Alistaire Too Ch. 02: Bridget & Petra

They had still already started playing when I reached the tennis center, which made it strange that Poppy was standing on the sidelines as I approached, watching courts four and five of the singles. As I got close, I took a moment to admire her ass in that short skirt. Then I realized that she wasn't wearing the uniform. Was she hurt?

"Hey Poppy!" I said, as I came up behind her. "Why aren't you in the lineup? Is something wrong?"

She turned around and looked at me with a smile. "Well, that was certainly flattering," she said. It wasn't Poppy, it was her mom!

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I think I was red as my uniform, from head to toe.

She laughed.

"Oh gosh, I'm sorry, Mrs. Fields!" I stammered. "From behind... I mean, your hair looks just like Poppy's. I..." I shut up. The First Rule of Holes is, when you find yourself in one, stop fucking digging.

"I should wear my tennis clothes more often," she said dryly. "But it is Miss Manning, not Fields."

What? Did Poppy's mom use her maiden name, or had Poppy's parents gotten fucking divorced and I hadn't heard? I for sure was not going to ask those questions! See the First Rule of Holes.

"How is the match going?" I asked, seeking safer ground.

"We lost the first set on One and Five," she said instantly, with a sigh. "All the other courts are still in the first." She looked sideways at me. "Poppy is up a break on Two."

I might have flushed a little, but didn't comment. "It's cool to see you paying attention to the whole match, not just your daughter's court."

She looked at me. "You didn't hear? Mrs. Raleigh has tennis elbow so bad that she can't even feed balls to the team. The school asked me to fill in as coach for the few matches left, since I have a background."

"Oh?" I asked. "Did you play in college or something?" I could not help but think to myself that she looked like she had played in college. Hell, she looked like she could play in college now.

"I never went to college," she replied easily, which, given the world of College Is Everything that I lived in, shocked me a little. She smirked a bit. "I was too busy for a couple years trying to make it on the Tour," she added blandly.

"No shit!" I blurted out. "Sorry. I mean, how come I don't remember seeing you play?"

Mrs. Fields, I mean Miss Manning, laughed again. She laughed a lot, it seemed, at least she seemed to laugh a lot at me. "Because I rose to my dizzying peak of number one hundred and thirty two in the world two years before you were born, at aged seventeen. And the only televised match I ever played was my one wild-card at the US Open, where I got double-bageled by Steffi Graf in the first round."

"You played Steffi Graf?" I asked, my mind boggled.

"I thought so, I'm not sure she did," she snorted.

"How as it?"

"Quick, just like..." she said, "It was quick."

I didn't believe it, but it sure sounded like I had just heard The Bus thumping over Poppy's dad...

A few cheers from spectators floated our way from the upper courts.

"I should go watch the top courts too," Mrs. Fie... Miss Manning said. "My daughter is up there." With that, she turned and walked up to the next row of courts. I followed. I had stopped by to see Poppy, and to be seen by her seeing her. But I was very content to let her mother take the lead on the way over to the next courts, if you know what I mean.

*

During the meet, I was entered in the 1,500 meter, and the 3,000, the two longest races in high school track and field. As an underclassman, I used to be routinely expected to do the Triple, which also included the 800 meter. Coach Parvis had only done that to me once as a senior, fortunately. I hated it every time he made me do it over the years. I was almost too tired to bang Carla's brains out that night. Almost.

I ran my guts out and finished a solid four seconds behind Donovan in the 1,500 to start the meet, nearly beating Rick, which actually had me almost dancing. In the 3,000 at the end, I was seven seconds off Donovan's pace. Again. Fuck Donovan.

Bridget won the 3,000 meter girls' race. Of course. At least she had to work to win that race. She had won the 1,500 going away.

After the 3,000, I wandered over to her where she stood bent over on the infield, hands braced on her knees and trying to catch her breath. "Nice fucking time," I said as I approached her. She looked up at me and I offered a fist to bump. We banged knuckles.

"Not... enough," she said. "I need another second or two if I want to be sure to be in the top heat at the New England's."

"At least you are going," I said. I would not qualify in any event. For the school to let an athlete go, they had to have run a minimum qualifying time three times in the season. With one meet left, I could not do that in any event. "And I still have not won a race," I added glumly.

"Yeah," Bridget panted, finally straightening up and stretching out her back. "I'm sorry about that. My fault."

"Your fault?" I asked in shock,

"Yeah. I forgot to bet you that you couldn't do it," she grinned, starting to walk back to the back stretch where we always watched the JV distance races together.

"Bridget," I said as we walked, keeping my voice low as athletes walked by all around us. "I appreciate the offer. But honestly? I've already seen the best tits at... the second best breasts at school, so that incentive is kind of played."

"Second best?" Bridget asked archly.

"I have not seen Sara Ericksen's, and since I value my life, I'm never going to," I said, referencing Sara's enormous boyfriend. I danced out of the way of the inevitable poke in the ribs, but Bridget just took two strides and said, "Yeah. Those are some awesome tits."

*

Saturday was it. Our last meet as seniors. Beth had, for her, a very mediocre meet. She anchored the 4x100 relay team to a win in the first event, but then took second in the 100, 200, and 400 meters. Ben was there and cheering for her like a little girl the whole time.

Carla won the high jump with a personal best, and placed in her other event, the javelin, for the first time in her career. She was so excited, I actually kissed her on the lips, if only briefly. No one caught it.

As for me...

Bridget walked up to me before the 4x100 relays which started the meet. We always watched over by the start of the second leg, because that is where the 1,500 would start immediately after.

"So, about our bet, Taylor..." Bridget said idly.

"Bridget," I sighed. "I'll take the bet, because, any day I see your boobs is a good day. But I'm not going to get a win today, just like every other day. Even your amazing rack is not enough motivation to make me do what I cannot do. I'm going to run my races, and hold my head high."

"Yeah," Bridget drawled. "I figured that my breasts weren't high enough stakes to get you over the top, loser. So I spent since Wednesday coming up with a bet to make you exceed your abilities."

I looked at her. At least this should be entertaining.

"Here's the bet," Bridget said. "If you do not win a race today, you take me wherever you ate out Jenn and almost got busted, and you will do the same to me." My eyes boggled at that. Considering that I would lose the bet if I took it, this was, on balance, not an incentive. I mean, I loved eating Bridget's pussy. And the whole Almost Getting Caught thing was a giant rush. But for all I knew, the person to actually catch us would be Dr. Felton, not Ms. Green.

Before I could even shake my head, Bridget went on. "But if you win so much as one race today, I will make sure you get that threesome you've been begging for."

!

Well now!

"Who did you get to buy in?" I asked, almost cautiously. "Beth or Carla?"

"Neither," Bridget grinned. "I couldn't get them to agree to do it, either with me or with each other. The bitches."

My eyes narrowed. "You aren't trying to maneuver me into that idea of Beth's to bring in Ben..."

"Again, no," Bridget laughed. "And yes, she offered again." I shuddered.

"Like I said," Bridget continued, "a threesome. How'd you like to have go with me and... Petra?"

I just looked at her. "No..." I breathed, wanting to believe.

She just nodded archly. "Yes... But only if you win a race, loser. Otherwise you lick me off in the middle of the quad, or wherever it was you and Jenn pulled off that stunt. Deal?"

Let's be real. I was never going to turn down this bet, but I did think about it a good long while. Explaining to my mother about getting busted for being caught licking the twat of 'that sweet Bridget girl' did not appeal...

"Deal," I said. "If you are sure you can deliver?"

Bridget shoved me not so gently. "Run fast, or lick hard, Alistaire. It's up to you."

*

I beat Rick in the 1,500! But Donovan was also entered and he held me off at the finish. Fucking fuck Donovan. I knew I was done. The losing wager was nothing too shabby, but I had wanted this shit.

Donovan was mercifully not in the 800, but that was his worst event anyway. It was me versus Rick. The God-damned sonofabitch was the only thing standing between me and a threesome. I'd never beaten him, but the time was now. The thing is, I'm a stronger distance runner than Rick. I just am. But he is a lot faster than I. The 800 is a race that can't decide if it is a distance event, or a sprint. If it ended up as a sprint today, Rick would win. If it decided to be a distance event, then I would have two hot girls all over each other and me.

At the gun, Rick went out like a flash and I almost grinned. If he went out too hard, he might not have his usual kick at the end of the race that almost always made the difference. I just pushed hard myself, trying to stay in range. The 800 hurts, but all I had to do was endure that pain for 120ish seconds, and my currently charmed existence would reach new heights.

I didn't let Rick get away. I stayed close enough on his heels for him to hear me the whole race, wearing on his nerves. Coming off the last turn, my very eyes were burning, and the rest of me felt like hot coals. I pushed somehow. I pulled even with Rick. I felt him lean in for a final sprint... and he didn't have it. I pulled a step ahead, then a full stride. He faltered, and I had him. A second wind descended on me, which is not a thing in the 800, and I ran free and easy for the finish line.

And then this short little shit Sophomore from the shit little school we were crushing that day just flew past me with fifteen shitty yards to go, breaking the tape ahead of me. That was supposed to be my tape.

I had not won. I ran hard past the finish as I has always been taught, not coming to a stop until twenty yards past the finish line. I put my hands on my hips and let my head droop, walking in circles.

"Fuck, dude. I'm sorry. I didn't mean..." Bridget began, having appeared out of nowhere.

I just raised a hand to silence her, head still bowed. I closed my eyes.

I had been so close. My Track career was over, and I had never won a race. Had it not been for three-quarters of a second, the last three-quarters of a second of my athletic life, I would have won. And I would have had a chance at a threesome!

Instead, I reflected that I had at least an hour more of the meet to cheer on my teammates and friends while I died inside. At least an hour.

I looked up at Bridget.

"Seriously, Al," she said, almost wringing her hands. "I didn't... I mean... I think we should..."

"Stop," I said. "Really. Stop. Excuse me." And I walked away from her.

Over by the finish line, Coach Parvis, my distance and Cross-Country coach for four years was taking to the Track head coach, Mr. Hendrix. Mr. Parvis had also taught me two years of German and was very generous in preserving my GPA.

"Mr. Taylor," he said, in his strangely whiny growl, "you have had a good run. I'm proud of you. Are you?"

"Enter me in the 3,000," I said.

Both of them just looked at me. "You have bitched at me like a granny who lost her dentures for four years whenever I asked you to run the triple," Parvis observed. "Now you really want to run one today? In this heat?"

"I have one more chance to win a race. I'd like to take it," I said. I did not explain my motivations. Mr. Hendrix would not have approved. Had Parvis been by himself, I might have told him, just to blow his mind. "Donovan hates the heat," I observed. Parvis snorted. "How about you let him know I said that about him when you tell him you are putting me in the race with him?" I asked my coach. "You could even tell him that I don't plan to pass him until the last half a lap."

Coach Parvis was all about the mind game. He had spent four years teaching me and my teammates about how to beat opponents with our brains as much as our legs. I had never won a race, but I had beaten a lot of individual runners who were better than me with gamesmanship that he had taught me. I loved his ideas and his stratagems. I am pretty sure that a lot of the success I had off the track that spring had been aided by what he had taught me on it. He just looked at me, then said to Mr. Hendrix, "Put him on the list." Then he whistled tunelessly as he wandered off in the direction of Donovan.

Mr. Hendrix laughed at me. "I don't know what has gotten into you this spring, Al, but I like it. You were always a stubborn little cuss, but this year you have gotten aggressive. I may have all my athletes change their names, Alistaire."

*

Donovan was giving me the side-eye at the start of the 3,000. Just the way I wanted it. I gave him the full-frontal eye. Daring him to worry about me.

Please understand, Donovan is a better runner than me. A much better athlete, overall. But he had nothing to prove that particular day, and I sure as fuck did. He was already going to the New Englands (barely), while I was not (deservedly). And he really did hate the heat. If I could just push him at the end of the race, there was a chance that he would just give up on a hot day where he had nothing at stake.

The gun went off and the two of us took the immediate lead. I had taken a quick look around at the start, just to make sure that little shit from the 800 wasn't in this race too. He was not.

I settled in a half stride back from Donovan, over his right shoulder. Exactly where he couldn't see me in his peripheral vision without obviously turning his head. And I stuck to him there, like grim death for six laps. After four of them, I was seriously questioning my life decisions. I had forgotten in the heat of my decision that I also hate the heat. The 800 may only be a short race, but I had run it that day, and Donovan had not.

Bridget had actually blushed when I had walked back to her and told her I had asked in to the 3,000. Now, as I approached the start line out on the back stretch for the fourth time around, she was standing, arms folded under her boobs, right next to the track. As I grumpily slogged by in Donovan's wake, I heard her sing quietly, "Three is a magic number..."

I was still slogging, but I wasn't grumpy anymore.

We ground around the turn and onto the home straightway with two laps remaining. Then I heard a clear voice call out, "Come on, Alistaire!" I didn't recognize it, and it came from the bleachers, not the inside of the track, where most teammates cheered from. I glanced up.

Petra was standing on the lowest bench, pumping her fist at me.

Well, well, well. Things got a little more real. More confusing, but more real.

Donovan shot another look over his shoulder at me. I had not moved an inch relative to him for three laps.

We came off the first turn and hit the back straightaway. Donovan checked me again. He was checking on me a lot. I didn't look behind myself at all, I just listened for footsteps, like Donovan should have been doing, and could tell there was no one anywhere close to us. It was him and me.

I had told Coach Parvis that I would take D on the last turn, but it occurred to me that if I let him have the lead that long, he'd probably just decide to push through the pain and win the race. If he wanted to win this race, he would. It was that simple. I had to convince him it wasn't worth it.

The idiot checked me again after only fifty meters. When he turned his head back forward, secure in the knowledge that his personal barnacle was going nowhere, I immediately passed him. I didn't speed up a little, I hit a full sprint, as lightly on my feet as possible. His ears didn't register my increased pace until I slid past him and by the time he fully realized what was happening and tried to pick up his own pace in response I had a full stride on him and slid in onto the curb in front of him. I immediately slowed back to our original pace. He closed half the distance, but didn't want to swing out around to pass me back while we were on the turn. As we hit the curve, I pushed a tiny bit, and when we came off onto the second to last run down the front straight, I knew he was looking up to see I was somehow a stride and a half in front.

All I had to do was keep my form on this straightway, make D believe I wasn't going to pack it in, and he might give up. That was my chance.

"Come on Alistaire!" I heard again. I turned my head to Petra and waved. I fucking waved in the middle of a race. I instantly knew it was a dumb move. It would probably piss off Donovan. I didn't want him mad.

But Petra was a sight for sore eyes, and a thought for a sore brain. Lots of thoughts. I thought about drowning in a sea of mammalian flesh. I thought about harmonized moans of pleasure. I thought about maybe even two mouths on my cock at the same time...

What I no longer thought about was pain or fatigue.

"Go. Go," I suddenly heard from Bridget, who was standing at the back curve, 170 meters from paradise. "You've got him." I had coasted through half a lap almost effortlessly, and I was still in the lead. And D was still behind me. In the middle of the turn, I risked a quick glance over my inside shoulder and picked him up. He was only four meters behind me. He wasn't giving up. Shit.

But I also caught sight of Bridget sprinting across the football field inside the track toward the finish line. She should not have been doing that. As soon as my race was over, she had to run hers. But it made me really, really want her to meet me, and not god-damned Donovan, there first at the finish line.

And Petra was actually jumping up and down. That was extra motivational. She might not seem to have the boobs that Bridget did, but she didn't strap hers down either, and they moved exquisitely. It was just a momentary flash of a picture, but it certainly added to my motivational puzzle palace.

Donovan kicked... and so did I.

*

Bridget just slapped my ass in glee as I gasped for air, then jogged off jauntily across the field to the starting line for her own 3,000 meters of hell. Beth almost tackled me and gave me such a big enthusiastic hug. I'm pretty sure we were both a whisker from just flat-out kissing so hard we would be making out in front of everyone. That would have been legendary, but sub-optimal. Fortunately, we kept it together and simply hugged exuberantly.

When she stepped away, Coach Parvis leaned in to me. "How's that Taylor? Win a race, get a hug from a pretty girl. Things are looking up for you."

Yes, yes they were. Maybe.

I walked down the straightaway, toward the high jump pit. Carla was at that moment taking her second shot at that personal best I already told you the she was going to make. But I was really aiming for Petra. She was still on the first row on the bleachers, waiting for Bridget to run her last race in high school.

"Hey Alistaire," Petra said, a little subdued as I approached. "Congratulations."