Section E, row 36, seat number 1. On the aisle, at the 30 yard line. How long had it been since Blake had sat in a stadium on a simple plank with stripes and numbers to indicate butt-slots? Since high-school at least. Years. Hell, it'd been decades!
He scanned the stadium, just beginning to fill, only a few scattered seat-numbers occupied so far. He eyeballed the sky: unpleasant gray, likely rain, a match for his mood. Sullen, sulky. Rain-in-the-soul. The cold November wind whipped leftover paper and other minor trash around and through the strap-iron supports for the planks. Cleaning crew needed a refresher course.
He was the first arrival for row 36, way early for the kickoff, an easy concession to traffic was to spend a few extra minutes in the near-empty stadium. His stomach growled at him gently, reminding him of missed lunch, and his bladder made itself known. He trotted up the stairs to level 1, ducked into the concession-and-pee area beneath the upper tier of seating, located the big "MEN" sign. Inside, he looked about: the stadium was antique, totally traditional, but renovations were planned, actually underway. Maybe someday they'd put in real seats?
At least the facilities were good now, it seemed that everything save the bleacher-seating had been stripped and upgraded... including the restroom. White tile, good lights, plenty of stalls: he hoped the designers had enough on the ball to put in plenty of seats in the women's rooms, too. Even two big-doored wheelchair stalls at the rear, against the outside wall. A minor design flaw, that placement - really shouldn't make the wheelchairs trundle through all the traffic in order to get to their stalls at the back of the room.
He stood at the urinal, watching the yellow stream, considering his mood. He shook out the last drops, zipped his fly.
Mood? Maybe food would help. He got a hot-dog, chips, soda, went back into the blast. Now there were more people. His second ticket, seat number two, gave him a buffer zone against companionship: it would be good to lose himself in the roar of the crowd, the infectious enthusiasm of forty thousand people, but he didn't really want a next-door strange bottom, not today.
He sat, shrugged off his pack with its ponchos and binoculars and gloves. He had, once upon a time, been a good fan and always came prepared. He munched, watching the people mill, eddies and swirls, humans as particles in a flow. Human fluid dynamics. Easy to spot the choke-points. He moved occasionally as other row-36ers arrived.
A group of three women hove into view, chattering, complaining gently about the wind: their personal ladies' day at the football game? They were attractive enough, a few years younger than he, so he guessed. The little trio bumbled its way down the stairs, checking tickets against painted numbers, stopped at his knee.
"Row thirty-six?"
He nodded, stood. They sidled past him, plonked down into seats three, four, and five. Seat three looked brightly at him, face reddened slightly by the wind, and said "Mind if we set some stuff here in number two for a minute, just while we get settled, I mean?"
She was pretty, friendly, eyes definitely twinkling. That was good. He smiled at her, shook his head, said "It's empty, I... well, let's just say my intended companion couldn't make it all of a sudden. Help yourself."
She looked at him sharply, sensing the edge of glumness, held his eyes, and just said "Oh. Sorry... that's too bad. Hope it's nothing serious."
Blake pondered: terminal breakup, was that serious? Depends on where in the cosmos, where in time and space, one's point of view was located, he supposed. He managed to grin at her, shook his head, said "Unfortunate, yes. Serious, perhaps. Terminal? Nope. We can share number two, you and I."
She brightened again. Apparently this stranger was a bit more sensitive than she would have expected: clearly he had received her empathetic message, equally clearly he understood that she could feel his unhappiness. Rare in a man.
She set her large purse down on the seat, looked up at the sky, and said "Jeez, I hope it doesn't rain! I really didn't come prepared for that. I have a blanket, but no rain gear. Not even an umbrella, and me from Seattle, too. My friends here are locals, though: at least they have umbrellas. But I did bring my birding binoculars, so I'm half-ready, I guess. My name's Ceri. And you?"
He introduced himself. Her handshake was cool, strong, surprisingly sensual, jarred him a tiny bit. Her eyes seemed to say she'd felt it too, but he knew better than to trust his judgment: men, himself included, always seemed to over-reach in their interpretation of these little things. He didn't feel secure any more, not on this ground.
The game started on time.
The seats were, perforce, uncomfortable but the view was good, the action on the field unusually interesting, and soon Blake and his next-door boon-companion were cheering and exclaiming together, although from opposite points of view, him for home, her for the visitors. She didn't actually ignore her friends, exchanged comments with them from time to time, but definitely was more in tune with Blake. The other women two occasionally shot amused glances their way, but were obviously in good humor about things. Besides, their team, homeboys, was leading.
It was good to have a person to deal with, Blake decided. His mood was visibly and palpably elevating, and into the second quarter he began really paying attention to Ceri, liking what he saw. Which wasn't much, given the heavy sweater and windbreaker.
The mid-day light dimmed with the approaching storm, and the wind rose a notch, whipping Ceri's hair about. He watched her struggle with it for a minute, then rummaged through his pack, offered her his old long-billed baseball cap. She accepted gratefully, twisted her blond hair up and packed it into the cap, tugged it down tight.
"Turn the bill down your neck, lose 30 IQ points instantly!" Blake told her.
She stuck her tongue out at him, went back to watching the game.
At halftime, Ceri and her friends got up to go for food and beer: she introduced Blake to them, they invited him to come with them but he declined, explaining that he'd already eaten. But he volunteered to guard their packs.
They were back shortly: Ceri silently handed Blake a paper cup of beer to match her own. He was surprised, pleased, accepted graciously and proposed a toast to both teams. She scooted the assembled purses and packs over to seat three and sat down next to Blake. Nice.
Then the second half started. And so did the rain. At first it was just a few big, cold drops, accompanied by a ten-degree temperature plunge. Ceri muttered "Oh, damn!" Across the stadium, over the top of the other wall of seats, they could see the approaching curtain of serious wet.
Blake reached for his pack and said "Don't worry, I come prepared. I've got two shelter-halves in here, they're really ponchos, but they snap together to make a pup-tent. Old US Army gear. I'd planned on having a companion... care to use one? It'll keep you dry!"
Ceri nodded gratefully: in moments Blake had the shelter-halves out, and showed her how to don one as a poncho. It was voluminous, covered her nicely: her head was lost in the huge hood, designed to cover a battle-helmet. She grinned and giggled as he struggled into his own, and they watched the stir in the crowd as forty thousand people did similar dances, a complex impromptu choreography.
As Blake explained the system, Ceri studied the lines of snaps that would join the halves into a tent. Ingenious. The rain intensified, little rivulets beginning to dribble down the poncho creases. Ceri's friends weren't nearly so comfortable under their umbrellas, they weren't getting too terribly wet. But the purses and packs were enroute to being soaked.
Ceri asked "Suppose we snapped these together, then we could get the packs under here with us, couldn't we? Keep them dry, too?"
Blake nodded, fumbled with the double row of snaps: the Army (or somebody, anyhow) had actually designed the darned thing well, it still fit and worked, although forty years old. Ceri draped the spare material over the packs: they got little glances of amused thanks from her companions.
Beneath the fabric Ceri and Blake sat, solidly hip to hip. It was comfortable indeed. Blake found himself quite happy the way things had turned out, sitting here in the rain in a tent in a crowd, with a pretty stranger, out of sight in public. Oddity atop oddity.
The game progressed, slowly. A natural grass field, now a quagmire. Football at its best, players' numbers unreadable. Sometimes hard to see through the mists, action slowed to a crawl by fumbles and officials' time-outs. Then, as the visitors managed a sloppy but successful field goal, beneath the poncho, he slid his arm around Ceri's shoulder and hugged her.
She turned towards him, two faces in separate canvas hoods in the rain, a foot apart: she seemed to be weighing things, then suddenly snuggled hard against him, leaned in and kissed him quickly, lightly, blushed, returned her attention to the game. As she did so, she murmured "Warm in here! Nice!"
He tried to watch the game: that didn't work well. His right hand cupped her shoulder, slid down her side, fingertips against the wool sweater. Abruptly, his heart was racing, his cock at full stand in the trap of his jeans. As the crowd roared on the kickoff, he let his hand slip down her side, slide forward, gently, carefully, allowing plenty of time for her to lodge a protest or call 'foul'... but it didn't come.
Her breast settled into his palm snugly, as if meant to be there, as if coming home. She turned slightly, giving him better access, snuggled harder, sighed. Her nipple, hard, sensitive, stood up and made itself known through the sweater and other fabrics. His thumb played with it, gently.
They pretended to watch the game.
Then her free hand moved: at first he thought she was going to move his hand away from her breast, but no, other interesting things happened. First, her hand tugged on her sweater, pulling the hem free at the waist. Then that hand migrated gently across his chest, slid down his belly to his crotch. With a foot's separation, she watched his eyes, a tiny little grin on her face, as she let her fingertips investigate the interesting bulge in his trousers. Her eyes glazed slightly as his hand took up her invitation, slid beneath her sweater, caught and expertly raised the underwire of her bra-cup, took possession of her tit. The whole breast was erect, hard as Blake's excited cock.
