Odessa, Texas.
Permian High School.
Home of the Panthers.
The Mojo.
In America, Texas is synonymous with football. And in Texas, football means Permian.
Or at least it once did. But the last seven or eight years have seen the Mojo without their -- well -- mojo.
But that's all changing. Darren Allman, a member of the 1987 Mojo, is now head coach. He's guiding his quarterback, Tate Smith, to return the Mojo to their former glory.
Mojo Rising. That's their mantra now.
* * *
Thirty-five teenagers milled about, moving in and out of the shower room, in various stages of undress. Locker room banter melded into a constant din, echoing off the tiled walls and metal lockers
The stench of grass and dirt and sweat permeated the locker room, amplified by the steam billowing from the showers.
"Smith!" Mr. Faircloth yelled across the locker room. "Get your ass in here!"
Tate hurried from the showers, a small white towel wrapped around his trim waist. He ran to his locker and quickly pulled a pair of boxers over his muscular legs, up his thighs, before hastening toward the coach's office.
"Yes, sir?" he asked, standing in the doorway, water dripping down his well-defined, hairless chest. He brushed errant locks of hair from his eyes, wiping his hands on the damp towel.
"Got a few new things for you, Mr. Smith," Coach Allman intoned in a slow drawl. He was leaning back in his chair, feet propped on the scarred desk.
A conspiratorial smile spread across the senior's face. "Oh, yeah?" he asked. His body relaxed; he had been ready to be dressed down following his poor performance during practice that afternoon.
"Yeah. Mr. Faircloth and I conjured up a few ideas over the last coupla weeks. Actually, some stuff we used to run here years ago, just updated."
Tate's eyes shifted from Coach Allman to the offensive coordinator, Brandon Faircloth. "I'm all ears, Coach."
Coach Allman laughed softly. "I'm sure you are, Tate. I'm sure you are. Tell ya what, though. It's late. It's hot. You had a rough practice. Swing by the house tonight. Pick up the additions to the playbook."
The eagerness on the eighteen-year-old's face was apparent.
"Now, don't go gettin' all excited. We'll start runnin' some of this new stuff tomorrow and see how it works out. No promises. We gotta see if you can make it work." Darren Allman paused and then swung his legs off the desk. "But pick up the pages. Take a look. We'll talk about it in the mornin'."
Always eager, Tate nodded and then retreated to his locker and finished dressing, slipping into a pair of tan cargo shorts and a white polo shirt. On the way out to his pickup truck, he passed by the Permian band practicing the theme song to Hawaii 5-0.
* * *
The August sun was on its downward slide to the west, receding but no less intense for it.
After running a few errands for his mother and getting his truck washed, Tate pulled into the Allmans' driveway and shut the engine off. Pushing the door open, he dropped from the cab and casually made his way toward the front door of the ranch style home. He punched the doorbell as a trickle of sweat rolled down his back.
A few moments later, the door swung open and a gust of cool air surged from behind the screen and caressed his clean-shaven cheeks.
"Hi, Mrs. Allman," he announced with a crooked grin. On the other side of the screen, she stood barefoot with her hips cocked to one side. One hand held the door, the other perched at the top of her hip.
"And hello to you, Mr. Smith," she welcomed him, snow white teeth gleaming from between wet, shiny lips, set off by the healthy tan that highlighted high cheekbones and classic beauty.
"Uh, Coach asked me to stop by and pick up a few inserts for the playbook." Tate swallowed hard. Melanie Allman was a sight to behold; she never failed to bring a lump in his throat. A sleeveless cotton blouse, matching the color of her straight teeth, hung loosely on her torso, but still failed to disguise the ample chest that lie beneath.
"Did he now?" Coach Allman's wife asked rhetorically, a sly smile creeping along the features of her face. She leaned into the screen door and pushed it open, stepping aside to allow the young man to enter. "I think I know just where he left them."
"Um, is he here? Coach Allman, I mean?" The feminine scent of the older woman permeated his nostrils as he squeezed by her. The bicep of one of his arms brushed lightly against a jutting breast; the short blonde hairs along his forearm stood on end and his skin tingled.
"Of course, Tate," she responded, her bright blue eyes showing amusement. "He and Mr. Faircloth are out back finishing the patio. Let me just get the stuff for you from the den and then you can go on out and say hi."
Tate waited in the foyer for Mrs. Allman to return. When she did, she directed him through the kitchen and out a screen door that led to the backyard. Tate stepped outside and found Mr. Faircloth using a wet saw to cut a brick paver in half. Coach Allman knelt a few feet away, gently tapping an already-cut paver into place with a rubber mallet.
"Coach, Mr. Faircloth," he said, announcing his presence.
Both men looked up from their tasks. "How you doin', boy?" Mr. Faircloth asked, tapping the "off" button and raising the protective goggles from his eyes.
"Awright. Just came by to pick up the extra pages for the playbook. Mrs. Allman said y'all were back here workin'. Thought I'd say hi."
Coach Allman stood and shook the boy's hand before calling out to his wife. "Mel, honey, would ya bring the boy a Coke?"
"Sure thing," they all heard from somewhere in the house.
As Coach Allman explained his plans for the patio, Mrs. Allman leaned out the back door. "Need a glass, sweetie?"
"Nah. Can's just fine," he called over his shoulder. Behind him, he heard the screen door clatter shut.
She padded silently across the yard, still barefoot, and handed him the can.
"Thanks, ma'am," he offered, taking the drink from between long, slender fingers painted the same bright red as the can.
"My pleasure," she said before turning on her heel. Her ash blonde tresses, gathered in an invisible rubber band, whipped around. As she sauntered back toward the house, Tate's eyes locked on her figure. Long, tanned legs, lightly muscled, disappeared beneath a khaki skirt that was wrapped loosely around a tight bottom.
His longing stare was broken by the small laughter of the two older men.
"Don't go gettin' any ideas, sonny," Coach Allman warned him lightheartedly. "Been mine for over a decade now. Will always be mine."
* * *
His words floated to Melanie's ears as she crossed the yard. She felt herself flush. Not from embarrassment, but frustration and anger. She had married Darren soon after high school. He had a promising career ahead of him and was going to get them out of Odessa. All the way to Dallas, or Houston maybe. But now, years later, here they were, back in Odessa.
'Goddammit,' she thought, purposely putting a little more sway in her hips as she approached the screen door. 'I hate this fuckin' town. Hate the summer, and the fall even more. Hotter than shit out here.'
She pulled the screen door open and stepped inside. She wiped a trickle of sweat from her brow that had formed during her brief sojourn outside. Her nipples thickened against the cool contrasting air inside.
'And then football season comes. Double sessions during the summer . . . practice and planning once school starts. A football widow if there ever was one.'
Yet every weekend, there'd she sit, the prim, doting wife, cheering for the Mojo.
Mrs. Allman made herself busy in the kitchen, cleaning up.
'Fuckin' asshole. I didn't sign up for this shit. I didn't sign up for football. I signed up for the big city, glamorous restaurants and fucking on the balcony of our high-rise apartment while the nanny takes care of the kids. Not this go-nowhere town, Olive Garden and no sex from July to December.'
She stood at the kitchen sink washing dishes -- Darren had promised to fix the dishwasher two weeks ago but it wasn't done yet; football season, he had explained -- her eyes directed through the narrow window above the sink, toward the patio where the three jocks stood talking. Her focus was somewhere in the middle ground as she fumed over the cards life had dealt her.
'Always be mine,' she thought. 'Fuck you, Coach.' Her mind bit on the last word.
A laugh broke her from the conversation she was having with herself and she focused on the trio. Tate had his back to her, the middle of his shirt darkened from sweat. She wondered briefly if his little teenaged ass was as firm and tight as the rest of his eighteen-year-old body. She smirked at her debauchery and her imagination conjured up an image of a thick, sweaty cock packed tightly in his shorts.
Her distended nipples throbbed at the thought. In her mind's eye, she saw herself on dimpled knees before the kid. He was wearing his football uniform, shoulder pads and all. His smelled of wet grass and heavy sweat. Black, anti-glare strips were affixed below each of his eyes. But his pants were undone at the waist and his thick cock bobbed up and down before her quivering lips; a thick strand of pre-cum dripped from the end of it. 'Suck it, Mrs. Allman,' she heard him say. She salivated and her full, glossy lips eased apart and closed over the head of his shaft and he moaned above her. 'Yeah,' he grunted. 'Coach's wife's a helluva cocksucker.' Then he laughed.
The laughter from outside shocked Melanie from her daydream. She had been scrubbing the frying pan so vigorously that when she jumped, it fell from her tightly gripping fingers into the sink, splashing soapy water against her stomach and chest.
"Oh, fuck," she groaned. She reached for a towel and a trickle of feminine juices threatened to release and ease down the inside of her thighs. She was dabbing at the soft flesh of her inner thigh when she caught movement from the kitchen window. Her husband and Mr. Faircloth shook hands with Tate and the young man ambled back toward the house while the two older gentlemen went back to work on the patio.
The screen door creaked open and Tate stepped inside.
"Got everything you need, hon?" she asked sweetly, rubbing the towel over the sodden fabric covering her trim torso.
Tate stopped short upon seeing Mrs. Allman rubbing her breasts. She dropped her hand and set the towel on the counter. The soaked, white cotton had plastered against her chest, accentuating the size of her breasts. The hardened state of her nipples, though ensconced in a bra, was apparent to his feasting eyes.
"Uh, yeah. I do. Thanks, Mrs. Allman. And thanks for the Coke."
