Fraternity Row, University of Miami
Lauren wraps her arms tighter around Sam’s waist as he propels the Harley-Davidson HY-1200 motorcycle along College Avenue at 96 mph. Wind whistles past her headgear, the sleek black-and-chrome hydrogen-powered cycle cutting a hole through the humid evening air.
Sam banks hard, directing his hog into the student parking lot. He reaches for Lauren’s hand, but she pulls it away. ‘Come on, don’t stay mad.’
‘Why this Tanner woman? Can’t someone else interview you?’
‘It’s part of my PCAA obligations, Lauren. What am I supposed to do, insist on a male reporter?’
‘Yes!’
‘Well, I can’t, okay? So just drop it.’
‘Fine.’ They walk down Fraternity Row in silence. ‘You know, Sam, maybe it’s time we see other people.’
‘Come on, Lauren.’
‘No, I’m serious. We’ve been together since ninth grade. It’s not healthy.’
‘Says who? Your friend, Tierney? She’s just jealous.’
‘Maybe… but she has a point. We need a break before we get married. You should experience some other people.’
‘Lauren-’
‘I’m serious. If I get that research grant, I’ll be gone for four weeks. Use the time to “grind some fresh bone.” Get it out of your system. If you don’t do it now, our marriage’ll never last.’
‘And what about you? You planning on “draining” some park ranger while you watch Old Faithful?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Bullshit.’ He spins her around, then sees the tears. ‘Lauren, I don’t want to grind other women.’ He smiles. ‘I just want to grind you.’
‘Okay. But I swear, if I find out you were with that-’
He kisses her, cutting off the expletive.
Lauren kisses him back. Passion replaces fear as she grinds her pelvis into his, drawing him in deeper. ‘Let’s… skip… the party.’
‘Can’t.’
‘Yes you can.’ She continues kissing him, rubbing her hand along his crotch.
‘I can’t… okay maybe… no, wait-wait, stop, Lauren, stop-I have to make an appearance. Just a couple of minutes, okay?’
‘Why?’
‘Because they’re my teammates.’
She stops teasing him. ‘Some teammates. If you ask me-’
‘Which I didn’t-’
‘-they’re more like your employees. All they care about is their damn playoff bonuses. You need to look out for you. You should have turned pro last year.’
‘Well, I didn’t. Now come on, we’ll stay for an hour and finish this in your apartment.’
‘No we won’t.’ She pushes him away. ‘I won’t be in the mood.’
‘Fine.’ He takes her hand, leading her toward the frat house. ‘Hey, maybe I’ll meet some fresh bone-’
He winces as she slaps him upside the head.
The orange-and-white-stucco, horseshoe-shaped two-storey structure affectionately known as ‘Jock-U’ is an open-air hacienda-style mansion containing an in-ground football-shaped swimming pool, hot tub, and, for those annoying rainy days-a retractable sunroof. The facility sleeps 112, has a full-time staff of cooks, trainers, maids, and tutors on the premises, and like Sam’s Harley, is paid for out of the PCAA athletic budget.
The Professional Collegiate Athletic Association took roots back in 2008 when the former governing body of ‘amateur’ intercollegiate athletics, the National Collegiate Athletic Association, lost a class-action lawsuit filed on behalf of five thousand student-athletes who charged the NCAA had no right to prevent them from receiving nonathletic-related monies while enrolled in school. Faced with the reality of finally having to pay their breadwinners, the NCAA voted to reorganize into a separate and independent governing body dedicated solely to ‘professional’ collegiate athletics. Encompassing Men’s Division I-A football and men and women’s Division I basketball, the Professional Collegiate Athletic Association (PCAA) established standardized pay scales and benefit programs for its revenue-generating participants. This included full tuition, room and board, school supplies, a monthly stipend (based on undergraduate status) and a bonus program, which rewarded grade point average as well as postseason tournament participation. To remain eligible, a PCAA student-athlete was required to attend class (in person) and demonstrate satisfactory progress toward a five-year degree. Any athlete could try out for the professional leagues at any time and still return to school-provided they had not yet accepted a pro signing bonus (usually held in escrow until after final cuts) or played a minute of regular-season ball. Any PCAA athlete who did turn pro prior to graduation was required to immediately refund from their signing bonuses all stipend monies earned while at school. Athletes choosing to remain in school until graduation earned a ‘diploma bonus’ a figure based on the team’s won-lost record during their years of participation.
By 2017, the PCAA football playoffs were generating revenues surpassing those of the National Football League and National Basketball Asociation.
Lauren follows Sam through the Art Deco security arch leading to the front entrance. He places his hand upon the SID pad.
A holograph appears-a well-endowed topless blonde wearing a G-string. The model’s computerized face has been replaced with Coach DeMaio’s, the voice with that of teen pop singer Lacy Wong. ‘Good evening, Samuel Agler, you hunka-hunka burning Hurricane love. Please enter me so I may please you.’
‘Uh, thanks… Coach.’
They pass through the weapon detector’s violet indicator beam. The double doors slide open, allowing them entry into a high-ceilinged hall engorged with loud technomusic, neon holographic creatures, flashing lights, and mobs of mostly naked bodies.
Lauren leans over, yells, ‘It’s like the last days of Rome meets disco.’
K. C. Renner, who is wearing an aluminocloth shirt and boxer shorts, is the first to greet them. ‘My bonus baby, gimme some bone.’ Renner’s and Sam’s knuckles collide.
‘Good evening, Lauren.’ Renner’s voice turns sarcastically stuffy. ‘So glad you could join us.’ The quarterback shakes her hand, then licks it.
‘You’re disgusting.’
‘Thank you. Food’s everywhere, plenty of strange… oops, sorry. M’casa es su casa.’
The staccato pulse of the bass, originating from surround-sound speakers strategically placed beneath the porous floorboards, is literally sending music vibrating up through their bodies.
‘Isn’t it a bit loud?’ Lauren yells.
‘Yeah, great crowd. Hey, everyone’s out by the pool. Come on.’ Renner leads them through the packed hall. Groping blue-and-yellow-tinted hands reach out to touch them as they pass.
A set of soundproof Plexiglas doors part, allowing them to escape the noise into a home entertainment holograph suite. The doors hiss close behind them, shutting out the hallway acoustics.
The room is black, backlit by matching columns of ceiling-to-floor lava lamps and a 3-D holographic movie projecting in front of the far wall.
As Lauren’s eyes adjust to the dark, she notices movement along the floor-couples, making out in sensory body bags.
K. C. directs them through a second set of soundproof doors. They pass the food prep room and exit into the courtyard.
Humidity and the heavy scent of the pool’s ozone filtration system hits them square in the face. The soothing calypso sounds of Cuban heartthrob, Elian, comes from palm tree speakers planted along the periphery.
Cheerleaders, groupies, and prostitutes, most of them naked, lounge in and around the football-shaped pool in clusters, a dozen of Sam’s teammates drifting from one group to the next. Lauren spots Jerry Tucker in the hot tub, the enormous lineman sandwiched between two bare-breasted Jamaican-dyed Asian girls. Another teammate is lying on the deck behind him, passed out in a puddle of vomit.
She shakes her head. ‘Miami’s gridiron warriors. Pillaging the village before their next conquest.’
Ken Hudak, the team’s heavily muscled, pine-green-dyed middle linebacker, struts toward them, dragging his date, a Haitian girl wearing only a bandanna around her waist. Lauren stares at the couple’s his-and-her hip tattoo, which creates the illusion of two bulldogs doing it doggy style when the pair are making love with the girl on top.