"So, can we carpool to Chicago for the game, Mattie?" Pierre asked, late Friday afternoon as they hurried to meet their friends for dinner, "My car is in the shop."
"Oh, sorry for you," she teased, giving him an exaggerated pout and pausing long enough to make him do a double take.
Aw, come on, Mattie!"
"Of course, we can car pool, you dummy," she affirmed, grinning.
"Thanks," he said, throwing her a lopsided smile, "You know, you had to going there for a minute."
She smiled sweetly, "Good."
"So, what do you think our chances are tomorrow?" he continued.
"We'll win," she answered, without hesitation.
"You think?" he pressed, "After a crazy bye-week and without six of our best players?"
"Those kids from Miami will freeze in Chicago," she asserted confidently, "They're used to lying out on the beach."
"That's probably true," he replied, smirking, "I hear they're good at getting in trouble too."
"Ugh, don't talk about trouble."
"Yeah, sorry, I guess it does strike close to home, doesn't it?" he sighed, shaking his head, "I just don't understand any of this."
"Me neither."
"Do you know what I don't understand?" Sarousch asked, suddenly stepping from behind a tree to block their path, "I don't understand why Mattie is having dinner with you and not me."
"I don't care if you understand that or not," Pierre growled, stepping protectively in front of his friend.
"Buzz off, Pierre," Sarousch answered, with calm coldness, "Mattie and I have…unfinished business…to attend too."
"You finished any business with her in Lansing," Pierre held his ground.
Sarousch frowned, "Stay out of this, string bean."
"Oh, I'm hurt, I'm hurt," Pierre howled, grabbing his sides and then his arms and head before cracking up, "Really, Sarousch? String bean? Is that all you've got on me? Man, I haven't heard that once since elementary school. Way to go, buddy—oh, by the way, look in the mirror while you're at it—string bean."
After a pause, he snapped, "What do you want, Sarousch?"
"Simply to have dinner with my friend." Sarousch said, sighing as if he was tired of the whole argument..
"Forget it!"
"No! We have things to discuss."
"Then say it right here—in front of me."
"We have things to discuss privately."
"Like I said, you lost that opportunity a few weeks ago."
"Mattie, don't you want to have dinner with me?" Sarousch tried a new tactic, giving her a meaningful look.
"Um, uh," she gulped, "I guess I'd better go with him." She paused to stare at Pierre, silently pleading with him to understand
"What!" Pierre snapped, involuntarily clinching his fists, "There's no way that you're—"
"Doesn't be a sore loser, Pierre," Sarousch admonished condescendingly. He took hold of Mattie's elbow and started pulling her away; she was too stunned to respond.
"I said no!" Pierre cried, bolting forward to catch her other elbow, he braced himself for a tug-of-war.
"Pierre, stop," Mattie cried, trying to break his grip by jerking her elbow around, "It's alright!"
"No, Mattie!"
"Please!"
"No!
"You know, I have to back Pierre on this one," Phoebus's calm voice interrupted their argument.
With two quick steps, he punched Sarousch solidly in the stomach and sent him sprawling to the ground in a heap, "Really, Sarousch, I thought that our little chat in Lansing would have sufficed to teach you not to mess with my friends." Turning to the others, he added, "Let's get out of here."
"Mattie! What happened?" Esma gasped, running up as the trio crossed the street in front of the campus restaurant, Legend's of Norte Dame.
"I'm alright, Esma," Mattie tried to reassure her.
"But, what happened?" Esma insisted, eying the bruises on her roommate's elbows.
"Sarousch and I had an argument about who she was going to have dinner with," Pierre volunteered darkly, blushing because he too was responsible for some of her injuries.
"What?" Esma gasped.
"That scoundrel!" Victor was astounded, instinctively clenching his fists.
"Let me at him!" Hugo growled, "Let me at him!"
"Then Phoebus came along and settled the matter." Pierre finished, grinning, "In my favor, of course."
"Well, I should think so," Laverne muttered.
Phoebus shrugged, "In my humble opinion Pierre is a much better date."
"Humble?" Esma joked, "You, mister I'm named after a sun-god, has a humble opinion?"
"Well…yeah," Phoebus said gingerly, making everyone laugh.
"Are you sure that you're alright, dear?" Laverne asked, taking Mattie by the hand and scrutinizing her with grandmotherly eyes, "These kinds of things…"
"I'm fine," Mattie insisted, pulling back, "It's fine. I'm fine."
"It is not fine, my dear," Victor argued, wrapping a burly arm around her shoulders, "No man should ever—"
"Please—" Mattie interrupted, "I'd rather not talk about it."
"Come on, Victor," Laverne said understanding Mattie's need for space; she pulled her brother's arm off the girl, "She'll talk when she's ready; let's go eat."
After the meal, the amateur sleuths settled back to discuss the game.
"The Miami Hurricanes?" Hugo cracked, "Well, if I know anything about meteorology, a hurricane forms over warm water—that's why they're coming from Florida—then they lose strength over land." He slammed his fist down hard on the table, "I predict that they'll be nothing by the time they get to Chicago!"
"Here, here!" Pierre, Phoebus, Quasi, and Victor all pumped their fists.
"Alright, alright," Laverne said, laughing and clapping, "Settle down, you boys, and let's talk business because this old lady has a bedtime. I assume that everyone will be going over, but does everyone have a ride?"
"Since when do you have a bedtime?" Hugo muttered rhetorically.
"Can I ride with you again?" Quasi asked.
"Of course, of course," Laverne replied, "Why would you think otherwise?"
"Oh, just checking, that's all."
"I bet that Quasi has a hot date that he'd rather ride with, eh Quasi?" Hugo said, bumping him in the ribs.
"Well, no, not exactly," Quasi mumbled, beginning to look flustered.
"Oh, come on, you don't need to be shy around us," Hugo grinned, "You're our friend."
"No really—"
"Is she hot?"
"Hugo!" Victor and Laverne chastised sharply.
"Alright, alright," Hugo consented, "Does anyone else need a ride?"
"Finally, he asks something pertinent," Victor muttered in his sister's ear; she crackled in response.
"Mattie agreed to take me up," Pierre volunteered, "My car is in the shop."
"And we, of course, have rides," Clopin said.
"On a bus," Esma sighed.
"Sitting next to each other," Clopin reminded her. Slinging his arm around her, he drew frowns from Phoebus and Quasi.
"Then that's cleared up," Victor said, "So, what's our strategy? How about trying something proactive this week or do we continue waiting to see if something bad happens and then go home with our tales between our legs in the hope that it gets cleaned up while we sit and watch our great football team get dragged through the mud?"
"That's kind of bleak, old man," Phoebus said, "but basically true." After pausing to mull over their options, he asked, "What can we do that's proactive?"
"Nothing," Hugo muttered.
"It's true," Laverne sighed, "Particularly during away or neutral site games, like this one. There's nothing to do but wait and see."
"Other than the first game," Esma reminded them, meeting Phoebus' eyes and smiling, "Phoebus and I stopped that one."
Clopin and Quasi frowned at the attention that she showed the ROTC Captain.
"Yeah, too bad we still don't know who did it."
"People, people, chin up," Phoebus said, as he watched their dejected expressions, "Are we only made of stone or something stronger? Cheer up! The tide will turn eventually; it has too!"
Suddenly, Mattie, whose heart started pounding at the mention of Sarousch's first misdeed, asked lightly, to deflect attention towards another topic, "So what, Captain Phoebus, do you think this is some kind of Disney movie where all the bad guys get caught?"
Frollo irritably drummed his fingers on his hotel's nightstand and quickly switched off the TV. Would ESPN ever shut up about how great the Fighting Irish were this year? Could they honestly laud the team's accomplishments almost nonstop for hours on end? Didn't these men have more important things to do?
"Well, no matter," he said softly, switching gears in his mind with remarkable speed, "We won't keeping winning with our best players suspended for six weeks."
Satisfied with how things were going, he allowed his mind to drift to the other thing that kept him up at night: that beautiful cheerleader. For a man who'd dedicated his life to education, he was unsettled and angered by how easily she'd taken over his mind.
"She's as dangerous as the sirens that Ulysses faced," he muttered dangerously, using the Romanized name for the hero of Homer's Odyssey. Then he moaned miserably and sank down into his bed as if he was ill, "And I've fallen for her song."
But, just as the dark clouds of his imagination began to swirl like a tornado, his phone rang.
"Hey, boss, I just wanted to let you know that I'll be in Chicago bright and early tomorrow to get ready for the game!" Sarousch replied buoyantly to Frollo's gruff greeting. After a pause, he added, "I also wanted to remind you that you haven't told me what we're doing to sabotage the game this week."
"I do not need to be reminded, you insolent little worm," Frollo snapped, "We're not doing anything this week."
"We're not?"
"I see no need too," Frollo replied dismissively, unconsciously waving his hand as if talking to his intern was a bother, "With six of their best players suspended, I'd be willing to bet that they'll lose soon enough. Then the national media will go away and I can dismiss the coach and disband the team at my own leisure."
Silence greeted him on other end of the line so, after a minute, he continued, "In fact, I bet that we'll lose big to Miami."
"Are you serious?" Sarousch asked, opportunistic about making a quick buck; gambling was his weak spot.
"No!" Frollo snapped, his easily triggered temper flaring.
"But, can't I do something?" Sarousch whined, "I'm too valuable to waste, boss."
"Alright, fine," Frollo gritting his teeth, suddenly disappointed that he couldn't just beat the arrogant little pest to a bloody pulp then and there, "I actually do have something for you to do."
"Really?"
"I want you to find out the name of the—" Frollo stopped, suddenly unwilling to reveal that he had a crush on a girl who could be his granddaughter.
"You want me to find out who the pretty cheerleader is?" Sarousch guessed, priding himself on keeping one step ahead of his boss.
"Y-yes," Frollo said, gritting his teeth again; he hated the fact that Sarousch could so easily stay a step ahead.
"No problem, boss," Sarousch was smug, "I already know it. Her name is Esmeralda."
For once, Frollo was speechless.
"So, who's going to win today, whose going to win today?" Hugo chanted, pumping his fists several times
as he, his siblings, and Quasi found their seats, "Go Irish." Even the hooting Miami fans didn't faze him.
"Does anyone know why the game is here?" Victor asked, ignoring his brother and tossing a handful of popcorn into his mouth, "instead of at Notre Dame or in Miami?"
"Nope," Hugo admitted, scowling deeply, "But I would've loved to celebrate our win on their beach!"
"Don't be ridiculous, Hugo," Laverne said, giving him a funny look, "We're so old that we'd crumble if we stood out in the sun for too long."
"Speak for yourself, sister," he retorted, "My architecture is strong enough to stand for centuries!"
"What a bunch of baloney," Victor muttered, downing more popcorn, "With your gut?"
"What was that?" Hugo snapped.
"You know very well what I—" Victor retorted, frowning at him.
"I'm really glad that you guys always let me sit with you at the games," Quasi interrupted, growing tired of their bickering, "but you still don't have too, you know?"
"Parish the thought, Quasi!" Laverne admonished immediately, "We love having you along."
"Yes," Victor agreed, glancing sharply at Hugo, "Who'd keep us sane all day if you weren't here?"
"Unless, you don't want to sit with us," Hugo added, reminding them of his jests the night before.
Quasi laughed, despite himself, then everyone quieted down as both marching bands played their respective fight songs. Then the two teams bursts out of the long tunnels and the crowd rose in one huge roar of excitement.
By halftime the score was ridiculously out of hand and, in an effort to control his growing wrath in front of the many reporters who begged for a comment about the team, Frollo decided to see if he could get better acquainted with Esmeralda. Hurrying down to the field, he strolled up to the cheerleaders just as they were returning to the sideline after their halftime routine.
"Excuse me," he said softly, as he came up behind her, "But I need to talk with you, Miss…Esmeralda."
Esma whirled around in surprise, having been preoccupied with thoughts of how lucky she was that she hadn't seen Gudule; she blushed, feeling indecently sweaty before the president of her university. "Now, sir? But the game…halftime isn't over."
"It's a matter of some importance," he insisted gently, almost licking his lips. Gesturing for her to follow him, he found himself imagining that her sweat droplets were little sparkling crystals.
Esma hesitated again as goose bumps crawled up and down her arms. The look in his eyes gave her the creeps! But he was Notre Dame's president. Should she obey his authority or her instincts?
"It's a matter concerning your eligibility, Miss Esmeralda," he said impatiently, seeing her hesitation. He gestured more forceful, "If you could please follow me."
My eligibility? she thought, suddenly finding him to be completely untrustworthy. "Sir, I have straight A's," she said, with more calmness than she felt, "There's no way that I'm not academically eligible to cheer. You must be mistaken."
"I am not—" he started to retort, angered that she was disagreeing with him.
"President Frollo!" her coach suddenly materialize, like a miracle, "How nice of you to come down to meet the team!" She pumped his hand vigorously, speaking in bubbly voice, "Come on, We'd love to have a picture of you with us."
"Oh…," Frollo instinctively recoiled from the excited woman; this was not going according to his plan. Glancing swiftly at Esma, with eyes that cut through her like daggers, he said curtly, "Next week, Miss Esmeralda. Make an appointment to see me when you get back to school."
Then he turned on his heels and strode over to where the squad was lining up for their photo shoot, leaving Esma trailing behind at a safe distance. Behind his back, she muttered, "Yes, sir."
"Whoa! A huge lead!" Pierre enthused, as he, Mattie and Phoebus shared two-handed hi-fives as the fourth quarter got underway, "Go Irish!"
"They're not hurricanes today," Phoebus crackled with pleasure, "The weatherman got the forecast totally wrong!"
"Oh well," Mattie grinned, "Too bad." Then she added, "Mr. Ringling has a home in Florida so I know about the value of dodging a hurricane."
"Well, I'm certainly not complaining," Pierre said, with a sigh, "Not with so many of our best players suspended."
"Ha!" Phoebus pumped his fist when Notre Dame broke through the Miami line for another first down, "I think that we could win this one even if our third string had both hands tied behind their backs."
"Mattie gave him a sly look, "Careful Phoebus, this is football, not soccer—as in you have to throw the ball sometimes."
"True," Phoebus acknowledged, "Oh, well, so we'd beat these oversized windbags with one hand tied behind our backs!"
"Well, that's better," Mattie consented, clapping enthusiastically when Notre Dame picked up a diving first down, "Go I—"
As if lightening had struck, her words died on her lips when she noticed Sarousch staring at her from a few rows down.
"What give, Matt?" Pierre asked, quizzically, confused by her sudden horror-stricken expression. He followed her gave, then bumped Phoebus' ribs, "There's that sick jerk, bro—let's get him."
"And finish what the cops wouldn't let us do in Lansing," Phoebus agreed, his eyes blazing with anger as he jumped up.
"And what we didn't do ourselves last night," Pierre reminded him.
"I regret that now," Phoebus growled.
"No, no, no!" Mattie squeaked, quickly grabbing their arms, "You guys are not allowed to get stuck in an out-of-town jail cell again this weekend. No, I won't allow it. I won't!"
"Relax, Mattie," Phoebus threw her a disarming smile, "All we want to do is wipe that condensing little smirk off his mouth."
"No!" she snapped, stomping to her foot, "I said no!"
"Why not?" Pierre asked, gently freeing himself from her grasp when, in her panic, she began to dig into his flesh, "I don't think he understands how to treat girls. Don't you think—"
"No!"
"But Mattie," Phoebus argued, "That's the most basic most mandatory lesson a guy needs to learn. Don't you want him to know—"
"I'll scream if either of you lay so much as a fingernail on him," Mattie hissed in his ear, "Sit down and enjoy this game with me. Both of you!" She shoved them back into their seats then resettled between them with a smug smile on her face.
"O-kay," they mumbled, surprised. But, catching each other's attention over her head, they made a silent pact to get even with the intern later.
"I don't know, I just don't know!" Esma cried, growing increasingly agitated under the barrage of questions that her friends threw at her about Frollo's appearance as they celebrated Notre Dame's 41-3 victory at a Chicago Pizzeria, "How the heck should I know why President Frollo thinks that I'm not eligible to cheer? I make straight As, for heaven's sake! I mean, is there some other requirement that I don't know about?"
Everyone readily promised to help her get to the bottom of this predicament in any way they could, but then Clopin spoke acidly, "I think Frollo has been smoking something."
"Maybe, Esma—" Quasi began, trying to see the problem from Frollo's side.
"Maybe, nothing," Clopin snapped angrily, "He has no reason! Absolutely no reason! He's just doing this because, because, because…" At a loss for words, he slammed his Coke down onto the table, sloshing it all over everyone. He swore then apologized.
"I'm just saying," Quasi said, as he frowned at his coke-speckled shirt, "He's the president of the school, so he must have a good reason."
"That's a bunch of bull," Phoebus said, "I agree with Clopin on this one."
"Wow, that's a first," Esma chuckled.
"Oh, you would," Quasi frowned, eyeing Phoebus.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Boys, boys," Laverne cut in, "Are you two done yet?"
"Yes," they grumbled together, not wanting to run afoul of her.
"Good," Victor said hurriedly , "We want today and how it effects our next move."
"What do you mean?" Quasi asked, "Nothing happened today."
"That's good, isn't it?" Pierre pointed out.
"Something is bound to happen again," Phoebus reminded them, nodding approval for Victor's proactive approach, "We need to be ready." He paused for a moment, then added, "I, for one, like Victor's proactive approach idea."
"Okay, but how do we go about that? Laverne asked.
"You got me," Hugo answered, with stringy cheese stuck between his teeth, "I wonder why it was quiet today?"
"Maybe Miami was too cold cheat," Pierre volunteered, providing a reason for everyone to laugh, "And, and…well, maybe whoever is hurting us was hoping that our depleted ranks would do us in."
"I hope they continue to think that," Mattie whispered, thinking about Sarousch and all the trouble that she had helped him cause.
"Well, at any rate," Pierre said, "Let's try to come up with a more proactive plan by next weeked."
Author's Notes: I know that I haven't updated this one in months, but I kind of lost my groove for a while. Hopefully, I can get back into it now that college football is about to start. I've been having fun writing in other genres though! Also, can I beg forgiveness from any readers who are Miami fans? The story demanded that I slam your team because they were the opponent in this chapter.
