The Franchise

I dribbled, keeping one eye on the defender, shielding the ball with my body, looking for one of the other players to come open in the middle. But there was someone in the lane every time one of them made a cut, and the shot clock was winding down. Time to make something happen.

I focused on my defender, saw his eyes watching me. I feinted to the right; he took a half-step to cut me off, but didn't over-commit. He was a good defender, so he expected me to fake one way then go the other. I gave him what he expected to see—I crossed over to my left hand, and took a step towards the inside. Now he bit, moving strong to cut me off and going for the steal, coming up with nothing but air as I deftly executed a spin, switched back to the right hand and drove through the space he had just vacated. Seemingly in slow motion, the center left his man as did the forward on the wing, moving to intercept me on the way to the hole. I was giving up eight inches to one and four to the other, but that was OK because I wasn't shooting anyway—they just didn't know that. I took one more step and elevated, looking like was going to drive on the center. I thought he might jump up and go for the block, but because he thought I was driving he stood his ground, thinking to take the charge. That just made it easier for me. I didn't drive; I jumped straight up. The forward coming across hadn't committed, and now jumped, trying to reach his hand into my face to block a pull-up jumper that never came. Instead, I softly lobbed the ball high to the left of the basket, where the center that was now left undefended was already going up. He received the ball and slammed it through with a two-handed tomahawk jam. The crowd jumped to its feet screaming, whereas I calmly backpedaled on defense, low-fiving the center on his way by. I ended up the game with only 16 points but 12 assists (my season averages were 21 and 8). More importantly we won the game, improving to 8-2 in the conference and tied for first place.

People tell me I get my ball skills from my mom. I think I get my quickness from my mom, a former pro cheerleader and still an amazing athlete in her mid-40s, but I think that my dad deserves more credit than he gets. I think I get my shooting and basketball smarts I get from BOTH sides of the family. Either way I won the genetic lottery; a four-year starter at a big-time program, a virtual lock to be all-conference for the third time, projected to go in the mid-first round in the June pro draft. That is, if I'm drafted at all. See, there's a bit of a problem: Association rules prevent anyone from having a significant interest in more than one franchise. That rule almost never comes into play, but it does for me. My name is Davis Rutherford IV, and I am the heir to pro basketball's Jammers franchise.

Ever since I was able to walk, I have lived and breathed Jammers basketball. Even if there weren't a rule, I've made it abundantly clear that I will NOT play for any other team. If someone else drafts me trying to blackmail my dad (as GM) to overpay for me, I've already said I have no problem sitting out and working in the front office until I can play for us—but it would piss me off bigtime. I passed up the chance to play for the very best teams in the country coming out of high school, opting instead for a medium-size private college that allowed me to stay in town just to be close to the Jammers. Not a bad consolation prize, because it's a historical basketball school (no football program anymore) that plays in the powerhouse Eastern Major conference. Now that I was a senior, we were the best team the school had seen in 30 years. I almost wasn't part of it; I wanted to declare for the draft a year early because the Jammers need a point guard, and that's what I play. We hadn't had a good one since Marshall Jacobs retired when I was a kid. I'm already better than current starter Casey McKutcheon—I know, because I kick his ass whenever I scrimmage with the team. But my dad insists that the long-term future of the Jammers is more important than one year, and insisted that I get my degree first. I'll need it to run the team someday, and I know he's right.

As the team was huddling at center court to celebrate another win, I was sneaking a peek at the sidelines, as often I do, watching my favorite cheerleader: Kelly Callahan. Long straight red hair, long lean legs to match, and a killer body in-between. Jumping up and down, holding her pom-poms over her head celebrating, naturally widened the separation between the two pieces of her uniform, showing even more of the fine porcelain skin of her midriff, and the delicate curve of her waist... wouldn't it figure, the girl I really want is about the only girl on campus that won't give me any play. We even have a class together, a low-probability coincidence at a major college, especially since she's a year behind me and in a different major. I sit behind her, and while she's always polite, she's also clearly standoffish. Everyone knew that her cheer partner Chad was her boyfriend, but they also didn't look like any boyfriend and girlfriend I've ever seen. They never seemed to show any affection, and he seemed more uncomfortable lifting her than the other guys that aren't lifting girlfriends. He kept an eye on everything she did like a hawk, though—a little scary, that dude, but most guys didn't take him to be too serious of a roadblock. Kelly, on the other hand, cold stymied any other guy's ambitions on her—especially mine.

I became aware that I too was also being watched. Glancing to my left, I saw one of the other cheerleaders giving me the eye. Megan was blonde, cute, short, bouncy, she had endless energy on the court--and in bed. When our eyes met, she winked, knowing that I was going to drop by her apartment later. Yeah, Kelly is the girl I want, but what am I gonna do? Sit around and mope about it, or drop in on Megan for some guaranteed pussy? Easy call in my book. Yet I also know that attitude is the main reason why Kelly consistently gives me the cold shoulder.

My dad says that when he went to college, most people just knew him as "Dave" and had no idea who he was. Hell, my mom was a Jammer Spirit girl and dated him for a month before she found out. I know he tells me that because he thinks I should do the same, but I can't—even if I wasn't the heir to a basketball team, everyone on campus would still know me because this is a basketball school and I'm the biggest star this team has had for a long time. That alone makes me very attractive to a lot of girls, so I get LOTS of unsolicited offers—and frankly, I don't see any reason why I should turn them down. My mom despises my "womanizing" and my dad worries about the financial implications of my knocking some girl up. He has a valid point, which is why I buy condoms in industrial quantities. I think maybe girls just assume my family is swimming in money because we own a basketball team, but the reality is my branch of the family inherited the team, and all of the other Rutherford assets went to the other kids to balance things out. Thus the team is all we have; we NEED the team to turn a profit every year to stay solvent. A couple of bad years in a row and we might be forced to sell the team great-grandpa founded, which would be devastating. But the helpful girls that spread their legs for me don't know that, and I don't see any reason why I should tell them.

Hey—I make no bones about the fact that I'm taking advantage of these girls. But in my defense, I never lie about my intentions; if a girl wants to know if she'll mean something to me if we go to bed, I come right out and tell her I'm only in it for a good time and usually that will be that. Most girls don't ask about that up front, though, and sometimes when they do it can lead to hard feelings. And unfortunately, that turned out to be the night that Megan wanted to talk about us, and since as a matter of principle I won't lie to get a girl in bed, my visit was very brief. And I felt bad because Megan did come away from it with hard feelings—but my nuts were also aching to twitch if you know what I mean, so against my better judgment I called in Plan B.

Simply put, Tanya was my booty call girl. A member of the current Jammer Spirit dance team, she was bound and determined to land me for herself. I don't think there's anything she wouldn't do if she thought it might improve her chances of "landing" me. She always sent me a text after my games saying how good I played; usually I just ignored the, but tonight I replied: Thx. Going out to the Distillery to celebrate. I didn't drink during the season because it was against team policy at my school, but I still liked to go to bars because the women that went there did. I knew that once she got my text, Tanya would be at the bar within the hour, looking for me, barely dressed and ready to go. I imagined she'd wear fetish-height heels, a scandalously short skirt, and an easily removable top that provided a good view of her luscious cleavage. She'd take me to her place, and I wouldn't be one step in her door before she was on her knees sucking my dick. I'd let her deep throat me for a while, then I'd take her to sofa or maybe the bed... I thought I'd probably head straight for the lube tonight. I knew where she kept it--a tube in the living room AND in the bedroom. I'd grease up, and then I'd shove my dick between the tight cheeks of her ass, forgoing her pussy altogether. I'd fuck her like a porn star--and tomorrow I'd feel guilty about it. Tanya's ambition made it SO easy to manipulate her; she just didn't get that letting me fuck her like a whore was not the road to becoming Mrs. Rutherford. But for me, on a night like this, it was also very fortunate.

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"Hey Kelly," I said in casual greeting as I took the seat next to her in class on Monday. She gave me a stare that could freeze lava. "Whoa? What did I do?" I asked, having a pretty good idea of the answer.

"I think that what you did to Megan was despicable," she answered coldly.

"Oh? And what exactly do you think that I 'did' to Megan?" I challenged.

"You know what you did," was the frosty response.

"You're right, I know what I did--and you don't. The facts are quite simple: she invited me to her apartment; I went. She invited me into her bed; I accepted. She invited me back; I accepted again. There was never any talk relationships or anything until Saturday, at which time I told her straight up that I wasn't looking for anything serious. I really am sorry that there was a misunderstanding; I wish she had said something sooner if she was looking for more, and the whole thing could have been avoided."

Kelly regarded me skeptically. "Oh right, and you're completely innocent of course. She was the spider, you were the fly. You NEVER put the moves on her, gave her a line, you never led her to believe something that wasn't true..."

"No I didn't," I replied stonily, "I never do—I don't have to. Everyone on campus knows who I am, and a lot of girls find that very attractive. Some girls will go to great lengths to attract my attention."

"I am not impressed with your money or your connections," she sneered.

"I know you're not," I agreed, "and that's just one of the reasons why I find you so intriguing. You're not satisfied to know that I'm Dave Rutherford, basketball star. You want to know what kind of guy I am, and I like that about you.

"I can see what kind of guy you are, Davis Rutherford, and you disgust me."

"Dave, please. Or Davey. And no you don't--you have no idea what I'm like. I would ask that you give me a chance to show you who I really am before you go about judging me."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you should let me take you somewhere and get to know me a little. You'll find out I'm not what the sports pages and rumor mills say I am."

"No thanks. I have a boyfriend," she added sourly.

"So they say. Don't take this the wrong way, you two seem to have about as much affection as two boxers in a ring." I immediately regretted saying that, because I figured I had just pissed her off and put her in the position of having to defend her boyfriend. To my surprise, she simply looked away. I thought about saying something else, but just then class started. She bolted out the door as soon as class ended, so I never had the chance to follow up.

For the next few weeks I only saw Kelly on the sidelines or in class. I always tried to get to class early to get in a few words with her; she did always talk to me, and after that confrontation she didn't seem so hostile to me. Then came tournament time.

The conference tournament was first. We went in as a two seed, and survived a tough semi-final before winning the conference tournament, guaranteeing us a bid in the Big Dance (although at 25-6 we would have gotten in as an at-large team anyway). We were a little miffed that after winning the tournament in one of the most competitive conferences in the country we were only the two seed in the Midwest while the regular-season champion we had beaten was a one. We took that anger out by steamrolling our first three opponents. We weren't really tested until the conference final; but we were closer to closer to home than the one seed, and with help from a partisan crowd eked out a squeaker tin win the region. We were one of the last four teams left in the tournament, would be travelling to play for a chance at the national title the following week.

That Sunday night two of the cheerleaders held a party in their apartment to celebrate. The players were invited, and most of the cheerleaders were there—in fact, the only one I can say for certain I didn't see was Chad. I almost didn't go because I was so far behind in school from all that travelling, but I went anyway just in case Kelly was there. I didn't really expect that she would be, and was very pleasantly surprised to see that she was. She congratulated me on my play over the weekend, and of course we were all excited to be one of the last four teams standing. I mentioned how behind I was in all my classes. Of course she was too, but the cheerleaders hadn't gone out east for the conference tournament so she was at least a week ahead of me. I asked if she could help me catch up on what I missed. She agreed, and in the spirit of the moment she volunteered her phone number. "Great, I really appreciate it," I teased, "but now that I have your number, can I call you for other reasons too?"

She frowned but didn't really seem unhappy. "I have a boyfriend, remember."

"Oh yeah, that's right..." I pretended to have forgotten. "So where is Chad, anyway."

"Chad doesn't approve of parties," she answered curtly.

"Doesn't approve of parties? What's there to not approve of? We're all athletes and cheerleaders here—no one's even drinking because of the athletic policy!"

"I know," she answered ruefully, "sometimes I think he's a little TOO uptight about things."

"You THINK?" I exaggerated. "Let me confirm that for you, 'kay?" She looked away, a little embarrassed. "So what's it gonna take for you to give ME a chance to show you how to loosen up and have a little fun?"

She frowned lightly, but her eyes remained alive. "Dave, I hear about the things you do. I'm not interested in being another notch on your holster."

"Who said anything about being a notch on a holster?" I argued. "Do you really think that I'm only interested in you to sleep with you?"

"You were only interested in Megan to sleep with her," she pointed out.

"But YOU are not Megan!"

"Oh right, and you tried to convince me you didn't use any lines," she accused. "What do you call that?"

"The truth," I said seriously. "See—that's exactly what I'm talking about. If you don't realize that I'd be quite happy to stick to one girl if I found the right one, you obviously don't know me."

"Oh right, and you're trying to convince me that maybe I'm that one," she scoffed.

"I can tell you this—I'm interested in you in a way I never was with your friend." I think she could tell from my tone that I was being dead serious, so she did not argue the point. That's when we really started to talk. It was a major breakthrough; I had her attention for a good hour, and we found out a lot of things about each other. I told her about my family, she told me about hers. She came from a big Irish Catholic family (I could have guessed that). I think I surprised her by being more interested in hearing about her than in telling her about myself.

Eventually, as the party got too loud we headed out on the balcony to keep talking. For the first time, I felt like maybe she was actually listening to me, giving me a chance. Then, without even realizing it, I put my arm on her shoulder. We were talking, getting to know each other, it just seemed natural. Kelly immediately froze up and removed my arm. "Please don't," she pleaded. "I just don't feel comfortable with that kind of thing. You know, I came to this school because it was Catholic. I guess it's opened my eyes to find that most of the other girls here don't seem to take that to mean the same things I do. But that's still the way I am."

"The bible never says thou shalt not hold hands," I pointed out.

"No, it doesn't," she agreed, "but I don't believe in intimacy without commitment. Even things that a lot of people wouldn't consider intimacy. I'm sorry."

"I can respect that," I agreed blandly. I continued to look out at the street. Kelly looked at me, seeming a little surprised. I caught her, and she quickly looked out towards the street. "What?" I asked.

"Oh, nothing," she replied.

I gazed at her. "You thought I was going to bail on you when you said that, didn't you?" I accused.

The look in her eyes was defensive, then softened. "To be perfectly honest, yes."

"See? It just goes to show that you don't know me. Why won't you give me a chance to set you straight? Go to dinner, lunch even, maybe a movie..."

"Dave, I DO have a boyfriend."

"Kelly," I replied, "to be perfectly honest, I hug my sisters with more passion than I see him show you!"

She looked away with a complex look I didn't understand. "I didn't say he was a perfect boyfriend, but he is still my boyfriend. Look, I really should go," she suddenly added.

"I'm sorry. Since I didn't run away from you, are you now feeling the need to run away from me?"

She opened her mouth to say something, then swallowed the sound before it came out. "I really need to go. Good luck next week." She patted me on the back.

"I'll see you Monday. And I look forward to seeing you on the sidelines at the semifinals." She just smiled, then turned, left the balcony and headed out the door. I was still standing out there; I saw her emerge from the building a few minutes later and walk briskly away. When the turned the corner at the sidewalk, she snuck a peek up at me, trying to make it seem like she was just watching where she was going. I wasn't sure what to think.

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In the semis, we played one of the Mid-Atlantic powerhouses that I had turned down in order to stay close to home. Their guard and I both played well and more or less cancelled each other out. We had the size to match them, but our bigs didn't have their quickness. Our guys got in foul trouble early; even I had to sit the last five minutes of the first half with two personals. We were down a dozen at the half. We cut it to within three a few times in the second half, but never were able to turn the corner. It was a great game, but we lost, and just like that my college career was over.

As I sat dejected on the bench, I noticed our cheerleaders huddled up, teary and consoling each other. I saw Kelly, a tear in her eye, looking sympathetically my way. She knew I was done; she had another year. Of course, the team wasn't going to be anywhere near this good, but she could at least hope. And there, in background, standing unmoved but watching her like a vulture, was Chad. I couldn't help but think there was something seriously wrong with that guy.