"Hey, after the game, we are going to meet at the Coffee Shack," demanded Brett in his assuming, head of the pack role. "I think I can get some "additives" for our coffee and I'm not talking about white-chocolate mocha syrup either."
"Do you think we can get some of the girls to come?" asked Brady.
"Wouldn't be fun without them, now would it? Maybe tonight will be your lucky night bro...," as Brett whacked Brady on the back of the head.
Brett was finally on the varsity team, maybe just by default since it was his senior year; he definitely wasn't the star player. He always seemed to be just on the fringe of things, scooting by with his pearly white smile, good looks and bank account. Within his group of friends, his dominance was evident. Brett did not live in the nice house with the white picket fence and the sign that said "Welcome Friends." No, Brett lived in the huge colonial mansion on the hilltop overlooking the town below with several housekeepers, a cook, a live-in nanny, and his parents...whenever they were in town. Brett had never had to work particularly hard because he really didn't have to. He would be attending his Dad's university, by-passing so many steps since his Dad was a big alumni supporter.
Brett drove his Mustang up the long curving driveway; his Dad's chauffeur was practicing his putting on the built-in putting green on the side of the house; the white golf balls scattered along the ground awaiting their turn.
"You gonna hook me up tonight, right?" Brett said as he approached the driver. "It’s our last game tonight...got to make it a special celebration."
"Not without my usual fee," said Martin, as he carefully eyed the ball towards the hole, giving his club a few air swings.
"...don't I always take care of you?"
"Whatever," said the driver, bothered by Brett's interruption. "I'll leave it in the pool house."
Later in the locker room, white football helmets scuffed and stickered with tackles and gained yardage were lined up on the bench in front of the lockers. The team was dressing and taping vulnerable joints and adding layers of pads for their upcoming game.
Brady made a comment to his buddies, “I’ll be so glad not to have to rip this white tape off any more. I don’t think I have a hair left on my legs anywhere.”
Laughingly, Brett announced to his team mates, "We'll be partying tonight, boys! ...be at the Coffee Shack after the game."
The bright white lights were no longer shining on the field below, as the exuberant teens piled into their cars and headed for the Coffee Shack. Brett had his "supplies" in his gym bag and to his own surprise, when he opened his bag he not only found the booze he had packed, but an envelope had been carefully attached with athletic tape around one of the bottles. It was filled with tiny white pills and a note.
"You owe me extra for these...enjoy," the note so assumingly scrawled.
Not only was the liquor mixed with the coffee drinks, but the pills were offered as well. Both relaxation and carousing stirred up in the youth as they piled back into their cars and headed for Brett's hilltop abode to finish off the night.
Three young men, two young ladies, all but one, the driver Brett, was thrown from the vehicle. Brett's mutilated body lies in mangled pieces somewhere within the pancaked metal of his Mustang. A note later crumpled in his pocket would confirm the debt and the debtor. Five white sheets now covered the deceased. Small white crosses now line the shoulder of the road; the price paid for an unwise game plan. Empty rolls of tape lie on the floor of the locker room; the irony of it all hitting the custodian as he mopped. He bent down to pick up the spool in front of Brady’s locker, shutting the door as he prayed for understanding.
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