Roger whirled towards Matt. “These look more your size, pretty boy. You’re a 32-inch waist, am I right?”
Matt was sick of Roger. Wished he’d smashed his face the first time he said “fag.” Disgusted that Roger was polluting Todd’s thong with his tiny hands.
Matt shoved him backwards, causing him to drop the thong. “For someone who claims not to wear man panties, you sure seem to know a lot about them! Are they yours, Roger? I mean they do have a small pouch, and, let’s face it, you don’t exactly have a big package.”
Roger’s eyes blazed pure hate. He balled his fists, squared his shoulders in preparation for a charge.
Matt braced for impact. This was not his first brawl. These things were common enough in locker rooms. Settling scores. Establishing pecking orders.
He knew there would be less than thirty seconds of real fighting before the other players rushed in and separated them. Half a minute. Enough time for him to execute a one-handed headlock followed by 3-4 quick upper cuts to Roger’s face. The next time that fucker said “fag” he’d be lisping it through swollen lips.
Chapter 23: A Fork in the Road
Monday, September 18, 1995
Afew hours later, Matt sat in his dorm room. His right hand ached. Its knuckles were bruised and bloody. That was the least of his problems. When he’d tried sitting across from Idabel at dinner, his friend had mumbled that he wasn’t hungry after all. Went and scraped his food into the trash, ambled away. That was when Matt realized he had seriously fucked up. Idabel was not someone whose mother had ever had to tell him to clean his plate.
Welcome to life in the miserable AMP.
Who could have guessed that a pair of thong underwear could wreak such havoc?
Roger charged into Matt, his head ramming Matt’s chest.
Matt’s left arm snaked out, yanked Roger into a headlock.
“STOP!” Coach bellowed.
Matt reluctantly obeyed. He released Roger and stepped away from the fray. There would be other opportunities to settle this score.
Roger staggered backward.
A sullen hush settled over the room.
“A few minutes ago, no one would take responsibility for these underthings,” Coach said, pointing to the thong underwear and fishnet stocking. “Now I’ve got three suspects.”
Roger scowled. “Idabel and Mustang confessed. I didn’t.”
Coach crossed his arms, glared at Roger. “Even after I told you I didn’t want to play Cinderella’s Prince, you took the role and tried figuring out whether the underwear fit Idabel or Mustang!”
“Even if I did, that doesn’t make me a suspect.”
“Agreed,” Coach said. “Then you got hoisted by your own petard. Mustang turned the tables on you! I wonder if maybe he’s right and the man panties are yours.”
Coach’s face was red with anger. He snatched up the thong underwear, held them out towards Roger. “Want to see if your foot fits into this glass slipper, Cinderella?”
Roger shook his head, stared at the floor.
Matt almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
Coach nodded at Roger. “Good choice. Now I can deal with the other two nitwits who are doing their level best to ruin my chances at a winning season.”
Coach let the thong underwear fall to the floor. He held up a finger. “How many fingers is that, Idabel?”
“One,” Idabel said.
“Mustang? Do you see more than one finger?”
Matt shook his head.
