where the hearing room is located. Outside, I'm trembling, and my shakes increase when I see Chelsea coming down the hallway. "Why?"
Chelsea gives me an evil look and smiles. “It's nothing personal."
She goes inside, and I give her a minute to get settled in before I go in. I look around and grimace at the setup. The Honor Board has a history that stretches back over a hundred years, and as such, the hearing room has an aura that is straight out of the Inquisition. As the Concerned—we're not Accused, and of course, since this technically isn't a legal proceeding, we're not Defendants either—I sit in the middle of a semi-circle that wraps around the outer walls of the octagonal room. The Honor Board has a "Hearing Officer," what should really be called the Prosecutor, and then the Board itself, nine members made up of five students and four teachers who sit on the semi-circle.
"Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition," I mutter to myself, but the old Monty Python joke doesn't help lift my spirits. I go to the table and set my bag on top of it, taking out the notes that I'd written up yesterday to help me. Not that there was much I could do. I couldn't figure out anything that could explain away the information that they had.
I take a deep breath and sit down, looking around as I see Professor Vladisova come in, dressed for class. She comes over and puts her hand on my table. “I’m sad that we have to do this . . . because you are a brilliant student, and having you in class, even after this, has been enjoyable. I hope you can grow and learn from it.”
I look up at her, and she has an almost kind expression on her face. "I didn't do it. I hope after today, you will believe me."
"Miss Mittel, I grew up in the Soviet Union—the one thing the Soviet people came to know after so many years under the Communists was that lies can be told with a very straight face."
"You should also have learned that innocent people are often unjustly accused," I reply, feeling my inner fire heat up. Good, get angry. Harness it. It's better than being afraid. "Or were Stalin's purges not taught when you went to school?"
Vladisova looks at me, then nods. "Good luck, Miss Mittel."
She takes her seat in the rear half of the room, which is reserved for witnesses and visitors. Honor Board hearings are open to any member of the University, student and instructor alike, although I don't know anyone who's ever come to watch one of these things for entertainment.
At precisely ten o'clock, as the big grandfather clock in the corner strikes the hour, the door of the hearing room opens up again, and the Honor Board walks in. The Hearing Officer is Kent Prescott, a pre-law student, from the little I found out about him. He and I had a single meeting, where he confirmed what I'd told the Dean, but that was about it.
Once everyone is inside, the Hearing President, an old man that I didn't recognize, raps the Hearing to order.
Kent stands up from his little side desk and approaches the middle of the circle. He's dressed in a charcoal gray suit, and I bet he practiced his opening statement quite a few times. He's in pre-law, after all, and wants to be a lawyer. For him, this isn't my life. It's just practice. He doesn't even care if I'm a cheater or not.
"Members of the Board, the accusations against the Concerned are quite serious. On the morning of October twelfth, Carrie Mittel sat down, along with the other forty-two members of her class, for an Organic Chemistry mid-term examination. Except, she had an advantage over the other students. She had her smart phone with her, and she used it to access class notes. She was even so blatant about it as to get up and leave the room for a minute, for purposes that I will show to you. She then completed her test and turned it in as if she'd done nothing untoward. In fact, if it weren't for the observations of another student, she would have gotten away with it. Today, I intend to show how the Concerned blatantly cheated on her exam, and how she did it. Thank you."
Prescott sits down, and the Hearing President looks to me. "Miss Mittel, as the Concerned, you have the opportunity to speak. Do you have a statement?"
I nod, stand up, and say my peace. It’s not as eloquent as Mr. Prescott. I’m not a pre-law student who's practiced this many times, after all. But I get my point across—that I’m no cheater, and I have no idea how this evidence came to be.
I sit down, and Prescott starts his case. The first person up is Professor Vladisova, who tells about what she saw, and how she was approached by Chelsea Brown after the mid-term. "At that point, I remembered Miss Mittel leaving the room with her phone at one point, and staying outside the room for about five minutes."
Next up is Chelsea Brown, and I'm shocked at the fairy tale she spins. By the time she finishes, I know I’m screwed. I literally have nothing in my defense other than my word and the fact that I already had an almost 4.0 GPA. The rest of the proceeding is merely a formality, at this point. I would need a miracle.
And in my miracle walked. Duncan strolls in, wearing a suit of his own, something custom-tailored, charcoal gray, with a white shirt and a silver-gray tie that is knotted perfectly in what Dad calls a double Windsor. He walks up to my table and sets a briefcase down, and I wonder if he bought the whole get-up just for this. "Excuse me for being late."
"Excuse me?" Prescott asks. "What is Mr. Hart doing here?"
"Hi," Duncan whispers. "Sorry I'm a little late. How’s it going?”
“Can’t get any worse,” I reply. "Nice suit, though.”
Duncan winks and turns around to face the Board. “Is Carrie not allowed to have a student Advocate?"
The President thinks about it for a second, then nods. "With Miss Mittel's approval, of course."
; "Of course,” I quickly reply.
"Then so be it. Mr. Hart, please have a seat. Mr. Prescott, proceed."
The final piece of evidence that Prescott offers is the flash image of my phone, along with printouts of my browser cache. When I go to get up for my attempt to defend myself, Duncan puts his hand on my arm and shakes his head, smirking.
Duncan gets up and reaches into his attaché case. "Members of the Board, everything Mr. Prescott has presented here today sounds very compelling. I mean, if I were in your position, I'd be filling out the paper to throw Carrie out of school already. Why not? Let's hurry this up. I hear the cafeteria is serving pot roast today, and let's face it, as a football player, I love me some good pot roast."
There are a few chuckles, and Duncan has them in the palm of his hands. I guess all the press conferences he’s forced to do makes him a natural. “The problem is that everything Mr. Prescott has said today . . . well, it's just not true. It's not his fault—he’s just been misled. Let's start with the accusation of phone usage, which this whole thing hinges on.”
Duncan goes back to his briefcase and takes out a thick brown folder, the kind that you sometimes see people turn in reports with. "I'd like to submit this report, from NuTech Labs."
"What is this, Mr. Hart?" the President asks as Duncan hands it over.
"I just got this report twenty-five minutes ago. It's why I was late. The report's pretty long, and it's got a ton of technical jargon and stuff, but the summary on the first two pages is so simple, even a football player could understand it. NuTech is one of the best firms in California in the realm of computer forensics, and their experts have testified in over two hundred cases in California courts. I'm sure you can verify this easily enough."
"We'll take your word for it. Continue."
Duncan nods, and he turns back and walks to me, ready to spring his play. "At hearing what Carrie has been accused of, I hired NuTech to do a full analysis of two phones. First, hers. Second, mine. Carrie has stated that when she left the classroom, she was making a personal call. That call was to me, as well as the text message that preceded it. I know Carrie's phone was looked at by the Western Computer Science Department, but no offense to the comp sci majors. They can't do what NuTech can. The summary essentially says that Carrie’s phone was manipulated, and that all of this evidence is planted.”
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