WARNING: NC-17 Slash Fiction

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THE RING: Chapter Two

by B'Lane & Elrond

Monday, September 25

"It won't be an easy sell, of course. Mayor Stripling campaigned that no new taxes would be used to fund 'the playgrounds of the wealthy and spoiled,' so my job will be reminding him that the Circus Maximus made people happier than new toll roads. 'Bread and circuses' were for the lowest common denominator, not the highest." Lionel looked across the table, folded his linen napkin, and set it carefully beside his plate. The mid-afternoon sky over the penthouse atrium was a cloudless blue that Lionel found very reminiscent of his lover's eyes. "You know, Whitney, for someone who doesn't look nervous, you're doing an amazing job of not listening to a word I've said."

Whitney stopped drawing roadmaps on the table cloth and looked up with a start. "What?"

Lionel laughed. "That's better. Now you look like a deer caught in headlights. At least I can tell you're worried."

Whitney managed a grin. "What, me worry? Why should I worry? Tonight, eleven VERY large, very determined men are going to try to pummel me to death in front of 30 million spectators. I think I may throw up."

"You'll be brilliant," Lionel reassured him. "This is what you've trained for your whole life. The only thing different is that tomorrow the world will awaken knowing what I already know."

"What's that?"

Lionel's gaze captured Whitney's and made it a loving hostage. "Your talent is exceeded only by your valor and the size of your heart."

Whitney swallowed hard. "Thank you."

"I speak only the truth."

"Eloquently." Displaying all the table manners of an ox, Whitney planted his hands on the table, came halfway to his feet, and stretched across the table to give his eloquent lover a kiss.

Lionel participated fully, but made a show of grooming his beard with thumb and forefinger when Whitney sank back into his chair. "Are you coming here after the game?"

Whitney nodded. "I planned to. If you want me."

Lionel laughed outright. "Oh, I wouldn't miss this celebration for the world, but the mayor and I are going to have a serious chat after the game. I might be a little late."

"I'll wait. Who's going to be in the Owner's Suite with you tonight?" Whitney asked.

"It's Father and Son night. Mayor and Junior Stripling, the GM, most of the partners and their sons. Lex. And Clark, of course, who I'm anxious to have an opportunity to observe. Lex has been exceedingly reluctant to put me in the same room with his young companion."

"You'll like him. If Lex ever gives you the chance to get to know him."

Lionel's failure to comment suggested that he'd prefer to be the judge of that. "I'll be introducing him as your guest — an old high school chum from back home in Smallville. He and Lex will be arriving separately, of course. And there's plenty of room for your mother if you want to try one more time. I can send the LuthorCorp helicopter—"

Whitney silenced him with a shake of his head. "It's no use. I've given up. She remembers the media circus of the draft and doesn't want to go through that again on ABC. Thanks anyway."

"Well, I need someone to flirt with me and flatter my ego since you'll be otherwise preoccupied," he teased, earning a chuckle from Whitney.

"So, are you nervous?"

The very idea seemed shocking. "Not at all."

"Liar!" Whitney said, laughing.

"Why would I lie?"

"Oh, I don't know. To keep me from seeing a chink in your armor? Lionel the Invulnerable."

"That's Lionel the Invincible, to you, sir."

"Lionel the Invincible...the Amazing ...the Sexy...the Wonderful."

Lionel laughed as he rose. "Sir Whitney, the Giddy. I think you'd better go to the Coliseum and start getting your head into the game — and you know of which head I speak. I have to be at the office for a meeting at 4." He moved around the table. Whitney rose and stepped into his arms. "Good luck, Sir Whitney," Lionel said, his voice husky with barely-checked emotion.

"Do you think anyone would notice if you came down to the locker room before the game and gave me a kiss?"

"No one but your team mates and those 30 million spectators. I'll kiss you for luck here." And he did. Eloquently. Whitney tasted a dozen flavors of emotion — pride, exhileration, trepidation, a hint of passion, a strong dose of something Whitney chose to identify as love, a touch of concern, an ocean of warmth and tenderness... Whitney savored them all and gave them back in the brush of lips, the caress of tongues, the tightening of arms pulling close.

When the kiss ended, Lionel still held Whitney close, his lips a whisper away. "Be brilliant, my golden Adonis. Be brilliant."

"What the fuck do you think you're doing!"

The massive door to his office blew back and Lionel bolted out of his chair as Lex came striding across the expanse, eating up real estate like a California brush fire.

"Good afternoon to you, too, Lex. Would you like some tea?"

"You son of a bitch."

Mrs. Hemstead and a security team materialized in the doorway, but Lionel waved them off. "That's all right, Grace. Lex doesn't want any tea." Lionel settled back into his chair. "Well, son. To what do I owe the pleasure of this temper tantrum?"

"You're paying her off with my mother's legacy! My mother started The Lillian Luthor Foundation before I was born. It was her brainchild; her contribution to making Metropolis a better place, and you're turning it over to that society whore! What's the matter Dad, aren't your scintillating conversational skills and universally-renowned cock enough to keep Celeste on a leash? Wouldn't a prescription of viagra be cheaper than giving her something that was supposed to be mine?"

"Yours?"

"Yes, mine!"

"Hmmmm..." Lionel ignored the cheap shot at his manhood and picked up a red folder that he'd asked Grace to bring him after a call from one of the Foundation board members alerted him that Lex was on a fishing expedition. The board member swore that he'd said nothing, but Lionel had known it wouldn't be long before Lex got the answers he was obviously looking for. What surprised him was that he'd bothered to look at all.

Lionel made a show of studying the tab on the folder. "Let's see now. Board Meetings, colon, Attendance." He opened the folder.

"Fuck you."

Lionel tilted his head down and looked at his son over the tops of his reading glasses. "I take it you don't need me to tell you that you haven't attended a meeting since February."

"My attendance is not the issue."

"No, it's not." Lionel removed his glasses and tossed them on the desk. "The continued growth of the Foundation is the issue, and Celeste Willingham is the perfect choice to assure that. If you had attended the last meeting—"

"I've read the minutes and reports from every meeting."

"Good. Then you know that the Foundation's revenues are down by nearly six percent this year and Parker Markinson's contract will not be renewed, which leaves us searching for a new Events Coordinator. This is the perfect time for a change in regime. The Foundation needs an infusion of fresh enthusiasm and new ideas blended with an understanding of the established traditions that have been the hallmark of the Foundation's success over — "

"Oh, save the speech for the board, Dad. They may buy your justification, but don't pretend to me that this benefits anyone but Lionel Luthor!"

Lionel searched his son's florid face, carefully hiding his astonishment at the level of Lex's anger. In the last few years, Lex had begun maturing into an astute businessman, but on a personal level he was clinging for dear life to an irritating streak of adolescent rebellion, disapproving of his father's every action for the simple sake of disapproving. Discussion and debate, even conflict and controversy, had their uses, but Lionel could seldom find a logic to Lex's disapproval and it was becoming increasingly irritating that he could do no right in his son's eyes.

This, though, was unexpected. And the unexpected had to be examined closely.

"If a single action can serve two purposes and generate two equally desirable results — "

"The Foundation is the only thing we have left of Mother. How could you give it away? For him."

A small light began to dawn. Lionel leaned back in his chair. "Tell me, Lex... Are you angry because I'm recommending Celeste for the chairmanship, because I'm doing it for a lover, or because I'm doing it for my lover, Whitney Fordman?"

"If you're going to step down, the chair should come to me," Lex said, sidestepping the question and telling Lionel a great deal in the process. Still, he had to remain focused on the text of their argument, not the worrisome subtext.

"Don't be absurd," he told his son, keeping his tone light but not mocking. "Lex Luthor couldn't raise money with tin cup and a white cane."

"Gee thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad."

"What I meant is that you've come a long way toward earning the respect you deserve as a businessman, Lex, but you have made no effort whatsoever to assume a role in society. The name Lionel Luthor is sufficient to rally this community around a cause, as is the name Celeste Willingham. When Lex Luthor can say the same, he'll be ready to steer the course of the Lillian Luthor Foundation. Now, answer my question. Why are you so—"

"Go to hell," Lex said as he turned on his heel and stalked toward the door.

"—angry?" Lionel concluded, the door slam still reverberating against the windows.

Well...

That had certainly been enlightening, but it hadn't illuminated anything Lionel really wanted to examine in the cold light of day. Though he disliked dwelling on the recent past, Lionel closed his mind and forced his photographic memory back to the Sunday morning that Lex had walked in and found Lionel and a naked Whitney in the middle of a heated lover's quarrel. Mental snapshots of that event began playing in his head.

Lionel's own emotions that day had been as out of control as he ever allowed them to get, and he'd accepted Lex's disapproval at face value, just another example of his son's immaturity. Looking at the events now, though, Lionel could see something he hadn't seen then.

Lex had been amused at finding Lionel arguing with his naked lover. His amusement hadn't turned to displeasure until he realized the identity of his father's lover. Now, Lex turned positively venomous at any mention of Whitney's name. They had quarreled on the balcony Saturday night. Lex had been vicious to Whitney for no apparent reason. And now, he was enraged over something that should have meant nothing.

Lex and Whitney had known each other in Smallville. Well enough for Lex to arrange an out-of-town Sharks' scrimmage for Whitney and his dying father. That had been four-and-a-half years ago during Lex's early days in Smallville when he'd gone through an irritating, but ultimately harmless spate of altruism. Probably, though not with certainty, before Lex's involvement with the Kent boy.

Lionel had never examined the reasons for Lex's generosity too closely. In the beginning it hadn't mattered. Later, when it would have mattered, it had been easier to ignore the question than deal with the answer.

Now he had to know.

Why was Lex behaving like a jealous lover?

*

“Welcome to Metropolis Coliseum. Tonight AFC rivals face off in an early season test. The Pittsburgh Steelers travel to Metropolis to take on the Sharks. This is Al Michaels along with my partner John Madden. John, THE storyline of tonight’s game is the new starting Quarterback for the Sharks, Whitney Fordman. He’s a native son of Kansas, starting his first game on Monday night. Fordman led the Kansas State Wildcats to three bowl games and a National Championship as a junior. That was a terrific comeback he rallied last week on the road.”

“Al, people have been asking who does Whitney Fordman remind me of. He has the arm of Marino but the savvy of Montana. He’s a good looking kid with a bright future.”

“In talking with Defensive Captain Brandon Sutton, he told us that the Sharks are very high on Fordman. It ought to be a good game here on Monday Night. Melissa?”

“Good evening, Al and John. This game is about moving in a new direction for the Sharks’ offense. I talked to Head Coach Harry Lessening and he said that Whitney Fordman brings so many different skills to the table. He scrambles, sees the whole field, and makes the right decisions. Al, he added, ‘Whitney does not lose.’"

“Thank you, Melissa. So, John, are you ready for some football?”

The recently-remodeled Owner's Suite smelled of ne w leather and spicy Tex/Mex cuisine. Wafer-thin flat-screen televisions made it possible to view TV coverage of the game from any angle in the room, and most of Lionel's 12 guests were comfortably ensconced in luxurious pivoting barrel chairs in little familial groups on the four tiers of seating that looked down on the field at the 50 yard line. The buffet table and bar were off to one side, and to reach them the guests had to navigate around the scale model of the new Metropolis Coliseum Lionel was determined to see built.

One of the owners had brought his two daughters to the "Father and Son" event — a laudably progressive action, but a limiting one; the game hadn't even started and the guests were already chafing under the restrictions of language and decorum being forced on them by the presence of two young women.

Guests weren't the only ones chafing. Lex was clearly in for one of the most miserable nights of his life. Not only was he angry with Lionel and barely bothering to hide it, he was forced to keep a casual distance from his lover, who was bubbling with enthusiasm for the coming game. Then there was Trudy Minton, the 22-year old daughter of Sharks' limited partner Bobby Minton. Trudy had been nursing a crush on Lex since she was 16, and the now-mature Vassar grad had decided it was time for Lex to settle down and get married.

To make matters even worse for Lex (and more amusing to Lionel), the other female in the room actually was 16, and she had decided that Mr. Clark Kent was the hottest thing since... well, whatever kids considered hot these days.

Frankly, Lionel couldn't fathom why Lex had come. He hated football. Appeared to hate Whitney Fordman. He had to hate being forced to pretend his lover was nothing more than a casual acquaintance. Why was he putting himself through this torture? If anyone had bet Lionel, he would have placed a small fortune on a wager that Lex would be home by half-time.

As for the Kent boy, well, Lex — and Missy Minton — had good taste, Lionel would grant them that. Clark Kent was a very pretty boy. Almost unnaturally so. Tall, well-formed, perfect facial features with liquid eyes and a mouth that begged to be kissed. Or fucked.

There was nothing about the package that attracted Lionel personally, but he could see why Lex was so smitten. On a physical level, anyway. Personality-wise, Kent was a surprising choice; Lex usually went for strong-minded women or pliable, effete men — a dichotomy that Lionel found fascinating; that Lex would be attracted to women like his mother but men who were the polar opposite of Lionel.

Young Clark Kent certainly fit the latter, but there was none of the bored sophistication in him that usually flagged Lex's male companions. Instead, he had an almost cloying corn-fed wholesomeness about him. Considering how he'd been raised and by whom, that was probably to be expected.

Lionel wanted to get to know him better, but this wasn't the venue for it. The game was about to begin, and Lionel wanted his "social" responsibilities out of the way so that he could concentrate on what mattered.

"Mr. Kent! Come down here and join us," Lionel called to the young man who was back by the buffet table nodding politely to Missy Minton while darting furtive glances at the TV. "We've saved a seat front row center for Mr. Fordman's Guest of Honor."

Lionel almost laughed at the relief on the boy's face — and on Lex's. Trudy Mention had been making a beeline for the only empty seat in the front row, which just happened to be next to Lex.

"Excuse me, Missy. Game time. Thank you, Mr. Luthor," Clark said politely.

"Nonsense. It's the least we can do as a courtesy to the star of tonight's entertainment." He shifted the glass of his favorite Kentucky sipping whiskey into his left hand so he could extend his right.

Clark answered the handshake firmly and Lionel gestured toward an empty chair in the front row between Lex and General Manager Mike Mancini. The mayor and his son were on the other side of Lex. Trudy had to settle for a seat behind Lex next to her father in the second row.

Lionel smiled at his son and gave him an almost-imperceptible wink meant to convey a 'Don't say I never gave you anything' message as Clark dropped into the seat next to him.

"Hi, Lex."

"Clark. Good to see you again. How have you been?"

"Fine. You?"

"Fine."

'Half-time might be optimistic,' Lionel thought. 'At this rate, Lex won't make it through the first quarter.'

"Nervous about your Golden Boy, Lionel?"

Lionel shifted his gaze beyond Lex to the Mayor. "I don't get nervous, Emmett. No reason to, since I only pick winners."

"Really?" Limited Partner Gus Anderson said skeptically from the back row. "What about Roger Sample?"

Lionel despised Gus Anderson, an opinionated boor who had the smallest share of the Sharks and the biggest mouth. "Roger Sample failed to lived up to his potential, but we never had a losing season while he was playing." Lionel did an admirable job of remaining personable.

"Eight and Eight isn't exactly a winning season," Anderson's 20-year-old son, August, Jr. piped up. Lionel disliked the LP's Neanderthal, homophobic, loudmouthed redneck son even more than he disliked the father.

"But it isn't technically a losing season, either, Auggie," Lex chimed in. "And Dad's a stickler for technicalities."

"Yes, I am, Lex. Thank you for that illuminating commentary."

"You're welcome."

"The game is starting," Clark pointed out, his shoulders hunched as though he was trying to duck under the fine wire of tension strung between Lex and Lionel.

"So it is! Finally." Lionel turned to the window, too keyed up to take his seat as ABC Commentator Al Michaels called the play.

STEELERS 0-SHARKS 0
1ST QTR - 15 MINUTES

“And we have kickoff. The Steelers won the coin toss and have elected to receive.”

“That was an excellent return by the Steelers. Their Special Teams have been outstanding so far this season.”

“The Steelers have the ball on the Sharks 45 yard line to start the game. Maddox back to throw, over the middle to Hines Ward..., hit by Sutton after a fifteen yard gain."

“Al, the defense is off to a rocky start.”

“Maddox drops back, throws, knocked down by Sutton, off his finger tips, almost an interception.”

“Brandon Sutton has made the Pro-Bowl the last two seasons and this is his fourth. The Sharks have got an incredible defense, but the offense has been suspect, hence the drafting of the stud QB with the cannon arm.”

“We are at fourth down and the Steelers, who started with excellent field position, are having to go for a thirty-nine yard field goal. The kick is up and good. So, what looked like a promising drive has been stopped and the Steelers lead this 3- nothing early in the first quarter.”

As the field goal went up, Whitney was standing on the sideline, head already deep in the game even though his feet were still out-of-bounds. Few rookies started their first game on Monday Night in Prime Time, but the cameras and the crowd and the people he loved in the Owner's Suite were only background noise. His love of the game was front and center.

If he could make it through the first play without puking his guts out, he'd be just fine.

The Offensive Coordinator approached. “Whitney, stay calm out there. The Steelers are going to come after you hard and fast. Just let the game come to you. You're ready, Rookie. Kick some ass!”

Whitney looked at his coach, nodded, and tried not to humiliate himself by asking for a barf bucket.

It was his turn to take the field.

Lionel forced himself not to pace as his lover took the field. Whitney was ready for this. Lionel hadn't made the decision to move him into the starting position in a vacuum. Lessening and the offensive coaches were in agreement: Brookline had lost his edge; Fordman not only had his edge, he had a depth of talent that Brookline had never possessed on the best of his days. There was no point in holding Fordman back. It was time to let him shine. It was time for the Sharks to start winning.

All the coaches agreed. But all the coaches weren't fucking Whitney Fordman on an almost-nightly basis. Their pulses didn't race when they saw him, they didn't have to camouflage inconvenient erections in the middle of meetings because a sudden flash of Whitney's smiling eyes appeared in their minds or the taste of his cock played unexpectedly over their tongues.

Lionel had all those malady's and more. It was irritating and maddening. It was thrilling..., and it was real.

For as long as he could hold onto it.

The only name Lionel would willingly put to it was "ownership." Whitney was his, and Lionel felt the enormous responsibility that accompanied his possession of this beautiful, talented, loving, tender Adonis. He owed it to Whitney to protect his career, not squander his talent, not burn out the candle before it had a chance to reach its fullest flame.

So it didn't matter to Lionel that all of the coaches had agreed that putting Whitney on the field tonight was the right thing to do. Whitney was Lionel's, and Lionel alone would bear responsibility if this was a mistake.

'Be brilliant, my love. Be brilliant...'

STEELERS 3-SHARKS 0
1ST QTR - 10:20 MINUTES

"We are back. The Sharks start their first possession on their own thirty-yard line. Snap, Fordman three-step drop, quick release, fifteen yards with that first pass to his Tight End, Tony Gonzales.”

“Al, that was a Throw by Fordman. Watch this replay as he sidesteps to his left and throws back to his right. He felt where the pressure was coming from and got rid of the ball. Looks like a veteran on that play.”

“First down at the Shark forty-five, quick hand-off to the Tail Back. Looks like maybe three yards.”

“Al, notice that the base offense has three Wide-outs and the Tight End. The Sharks spread the field and then ran the ball. The Steelers were not fooled.”

Whitney gathered his troops in the huddle. “Listen, they're placing eight in the box to stop the run. Quick snap count, on TWO. I may have to roll so be ready. GO!”

Walking up to the line, Whitney surveyed the defense. They were daring him to beat them with his arm. He could oblige. 'I’ll be more than happy to cut up the Secondary like the surgeon I am.' His internal monologues ran nonstop throughout the game, pumping him up, keeping his head where it belonged. 'Looks like a strong side Crunch blitz. Even better!'

"BLUE FIFTY-THREE…"

STEELERS 3-SHARKS 0
1ST QTR - 9:30 MINUTES

“Second and seven. Fordman drops back, lets it fly over the middle to Morton, the Steelers Free Safety missed the intercept… Touchdown Metropolis! A fifty-five-yard TD pass from Fordman to Morton!

“You could hang clothes on the rope that Fordman threw. That was a laser beam, thirty yards in the air and Morton did rest.”

Watching as the extra point went up and over, Whitney paced the sideline and accepted a friendly slap on the helmet for his opening drive.

“Hey, Whit-man, nice throw.”

“Thanks, Bran. Get me the ball back, will ya? They're stacking eight in the box and coming after me. It’s man coverage down the field.”

Bran laughed and patted Whitney’s shoulder. “Sure, one turnover coming right up. As long as I've got the ball, why don't I just run it back for a TD? It'd be no trouble at all.”

“Go out there and stop them you clown," he said with a laugh as Bran trotted onto the field.

Whitney slipped out of his helmet and scanned the crowd, finally letting his gaze fall on the Owner’s Suite, but he didn't look long enough to bring anything into focus. This was his show and nothing was going to stop him from being the star. The game was all that mattered.

Lex saw Whitney scanning the upper deck and wondered if was conceivable that the quarterback could see Lionel standing at the window, a tall, lean figure in his customary black, devouring Whitney's every move on the field. They were five and a half minutes into the game — which translated into nearly 20 minutes in real life — and Lionel had yet to take his seat. The other guests noshed and chattered and cheered — Clark loudest of all — but Lionel stayed glued to the window, his customary energy coiled and contained inside the man in the black frock coat.

Lex had endured a dozen football games with his father since Lionel had purchased the franchise, and he'd never seen him like this. Normally when he was in the suite, he was a whirlwind of activity, shaping the experience for his guests, molding it to fit his agenda so that everyone left with exactly the impression Lionel wanted them to have.

Tonight, even with a visiting "dignitary" from whom he wanted something very badly, Lionel Luthor was in a world all his own. Lex and the rest of the guests might as well not have been there.

What the fuck was it about Whitney Fordman that had his cold, calculating, unfeeling bastard of a father so mesmerized?

STEELERS 3-SHARKS 7
1ST QTR - 7:12 MINUTES

“John, the kickoff coverage for the Sharks left a lot to be desired. The Steelers will start their second drive at midfield. Maddox takes the snap, drops back, has time, throws, and INTERCEPTED by Sutton, intended for Burress.”

“Brandon Sutton was sitting out on a zone reading Maddox all the way. There is such a thing as a QB having too much time.”

The Owner's suite erupted in cheers and the ABC Commentators flashed their beauty shot of Brandon Sutton and his stats as on the field Whitney and Brandon slapped high-fives. The exchange didn't escape Lionel's notice, nor did the fact that the two seemed to be exchanging comments at every transition between possession.

The image on the huge flat-screen TVs cut to a close live shot of Whitney striding onto the field, helmet in the crook of his arm, his tousled hair boyishly appealing, his face a mask of heroic determination.

"Oh.My!GOD! He is TOO hot!" Missy Minton squealed like a teenybopper at a rock concert.

"Jesus, Missy, get a grip," Auggie grumbled. "He's just a pretty face with a decent pass percentage."

'And an incredibly tight ass and beautiful blue eyes...' Lionel kept the fleeting thought to himself, but it was true. Well, everything but the pass percentage. Before his career was over, Whitney Fordman was going to raise several bars in the record books.

Lionel wasn't sure if that opinion came from Whitney's lover or the team owner, and at the moment he didn't care.

*
As the huddle formed, Whitney was still studying the defensive package the Steelers had sent in. ‘Still the base formation. Send Gonzales on a hitch to occupy Kirkland and my wide receiver deep to pull the Safeties.’ The new strategy solidified in his head and he radioed the sidelines to discuss the play.

“The Sharks take over at midfield. Fordman drops back, moves up in the pocket as the pass rush comes from the outside. Rifles a pass to Gonzales out in the flat. A pick up of twelve yards and a first down.”

“The Steelers are daring the Sharks to throw the ball and Fordman is getting rid of it in a hurry and to the right places.”

STEELERS 3-SHARKS 7
1ST QTR - 2:15 MINUTES

Whitney moved into to the huddle. “Listen, their Safeties are having issues, play-action to force them to bite. Tony, block but come off the line like it might be a screen. Kirkland is keying on you. On FOUR!”

Hurrying to the line, Whitney motioned for his boisterous crew to quiet a bit. ‘Okay, Whitney…time to score again.’

“Fordman takes the snap, fakes a hand off, and rolls out to his right, throws.., caught by Kennison, racing down the sideline…Touchdown Sharks.”

“The Steelers’ secondary is being picked apart right now. They are going to have to stop the blitzing and drop more people into coverage.”

“The extra point is good and the Sharks lead 14-3 at the end of the first quarter.”

STEELERS 3-SHARKS 14
2nd QTR - 15:00 MINUTES

Lionel was a master at multitasking. He could juggle a half-dozen phone calls, answer emails, and critique a written report while in the middle of a board meeting without missing a detail in any of them, but playing host when his focus was so completely consumed by the game was proving more difficult than he had imagined it could be. At least it was when Whitney was on the field.

Containing his pride was only part of it. Watching Whitney move, studying the nuances of small actions that bespoke the young man's control of the game...it was mesmerizing.

But Whitney wasn't on the field now. The Steelers had the ball and Lionel forced himself to work the room. "All right! Who needs another drink?"

*
Whitney dropped onto the bench and placed his helmet beside him. He was perfect on the day so far, but the defense was keying on him.

The Offensive Coordinator and his assistants appeared as if by magic, looming over him. “Whitney, you're doing a great job out there," Chuck Franklin told him. "We're going to try to put the ball on the ground so we can move you out of the pocket a little. You've taken some shots from their blitzes, but their gamble is failing, Rookie. Keep it up and we'll win this one.”

A set of printouts were shoved into his hands and Whitney took a deep swig of Gatorade as he began looking them over. “Thanks, Coach.” Aerial photos confirmed his instincts about the defensive formations he'd been judging from the ground. Glancing at the field for a moment, he saw the Sharks' Defense stuffing the run, forcing the Steelers into a passing mode.

STEELERS 3-SHARKS 14
2nd QTR - 13:20 MINUTES

“And the Steelers are forced to punt. Not a good offensive series for the Steelers. The Shark defense has been on top of the Steelers ever since that opening drive.”

“Al, you get the feeling that if not for the great field position on the first two kickoffs, the Steelers would have no offense.”

“And the Sharks offense takes the field again. The Steelers’ game plan has been to force Whitney Fordman to beat them with his arm and so far, he's doing a good job of it."

"I'd say they need to get a new game plan, Al. This rookie isn't folding."

"Fordman takes the snap from Tanner, hands off to Mike Cloud, the tailback. He picks up five.”

“With Fordman showing depth and accuracy, the Steelers are dropping into a cover two zone. The Safeties are in coverage. The deep routes are covered."

“Fordman takes the snap, swing pass to Kennison for a six yard gain and a first down.”

*

Whitney listened to his coach give him the plays through his helmet receiver as he scrutinized the Steelers personnel package down the field. ‘They're dropping back in coverage. Okay, force them to react again. Play smart, Whitney, play smart,' he admonished himself as he dropped into the huddle and relayed the play.

“We got 'em, guys. They have no clue what to expect. Keep it up!” He broke the huddle and hurried to the line.

*
“Al, this rookie is smart. Take what the defense gives you and don’t force plays.”

“First and ten from the Sharks’ thirty-five. Fordman fakes the hand-off to Cloud. The Linebackers bite and come up. Fordman hits Gonzales over the middle for a twenty yard gain.”

“Whitney Fordman is eating up the Steelers right now and they have no answers.”

“Hand off to Cloud and he gains seven. So it will be second and three from the Steelers’ thirty-eight. New look, Fordman in the shotgun. Takes the snap from Tanner, hits Gonzales in stride for a fifteen yard pickup.”

“The play calling from the Sharks has been amazing. The Steelers look confused and the Sharks are eating up the yards.”

“Hand to Cloud…he gains six to the Pittsburgh seventeen. No huddle, the Steelers are forced to use a time-out as the Sharks had the defense totally out of position.”

“Al, that defines this game so far.”

***

Whitney walked to the sideline to take advantage of the Steelers' two minute time-out. He looked at the Offensive Coordinator. “Coach, can we run a Quarterback draw? Fake the hand off and take off?”

“Fordman, the boss will kill me if the Million dollar Golden Boy goes down on a trick play," Franklin replied gruffly. "But on the other hand…if the coverage is right, audible.”

Whitney went back onto the field and gathered the huddle. Breaking out, he walked to the Center, read the Defense, and made the decision to change the play.

“Fordman up to the line… He's changing the play. Tony Gonzales is now in motion. The ball is snapped, hand off to Cloud…no it’s a fake! Fordman kept it. Runs over the Strong Safety, leaps. Touchdown!”

“That was a designed play, Al. Gonzales goes in motion and Cloud fakes in that direction. Fordman runs the other way. The Defense did not react in time. Boy he is quick.”

“John, he ran over the Strong Safety and then leaped over the Cornerback to score his first rushing touchdown. Look at the sideline replay of Head Coach Harry Lessening, "NO, NO, NO, YES!!!’”

“The Steelers were confused before. Now they are going to have to contain an unexpectedly fleet-footed QB.”

“The Sharks lead the Steelers 21-3.”

STEELERS 3-SHARKS 21
2nd QTR - 9:30 MINUTES

The stadium went wild as Whitney and three other Sharks celebrated in the end zone. The owner's suite was no exception, with everyone on their feet and cheering — except for Lionel and the GM. And Lex, of course.

"Wow! God, that was amazing!" Collin Stripling gushed as he dropped back into his seat.

Oh, Christ. Another Whitney worshiper was born. "You don't see many football games, do you?" Lex asked dryly.

"No, I'm actually quite fond of the game," Collin replied, his whispery voice more suited to a church sanctuary than a football stadium. He was also completely oblivious to the fact that he'd been dissed. The Goth-ly pale, grimly clad college student had been shy and silent from the moment he entered the suite. That's how they had ended up seated next to each other — Lionel had put Lex in charge of making sure that the young man had a nice time. Shepherding Collin had been vastly preferable to having to flirt with Trudy Minton, but not if he was going to find himself sandwiched between charter members of the Whitney Fordman Fan Club.

"That was unbelievable." Clark was in his seat again, gushing on the other side of him. "Did you see how he stiff-armed that Safety like he was nobody? Damn!..."

"Yes. And did you see..."

Lex leaned back in his chair so that Clark and Collin could gush at each other without having to strain to look around him.

Mike Mancini, the GM, was on his feet, but not to cheer. He was shoulder-to-shoulder with Lionel at the window, frowning down at the Sharks bench. "Should I ring the field? Warn Lessening to tighten the leash on Fordman?"

Lionel had one arm folded across his midsection, his hand propping the other elbow as he thoughtfully groomed his beard. "No. I'll discuss a proper chastisement with his coaches later, but I have a feeling it's not going to be easy to discourage our brash young warrior from engaging in foolhardy acts of heroics, no matter how young the season is."

*

Brandon came up and whacked Whitney on the shoulder. “Dude, are you cruising for some punishment? Nice run, though. You'll make my life a lot easier if you keep putting points on the board like that.”

“Thanks, Bran. I have a feeling Coach is not happy.”

“Yeah, it's your funeral.”

“FORDMAN! What kind of fuckin’ bonehead play was that shit!”

Whitney smiled at Lessening. “I saw that the defense was totally unprepared for it, so I took it.”

“Nice run. Do that shit again and your ass is third string.”

Whitney was grinning from ear-to-ear as the coach walked away. He was The Man in Metropolis now. 'Golden Boy from Kansas Wins First Start,' he said to himself, visualizing the Daily Planet headline already.

He stood on the sideline, watching the Sharks' defense hold until it was three and out for the Steelers’ offense. He gathered himself to go back out on the field, ran to the huddle, and listened for the play.

Walking up to the line, he saw three men on the line and what looked like four linebackers. Not what he had expected at all. There was no way to tell where the pass rush was going to come from. ‘Shit!’

“TIME-OUT!” Whitney raced to the sidelines to talk it over with the coaches. ‘Damned if I'm going to be stupid and fuck up cause I'm stubborn. Or worse, get hurt.’

STEELERS 3-SHARKS 21
2nd QTR - 6:45 MINUTES

“The Steelers showed a new look on defense and had Fordman confused so he wisely called a time-out. As the Sharks come up to the line, the Steelers are still disguising the formation. The ball is snapped... STORM BLITZ!”

Without a clue what to expect, Whitney went with the play he'd been given, took the snap from Tanner and a heartbeat later the defensive line came at him like water over a crumbing dam.

Darting to his left to avoid a lineman, he vacated the suddenly nonexistent pocket. Downfield there was nothing but a charging wall of armored muscle and flesh, leaving Whitney no choice but to race to his right, losing yardage. He shifted his course on a pinhead, forcing the Steelers to over-pursue, but they were after him again in an instant. The roar of the crowd was deafening. A sack here would invite disaster, a loss of ten yards for a second-and-twenty. More pressure would follow; the whole momentum of the game could shift. Changing direction one last time, he tucked the ball and headed downfield for the line of scrimmage, determined to get back as much yardage as possible before the Steelers piled on him like a ton of bricks.

“Fordman running for his life, trying to look down the field, avoids the sack at the five, races for the line and takes a big hit on the thirteen. Loss of two yards.”

“Big rookie mistake. He tried to make the play when he should have run out of bounds earlier. The Steelers came with everybody and the kitchen sink, but they did not get the big play they were hoping for. The Sharks lucked out, but Fordman should have saved his butt earlier and gone out of bounds.”

"All right, Whitney!" Clark boomed, stabbing a fist into the air as Whitney bounced up blithely after 700 pounds of Pittsburg Steeler muscle rolled off of him.

Lex shot him a disgusted look. "Would you get a little perspective here? He fucked up and you're cheering."

Clark gritted his teeth and whispered, "I'll get perspective when you get an attitude transplant."

“The Sharks come back up to the line. The Steelers are showing the same formation, making it difficult for Fordman to get the read. He takes the snap, delayed hand-off to Cloud. He finds a tiny seam in the defense and gains seven. That brings up third and a short five. Fordman takes the snap and slings it out to Kennison who picks up eight. First down Sharks.”

Whitney pulled the huddle together fast. “Look we're going to go into a hurry up mode. Force them to react instead of us. This play is a hand-off The next will look like a bootleg. I’ll roll and force the linebackers into pursuit. Eddie, run a hook to bring the Safeties up. Mort, run a deep crossing pattern. I’ll hit you on the run if you’re in man coverage. Mike — you’re my outlet. TWO then THREE. Break!”

STEELERS 3-SHARKS 21
2nd QTR - 4:58 MINUTES

“Fordman is under the Center, hand off to Cloud who is stopped by Kirkland after a gain of four. No huddle, the Sharks move quickly. The Steelers’ defense is not set. Fordman rolls to his right. Looks down field, hits Morton deep, he’s at the forty, the fifty, the forty, brought down by the Safety Williams at the Steelers’ thirty- eight.”

“Excellent call, the defense was not set, and the Steelers are having to honor the speed and mobility of the rookie Quarterback, which is what made that play work.”

“Fordman, three-step-drop and hits his third Wide-out Jones for a gain of five. Quick hand off to Cloud, breaks a tackle and picks up the first down. The Sharks are now at the Steelers’ twenty-five. Fordman takes the snap, hits Kennison on the hook pattern and picks up nine. Second and one from the sixteen.”

“The Steelers need a stop and force the Sharks to kick a Field Goal. Another touchdown would force an above average offense to come up with a miracle against a superb defense.”

“Fordman hands off to Cloud, sidesteps the lineman, fights…FUMBLE and the Steelers recover!”

“The Steelers needed that, unfortunately they have horrible field position.”

“First and ten from the Steelers’ eight yard line.”

“FUCK!” Whitney screamed as he watched the ball bounce out of Mike’s hands and into the eager arms of the Steeler's Safety. He left the field swearing furiously and trying to calm himself down. He took the cup of water that was thrust at him and gulped it down to cool his temper and keep him from saying something he might regret.

‘Okay, they are deep and have to go through our Defense to score. Calm down. It’s as good as a punt.’ Looking up at the clock, he saw that the Two Minute Warning was coming up. ‘Okay, we start over in the second half…nothing - nothing.’

***********************

While the Kansas State Wildcats Marching Band played and shook their booty to a rousing rendition of "Louie, Louie," Lionel was refereeing a debate in the Owner's Suite. More accurately, he was listening to Gus Anderson blow too hard and wondering what it would take to buy the stupid bastard out.
The debaters were casually grouped around the island formed by Lionel's model of the state-of-the-art Metropolis Coliseum"Well, I for one am impressed with Fordman's pedigree," Bobby Minton was commenting as Lionel nodded to the bartender to bring him another drink. He'd nursed the first one though the entire first half.

"Yes, well, franchises across the country are littered with the bones of promising collegiates whose contracts aren't worth the paper they are printed on," Anderson replied quarrelsomely. "Marinovich, Leaf, name a first round Qb and I'll show you a recent disaster of epic proportions. Fordman is a flash in the pan."

"Oh, I don't think so," Minton argued. "If what we've seen of Fordman so far is any indication, the Sharks could have their first Superbowl season!"

"You're out of your mind," Anderson groused. "Even if his arm holds out, the kid will cave under the pressure of the season. No way a rookie can carry a club to the Superbowl."

"Yes, but wouldn't it be wonderful if he did," Mayor Stripling said, joining the debate. "A super-hot sports franchise can increase a city's revenues from tourism by as much as 7%. That's a healthy chunk of change."

"More than enough to justify a new stadium, don't you think, Mayor Stripling?" Bobby asked.

"Uh-oh," the mayor said with a laugh. "I walked into that one, didn't I?"

"Like a lamb to the slaughter," Lionel replied with a grin. The band on the field was playing the theme from Star Wars now. Lionel turned to Clark, who was sampling the buffet. "What about you, Clark? You've known Whitney longer than any of us. Does Mr. Fordman have what it takes to bring the Superbowl trophy home to Metropolis?"

Clark positively beamed. "No doubt about it, sir. If the defense holds up, Whitney can get the job done."

Lionel clapped him soundly on the shoulder. "I share your confidence, Clark. I think Mr. Fordman has a superbowl in him. More than one."

"Well, it's settled then!" Lex said with too much gusto. "The Sharks are winning the superbowl this year! I'll buy the first case of champagne to celebrate. In fact, if Whitney Fordman can bring the Superowl trophy home to Metropolis, I'll buy the rings!"

"Why, how very generous of you, Son. I'll remember that come January!"

"I'll go you one better, Lex," the Mayor said enthusiastically. "If Lionel's Golden Boy can elevate this team to that level of play, I'll build the Sharks a new Coliseum"

STEELERS 3-SHARKS 21
3rd QTR - 15:00 MINUTES

“Welcome back for the second half. The Sharks are up 21-3, over the Steelers. Melissa, what do you have for us.”

“I talked to Coach Cower of the Steelers and he said that the defense has to step it up. He wants more pressure on the Quarterback. The rookie is having the D for lunch and dinner.”

“Thank you, Melissa. The Sharks will start at their own thirty. Fordman drops back to pass. OUCH! He was leveled by Casey Hampton. There's a penalty on the play.”

“Al, Hampton left his feet and had helmet to helmet contact with the QB.”

“We hear what the Penalty is…”

“THERE ARE TWO INFRACTIONS ON THIS PLAY. PERSONAL FOUL, ROUGHING THE QUARTERBACK BY SPEARING. PERSONAL FOUL, HELMET TO HELMET CONTACT. THE PLAYER IS EJECTED. FIFTEEN YARDS AUTOMATIC FIRST DOWN…TIME OUT.”

“John?”

“Al, the league will review this, but look at the replay. You can see Hampton launch himself at Fordman and hit him helmet to helmet. I’ll bet the league will fine him and he might get suspended.”

The stadium cheered as Whitney came to his feet, but the roar fell to horrified silence as he collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Lionel, who had managed to start the second half in his chair, was on his feet again at the window, as close to the field as he could get without actually going down there. The GM was at his side as the head trainer and his assistants scrambled to reach the unconscious quarterback. ABC went took advantage of the Injury Time-out. to go to commercial.

"What did I tell you?" Gus Anderson gloated. "The kid's not even tough enough to make it through one full game!"

"I strongly advise you to shut up, Mr. Anderson," Lionel growled, his voice low and dangerous.

"Don't worry, Dad. He's only showboating," Lex postulated and earned a glare from Lionel that shook him to the core because it was the first time in his life Lex could remember seeing fear in his father's eyes.

"Whitney wouldn't do that, Lex," Clark argued, clearly as concerned as Lionel.

"I'm sure he's fine, Clark," Lionel said with more bravado than conviction. More softly, he commanded, "Get Chuck Franklin on the phone, Mike. I want to talk to him."

The GM reached for the cordless phone that had never been more than a few inches from his hand during the entire game. The direct line patched him through to the Offensive Coordinator who was standing over the trainers that were grouped around Whitney, completely blocking Lionel's view. Mike handed Lionel the phone.

"What's going on, Chuck? ABC is selling cars and beer instead of showing me what's happening down there."

"He's coming around, Mr. Luthor," Franklin reported, "He's dazed, but he's got good reflexes and pupilary response. He came to on his own."

A roar went through the crowd as the knot of trainers unraveled enough to let them see Whitney sit up.

A shudder of relief rolled through Lionel like a wave at high tide. "You see, Clark? What did I tell you. He's fine. Just fine." Lionel flashed a reassuring smile at Clark and caught a glimpse of a strange look on Lex's face. He had no idea what it meant, and didn't really care. Lex was being an ass, but for the moment, at least, Lionel was too worried about Whitney to care why.

*
On the field, Whitney was blinking to clear the stars from his vision.

“Whitney? How many fingers do you see?”

Whitney took a moment to make sure his jaw was still attached to his face. “Three. Who hit me?”

“Take a moment. Can you stand up?”

Whitney gathered himself again. He remembered trying to stand after the hit but the world had gone dark for a second. He needed to breathe. “Yeah.”

The trainers helped him to the sidelines and sat him on a bench. “Whitney, what day is it?”

Whit had to laugh. “Monday. My first start.”

The trainer smiled. “What’s your girlfriend’s name?”

Whitney took a sip of water and spit it out. “Which one? Lois is out at Berkeley. But I'm hoping Reese Witherspoon will see this and come running to my side.”

The trainers laughed. “Keep dreaming. Okay, follow my finger, don’t move your head, just your eyes. Good. Okay, let me see, they dilate like normal. Rest for this series, get your senses back. Reese Witherspoon? You’re nuts!”

“It’s a clear sign that he has brain damage," Whitney heard Bran quip.

He looked up and saw Bran stepping up as trainers moved off, motioning that Whitney was okay. “Hey, she’d chose me over you," Whitney informed him.

“Keep dreamin’ Whit-man. The Reese-ster is mine.” Bran helped him to his feet. “Seriously, you okay?”

Whit smiled. “Hell yeah! Their game plan was to take me out. I must be doing something right.”

Bran laughed and they watched as the Sharks were forced to punt for the first time in the second half.

“That is a good sign for the Sharks’ fans and management. Brandon Sutton checking on the rookie Quarterback and laughing at something Fordman said.”

“He’s young. He took a monster hit but it looks like he's ready to go back in.”

“The Steelers take over at their own fifteen. Maddox takes the snap. Throws to Ward, no tipped up, intercepted by Sutton. Maddox was hit as he released and it was enough to make Hines Ward adjust and Brandon Sutton has his fifth interception of the young season.”

“The Steelers’ offense is totally out of sync.”

“Looks like Fordman will return to the game. They take over deep in Steelers’ territory. He lines up behind Tanner, takes the snap, hands off to Cloud who is smothered at the line of scrimmage.”

“The running game was shut down when Fordman left. Looks like the Defense is placing eight in the box again.”

“Yes, the Safeties are up to contain the run. Fordman takes the snap drops back, throws a bullet to Gonzales over the middle, Touchdown!”

“That kid has a canon for an arm. Look at that pass. That is a thing of beauty.”

“The extra point is up and good. The Sharks lead the Steelers, 28-3, with ten minutes left in the third Quarter.”

STEELERS 3-SHARKS 28
3rd QTR - 10:00 MINUTES

Whitney stood on the sideline and watched as the Steelers managed to put a series of plays together. They had a running game and were using it, to the detriment of preserving the clock.

Looking at his own play chart he tried to get back the feeling from earlier. That hit had hurt, but he was used to the pounding. ‘Certainly won’t be running if they let me even play the next series.’ Stealing a quick glance at the Owner’s Suite, he wondered if Lionel had been concerned when he got nailed. ‘Maybe I can get him to rub my shoulders for me later.’ The faint hope brought a silly smile to his face, and he wiped it off quickly. That was not the head he was supposed to be thinking with now. A sudden roar brought his attention to the field and saw that the Steelers were going to have to settle for a field goal. “Too little, too late!” he shouted at the field, getting the adrenaline pumping again.

STEELERS 6-SHARKS 28
4th QTR - 14:26 MINUTES

“So the Steelers drive the length of the field and have to settle for a field goal.”

“That drive was costly in many ways Al. It ate up a lot of time and they only got three points out of it.”

“The Sharks lead 28-6 with 14:26 left to play in the fourth. The offense takes the field and will start on their own fifteen. A penalty cost them what would have been excellent field position at the Steelers’ forty-eight. Fordman hands off to Cloud. He breaks a tackle and gains fifteen yards on the play.”

“This is not the time for Sharks to find the ground game if you are a Steelers fan.”

“You’re right John, the Sharks have been spectacular through the air and slightly better than mediocre on the ground. Fordman takes the snap and slings it to Gonzales for a gain of eight.”

“Well, you have to say that the Steelers’ defense is one of the best against the run but the pass rush and the secondary have been horrible this game.”

“Cloud takes the hand-off and has a huge gap. Takes it out to mid field, first down Sharks. The Sharks have been able to make just about any play they wanted. The Rookie Fordman, who takes the snap and finds Kennison over the middle for another Sharks’ first down, Fordman has been magnificent. Right now he is 17 for 21, almost three hundred yards passing, three passing Touchdowns and one rushing TD.”

“This kid has moxie. The Sharks are now a team to be reckoned with. The Quarterback situation has been untenable for the last two seasons. Lionel Luthor hates to lose and the defense has had to carry this club for too long.”

“Cloud rushes for another first down. As we see Lionel Luthor in the Owner’s Suite. The happy faces in that suite are already celebrating the Sharks’ victory. That is a stark contrast to the looks we saw earlier when Fordman was leveled.”

“Nothing will make an owner sicker, faster, than watching the franchise future get injured.”

“Speaking of which, I’m surprised that Fordman is still in the game. And as I say that, the field goal crew comes on the field to attempt a thirty two yarder. The kick is up and good. The Sharks’ are going to win this one, leading 31-6 with 5:30 left to play.”

STEELERS 6-SHARKS 31
4th QTR - 5:02 MINUTES

"To the new and improved Metropolis Sharks," Lionel toasted, and his mostly-enthusiastic guests raised their various beverages in salute.

"To Whitney Fordman!" Bobby Minton countered.

"I'll certainly drink to that," Lionel retorted. "Mr. Kent, I believe you have been charged with providing Mr. Fordman's mother a firsthand color commentary on the game?"

Clark looked a bit surprised, then stammered, "Y-yes. Everyone back home is following Whitney's career."

"Well, you may tell Mrs. Fordman for me that she has a remarkable son. We are both proud and fortunate to have him on our team. Of course, if she tells him or his agent I said so, I'll deny it."

Everyone laughed. Lionel noticed Stripling, Jr., murmuring to his father, and heard the Mayor's quiet, irritable, "Well, say so, boy." The young man seemed to collapse quietly in on himself.

Lionel tried to bail him out. "Collin, did you enjoy the game?"

"Yes, sir, I did." Lionel and the Mayor both waited expectantly for him to go on, but not even his father's nudge in the back could move him to speak.

Finally, in frustration, the mayor said, "Collin was wondering if there was any way that we could go down onto the field after the game and meet some of the players. Isn't that right Collin?"

Straight black hair hid most of the young man's downcast face. "Yes, sir."

"All right, Collin! Cool idea," Missy piped up. "You meet the rest of the players, I'll take Whitney."

"Well, I already met most of them," Auggie boasted, then added with inept nonchalance, "But a trip down to the field, that would be cool. I guess."

"I guess it's settled then." Lionel rubbed his hands together briskly. "Mr. Mayor, would you like to join the younger set for an excursion to the sidelines? Clark?"

The Mayor and Clark chorused their acceptance with an "of course" and a "thank you," respectively. A wave from Lionel and the delegation came to its feet and made a beeline for the door. Lex rose too, and sauntered after Clark.

Lionel had been astonished that his son had made it though the game, and now he wanted to extend the torture? "You're coming too, Lex?" he asked.

Lex shrugged. "Of course. Someone has to chaperone."

'Chaperone who?' The thought popped into Lionel's head unbidden, and the implication of it made all the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. Lex's attitude...his anger...his resentment of Whitney and behavior that could only be described as jealousy... The question Lionel had asked himself this afternoon had a very interesting answer.

Lex was jealous all right, but he wasn't the one who had been Whitney Fordman's lover in Smallville. That honor fell to Whitney's dear friend Clark Kent. Given the magnitude of Lex's animosity, the relationship must have been very important to Kent, and Lex didn't like it one bit.

Neither, Lionel realized, did he.

STEELERS 6-SHARKS 31
4th QTR - :22 SECONDS

“As the clock runs out on the Steelers, we go down to the sidelines to Melissa Stark with the stars of the game.”

“Thanks Al, I have the rookie Quarterback Whitney Fordman and defensive Capt. Brandon Sutton. Brandon, what a big win for the Sharks.”

“Melissa, it's still early in the season but this guy here has shown the league that he is for real.”

“Whitney, an amazing game for your first start.”

“You can’t script it any better. I can’t take the credit. Brandon, here, had two key interceptions, allowing us the opportunity to score. It's a big team win.”

“Ah! There's the whistle. It's official, Whitney. Your first starting victory. Congratulations."

"Thanks, Melissa."

"Al, John, the Metropolis Sharks are on the map now in the AFC title race.”

“Thank you, Melissa. Well, John, we thought we would see a closer game but Fordman lit up the Steelers defense.”

“Al, the kid has talent and showed real field leadership. We see this team again and I can’t wait to see how he has progressed.”

“This is Al Michaels for John Madden, Melissa Stark, and the ABC Sports Crew. So long from Metropolis Coliseum.”

Whitney dropped onto the bench, numb from the thrill of his first victory. Silver and blue fireworks exploded overhead, and some of the players waved, shouted, or slapped his back in congratulations on their way to the locker room.

“Well, Whit-man, you survived," Bran said.

"Did I do okay in the interview?"

"You got a pretty good case of helmet-hair going there, but yeah, you did good. You going to meet a few of us at Sherlock’s after you shower and change? No one will bother us.”

“You said you’d buy, right?”

Bran’s smirk was discounted by the twinkle in his eye. “And I am a man of my word. Great job, Whitney, great job.”

"Thanks."

"Uh-oh! Get ready to sign some autographs, Rookie. Looks like the boss brought you some new fans."

"Lionel's here?" Whitney popped up off the bench and immediately cursed his quickening pulse and what had to be the sappiest grin in creation. He got rid of the grin as quick as he could. What did he think he was going to do? Hurl himself into Lionel's arms? When Bran looked at him strangely, Whitney shrugged. "If you think Lessening was mad about that second-quarter run, what do you think Mr. Luthor will be like?"

"Whit-man, I don't know and I don't want to stick around to find out. You're on your own. See you at Sherlocks."

Whitney turned to find Lionel, Clark, and a retinue of young adults, most of them his age or a little younger, coming toward him. One cute little cheerleader-type with too much carefully applied makeup was practically running to keep up with Lionel, but the enthusiastic bounce in her step was kinda cute. Clark was grinning ear-to-ear. Whitney met Lionel's steady gaze, found nothing readable, and glanced away quickly before his hunger gave him away.

Lionel saw Whitney look away sharply and understood. Agreeing to bring the kids to the field had been a mistake. Whitney was pumped on adrenalin. For that matter, so was he. Pretending to be nothing more than player and team owner right now was going to be torture for both of them.

Good Lord, the boy was beautiful.

Whitney stepped over the bench and smiled at his friend. "Clark!" They did the manly-guy hug-thing, rattling Whitney's shoulder pads. "How was the game?"

"You were awesome! Just awesome!"

"I couldn't agree more," Lionel boomed. "Except for a tendency to take completely unnecessary chances, you acquitted yourself admirably, Mr. Fordman. I'm sure your mother is very proud. And your father would have been, too," he added more softly.

He shook Whitney's hand and held it a fraction too long, but he couldn't help it. Whitney's eyes had turned liquid blue, like the sky meeting the sea.

"I hope so, sir."

"I know it, Mr. Fordman."

"Well done, Whitney." Lex insinuated himself into the circle.

"Thanks, Lex."

Lionel dropped Whitney's hand and introduced him to the Mayor and the others, then dashed off with the mayor in tow to congratulate Lessening and the other coaches. Missy Minton asked for and received an autograph. Collin Stripling could barely bring himself to shake hands. Auggie Anderson made an inappropriate comparison of Whitney to a high profile first round QB draft pick who had flamed out after three games last year.

"You generated considerable debate in the Owner's Suite tonight," Lex told Whitney.

"Lex," Clark said softly, the warning note in his voice clear.

"What? I was just going to tell Whitney that wagers were placed on his Superbowl chances."

"Isn't that bad luck this early in the season?" Whitney asked, wondering what Lex's agenda was. Probably just hoping he'd collapse under the pressure of high expectations.

"May be," Lex allowed, "but you do seem to have your supporters."

"I'll try not to disappoint them."

Missy commanded Whitney's attention and Whitney was dragged away a few minutes later by the Media Relations director who wanted him to go make nice with the local reporters in the locker room.

"I'll call you tomorrow, Clark. We'll catch a bite between classes!" Whitney called back to his friend.

"Great! Thanks for the ticket to the game! Next time, can you get me out of the cheap seats?"

"Cute, Kent!" Whitney said on a laugh.

A dozen feet away, Lionel heard the exchange. His piercing gaze went straight to Clark Kent. That relationship had meant something to Clark or Lex wouldn't be so jealous. What had it meant to Whitney?

What did it still mean to him?

*

The main parking lot was emptying fast, many of the patrons having left early in the fourth quarter of the Sharks-Steelers blow out, but the Players Lot where the franchise dignitaries parked was still full. The late September breeze was still warm enough to smell of diesel and asphalt in downtown Metropolis.

Clark had taken The Metro from the University to downtown, the plan being that Lex would give him a ride after the game. It had seemed like a good idea this afternoon. Now, Clark wasn't so sure.

Striding in heavy silence across the lot, Clark had tried twice to start a conversation, earning only short, terse answers from Lex.

He tried a third time and hit paydirt. "I didn't know I was supposed to be providing Mrs. Fordman with color commentary. Lionel surprised me with that one."

"That was just Dad's creative way of cementing the reason for your presence in the minds of his guests, calling attention to the fact that you're Whitney's old high school chum from Smallville, not my boyfriend."

"Well, since that's important to you, I'd think you'd be grateful to Lionel for making the effort."

Lex stopped. "What does that mean?"

Clark slowed and turned back to him. "Nothing. You just seemed especially determined to be an asshole to your dad tonight, and for once, I don't think he deserved it."

"Clark, you don't know shit about my relationship with my father."

"You're right. I don't. All I know is what you've told me."

"Are you insinuating that I've been lying to you?" Lex asked indignantly.

"No. I — Shit, Lex. I don't know what I mean. You were a total jerk tonight!" The accusation got Lex moving again, and Clark followed him to the silver Jag. "In fact, you're a total jerk every time Whitney's name comes up. Or your father's. It's like you become this whole other person that I don't know and to tell you the truth, Lex, I really don't like. Tonight was important to me. I went to watch one of my best friends—

"Former lovers—" Lex stabbed the remote key at the Jag and the interior lights came.

"Yeah, accent on former, Lex," Clark argued as they split to opposite sides of the car. "FORMER. As in over. Past Tense. Finis. Done with."

"No, it's not."

The words were so soft Clark barely heard them, even with his super hearing. He and Lex faced off over the top of the Jag. "What do you mean?"

"I mean it's not over. Not for Whitney. If you crooked your finger, he'd drop Dad in a heartbeat and be fucking your brains out before the pacemaker kicked in."

Clark frowned. "Your dad has a pacemaker?"

"It was a metaphor, Clark!"

"Oh. Well, metaphorically speaking, you're wrong. Whitney is so much in love with your dad he can't see straight, and even if he wasn't, it doesn't mean he would want me. And even if he did, it doesn't mean that I want him! So I'm having a really hard time seeing where all your jealousy is coming from."

"I am NOT jealous."

"Then what do you call it?"

"I'm...pissed. Suspicious. Confused."

"And Jealous."

Frown lines dug deep furrows in Lex's brow. "Is that what this is?"

Clark nodded. "Yeah, Lex. That's what it is. But what I want to know is who you're jealous of."

Lex sighed with exasperation. "That much at least is fairly obviously."

"Whitney."

"Apparently."

"But are you jealous of a three year old liaison between Whitney and me, or the blazing hot affair your dad's having with Whitney now?"

"Why would I be jealous of Whitney's relationship with my father?" Lex scoffed.

"Because he's someone we both love?" Clark suggested.

"Don't be ridiculous," Lex said with a notable lack of conviction. "My father doesn't know how to love anyone."

Clark shrugged. "Maybe not, but if you knew what to look for tonight, he sure was doing a pretty darn good imitation. Wasn't he?"

Lex stepped back and flung open the door. "Shut up and get in." He threw himself elegantly into the Jag and slammed the door.

"I love it when I win," Clark murmured, then opened the door and got in.

*

The pub Bran had specified couldn't have been handier for Whitney. Sherlock's was just on the outskirts of the trendy four-block area that comprised Luthor Plaza. Whitney's condo in The Lancer Building was a few of blocks away; Lionel's penthouse at One Luthor Plaza was two blocks in the other direction.

As he pulled off Lion's Gate Parkway, he realized he still hadn't left a message for Lionel telling him he was going to be late. He opened his cell phone and said, “Zeus.” As expected, the phone rolled into their private voice mail. Lionel was still with the Mayor. “Hey, I'm meeting a couple of the guys for some manly-male bonding and a post game drink at Sherlock's. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Play nice with the Mayor or you won’t get as sweet a deal as you want. I love you.”

He tucked the phone in the breast pocket of his jacket and wheeled the silver Lexus into the parking lot. He was lucky to find a spot a couple of cars down from Bran's Jaguar. Bran, half way to the pub, stopped and waited for him.

“Whit-man, how is the hero of the night?”

“Stop it. You'll embarrass me. And stalwart hero is the word you're searching for, I think." Whitney laughed and punched Bran’s shoulder lightly. "Who else is here?”

“Only five of us…light night. Kennison, Jackson, and Adams.”

“Cool. Listen, I want a rematch. You blind-sided me with that 23rd move. It was all over but the shouting after that.”

Sutton grabbed the door and held it open for him. “I’ll take black this time, Whit-man. And you will lose again. Glad your play calling is better than your chess playing.”

“Bite me, Bran.” Whitney strolled into the pub and searched the dark, crowded interior until he spotted the other players at a table in the back. He flashed a grin at the hostess who was taking reservations, pointed to his group, and sauntered on back. Someone in the crowd must have recognized Bran because a smattering of applause turned into an ovation complete with catcalls.

Bran poked him in the back. "Hey, Stalwart. They're playing your song. Take a bow."

Whitney looked at him, uncomprehending for a moment, then realized that the ovation was for him. Flustered, he flashed his best media smile in a head swivel that encompassed the room, gave a little wave, and ducked his head.

The ovation ended when he reached the table and dropped into a chair. "Hey, guys!” He ordered a Kettle One and listened to the bullshit fly, oddly aware that he was the subject of considerable scrutiny.

*

"No, the crunch from Hampton didn't hurt," Whitney told them a half hour and two beers later. The other patrons seemed to have gotten tired of watching him, and he'd relaxed considerably. "I don't even remember getting hit. But that sack in the 2nd quarter — now, that hurt!"

"Yeah, but you wouldn't have known it," Bran said, his voice taking a comically rhapsodic turn as he commented, "I mean, despite the pain, the agony, did you see how he jumped up and ran off the field like a fleet-footed gazelle? Guts and fortitude combined with poetry in motion. We have an artist in our midst, gentlemen. A true ar-tiste."

The guys were cracking up at Bran's overblown performance. Whitney just nodded, biting back a grin. "Mockery. I understand it. I'm younger than you. Better looking. More talented. I don't have to drive a phallic symbol to prove my manhood..." He earned an "ooooh" from the guys and a smattering of applause for that one. "I have to learn to expect the mockery that comes from jealousy."

"Okay, Fordman's buying the next round!" Brad decreed and the others seconded the motion.

Whitney felt a tickling vibration over his left nipple and he suppressed the shiver that ran down his spine. He grabbed for his phone quickly before it could vibrate again. "'Scuse me, guys. Hello?"

Lionel's gravelly voice sounded like whiskey and sex. "In case you hadn't heard, the Sharks won a football game tonight. On national television, no less. Why, then, am I celebrating alone, Mr. Fordman?"

Whitney couldn't have held back his sappy grin if his life had depended on it. "It's Lois," he mouthed to his teammates. Into the phone, he said, "Having a drink with some of the guys and seeing who can accumulate the biggest pile of bullshit."

"Who's winning?"

"Bran, I think. But Kenny is coming a close second."

"How ironic. I am a second closer to coming and if you're not here in ten minutes, I shall have to finish without you."

"No, no! Don't do that!" Whitney grinned at the guys and motioned vaguely as he slipped away, hoping they'd understand his need for privacy. He edged into a no-man's-land between a pay phone and the door to the men's room. "I'll leave now, Lionel. Don't do anything rash — at least not until I get there to enjoy the fallout."

"Leaving won't be an inconvenience?" Lionel asked with a touch of playful sarcasm.

"No. I've already run through my entire 'just one of the guys' repertoire." He tacked on a hasty, "—Honey," when a beefy patron popped out of the men's room.

"Well, Dear, get that beautiful, heroic ass over here."

"You have something long and hard for it?"

Lionel's chuckle sent a different kind of shiver down Whitney's spine, straight to his cock. "You have no idea how hard."

"I'm on my way."

Jesus. Speaking of hard. Lionel wasn't the only one. Maybe if he buttoned his jacket... No that would be too obvious. He returned the phone to his pocket and headed back to the table. On the way, he flagged down the waitress, ordered another round for his friends, and gave her enough money to cover their tab.

"Drinks are on the Rookie tonight, guys," he informed them. "I gotta go."

Bran started to argue with him, but Whitney waved him off. "No. You can pick up the tab the first time I lose. Just make sure your credit card isn't close to its limit."

"Deal."

"Don't go," Kinnison admonished.

"The fox in San Francisco got you on a short leash?" Adams asked with a leer.

"Something like that," Whitney allowed, then went for a little embellishment. "I need go home and call her back. Lois is a football junkie. She's gotta hear the play-by-play."

"Oh-ho-ho! You're gonna heat up the long distance telephone lines," Adams accused.

Kinnison agreed. "Yeah. Gives a whole new meaning to `handset'."

Whitney just laughed, letting them draw their own conclusions. "See you Wednesday, guys." He clapped Bran on the shoulder. "Thanks for the invitation. I'll email you my first move tomorrow."

And he was out of there.

*

When Whitney arrived at the penthouse, Lionel was on the sofa in his favorite silk robe, his legs crossed and stretched comfortably along the sofa, his back propped against a nest of huge suede and velvet pillows. On the coffee table, a bottle of champagne was chilling in a frosty silver bucket. Next to the fluted glasses lay a small gold key that opened a decorative antique jewel chest that was one of several "functional" object d'art in the penthouse. This particular objet was always kept locked lest some nosey guest get curious and discover the condoms and lubricant Lionel had taken to stashing there not long after Whitney entered his life.

Whitney would have bet a year's salary that the box was already unlocked.

"I made it! Nine minutes-and-forty-eight seconds," he announced jubilantly.

Lionel made a point of not looking up from the leather-bound report he was reading. "Bravo! Did you have a good time oogling women and paying conspicuous amounts of money for lap dances?"

Whitney laughed. Of all the incarnations he'd seen of Lionel Luthor, he loved Playful Lionel best. "It wasn't that kind of a bar. But I did get an ovation." Whitney sat on the edge of the sofa, hip-to-hip, facing Lionel.

"Justly deserved." Lionel tossed the report onto the coffee table and Whitney did the honor of removing Lionel's reading glasses and carefully laying them aside before melting in for a kiss. As they lightly brushed lips and tongues, tasting and testing as though just getting to know each other again, Lionel's hands caressed Whitney's face, then came to rest gently on his shoulders, forefingers fingers running lightly up and down his throat.

"It took everything I had not to do that when you came down after the game," Whitney whispered when the kiss broke.

"I know. But we must to learn control," Lionel murmured. He captured Whitney's gaze seriously. "Are you all right? That was a nasty blow you took from Hampton."

Of all the things Whitney had imagined Lionel might say to him after tonight's victory, that one hadn't even crossed his mind. Lionel had been worried. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

Whitney nodded. "Just a little headache. Easily cured by two Advil."

"I have the front office drafting a letter to be mailed first thing in the morning. I want to make certain that Hampton is fined and suspended."

"Lionel, that's not necessary. A review is mandatory. They'll dole out punishment as they see fit."

"Yes, but I like rattling my saber." He flashed a devilish grin, but Whitney could see steely determination underneath it. "It gives me the illusion that I can protect my players on the field."

"I don't need protection, Lionel, but I appreciate the sentiment." Whitney dropped his hand to Lionel's lap and found a fully erect cock pulsing against Lionel's abdomen. A touch unfurled the robe and Whitney was thrilled to find Lionel naked beneath. He hadn't been joking about being close to coming, and Whitney once again marveled at his lover's astonishing control. "Nice saber."

"Thank you. I — OH GOD!"

Whitney moved so quickly, closing his mouth over Lionel's cock and sucking hard on the head, that Lionel had no time to prepare for the sudden jolt of exquisite sensation. His hips bucked up and his hands found purchase in Whit's short, golden hair. Unable to control himself, Lionel thrust wildly, fucking Whitney's mouth out of pure, animal instinct.

It was several seconds before he gathered himself enough to pull Whitney off his cock. "That wasn't...what I had in mind," he said, hunger making his voice hoarse and harsh.

"Then fuck me, Lionel. Please."

Lionel dragged Whitney's mouth to his for a hard, stunning kiss. Now that the heat was unleashed, there was no caging it, no taming it to something polite and civilized. It wasn't going to be that kind of a fuck. Breaking the hard, frantic kiss only when necessary and coming immediately back to it, Lionel shoved Whitney's coat off his shoulders and Whitney obliged by peeling the rest of the way out of the jacket while Lionel grappled with the buttons of his shirt. Once the coat was off, Whitney was helping with the buttons, popping two of them and sending them flying god-knew-where and Lionel's hands moved on to Whitney's belt, button, zipper...stimulating Whitney's cock so that by the time it was free and he was naked and they were kneeling face-to-face on the sofa, touching, caressing frantically, Whitney's cock was as hard as Lionel's and just as eager.

Lionel reached between them, jacking Whitney mercilessly, searing kisses on his mouth between pants and moans and whimpers for more that could have been coming from either of them.

"I can't wait any longer, Whitney." The words were harsh and broken, nearly lost in the passion of that endless kiss. "I've waited entirely too long for you tonight, already."

"Don't wait," Whitney pleaded. "God, don't wait."

Lionel grabbed one of the huge pillows and tossed it to the other end of the sofa, then maneuvered Whitney into position, bending him over. Braced on the arm of the sofa, Whitney's aching cock brushed lightly against the soft suede and he knew there was no way he could last long positioned like this. He pushed back a little, forcing his ass into contact with Lionel’s cock. “Now, Lionel…now!”

The jewel chest yielded its treasures to Lionel and he quickly applied the contents of a crystal vial to Whitney’s ass, his control being tested by each moan and back-thrust as Whitney fucked himself on the fingers that were preparing him.

"Lionel!" It wasn't a plea but a demand.

“Soon, love. Soon.” It was everything Lionel could do to keep his hands steady as he ripped open the foil of a condom, encased his cock, and made himself ready. He spread Whitney's cheeks and guided his slick cock into his lover.

Whitney felt the penetration of Lionel’s thick pole, slowly sinking in, making him complete, whole. This was what he'd wanted, needed, after the game. To feel his lover’s embrace, to know that his own need for Lionel was matched and returned. The hunger was never far from the surface; it was always smoldering, temptingly close. “Yes!”

Lionel pushed deeper into the tightness he had become addicted to. “So hot…so tight.” This was his; Whitney was his and his alone. His hands caressed the smooth skin of Whitney’s back as he pressed deeper, pushing in small, controlled increments until he was completely encased and all of his senses were focused, engulfed, in that tight, hot center of his lover. He began rocking in and out, slowly at first, in small, teasing strokes, until Whitney was moaning and demanding more, and Lionel gave him more in hard, fast thrusts that rammed deep and blinded Whitney with the intensity of the jolts to his prostate that sent sensation screaming into his cock.

The dual stimulation of Lionel's hard thrusts and his cock rubbing against the pillow forced Whitney's mind into overdrive. “FUCK!”

His cock still moving in and out, Lionel bent, reaching around to take Whitney's cock as he whispered in his lover's ear. "You're mine, Whitney. You know that, yes?"

"Yes."

"Yes?" He punctuated the demand with hard strokes of Whitney's cock and even harder thrusts into his ass. "Yes?"

"YES! Oh, God, yes! Fuck, Lionel..." Whitney's breath came in short bursts. “Close, so close.” Lionel’s cock was driving him insane, and his claim of ownership fueled Whitney's need to come as much or more than the deep powerful strokes. “LIONEL!” The scream echoed but he didn't care. His nuts ached, his cock twitched, he heard a hiss of breath at his ear, a hard moan, a harshly whispered, "My beautiful Whitney," and he knew that Lionel had come. Whitney gave up trying to hold back and came into the hand that was jacking him.

Lionel pulled out of his young lover slowly. “Ah, almost as good as our victory.” He pulled Whitney upright, arms molding them together as he ran his drenched hand along the smooth chest. “So beautiful.”

"I love you."

"I'm glad." He turned his gallant knight in his arms, kissed him deeply. Sometime in the middle of the amazing fuck, Lionel had thrown off his robe. He reclaimed it now, shrugged it onto his shoulders, then settled back into the nest of pillows, pulling Whitney onto his chest and enfolding them both in the robe — more or less.

"Now, tell me everything."

Whitney felt drugged, dazed. Lionel's shoulder was his pillow, and that beautiful, toned body his mattress. He had to be crushing his lover, but Lionel didn't seem to mind. "Everything?"

"Yes, everything. About tonight. I want to know what it was like on the field, controlling the game with 60,000 voices screaming for you, living in that moment for only you."

Whitney was deeply moved that Lionel wanted to share that experience with him. He wasn't sure he could put it into words, and it for damn sure wouldn't be as eloquent as Lionel could make it sound, but for Lionel, he would try. For Lionel, there was nothing he wouldn't do.

Whitney tried to make it short so as not to bore, but Lionel wanted details. He questioned and prodded, as though trying to see the entire game as Whitney had experienced it. They poured champagne and talked until half the bottle had been consumed and Whitney ran out of details.

"What about you?" Whitney asked. He was resting comfortably in Lionel arms, his back against Lionel's chest. "What was it like up in the Suite? Did you bend the mayor to your will?"

A tickling vibration ran through Whitney as Lionel chuckled. "I think you were more effective at that than I. Let's just say the Mayor was suitably impressed with your performance."

"Lex told me some Superbowl wagers were made."

"Hmmm. My son needs to learn restraint," Lionel said darkly.

"Is it true?" Whitney twisted so that he could see Lionel's face. "It's too early to be making Superbowl wagers. It's bad luck."

Lionel's lips were pursed in a moue of irritation. "Not wagers, exactly. More like promises. Of which, I wanted you to remain oblivious."

Now Whitney was intrigued — and a little irked. Lionel withheld way too much information that he classified as 'for Whitney's own good.' "What promises, and why should I kept be in the dark about them?"

"I have placed a great deal of responsibility on your shoulders, Whitney. It's too early to be adding Superbowl concerns to your burden. It's going to prove increasingly heavy as the season wears on without having this...addition."

"Well, thank you for trying to spare me — unnecessarily — but the cat's about halfway out the bag. Tell me what was said."

Lionel sighed heavily. "Mayor Stripling has promised to put the Coliseum bond issue on the ballot next April if the Sharks bring home the Superbowl Trophy."

Wow. No pressure. Why the fuck hadn't Lex kept his big mouth shut? "And if we don't win?"

"That's not your concern."

"You'll be fighting an uphill battle to get the stadium build."

"Presumably."

A pause, then, "Okay."

Lionel frowned. "Okay, what?"

Whitney twisted again, re-situating himself so that his back was against the sofa and he was supporting his own weight as he looked up at Lionel. "I mean, okay. I'll win the Superbowl for you."

Lionel's short burst of laughter died quickly when he saw how serious Whitney was. "Just like that?"

"Yep. I've been trying to figure out what to give you for Christmas — it's not easy finding the right gift for the man who has everything, you know. This will do nicely." He stretched up and kissed Lionel. "I'll give my love a ring for Christmas. From me to you, and every time you wear it, you'll know that it means I love you."

Lionel threw back his head, laughing as he roared, "Oh, the unbearable irony!"

"What?" Whitney asked with a puzzled frown. He knew the sentiment he'd expressed was corny, but it wasn't that out there, was it? "What's so funny?"

"Well, it seems..." Lionel was chuckling. "It seems that my son made his own Superbowl promise tonight."

"What?" Whitney asked, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"He said if you win the Superbowl, he'll buy the rings."

It was Whitney's turn to howl with laughter. Oh, that was too rich! "Perfect! I love it! I'm going to give you a ring for Christmas and Lex is going to pay for it! That's priceless!"

They kissed with laughter still bubbling on their lips. Just as the mirth would start to abate, Whitney would envision Lex's face, and another round of giggles would envelop him.

"Can I tell him?" Whitney asked between chuckles. "At the appropriate time, of course. But I want to see Lex's face when I tell him that he's paying for my Christmas present to you."

Lionel chuckled darkly. "Yes. You may do the honors. So long as I'm there to watch. It may be amusing, but it won't be pretty." Lionel sobered. "I had a particularly nasty row with him today over Celeste's appointment to the Foundation. He realized I was doing it for us, and he was enraged. I don't understand why he hates you so much, Whitney. It simply doesn't make sense."

Whitney sighed heavily and lowered his head back to Lionel's shoulder. "It does to me."

"Why? How so?"

"He knows about me and Clark."

Whitney felt Lionel go very still beneath him, not a muscle moved. After a second, his chest rose and fell in a breath. "You and Clark?"

A chill that had nothing to do with the fact that he was naked snaked beneath Whitney's skin. Surely Lionel wasn't thinking... Whitney rose again, levering back to look at Lionel. "Past tense, Lionel. Clark and I had a...a thing two years ago. You didn't think I meant — "

There was something odd in Lionel's eyes. Jealousy. But not jealousy. More like the imitation of jealousy; an affectation staged by a consummate actor. "Shit, Lionel." Whitney began extricating himself from the tangle legs and arms and robe and champagne glasses. "You knew!"

"I beg your pardon?" Lionel seemed completely baffled. "Whitney?"

"Oh, cut the crap." Whitney settled on the other end of the sofa, glaring at Lionel. Not angry, just...miffed. "You know why Lex hates me. You're just on a fishing expedition to see if I'll confess. Did Lex tell you? Or did Clark say something?"

Lionel's answering chuckle was deep and rich. It resonated through Whitney even though they were no longer touching. "Why is it that I don't seem to be able to fabricate anything where you're concerned?"

"Oh, I don't know," Whitney countered. "I think you're pretty darn good at fabricating. And prevaricating. And obfuscating. You like playing head games."

"I suppose I do," Lionel confessed easily. "One of many character flaws, but in this case I was merely trying to verify a hunch."

"A hunch?"

"No one told me about you and Clark. I surmised it for myself this evening and needed to confirm the hypothesis."

"You couldn't just come out and ask?"

Lionel considered the question for a long time, frowning. "No. I don't think I could have."

"Why not?"

"It's not in my nature. Asking the question would have admitted that there was a certain...deficiency in my knowledge base. That would be displaying a weakness, and weakness leaves one open to attack."

"I'm going to skip being insulted by your presumption that I would attack you — " He waved Lionel to silence and continued, " — instead, I'm going to remind you that you started this conversation with the plaintive admission that you had no idea why Lex hated me. You admitted a flaw in your knowledge base."

"AH, but I was only pretending not to know. There's a difference. I realized this afternoon that jealousy was at the root of Lex's animosity and not merely his standard juvenile rebellion against All Things Dad."

Whitney was aghast. "You thought I fucked Lex?"

"Or conversely."

"That's something I would have mentioned, Lionel."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. But I realized my error after the game tonight. Seeing Lex's animosity in tangent with his protectiveness of Clark, it became clear that he views you as a threat to their relationship."

"I'm not," Whitney told him.

"Was Mr. Kent in love with you?"

"No," Whitney replied. It was strangely very difficult for him to admit, "It was just comfort for him. Friendship with sex."

"Were you in love with him?"

There was no change in Lionel's voice or expression, but Whitney knew, somehow, that they had reached bedrock. That was the question Lionel had wanted to ask from the beginning. There was the jealousy. Not much. Just a sliver, but real.

It would be Lionel's just desserts if Whitney played coy and made him drag the information out, but Whitney didn't like playing games.

"I was in love with having a boyfriend," he finally replied. "Clark was my first relationship that wasn't quick, anonymous sex or a buddy-fuck to take the edge off. Clark and I... We needed each other. So yeah, I guess you could say I was in love with him." Whitney came to his knees and shifted back to the other end of the sofa, draping his body along the length of his lover's. "But that's past tense, Lionel, and for the record, just in case it matters to you, what I felt for Clark doesn't even come close to what I feel for you." Lionel didn't protest when Whitney placed a soft, moist kiss to his lips. "This is the real thing, whether you admit it or not."

"Whitney... Time for bed," Lionel decreed. His hands were lightly kneading Whitney's shoulders.

Whitney hadn't expected Lionel to admit that his feelings for another man mattered; or to admit his own feelings for that matter. It was best to leave the issue behind. He turned his head to brush a kiss onto the back of Lionel's hand. "I don't suppose I could convince you to turn that into a backrub, could I?"

He sighed so heavily that Whitney rose and fell with Lionel's chest. "Give him an inch, he asks for a mile."

Whitney flashed his most dazzling smile. "But give him 8 inches and he's in heaven."

"Crude, Mr. Fordman.

"But true."

"No backrub?"

"I think not. I pay an excellent salary to people trained to do that far better than I ever could. Time to turn in."

Lionel gave Whitney a firm nudge that indicated they were finished cuddling on the couch. Reluctantly, Whitney gave ground and came smoothly to his feet. When he pivoted back to the sofa, the move put his fully-recovered cock at Lionel's eye level. It didn't escape Whitney's notice that his lover was looking.

"See something you like?"

The gaze that rose to meet Whitney's was positively smoldering. Lionel came to the edge of his seat, anchored Whitney's hips, and began a series of torturous lollipop licks that had Whitney moaning Lionel's name. His hands wove into Lionel's long, silky hair and he could not take his eyes off the exhilarating view of Lionel sucking him off. He'd never seen him, not like this before. Their first time, that day in his office last May, Lionel had told Whitney he went to his knees for no man, and he'd been true to his word. Lionel had pleasured Whitney in just about every position imaginable, but this was the first time Whitney had ever been on his feet with Lionel working magic on his cock, his dark eyelashes fluttering against his cheek, his face transported as he worked Whitney's cock in and out of his mouth, sucking and sampling, tongue darting, teasing, and just when Whitney knew he couldn't hold back a moment longer, Lionel applied pressure to the base of his cock and pulled his mouth away.

"Oh, fuck, Lionel! Jesus! Finish me."

Lionel stood. "Not just yet. Take that into the bedroom. I have plans for it later."

Whitney slid his arms around Lionel, pressing against him, trapping his frustrated cock between them. "How much later?"

Lionel grasped Whitney's hips to deny him the friction he needed. "You'll see. Now, go. I have to shut down my computer. I'll join you shortly."

"How shortly?"

"Go!" Chuckling at Whitney's desperation, Lionel found the edges of his robe and belted it. "I'll be there in a minute."

Lionel moved off, leaving Whitney desperately debating limping to the bedroom or saying to hell with Lionel's games and finishing himself off right here in the livingroom. Shooting his load all over Lionel's soft-as-butter sofa would serve the bastard right for bringing him to the brink and leaving him hanging by the barest of threads.

"Don't even think about it."

Whitney turned. Lionel was leaning on the wall that formed the corner of the elevator foyer. "Fuck you."

Lionel shrugged. "Not if you can't make it as far as the bedroom," he cautioned, then disappeared around the corner.

"Man was not meant to walk upright at moments like this," Whitney muttered as he gathered up his clothes and moved to the bedroom with as much dignity as he could muster under the circumstances.

The indirect lighting in the bedroom ceiling was casting only a faint glow, but it was enough to allow Whitney to see that the bed had been turned back. Not unusual, but there was a valet out of place, sitting next to the bedside table that held an unlit pillar candle. Whitney moved around the bed. An assortment of towels were folded on the valet and a huge cotton bathsheet was carefully spread out on the bed. Several varieties of oils and massage lotions sat on the night stand next to the candle.

Playful Lionel slipped into second place behind Lionel the Considerate Lover.

"Light the candle."

Whitney did as instructed, touching the butane torch to the three wicks between glances over his shoulder at the man framed in the door. "You had this planned all along."

"You left the stadium tonight without a rubdown or the whirlpool. You must take better care of yourself than that."

Whitney grinned. "Thanks for the personal service, Boss. I hope you don't make this sacrifice for too many of the guys."

"Only the ones with eight figure salaries," Lionel said dryly. "Now onto the bed, please." Lionel shrugged out of his robe as he came around the bed and Whitney stretched out on his stomach, his erection trapped against the soft bathsheet. He heard rustling and rattling and then Lionel was on the bed, straddling his hips, working magic with his strong, smooth hands and lightly scented oils.

Whitney was fairly certain he'd died and gone to heaven. All the aches melted away, the tension in his shoulders vanished. Lionel massaged his back, his thighs and calves, his arms. When he came to a set of bruises that Whitney had barely even noticed on his thigh, Lionel's switched lotions and his strong hands became incredibly gentle. A Rachmaninov piano concerto played softly in the background and occasionally Lionel would mistake the broad expanse of Whitney's back for the keys of a piano. Whitney lost all track of time.

"Mmmm...Emilio's backrubs never felt this good," he mumbled into the pillow made by his arms crossed beneath his head.

"Sorry to hear that. He's very well trained."

"I think it's his technique. There's something about the addition of a hard cock casually bobbing against the ass that adds a certain...promise to a massage."

Lionel sighed with mock exasperation. "Typical. I try to do one good deed for the day and you turn it into something prurient."

"A good deed for the good of the team?"

"For the good of my lover." Lionel's soft, gravelly voice went through Whitney like velvet caress.

He shifted and Lionel rose off his haunches to allow Whitney to turn onto his back. He captured Lionel's questioning gaze.

"When you say that, I feel it right there." He took Lionel's hand and splayed it across his groin at base of his cock. Then he lightly wrapped his own hand around Lionel's hard, thick shaft.

Lionel swallowed hard and filled his hand with Whitney's cock. "When I say what?" he managed to ask.

"'My lover.' You realize it's only one syllable more than "My love," two of the best words in the English language. Two of my favorites, anyway." Whitney's thumb brushed the head of Lionel's cock and it jerked in his hand. Eyes closed, savoring the pleasure, Lionel played follow the leader, mimicking Whitney's every caress, thumb circling the head, teasing the slit, coaxing and stroking until both cocks were weeping and the hands that manipulated them were wet with precome.

"And it's exactly the same number of syllables as that other golden oldie, 'I love you,'" Whitney's voice became strained as the heat in his cock built. "See? 'My-lov-er,' 'I-love-you.' What did I tell you? Exactly the same. Now—" Whitney's breath caught in his throat when he got a particularly sharp sample of exactly how good his hand felt to Lionel. "—Now you try it. It's easy. Say, "my-lov-er then..."

Lionel opened his eyes and looked down at the tangle of hands and cocks where he straddled Whitney. Their hands brushed occasionally as they tried to share the same space, moving sensuously, Lionel's hand only a heartbeat behind Whitney's as they pleasured each other.

"I see your hand on my cock, Mr. Fordman," Lionel commented mildly, his voice remarkably ordinary considering the heat coursing through him. "But I could swear I feel handprints on my back, as well."

Whitney grinned. "Are you saying I'm pushy, Mr. Luthor?"

"Yes, Mr. Fordman. My lover is very pushy indeed." He bent and put an end to the discussion with a hot, deep kiss.

"Have we graduated from massaging to fucking?"

"I think so."

Lionel pulled back and reached for the lube and a condom. Still straddling Whitney, their gazes locked, he ripped the foil, eased back and began sheathing Whitney's cock.

Whitney jolted in surprise. "Lionel — "

"I want to ride you tonight."

Oh, God. This wasn't anything new, but, God, Whitney loved it. The first time they'd tried the difficult position, Whitney had teased Lionel that he wanted the pleasure of being fucked without relinquishing any control. Lionel hadn't disagreed, nor had Whitney protested the practice that was required, because Lionel never did anything unless he could be the best. Riding cock took practice, and Whitney secretly hoped that Lionel never perfected his technique because he wasn't sure he could stand that much pleasure. It wasn't just the control of his cock and Lionel's tight heat that drove him insane, it was watching Lionel move, seeing ripples of pleasure shudder through him, watching the changes in his expressions as the pleasure built. It was amazing. Dizzying. Extraordinary.

Whitney sat up, stealing a kiss and the lube from his lover. Wordlessly, he slicked his fingers and slipped his hand between Lionel's legs to prepare him. One finger, two...scissoring gently, opening him, fucking him, lightly teasing the sweet spot as Lionel kissed him hard, stifling moans, losing the sound of his pleasure in Whitney's mouth.

Everything moved into exquisite slow motion when Lionel took control and moved into position. Whitney laid back and Lionel lowered himself onto the thick, slick cock, taking it all, gasping against a slice of pain. Whitney wiped his hand, then the two men locked hands, fingers woven as Lionel began to move, undulating his hips, rising and falling, shifting positions subtly, finding the angle that stroked his prostate and ripped away his ability to control the pleasure.

Lionel's strangled cry was the sexiest thing Whitney had ever heard. It was also his greatest victory. Every time they were together, the edges of Lionel's control frayed a little more and Whitney felt a little closer to Lionel; a little closer to having his trust. His love.

For now, he had incredible pleasure building, coursing through his own body, and the joy of seeing Lionel's pleasure playing across his face. His pale blue eyes, capable of fire or ice, were blazing, holding Whitney's gaze as he maintained a torturous, maddeningly steady pace, abs rippling as he rode Whitney with an almost equestrian grace.

Whitney slipped his hands out of Lionel's and ran them down his chest, slick with oil and sweat, then gripped Lionel's cock and began pumping, sending another set of signals to Lionel's brain and ripping a little more of his control away. As Whitney pumped, Lionel's breathing began to change, coming in quick, short pants that matched the pace of his lover's hand on his cock. The texture and pressure pushed him farther and faster than he wanted to go, but he couldn't slow it down. The stallion was controlling the rider now. The cock in his ass flexed, pushing him closer still, and Lionel knew he couldn't last much longer, not with his beautiful Whitney wresting his control away, holding him deep in those fathomless blue eyes, while every touch, every stroke, every moan, told Lionel what he wanted to hear, needed to know. That this magnificent stallion belonged to him; that Lionel was his master.

And his slave.

Whitney bucked up, pushing deeper into Lionel, on the edge, his hand moving quickly up and down the shaft, jacking harder and faster until Lionel was screaming Whitney's name. The constriction on his cock and the wetness on his hand and chest sent Whitney over the edge into his own white void of sensation and he pumped mindlessly into his beautiful lover.

Panting, spent, Lionel carefully rose off of Whitney's cock. He disposed of the condom, then lowered his torso to Whitney's and captured his mouth in a slow, languid kiss. He broke the kiss and ran his tongue lightly over Whitney's lips, breathing into his mouth a single word.

"Mine."

"Yes," Whitney whispered into his lover's mouth, then, startling Lionel with the swiftness of his move, Whitney rolled them over, pinning Lionel beneath him. He brushed strands of silky hair off Lionel's face, out of his beard, then captured his mouth in a kiss. He broke the kiss, traced Lionel's lips with his tongue, and breathed a single word.

"Mine," he whispered, then rose enough to see his lover's eyes, daring him to deny what they both knew. "Mine," he said again.

Lionel raised his head and kissed Whitney deeply. When he pulled back, he met Whit's intense blue gaze. "Shower," he murmured softly, then rolled away quickly, coming nimbly to his feet.

"Damn it, Lionel!" Whitney cursed, propping up on his elbows.

Lionel stopped and looked back at his not-quite-irate lover, a sly smile breaking over his face.

"Yes?"

Whitney glared at him, but there was nothing he could do to hold back the appreciative laughter that was bubbling up in him. "Damn it, Lionel. What's it going to take to get you to come right out admit you love me?"

But Lionel was already gone and if he heard the question he wasn't about to fork over any answers.