WARNING: NC-17 Slash Fiction

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Author's Note: Please bear in mind that this is an Alternate Universe based (loosely) on Season One of Smallville. In our world, Lionel is still alive and will hopefully live a long and eventful life.

Saturday, October 14
Lion's Gate Hotel, New Orleans, Louisiana

Whitney Marie Bower was a beautiful baby. Even an unsentimental eye like Lionel's had to acknowledge that the infant was a stunner. Perfectly proportioned features, alarmingly blue eyes framed by impossibly long eyelashes, and a silky halo of curls the color of wheat. Jacob Manning had succeeded in obtaining copies of some digital photos Cheryl Bower had dropped off for processing at her pharmacy; hence, one of the encrypted files Lionel had just downloaded from his Message Center contained the complete chronicle of little Whitney Marie's first three weeks of life.

Nowhere among the images of Whitney Marie in the arms of her exhausted mother, proud grandparents, and an assortment of friends was there a single image of Michael Wexler, the father of record on the baby's birth certificate. In fact, there was no evidence that the former boyfriend, who had been living and working in Topeka at the approximate time of the baby's conception, was even aware of the child's existence.

Lionel glanced from the image on his laptop across the hotel room to Whitney. Bare-chested and commando in a pair of sweatpants that left little to Lionel's imagination, Whit was absorbed in his umpteenth viewing of a scouting video, winding and re-winding through every defensive maneuver the New Orleans Saints had made in this century. In the last two weeks, Lionel's quarterback-slash-lover had put together stellar wins against Miami and Tampa Bay, but this week injuries on top of a drug suspension were going to put Lionel's team -- and his gladiator -- to the test.

Whitney was handling the stress admirably, which only increased Lionel's appreciation of his young lover, but he refused to give in to the hunger that had been teasing his cock all evening. Whitney needed to focus -- for the time being, at any rate -- and there was always an array of projects and problems that needed Lionel's attention. Coming to New Orleans for the entire weekend was time he could ill-afford, but for reasons he refused to examine too closely, he felt compelled to be here, registered twice -- as Lionel Luthor in the Ambassador's suite on the top floor, and as Edgar Tremayne on the fourth floor in this undistinguished suite whose only virtue was that it shared a discreet connecting door with Whitney Fordman's.

With difficulty Lionel dragged his gaze away from the compelling sight of Whitney's perfect torso, and continued perusing the latest information Jacob had collected on the problem that was Whitney Marie Bower. Lionel hadn't told Whitney about the child, of course; as Manning continued investigating, trying to ascertain the baby's paternity, Lionel continued weighing the pros and cons of making Whitney aware of the birth. He hated the thought of seeing Whitney burdened with fatherhood at this point in his life. If the child was, indeed, his, Whitney would want to be an active participant in the girl's upbringing. That would consume a valuable portion of Whitney's time, to say nothing of the expense of supporting a gold-digging single mother.

On the other side of the coin, a public paternity suit would be enormous insurance against the inevitable whispers of homosexuality that were going to crop up if Whitney failed to get married and populate the world with little Fordmans in the next few years. A baby was a complication, yes, but it was a better beard than a pretend girlfriend like Lois Lane could ever be. Perception was everything and having a well-publicized heterosexual relationship in his past would serve Whitney very well in the future.

Obviously, then, there were advantages to making Whitney aware of the situation, but for some unfathomable reason, Cheryl Bower wasn't coming forward publically or privately to sue Whitney for child support. As a sperm donor, Whitney Fordman was veritable goldmine -- incredible genes and deep pockets. If the baby wasn't Whitney's, why give the child Whitney's name? If it was Whitney's why wasn't she collecting her jackpot?

There was nothing Lionel hated more than a conundrum, but that's exactly what he had on his hands because he couldn't tell Whitney the truth -- not without betraying his own involvement in discovering the birth of the child after having promised not to investigate Cheryl Bower.

What to do...what to do...

"That fucking asshole..." Whitney muttered to no one in particular as he reset the DVR. Lionel knew exactly who he was cursing. He put his laptop into sleep mode and engaged the security protocol as Whitney asked, "Why, Lionel? Why did you have to order that fucking drug test? Couldn't you have waited until after we played New Orleans?"

"You'd rather Mr. Crukshank be absent when we play Denver in three weeks?"

"I'd rather Steve Crukshank not be absent at all."

"Then he should stop shooting up designer steroids," Lionel commented mildly as he rose and moved across the room to the bar Mioshi had set up earlier on the table behind the sofa. "If it's any consolation, I did postpone his suspension until after the game against Tampa last week."

"While you were at it, why didn't you postponed Seth Williams' bacterial infection and Mack Chenner's cracked ribs?" Whitney pressed the play button again to restart the digital recording.

Lionel poured two fingers of Macallan single malt. "Your faith in the extent of my power is gratifying." He moved around the table and sat against the back of the sofa behind Whitney. "Do you really believe watching that video a 10th time will make the Saints easier to beat tomorrow?"

"Are you criticizing your quarterback's dedication and preparation?"

"I am commenting, not criticizing."

"Well, come back and comment when it's your ass about to be pummelled into the astroturf."

Lionel leaned down and whispered in Whit's ear, "I actually had a different sort of pummeling planned for your ass tonight."

Whitney grinned. "Hot damn!" He turned off the tv, tossed away the remote control and turned to his lover. Coming to his knees, putting Lionel's mouth in reasonable reach, he stretched up for a kiss. "Let the pummeling begin."

Lionel chuckled. "You can be incredibly predictable."

Whitney ran a hand up Lionel's thigh. "You'd rather I played hard to get?"

"Hard will be sufficient," he said as his mouth closed over Whitney's. Their tongues mated and a lazy lover's kiss gradually developed heat. Lionel shifted, sliding his legs over the back of the sofa and Whitney obligingly nestled between his thighs without breaking the kiss. His nimble fingers found the closure of Lionel's trousers, and a soft growl of pleasure rumbled in Lionel's throat as Whit's strong, calloused hand freed his cock, stroking it with assurance and authority, as if it was a treasured possession, something he cherished as his and his alone...which it was, though Whit was sure Lionel would have died before admitting it.

Fondling gave way to a more intimate application of mouth to cock, clothes were hastily shed, and Lionel finally broke free, standing, commanding, "Come."

"Your bed or mine?" Whitney asked hoarsely.

Lionel didn't answer, but instead of moving toward either bed, he went to the bureau and took a bottle of lube from the top drawer. Whitney grinned in anticipation as his lover slicked his hands, and when Lionel quirked an expectant eyebrow at him, Whitney joined him at the bureau, where he quickly found himself facing the long mirror, Lionel nuzzling the back of his neck as the long fingers of one of his beautiful pianist's hands slid across Whit's abdomen and then lower into the blond curls that framed his cock.

Whit sucked in a deep, hissing breath when Lionel slid a lubed finger into him and stroked his prostate. Whitney closed his eyes and moaned, but Lionel adminished. "Look. Watch," he commanded as a second finger entered and crooked the hotspot. Whitney's cock jerked, hardened, and rose. Lionel pierced him with a third finger and massaged his prostate until Whitney's cock was at full staff; thick, hard, beautiful.

Lionel took hold of it, one hand loosening his ass, the other teasing his cock. "I know I have been quite liberal in my praise of your perfect body," he said, his voice huskey as he ran his hand lightly up and down the shaft. "But have I ever really done justice to your cock? So beautiful... Length and breadth so generously formed, so magnificently proportioned to your body. And these jewels..."
His hand cupped Whit's sac and gently rolled his balls until he whimpered "Oh, jesus, Lionel, fuck me." He bent, bracing his hands on the bureau and watching in the mirror, aching and nearly breathless as Lionel sheathed and lathered his cock, then brought it to his ass. Whitney winced as the thick cock head pierced him.

"Hard." It was a plea, not an observation.

But Lionel had other ideas. He slid his cock in slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time, exercising incredible restraint. "Not tonight my beautiful warrior. While I normally take great pleasure in knowing you can feel my cock long after I have withdrawn, I want nothing distracting you tomorrow except, perhaps, the knowledge that I will eagerly welcome you off the field with whatever level of penetration your heart -- and your perfect ass -- desires."

His cock was buried to the hilt and he slowly withdrew it, nearly to the rim, then eased in again, making Whitney moan as he brushed his hot spot. Setting a painstakingly, maddeningly slow rhythm, he found Whit's cock again and slicked his hand with the precome that dripped from the head.

Whitney looked at Lionel's reflection in the mirror and lost himself in the look of pleasure on his lover's face as the pace quickened, building to a fevered pitch that left them both gasping for breath and sanity.

Sunday, October 15
New Orleans

CBS PRE-GAME SHOW

“Welcome ladies and gentlemen to today’s featured match-up between the AFC West leading Metropolis Sharks and the NFC South leading New Orleans Saints. I’m Greg Gumbel along with my partner Phil Simms. Phil, this looked like a good match-up a week ago, but the Sharks are coming in with some issues.”

“Greg, how right you are. The Sharks have an amazing rookie Quarterback in Whitney Fordman. His touchdown to interception ratio is better than 3-to-1, which is excellent. He has jump-started an offense and catapulted them into first place, but part of that success was predicated on a solid offensive line which right now the word ‘Shambles’ would not over-reaching to describe them. For more on that we go down to our sideline reporter, Armen Keteyian.”

“Greg, Phil, right now the Sharks' offensive line is in disarray. The Sharks’ owner Lionel Luthor has always demanded a clean team, so it was no big surprise when left offensive tackle Steve Crukshank received a hefty three game suspension after a Luthor-ordered in-house drug test came back positive for a new synthetic steroid. To make matters worse, Mack Chenner is rumored to be playing with an injury that makes him questionable for the game, and right guard Seth Williams is out with a bacterial infection. He has been hospitalized and needless to say, won’t be playing. That leaves an offensive line packed with young players whose combined years of NFL experience barely breaks into double digits. Back to you, Greg.”

“Thank you, Armen. So the Sharks’ offensive line, which was one of the most experienced will have two first time starters and a Rookie QB today.”

“Greg, Whitney Fordman’s best friend today will be an effective running game, but the Saints are the best in the business at stopping the Run.”

“Right you are, Phil. We will be back to the Super Dome right after these messages.”

SHARKS 0 SAINTS 0
1ST QTR 15:00

As was his custom on road games, Lionel staked his claim on a swath of the sidelines at the kickoff and began pacing. For home games, he usually entertained in the Owner's Box, combining business with the pleasure he took from watching his team. On the road, though, he was free to be closer to the action. He never cursed, rarely spoke, and commentators had been known remark on his predatory prowling. The GM would join him at times and occasionally he would watch from the Sharks' booth with the aerial-view coaches. He was a part of the landscape on the road, and today he was thankful that everyone was accustomed to his pacing. This game was a test for Whitney on several levels and the deck was stacked against him. The Offensive line was depleted; they were on the road, playing in a Dome, and Lionel was free to "stalk" the sidelines with no one being the wiser that for the first time all season he was worried about his young general.

SHARKS 0 SAINTS 0
1ST QTR 13:10

Whitney dropped back to throw. It was third down and a long seven to go. So far the running game had lost more yardage than had been gained and his arm was all that had allowed the Sharks to advance the ball. He released the ball just before being flattened. Two minutes into the game and so far he’d been hit on every passing play.

He picked himself off the ground and watched helplessly as his pass was tipped, intercepted, and returned for a touchdown. The first offensive series had not gone well. He’d have to adjust.

“Fuck!”

SHARKS 0 SAINTS 7
1ST QTR 11:37

Lionel schooled his features, willing himself not to wince as Whitney got crunched -- again -- between two Saints players. The offensive line was doing a piss poor job of protecting his investment-slash-bed partner. Another play was mounted. His young Adonis rolled away from the pressure and took another hit an instant after the pass left his fingertips. By the time he was on his feet again, the pass had been tipped -- again -- and intercepted.

Whitney's stats were taking as merciless a beating as his body. By the end of the first quarter, the loss Lionel had dreaded was clearly visible on the horizon.

SHARKS 10 - SAINTS 23
2ND QTR 4:15

From the sidelines, Whitney looked up at the scoreboard and sighed as the extra point rolled the Saints' score from 23 to 24. New Orleans definitely had home field luck on their side. The Sharks trailed by fourteen, and it was only that close because the Sharks' Defense had blocked a punt, giving the Sharks the best field position of the day and returned an Aaron Brooks interception for a touchdown. Whitney and the offense, by contrast, stunk worse than three day old socks.

Whitney needed to generate momentum for the offense, but it was hard when he was spending most of his time picking himself up off the turf. That was not how he liked to play the game or how he preferred time spent on his back. He already ached from being sacked five times and hit an additional six times. He considered it a miracle that he hadn't broken anything. Yet.

He ran onto the field and into the huddle. “We're changing the tempo, no huddle from here out. R Slant fifty, then double post deep. If we get deep, we will huddle. If not, then we go with Pull R screen. Silent snaps 5, 3, then 4. Break!”

He walked up behind his Center, Lloyd Tanner, and went with the silent count. The ball came into his hands and the pressure came at him from the left side as it had the entire game. The Maginot Line had held longer than his left flank, but he hit his slant receiver an instant before he was nailed.

He pulled himself up and ran up to the line. ‘Four minutes left in the half.’ They had picked up a first down and the Defense looked confused. Good. He took the snap, rolled to his right to avoid the inevitable pressure, and threw the perfect pass to Thad Mosley for a huge gain.

“Go! Let's go!” Whitney yelled at his team, prodding them to line up quickly so they could hit the Defense before they were set.

The Saints called a timeout to regroup.

“Fuck!”

Whitney ran to the sidelines.

The Sharks’ Offensive Coordinator Chuck Franklin met him. “Whitney, play cool. We need a score and not another turnover.”

Whitney’s chest tightened. The turnovers were bad luck more than bad plays, but they were ultimately Whitney's responsibility. “We’ll score and come back on them.”

SHARKS 10 - SAINTS 24
2ND QTR 2:49

“Welcome back to the Super Dome as the Sharks mount their first real offensive drive of the day. First and Ten from the Saints eighteen yard line as the teams retake the field. Fordman takes the snap; the defense is coming with a safety blitz from the left side. Fordman rolls to his right, looks to throw. No! He tucks the ball and takes off! Ten, five, Touchdown Sharks! You know, Phil, Fordman's arm is so amazing that it's easy to forget just how fast he is.”

“How true, Greg. You know, Fordman is awfully slow getting up out there. He got hammered as he made that dive for the End Zone.”

“Fordman is limping as he heads towards the bench. That is the longest run of the day for the Sharks and triples the running yardage the Offense has amassed thus far. Going to be a high price if it puts the rookie on the bench, though.”

SHARKS 17 - SAINTS 24
2ND QTR 2:15

“Son of a bitch!” Whitney yelled as he dropped onto the bench. His ankle was throbbing. He’d had sprains before -- he knew this wasn't a break -- but he wanted off of it. Trainers swarmed him as he sat down. “24 - 17, we are back in the game!”

“FORDMAN!" Harry Lessening charged up like a bull in a china shop. "I have enough injuries without you making mad dashes for the End Zone.” He turned to the trainer. “How's the ankle?”

“Looks like a sprain. I’ll wrap it and he can play. I’m more worried about his head. He’s been hit a lot, and after that decision to dive for the Touchdown…”

Whitney winced as his ankle was wrapped. “I’m sitting right here! There is nothing wrong with my head or my hearing!”

“We’ll get a CT Scan when we get home," the trainer said, totally ignoring the interruption. "I know he’s as hard-headed as they come, but you can’t be too careful.”

Whit threw his hands in the air.

"Get Shan out here to look at him," Lessening ordered, then charged off to yell at the Defense that was getting marched on.

When his ankle was taped, Whitney walked around a bit, testing it, but keeping his attention on the game as the half drew to a close. The Saints last-second Field Goal pushed their lead back out to ten points.

“27-17 and we get the ball first. Okay, Boys, we are still in this! The Second Half is ours!”

SHARKS 17 - SAINTS 27
3RD QTR 9:20

Whitney grimaced as the trainers wrapped his left ankle. Again. The game was only in the third quarter but it felt like it had been three days already.

“Fuck!” Whitney watched as the Saints put another three points on the scoreboard.

“Looks like you have your work cut out for you, Whitney,” the trainer commented.

"Do they give you lessons in Understatement, or is that just a natural talent?" Whitney said, trying for a good-natured grin but it turned into a wince when his shoe went back on his foot. He stood slowly, testing the ankle as the Saints kicked off to the Sharks. He wanted it tighter and it finally felt like he could put pressure on it. The three-and-out the Offense had after Halftime was embarrassing. He’d been hammered on all three plays. The sack total for the day stood at seven already and he could feel every one of those hits. The field position was poor again, thanks to another holding call. Whitney spotted Drew Benedict and grabbed his arm. “Listen, you have to fucking block out there! I’m getting pummeled!”

Drew pushed Whitney’s hand off of him. “Who the fuck made you king, faggot? Not like you haven’t thrown two interceptions, Mr. Calvin Klein Superstar. Why don’t you get your head out of your ass?”

Whitney scowled and got in Drew’s face. “Fuck you, asshole. They are blitzing every play now because they know your ass couldn’t stop my grandma in a wheelchair. You're supposed to protect my blind side, but I'm getting killed.”

Whitney turned and headed onto the field. He pulled the huddle together. “Listen, we have to move the ball and that means the line has to hold longer than the fucking snap! Now, screen right side!”

Whitney broke the huddle and walked up behind his center. The ball was snapped and Whitney moved back to pass and was hit from his left again. Slowly he sat up and took the hand of his running back, Rance Oliver. “Remind me to beat the shit out of Steve Crukshank when his suspension is over.”

Oliver walked back to the huddle with Whitney. “Dude, Crukshank’s been shooting up juice, you think you could take him?”

“Probably not, but his replacement is joke.” Whitney motioned to Drew, then moved into the huddle. “Okay, I can say that sucked. Benedict, if you don't block Whitehead on this play, I'm going to personally drop kick your ass out of the fucking plane over Arkansas on the way home.”
"Yeah, you and what army?" Benedict retorted.

Dan Gossett, a 6'6", 332 lb. human trainwreck thumped Benedicts' shoulder pad and smiled broadly, displaying brilliant white teeth in a dark chocolate face. Words were unnecessary. The message was received loud and clear. Drew muttered an unhappy "Fuck you," but there was no force behind it.

Whitney made a mental note to send Gossett a thank you stripper next week.
He called another play and went to the line. The ball was snapped and he rolled to his right to avoid the pressure from the left where Drew Benedict again was overmatched. Whitney threw the ball to his tight end but got crunched between two Saints linemen just as he released the ball.

It took him a moment to get up off the turf. “I am going to feel that one for a few weeks.” He walked slowly to the huddle. His limp was noticeable. “We take this one first down at a time.” The Sharks lined up again. The ball was snapped and the pocket collapsed on Whitney in no time.

"I hope that fucking asshole can fly."

SHARKS 17 - SAINTS 30
3RD QTR 7:00

Seething, Lionel made his way through the warren of corridors downstairs and back to the field. After the half, he'd joined the Aerial coaches so he could get a bird's eye view of the disaster that was his offensive line. Second-string left tackle, Drew Benedict, had been a big question mark coming into this game. What Lionel had seen aloft had turned the question mark to a bullseye. Benedict was caving so fast on every play that he might as well have been giving the Saints an engraved invitation to pancake the quarterback into the astroturf.

When he returned to the sidelines, Lionel discovered that nothing had changed. Whitney was moving slowly and limping noticeably, but he had too much heart to give up. He'd keep pushing, even if it meant getting seriously injured, and all because that prick Benedict couldn't hold the line. He watched two more agonizing plays, but the cost of the yardage gained was just too high. Lionel pulled out his phone and called the Sharks control booth. “Patch me through to Lessening.” The coach was only a few yards away on the other side of the bench, but Lionel made it a point to avoid the appearance of dictating instructions. It took a moment before he was able to talk to the head coach without appearing to do so. “Harry, pull him before he gets seriously injured.”

Lionel kept his face neutral as Whitney went down for the tenth sack of the day. Lessening called a time out and pulled the trainers over to Fordman’s side. Whitney wasn't going to like being yanked from the game, but the outcome of this game wouldn't damage the Sharks' AFC West standing and Lionel wasn't about to gamble his young QB's career on a meaningless match up. Whitney was resiliant, but he’d been hit well over a dozen times and had his ankle taped three times. Next week was a bye; better to pull him now, let him heal and go back onto the field healthy against Denver in two weeks.

Brookline went into the game and Lionel knew speculation would begin immediately that Fordman was being benched. He paced again and saw Whitney being carted off to the locker room. One the coaches walked up to him.

“Sir, they are taking him to get X-rays on his ankle. Dr. Shan has already said he wants Fordman on crutches for three days. They don’t think it's anything more than a sprain, but we can’t be sure yet.”

Lionel nodded. “Thank you.” Lionel waited for the coach to walk away. The roaring of the crowd pulled his attention to the field. Brookline had just thrown an interception that the Saints had run back for a touchdown. Lionel pulled his phone out again. “Bring the car around. I’m leaving.”

Lionel dialed the booth one more time. “Mancini.” He waited for the General Manger to grab the line. “You know what to do.”

SHARKS 17 - SAINTS 37
4th QTR 15:00

Whitney insisted on coming back to the sideline to cheer for the team even though it was clear that a loss was pending. He was on crutches and his ankle was iced down, but it didn’t hurt too much as long as he kept pressure off of it. His pride hurt more than anything. The Sharks were being humiliated on the road and on CBS’ featured game of the week. ‘Wonder how good my Q rating will be after this disaster? I can hear the critics now, Fordman stumbles. Shark stink up Super Dome. One Hit Whitney?’ He looked around but couldn’t see Lionel anywhere. “Guess I can look forward to a cold reception tonight. Might as well get ready to deal with more fallout,” Whitney muttered to no one.

"It's a sign of insanity to talk to one’s self,” Bran commented as he walked up. “Though from the punishment you took today, I don’t doubt that you could be hearing voices.”

“You're a regular comedian, Bran. Don’t quit you day job.”

Bran chuckled and moved closer to Whitney. “Seriously, are you okay? I saw quite a few Whitney Sandwiches today and none of them looked pleasant.”

Whitney hobbled to the bench and sat down as he’d been instructed by the doctor. He waited for Bran to join him. “Ask me tomorrow how I feel. Right now I'm crippled by the ass-kicking we're getting over to the wrong side of the scoreboard.”

“Hey, Whitney, this team is yours. Don't let one ass-kicking tell you otherwise. You keep the faith and we will too," Bran said, then moved on.

Whitney really appreciated the encouragement. Somehow he doubted that Lionel would be quite so forgiving.

The ragged, disheartened offensive line was coming off the field and Whitney hailed one of the players. "Hey, Noon!"

John Noonan, the rookie guard who'd gone in for the hospitalized Seth Williams, stopped and looked at him. "Yeah?"

"Don't let the score fool you," Whitney advised him. "You did good out there. Thanks."

"You're welcome," the first-time starter said with a big grin. "Take care of that ankle. I like being on the winning side."

Whitney nodded. "Yeah, me too."

"Final score was 47-17, Mr. Luthor."

Lionel glared in the general direction of cockpit of his Embraer ERJ 145. He tapped the intercom. "Thank you, Connor. I could have done nicely without that information."

"Sorry, sir," the Captain replied unapologetically. "We'll be at cruising altitude in about 5 minutes. ETA Metropolis is 4:50. Sandofer has arranged for the limo to be waiting."

Lionel checked his watch. "Noted," he replied, then sat back to nurse a very disappointing Royal Lochnagar Scotch. He normally preferred Speyside single malts, but this had been a gift from a colleague who hadn't taken the time to learn a Highland from a Speyside from a Islay or a Lowland. Twelve years in the cask hadn't been nearly enough for the Lochnagar he'd just opened. His stock of vintage single malts was running low; it was fortunate that Christie's autumn auction in Glasgow was only a month away. He would have to remember tomorrow to ask Grace if the catalog had arrived so that he could plan his bidding strategy.

Setting aside the Scotch that was much too smoky for his palate, Lionel moved to the desk in the luxuriously appointed sitting room that, if necessary, could be opened into a full-scale boardroom. He fired up his laptop and logged into his Message Center. Most of the mail would wait until tomorrow -- he'd let Grace prioritize it for him -- but there were several Eyes Only messages that demanded his personal attention. One was a packet of encrypted files from Jacob Manning. Lionel downloaded them, then disengaged from the network before decrypting them.

He knew what they were even before he unscrambled them. One set of folders contained photos from the surveillance net that had been set up around Whitney in the hope of spotting his stalker. The other would be another report on the problem that was four-week old Whitney Marie Bower.

He opened the Bower folder first and found a report and surveillance photos of Cheryl. She had started work this week and Jacob had captured images of her on playground duty, entering a supermarket, removing the baby from a car seat... Normal activities from a routine week for a working mother. Nothing new or interesting.

He opened the second decrypted folder and, much to his dismay, discovered a copy of a new email from Whitney's mysterious stalker "K" -- they were averaging one a week now. This one contained more insane ravings about the purity of the love Whitney supposedly shared with this anonymous lunatic. Jacob had included an assessment that concerned Lionel and he made a note to discuss the implications with Manning before his security chief shared the contents of the folder with Whitney tomorrow.

Lionel opened a folder of photos that had been culled from the various security sources that were now focused on Whitney. He scanned the images, but quickly lost patience with the sea of faces. They had a forensic analyst and a sophisticated computer face-recognition program comparing the sets of images, looking for repeated faces, and Whitney received the folders once a week so that he could look for familiar faces. Unfortunately, the only face Lionel could be sure they wouldn't find in the surveillance was Cheryl Bower, whose hospital stay had eliminated her as the potential stalker.

It was a shame, Lionel reflected. Spotting Cheryl in one of the surveillance photos would force Whitney to allow Manning to investigate the girl, and the investigation would naturally uncover the birth of a child whose conception coincided with a period of time that Whitney had been dating the girl. What a pity that--

Lionel smiled. He loved it when ideas collided and plots coalesced. Mousing quickly to the Surveillance files, he found the folder labeled "Lancer Building" and scrolled through the images until he found the one he wanted -- a street scene from the corner opposite the entrance of Whitney's apartment building. In the picture, a half-dozen pedestrians were loosely clustered at a stop light. He pulled that image into a new folder, then navigated back to the set of images of Cheryl Bower standing on the playground of McKinnon Elementary school. He pulled the picture into the previous folder and reached for his cell phone.

Jacob Manning's voice mail answered the ring. "Jacob. My flight arrives in Metropolis at 4:50. Please meet me in the limo. I believe I have come up with the contingency plan we've been looking for."

Last on, first off. Just one of the perks of being injured in the line of duty, Whitney discovered. The front cabin of the team jet was reserved for the walking wounded, so today Whitney had a whole luxury-class row to himself. With a pillow at his back, he was propped against the window, left leg elevated, a hardback thriller open on his lap, unread, as he mentally searched his body for any spot that didn't hurt.

He was grateful for the distraction when Bran suddenly slid onto the armrest at his feet and grinned down at him. "Are you medicated?"

Whitney closed the book, using the overleaf of the dust jacket as a bookmark. "Does a near-lethal dose of Ibuprophen count?"

"Nope. I think Tug's hoarding a six-pack of Bud on ice. I'll tackle him for it, if you want."

Whitney shook his head. "I'll live. I won't enjoy it, but I'll live. Did you come up here just to apply for a position as my pusher?"

"No, I dropped by to tell you to stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Beating yourself up."

Whitney shifted and felt it in every muscle. "Don't worry. I don't think the Saints left anything to beat."

Bran leaned closer to avoid being overheard. "Thanks to that asshole, Benedict," he hissed. "Once the Saints got his number it was all over but the whistle."

Whit lowered his voice, too. "I don't want to be paranoid, Bran, but was this a message from the line? Are the guys pissed about the Klein endorsement? Do they think I'm hitting too big too fast?"

"Hell, no. Benedict's a first class wuss. Everybody knows it, but this is the first time he's been put to the test. He's been dragging his ass on second squad, collecting a paycheck and praying nothing happens to Cruk. Today he got a good look at Willie Whitehead's nosehair and it scared the shit out of him." Bran patted Whit's uninjured right leg. "Trust me. Has nothing to do with you -- although you are generally hated for being prettier than the average Miss America."

Whitney laughed and winced. "Fuck you. Envy I can handle. It's the sticks, stones, and Willie Whitehead that'll be the death of me." He shook his head. "One more game of this till Crukshank comes back. I don't know if I'll survive."

Bran shook his head. "Don't worry. You won't have to. The Boss isn't the forgiving sort."

"You really think Lionel will bench me?" Whitney said, frowning as a sick, nauseous feeling slammed into his gut.

"Not you! Benedict. I've never seen Luthor leave anyone on the line who played like Benedict. They'll bounce him back to being a practice dummy for a few weeks and see if that stiffens his spine."

"Great," Whitney muttered with little enthusiasm. He could just hear the locker room grumbling already, "Fucking QB can't take a beating so Benedict gets sent down."

Bran seemed to read his mind. "Stop worrying, Whit-man. The guys respect you on the field, and the Boss will have a solid line for you by the time we get to Denver so that you can go back to working your magic. You'll find that the locker room is very forgiving when we're winning."

Bran, the offensive coach, two trainers, his body man, and a front office media guy that Whitney didn't even know all offered to drive him home, but he politely declined them all. His right leg, though bruised at the thigh, was perfectly capable of managing the accelerator and brake. He just wanted to get home with as little fanfare as possible and die.

But first he had to deal with Lionel. Hoping for voice mail, he hit Lionel's private number on speed dial and got lucky. Now, what to say? He'd rehearsed it all the way from New Orleans, but it still got stuck in his throat. "Hey, Boss. It's Gimpy here. I'm heading home for an ice pack, a boloney sandwich, and a noose to hang myself with -- oops, sorry, -- with which to hang myself. I'll talk to you tomorrow when I'm human again." He paused, then, added softly, "I'm sorry I let you down. I love you."

He hung up and wondered if Lionel would let that be that. At best he was only postponing the inevitable. He'd known this day was coming -- it wasn't possible for a team to win every game -- but Whitney dreaded seeing the disappointment in his lover's eyes. Lionel valued winning; he brooked no excuses for failure. Maybe tomorrow, when the sting of defeat had worn off some, it would be easier to face whatever punishment Lionel would mete out. Or maybe not.

With days getting shorter, it was flirting with dusk by the time Whitney pulled into the Lancer Building parking. Leaving his acursed crutches laying in the passenger side, he limped his way upstairs and unlocked the door.

It hit him at once that his apartment should be dark, but it wasn't. It should have been silent, too, but there was Bach coming from his sound system. And if sight and sound weren't sufficient sensory clues that he had a visitor, there was a tantalizing odor of something mouthwateringly Italian emanating from the kitchen.

Joy and dread hit him in equal parts. Whitney shut the door and locked it behind him.

"You realize, Mr. Fordman, that I could have you fined for disobeying doctor's orders. Where are your crutches?"

Ready with an apology, Whitney turned toward the stern voice and totally cracked up. Lionel was on the kitchen dias, wooden spoon in hand, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. Tied neatly at his neck and waist was a black linen chef's apron that read "Chairman of the Bordeaux." Joy overwhelmed the dread. Lionel couldn't be too angry if he was cooking supper and wearing clothing with gag slogans. Cackling with glee, he limped toward the kitchen. "Man, if I wasn't already in love with you, this would definitely put me over the edge."

"Hmmm... Apparently my threats don't carry the gravity they once did," Lionel grumbled.

"It's the apron," Whitney told him. "Or maybe just the incongruity of seeing Lionel Luthor in the kitchen."

Lionel came down one step, keeping the height advantage as he took Whitney into a very light embrace and kissed him. Whitney would have melted if the resulting puddle wouldn't have caused him great pain. "Did you really cook?" he asked when the kiss ended.

"Olympia's provided the veal marsalla and Chef Vernier's home-pressed fettucini. I am providing the boiling water. The pasta should be al dente by the time you get out of those clothes and into something comfortable that includes an ice pack. I'm fining you a thousand dollars for every minute that ankle isn't elevated. Where are your crutches?"

"Downstairs in the Lexus," Whitney tossed over his shoulder as he limped for the bedroom.

"I'll call Jacob and have someone from security bring them--"

"No, don't!" Whitney countered. "I've got a pair in the guest room closet. I'll get them. This isn't the first time I've been pummeled."

"It's the first time on my watch," Lionel said. Something in his tone made Whitney stop and turn. Lionel's face was grave as he told Whit, "I should have protected you better. Lessening expressed doubts about Benedict last year, but Franklin thought he could be salvaged. Obviously he was wrong. Benedict has already been sent down to the practice team. He'll be released or put on waiver next year, but he won't play for the Sharks again. His performance today was disgraceful."

Whitney's sense of decency and fair play wanted to suggest that Benedict be given a second chance, but his swollen ankle and the gigantic bruise that was his body told him to keep his mouth shut. With some quality game time, it was possible that Benedict would toughen up, but Whitney didn't want to suffer through the trial-and-error period, and it was damn sure Lionel didn't want to suffer the inevitable losses associated with nursing one piss-poor offensive lineman.

"On behalf of everyone on the team who enjoys winning, I thank you," he said.

Lionel used the spoon to point to the bedroom. "Clothes! Ice pack! Elevated! Fine! Do these words mean nothing to you?"

"Going, going!" Whitney hobbled off. He flipped on the lightswitch and was half-way out of his suit before he realized that Lionel had just apologized to him.

It was an event so enormous he had to sit down to digest it.

"How can you possibly defend him? You of all people!" Whitney was aghast. Still seated at the table on the dias at the living room window, he and Lionel were enjoying after-dinner conversation and a bottle of merlot that Lionel had deemed "excellent." Whit's ankle was iced and elevated; dinner was a memory sitting pleasantly on his palate and in his belly. What wasn't sitting well was Lionel's defense of Steve Crukshank. "I know how you feel about drug use, Lionel. You're a purist who thinks steroids are an abomination. You suspended Steve for three games. Not the League. You. Lionel Luthor."

"I'm aware of my name, Whitney."

"Are you sure? If you can sit there and defend Steve Crukshank for taking steriods, I have to wonder if I really know you."

"You don't. Not really, but that's hardly the point," Lionel said pleasantly, between sips of wine. "Saying that I understand why Mr. Crukshank took the drugs is not the same thing as defending him."

"No?"

"No. Steve Crukshank is well into the last half of his career. Younger, faster, possibly stronger athletes are nipping at his heels, reminding him of his career mortality and his own fading physical gifts. You're too young to understand the kind of fear that can be bred by knowing you may soon be too old to hold on to the things that define your very existence."

Was Lionel making a confession? Whitney couldn't tell. "I can't imagine you being afraid of anything, no matter what your age."

Lionel smiled. "I don't have to share a fear to understand it's source. Shall we?" He gestured toward the sofa below them in the sunken living room.

"Sure."

Lionel stood and handed Whitney his crutches, then shared the last of the merlot between their two glasses.

"What about the dishes?" Whitney asked as he hobbled down the two steps and across to the sofa.

"I instructed Mioshi to be here at nine to handle the clean up. There is only so far I'm willing to go to coddle my wounded warrior."

"This is plenty far," Whitney replied, grinning. He stopped in front of the couch. "Come sit."

Lionel put their glasses on the coffee table and sat. Whitney lowered himself gingerly onto the sofa next to him, leaning into the circle of Lionel's arms and angling his body along the sofa so that his left leg was elevated.

"Are you sure you're comfortable?" Lionel asked.

"Yeah. I'm good for a while. Until I stiffen up."

Lionel chuckled darkly and Whitney cursed his tongue. Sex was the last thing on his mind, and as much as he loved Lionel for being here and taking care of him, he was also dreading the very real possibility that his lover expected this evening to end in sex. If that's what Lionel wanted, Whitney would do his best to comply, but his ankle was screaming, he had more bruises than he could count, and there wasn't a joint in his body that hadn't been abused today. At this stage, it would take a forklift and a bottle of viagra to stiffen his cock.

"Lionel, I'm not sure--"

"Don't be silly, Whitney," Lionel said, brushing a hand through Whit's short, fair hair. "Once you are fully recovered, I shall take your gorgeous ass out for a spin, but I am not heartless."

Whitney managed to turn toward Lionel and cup him intimately. "If you want, I could--"

Lionel silenced him with a kiss. "Generous, but unnecessary. I prefer pleasures shared." He covered Whitney's hand, holding it against his cock for a long moment, then carefully lifted their hands away. "Although we'd be wise not to test my resolve too far."

"Actually, I rather enjoy testing your resolve... But not tonight." Whitney leaned in for another kiss, then shifted and got as comfortable as the day's trouncing would allow.

Lionel handed him his wine, and with Rachmaninov playing softly in the background, it would have been a perfect moment if Lionel hadn't spoiled it. "Before you get too comfortable..."

"Oh, shit," Whitney muttered. Why did everything perfect always come with a price tag? Just once, couldn't he smell the roses without getting bitten by thorns? "What?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"On the way back from New Orleans I got a preview of the security files Jacob will be bringing you tomorrow."

Whitney groaned, but the topic seemed legitimate, not one of Lionel's patented reality checks. "Oh, God, more faces to sort through? It took me hours last week. And I didn't even go anywhere! One trip to the market, practice every day, and back home. How many fuzzy pictures am I going to have to wade through this week?"

"Quite a few, I expect. I gave the folders only a cursory glance. However --" He paused a moment. " -- there's another letter."

"Shit," Whitney muttered under his breath. "What does she say this time?"

"To me, it seemed like more of the same, but Jacob is concerned. I spoke to him at length after I got back into town and he feels certain that your stalker is building up to making some sort of symbolic physical contact."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"She may make contact with someone you know."

"Why? Why not me directly?"

"Because confronting you face-to-face risks challenging the validity of her delusion."

Whitney twisted to look at him. "You mean she doesn't want to hear me yell 'Get the fuck away from me you crazy bitch?'"

Lionel chuckled. "Yes, that would tend to punch a hole in her belief that you are madly in love with her."

"I'd like to punch a hole in her face."

"Violent fantasies aside, Jacob thinks -- and I agree -- that you should warn the friends who would be her most likely point of contact."

Whitney sat up, barely noticing the pain as he dropped his legs off the couch and turned to Lionel. "Jacob thinks she's going to attack one of my friends?"

Lionel shook his head vigorously. "No, not an attack. Contact. A phone call, possibly. Or a letter. Or a 'chance' meeting in a public place. Jacob says that she's getting desperate for a validation of your relationship. Some part of her rational self knows that coming to you risks rejection, but there is less risk in insinuating herself into the life of someone you know."

Whitney thought it over. "You mean, like, running into someone at the grocery store and saying, 'Oh, aren't you so-and-so? Whitney has told me all about you."

"Exactly. Self-aggrandizing behavior supports her delusion that she actually has a relationship with you. And whoever she contacts might think nothing about the incident."

It made a wacked sort of sense. Which was appropriate considering who he was dealing with. "Who should I tell?"

"Friends and associates that she would have learned about through the media would be the most likely targets."

"Shit, Lionel, that could mean the whole damn football team!"

"Possibly, but I don't think we should go that far. Making an annoucement to the team would be tantamount to calling a press conference. No, this should stay a little closer to home for the time being. Your mother should be told, of course."

Whitney groaned. His mother had recovered from her stroke and was back to a normal life, but he still viewed her health as very fragile. "Oh, God... This is going to freak her out."

"Downplay the danger," Lionel advised. "In fact, don't mention the stalker at all. Blame it on your new found press attention."

He nodded. "I could tell her to be wary of anyone pretending to know me because it might be a reporter trying to pump her for information."

"Excellent! I think your friend Lois should be told, too. She will be identified by the press after she appears with you at the ball next week. You've mentioned her in the abstract in several interviews, so your stalker might target her. And Carla Cathcart should be told. Your association with her is well publicized, and since her agency has an office here in Metropolis, she would be much easier to reach out to than Miss Lane."

"Yeah. Carla probably ought to know anyway, in case the media gets wind of it. She'll eat me alive if she's the last to know."

"True. But you must make it clear to her that she is not to exploit this situation for publicity under any circumstance. Carla loves playing the press. In fact, she's been known to defy her clients wishes if the benefit is sufficient," Lionel warned him.

"I'll tell her," Whitney said with a nod. They discussed other options, but there weren't many. Off the field and out of the bedroom, Whitney's life was fairly narrow. Friends from college had scattered to the four winds, and he hadn't really had a chance to make friends in Metropolis outside of the team. He decided to tell Clark on the off chance that his stalker had been following him and seen them together. Bran Sutton already knew. Lionel wanted his coaches briefed, but not the players. That was about it.

"Gee... I don't know whether to be relieved that only a small group needs to be told, or be depressed because I have so few friends," Whitney groused as he limped his way into the kitchen.

"I believe the answer to that lies in the question: Is there anything missing from your life?"

Whitney took a Corona from the door of the fridge and paused to think it over. "Anything missing... Hmmm... I'm getting paid millions of dollars to do something I'd do for free, I've got a small but loyal handful of friends, my Mom's still kicking, I've got a great apartment and a great car. Oh, and I've got this brilliant, sexy, occasionally infuriating lover who is so good in bed he makes me scream when I come. I don't know what could be missing."

"How about $5,000," Lionel said, coming to he feet. "That sum seems to have deserted you and found its way into the Sharks' coffers."

Whitney frowned. "Huh?"

Lionel picked up Whitney's crutches. "Your fine for not having that ankle propped up for the last five minutes. I'll expect your check first thing in the morning."

"Oh yeah?" Whitney challenged with a devilish grin. "And just how will you explain how the owner knew that his star Qb needed to be fined?"

Monday, October 16
The Daily Planet online at www.thedailyplanet.com
Sports Section

Buyer’s Remorse
by John Vincent

The big sigh you all heard on Sunday was the sudden loss of the irrational Super Bowl expectations Metropolis developed out of nowhere. The shiny new car that was Whitney Fordman was exposed for all of its flaws as the Sharks were humiliated by the New Orleans Saints. Two interceptions and a touchdown run showed just how much this rookie has to learn about football. One of Fordman’s wheels was injured on that play and it cost them in the second half.

The great rookie hype that swept the city after an amazing debut on Monday Night Football has fallen back to reality thanks to the mugging in the Big Easy. The Sharks were turned into a new kind of gumbo and the Saints feasted mightily. The offensive showing on Sunday was nothing short of pathetic. Fordman could not find an open receiver all day because he was not looking. That modeling contract has already gone to his head. That's the problem with rewarding young players after a single stellar game; they suddenly think they are what people tell them they are. Perhaps Fordman would be better served just being a fashion model instead of a Prima Donna quarterback wannabe.

Lionel Luthor will never admit he made a mistake by drafting this near-hometown washout so high. Most NFL teams had Fordman rated as a low first rounder to third round pick. Look at all the terrific running backs around the league that could be rushing this team towards the Promised Land. Instead the Sharks are stuck with an overpaid rookie with an oversized ego. Where was the running game that could have saved some face on Sunday? Since being transformed into ‘Whitney’s World,’ the Sharks have become a pass first-and-often team. The Sharks threw four interceptions and no Defense, no matter how good, can overcome that kind of deficit.

As has been the model in the past, it was the Defense that shined in this terror of a game. If not for some early plays that kept the game close, this could have been one of the most lopsided scores in NFL history. It is not the Defense’s fault that the Saints scored often. Fordman was too busy trying to make his stats look good to try to actually find a way to win. Both of his interceptions were thrown into double coverage. His injury forced a rusty Brookline to play and the result was another disaster. If Fordman had played smart and run the ball out of bounds at the five, then shared the glory with one of his running backs, he wouldn't have been carted off the field in the second half from a sprained ankle and a bruised ego. Mustn’t look bad for the next photo shoot and disappoint Madison Avenue.

The coaching staff anointed Fordman as the Savior of the offense, but Sunday should have opened their eyes to the fact that the shiny car they thought they had is nothing but a lemon. However, Fordman can take pleasure in the fact that he can sell underwear and jeans for a living without getting dirty.

Whitney hadn't even seen the article when Carla called to discuss it on Monday morning. The ringing phone dragged him out of bed bleary-eyed, and his agent seemed to take a perverse delight in reading the diatribe to Whitney while he limped around the kitchen with the phone at one ear and clumsily concocted his morning protein shake with his free hand. He was wide awake and swearing voluably by the time she finished reading.

At that point, Carla dutifully slipped into the role of consoler, trying to calm Whitney's ire and convince him that going down to the Planet and using Vincent as a tackle dummy was not a wise career move. She also wisely reminded him that in the grand scheme of things (ie., his career), Vincent's opinion was only relevant if he was right, which he wasn't, so no harm done.

Whitney pretended to be soothed by her wisdom and changed the subject, warning her about 'K'. As Lionel had predicted, Carla immediately began trying to think of ways they could turn his plight into publicity, but Whitney shut her down hard and fast. He reminded her that there was a small but real potential for danger, and turning the situation into a media circus could seriously ratchet up the danger. She agreed to keep the problem in her strictest confidence, but he regretted having told her before he even got off the phone.

As long as he was in the groove, he decided to get the phone call to his mother over with. She, too, had seen the Vincent article and was even madder than he was. Whitney regurgitated some of Carla's calming wisdom, and used the article to illustrate the media attention that was going to start picking up. He warned his Mom to be careful of strangers who might approach her claiming to know her son. He made her promise to tell him if anyone made contact with her.

Lois was next. Her first class on Monday wasn't until eleven, so he was able to catch her in plenty of time for a nice chat. With Lois, he was completely candid -- he even read her one of 'K's' letters. Typically, she joked her way through the discussion, and then they went on to more important matters. Like Lois's newly-existent love life.

"He's Stud-on-a-Stick. Totally. Six foot three, black hair, brown eyes, shoulders that won't quit, and I swear as God is my witness, he's got brains above and below the waistline. We've been on three dates and not once have I had to cut up his food for him."

"He sounds devine," Whitney complimented, chuckling. "Are you sure he's straight?"

"Honey, nobody's that good an actor in bed."

"Ah, so Lois is finally getting some!"

"And how! I'm sick of living like a nun."

"Hey, nobody said that celebacy was a requirement of Grad school."

"I know, I know. But I have to make this count if I want my pick of newspapers when I finish and it's been a long time since I met someone who was worth the distraction."

Whitney smiled into the phone. "That's great, Lois. I'm glad you've found someone. Does Stud-on-a-Stick have a name?"

"Zack Urich. He's in my Ethics study group, headed for a career in Entertainment Law," she told him. "So what about you? How's life at the top treating you?"

Whitney's laugh was short and humorless. "I wouldn't know. I took a dramatic tumble on national television yesterday. New Orleans figured out how to exploit a weakness in our offensive line, and the local press is crucifying me for not being able to score while lying flat on my back."

"Really? I thought that was one of your better talents," Lois joked, but Whitney just couldn't find the humor.

"Ha, ha," he said darkly.

"Sorry. Guess that wasn't funny."

"No, it was a fine effort, I just haven't figured out how to take this kind of media punishment in stride yet." He gave her a short but graphic description of the game and the brutal pounding he took not only from the Saints, but from the Daily Planet, too. "If you get a minute this week, hop online and look at John Vincent's column. He calls me a Prima Donna quarterback wannabe who should stick to selling underwear for a living. And that's the complimentary part."

"Ouch. I'll bet your loss is going over well with Big Daddy Moneybuckets."

Whitney sighed. "You're never going to cut Lionel any slack are you?"

"Not likely. You deserve so much better."

"I've got what I want, Lois. He's wonderful. You should have seen him last night. He actually had dinner waiting for me here at the condo when I got home."

"Oh, cripes! What a sleeze!" Lois exclaimed. "You've got a sprained ankle and god only knows how many contusions, and he expects you to service him like a--"

"He didn't expect anything, Lois!" Whitney said sternly. "We had dinner and talked. We drank some wine and laughed, and we were just...together. He gave me exactly what I needed last night, and sex didn't play any part of it."

Whitney could feel Lois's disapproval from half way across the continent even before she said, "Boy-oh-boy, does he have you snowed."

"You're half right, Lois. He does have me. And I've got him," he said firmly, then added, "Well, I think I've got him. I'm pretty sure, anyway."

Lois sighed heavily. "You're pathetic. But if you're happy..."

"I am. Until yesterday's game, things were pretty close to perfect. In every way. You'll see next weekend. You'll meet Lionel at the Ball, of course, but he's invited you to have brunch with us on Sunday, too."

"Really?"

She sounded as though he'd told her she was scheduled for root canal. "Yes, really. He knows you're an important part of my life and he wants to get acquainted with you."

"Joy, joy."

"Lois, please..." he pleaded. "Give him a chance."

"Oh, all right," she relented. "But I gotta say I'm disappointed. Are you and I going to have any that's just the two of us?"

"Well, if you could come on Friday instead..."

"Sorry, sweetie, no can do. This Ethics in Journalism class is killing me. I don't dare miss the Saturday morning Study Group. I can't fly in until Saturday afternoon."

"Then we'll have to catch up at the Ball between Fox Trots."

Lois laughed. "Since when do you Fox Trot?"

"Sweetheart, I'm just full of surprises, and this weekend, most of them are aimed at you. Expect the royal treatment."

"My darling, Whitney, I never expect anything less!"

Tuesday, October 17
The Daily Planet online at www.thedailyplanet.com
Sports Section

The Blame Game
by John Vincent

The finger pointing from the Sharks’ Front Office following Sunday’s debacle has begun and none of it has fallen of the Shark’s anointed franchise player, Whitney Fordman. General Manager Mike Mancini made a point of demoting Offensive Lineman Drew Benedict for a poor performance replacing Steve Crukshank. “Giving up twelve sacks in a game is simply unacceptable. Mr. Benedict was at the heart of that mess.” Public lynching anyone? Mr. Mancini also noted that Seth Williams will return to action after the Bye week. But Mancini did not comment on Fordman’s abysmal showing.

Lionel Luthor however did come to the defense of his ‘star’ quarterback. “Whitney Fordman has won four games in a row and played nearly perfect so far. It is almost impossible to win a game when a majority of the time is spent being pummeled by the defensive line.” I think you protest too much, Mr. Luthor. He took great pains to point out the flaws in the rest of the team to hide his error in judgment.

It is well known that Lionel Luthor orchestrated Whitney Fordman’s drafting for a few years. He has high expectations for the underwear model. Maybe it's time to let Mr. Fordman pursue his new found pastime. Winning is a great way to hide flaws in a team, but the loss in New Orleans showed all kinds of weaknesses for the Sharks. And not a single word of negative criticism has come from the Sharks about the conductor of that train wreck.

Not surprisingly, Whitney Fordman refused to comment on the assassination of his fellow player, but the Sharks Front Office has the important stuff covered. They were able to inform us that Mr. Fordman will be wearing a tuxedo designed for him by Mr. Calvin Klein himself to the Annual Sharks' Charity Ball Saturday night. And not only will that, Mr. Fordman’s much-touted girlfriend, Cal Berkley grad student Lois Lane, will be wearing a gown by Donna Karan accented by a $125,000 diamond and ruby necklace on loan from Cartier-Metropolis.

It's always good to know that a player has his priorities straight, don't you think?

Whitney wanted to punch something. Preferably John Vincent's fucking face. Yesterday's article had been bad enough, but this latest... It was pure, unadulterated bullshit!

With his ankle, he couldn't go running. He was forbidden to work out until tomorrow. Hell, he couldn't even pace properly! All he could do was battle the urge to break every fucking piece of furniture in his apartment, then storm the Daily Planet and start on John Vincent's office.

And why the fuck didn't Lionel call him back? He'd already left three messages. How long could a goddam board meeting take, anyway? How many messages did he have to leave before--

The phone rang and Whitney pounced.

"Are you seething?"

Relief and release boiled into his rage at the sound of Lionel's voice. "That fucking bastard! That cocksucking, motherfucker. I am going to--"

"You are going to have a very long and illustrious career," Lionel said calmly, overriding his rant. "Occasionally in that long career you will be the hero, and at other times you will be the goat. If you let the media get that goat, you automatically lose. Listen to me very carefully, Whitney. You Don't. Get. Mad."

"You get even?" Whitney asked, half hope, half sarcasm.

"You get better," Lionel countered.

Total bullshit. "Yeah, but what do I do about Vincent?"

Whitney could hear his lover sigh. "As pleasing as it would be for you to smash Mr. Vincent's teeth down his throat, you will, instead, make him eat every word he has printed in the last two days. The fact that he insinuates you are a flash-in-the-pan does not make it so. You will play the Broncos on the 29th, and you will be brilliant. The best revenge is to make him look like a fool."

He knew Lionel was right. He'd known the answer himself with every word he'd read and every curse he'd uttered. Having Lionel say it, though, made it easier to accept. The worst thing he could do was let Vincent know he'd drawn blood. The best thing he could do was develop a thicker skin that didn't actually bleed.

"Say it again," Whitney pleaded.

Lionel chuckled. "You will be brilliant."

"You really think so?"

"Yes. And so do you."

"Damn straight." Whitney felt better. Lionel believed in him. He believed in himself. Facing the team would be a bitch tomorrow, but he'd get through it. And in two weeks, he'd make John Vincent eat crow. In the meantime... "Have Rudolph do something for lunch. I'm coming over so we can work off some of this excess adrenalin. I'm thinking 20 minutes in the pool ending in a hard fuck in the shallow end."

"Whitney--"

"All right. The deep end, but if I skin my knees--"

Lionel chuckled. "Sorry, Whitney. Tempting, but not feasible. I have a working lunch with Dominic to hammer out the final details of the Breverton merger."

Whitney groaned and sat on the arm of the sofa. Lionel was leaving tonight for the West Coast and wouldn't be back until the weekend. "Cancel it."

"The lunch?"

"The trip. Otherwise it's going to be Saturday night before I see you, and we both know what a disaster that could be. Lionel Luthor in a tuxedo is not something I'm going to be able to resist, and I don't think you want me jumping your bones in front of the team and 200 rich party-goers."

"I suspect you will manage to contain yourself," Lionel said dryly. "I must go. I have people waiting."

Shit. "Okay. Love you."

"I'll see you Saturday at the Ball."

The line went dead and Whitney slid onto the sofa. He propped his leg up and shifted to accommodate the uncomfortable bulge in his jeans. How the hell he was going to make it to the weekend?

Wednesday, October 18
Berkeley, California

With a test and two papers due that week, Lois didn't have time to hop online and check out the article John Vincent had written about Whitney on Monday. If she had, she would certainly have seen the follow-up article on Tuesday that informed anyone with computer access that Lois Lane was Whitney Fordman's girlfriend. Armed with that information, she might have had a fighting chance of connecting the dots between Vincent's column, the Daily Planet Online, the Internet, Berkeley School of Journalism, and Tony Solomon, Zack Urich's fraternity brother who had taken a chance and drafted rookie Whitney Fordman onto his Fantasy Football team.

She might have remembered that Tony was a football fanatic who took his FF team very seriously. She might have deduced the possiblity that Tony watched for local and regional news for tidbits about his widely-scattered players.

If she'd connected those dots, she might have been prepared for what was coming.

But she didn't read the Planet.

And she didn't have a clue until it was too late.

***

Wednesday, October 18
Metropolis

Drenched in dread, Whitney hobbled toward the Sharks auditorium for the first team meeting since Sunday's fiasco. Being humiliated on the field had been bad enough. Vincent's public flogging had only added insult to injury. Now, he had to face the coach who was going to tear him a new one in front of the team Vincent had accused him of having failed so spectacularly.

Wishing he had the balls to shed his crutches so that he could at least give the appearance of being smooth and unruffled, he pulled open one of the double doors and gimped his way awkwardly through. He was grateful for the smile and assistance when Tug Zuchash trotted up and held the door open. "Thanks, Tug."

"Not a problem."

Whitney moved on into the auditorium with a little more grace and saw the team; 60-plus players and coaches scattered throughout an auditorium built for 150.

Dead silent and every eye on him.

Shit. What the fuck do I do? Smile? Wave? Apologize? Whistle Dixie? Trip over my crutches and fall on my ass?

Bran Sutton took the decision out of his hands when he stood up and started clapping. In groups of twos-and-threes, then fives-and-sixes, the rest of the team joined in until damn-near everyone was on his feet. Applause. Cat-calls. A couple of Whoops! All for him.

Whitney could feel his face flaming with embarrassment and wanted to run away, change his name, and hide out in Accapulco for the rest of the season. Mostly, though, he wanted to kiss Bran Sutton.

In a purely platonic, "Thanks, Pal" fashion, of course.

Ducking his head in embarrassment, Whitney tried to move to a seat, but Tug herded him to the front as Bran swept down the opposite aisle to the podium at the front of the auditorium. "Gentlemen, I give you the newest member of the Vincent Victims Squad -- Whitney Fordman!” The applause rose briefly, then fell as the guys took their seats. Bran continued, "As you all know, you're not really a Shark until you've had your fins fricassied and your chestnuts roasted by everybody's favorite playground bully, John Vincent."

Under the cover of whoops and laughter, Whitney whispered to Tug, "I gotta sit down.”

“Nope,” Tug responded. “You're being inducted. You have to accept the honor.”

“I see Coach tapping his watch back there, so I’ll be brief," Bran continued. "Whitney, you have been singled out this year as the designated Vincent whipping boy. As a rookie that is a double honor. A show of hands, please, for our young quarterback. Everyone the astute Mr. Vincent decreed to be A Washout, A Loser, A Has Been, or just plain The Suck during their rookie season, raise your hand."

To Whitney’s amazement, over a dozen hands went into the air. “Wow.”

"Vincent did a hatchet job on all of us," receiver Thad Mosley shouted out.

"Yeah! Makes him feel like a big man," Lloyd Tanner added.

"You gotta just laugh it off," Dale Brookline contributed, astonishing Whitney. Everybody knew that Brookline hated the young rookie who'd knocked him off the starting lineup. It was classy of him to be so supportive. Whitney made it a point to file the example away for future reference.

Bran smiled. “All in favor of inducting Whitney into the United Brotherhood of Scapegoats-R-Us, signify by saying 'Fuck you, Vincent!"

A chorus of applause, foot-stomping and a thunderous ovation of "Fuck yous" rained down. “The 'Fuck Yous' have it!" Bran exclaimed. "Whitney, you are hereby named Scapegoat of the Week. Next round is on you."

Another roar of cheers went up and Whitney grinned ruefully at Bran. "Gee, thanks," he said sarcastically, but he hoped his eyes conveyed the gratitude he felt.

"Speech! Speech!" Someone shouted, and there was an instantaneous answering roar from the back of the auditorium, "I'll give you a goddam speech!"

"Oh, shit," Bran muttered as Harry Lessening came charging down the aisle with the rest of the coaching staff trailing him like Mary's Little Lambs on steroids. Bran dove for the nearest chair. Whitney and Tug did likewise.

“Feeling better, are we?" Harry Lessening said sarcastically as he strutted to the podium. "All just one big, cozy family now? Well, before you start saying 'goodnight, JohnBoy,' it’s time for a royal ass chewing! What the fuck were you people doing out there Sunday?”

Whitney leaned back in his chair and did his best not to anger Lessening any further by grinning like an idiot.

Saturday, October 21
Somewhere over the Metropolis International Airport

Lois Lane was well-known for being able to hold her liquor. Like Marion What's-Her-Name in the Indiana Jones movie, she could drink frat boys twice her size under the table and still navigate a straight line with only an attractive wiggle in her walk. Under normal circumstances, it would have been no problem that a massive thunderstorm turned her two-and-a-half hour flight into four hours in First Class where the booze was free and plentiful.

However, for someone who'd just been called a Two-Timing Ho by her boyfriend and unanimously shunned by the five other members of her Ethics Study Group, the First Class open bar was a disaster in the making. By the time her flight stopped making loopy circles over Western Kansas, she had a collection of six cute little bourbon bottles and a truly sexy wiggle in her walk.

Drunk was definitely preferable to crying, though. Lois didn't cry, and this was nothing to cry about, really. Stud-on-a-Stick was a nice guy, sure. The relationship had showed promise, yes. But it wasn't true love. And it wasn't even close to the kind of bone-deep friendship she had with Whitney.

Still, there was nothing fun about being regarded as the Whore of Babylon. It was a sure bet that word of Lois's relationship with rising football star Whitney Fordman was spreading across the Berkeley campus like wildfire this weekend, along with the gossip that she was a two-timing Jezabel who was dating the famous quarterback and stringing along a lowly Berkeley TA on the side. By the time she got back to school Sunday night, her name would be mud.

Lois wasn't entirely sure when or how she'd become Whitney Fordman's "girlfriend." When they'd first met and started hanging out together in the spring semester of his junior year, it had been natural to let everyone think they were a couple even though Lois had figured out early that Whitney was catcing for the other team. The long-distance relationship fiction hadn't started until nearly a year later. Lois was six months into the graduate program at Berkeley when some silly ditz at K State had tried to kill herself for the unrequited love of Whitney Fordman. Whit had been beside himself, guilty as all get-out, swearing he'd come out of the closet before ever using another girl again. Sometime during one of their long, drunken, late-night IM chats, Lois had offered herself up as his beard. Even sober, she hadn't been able to find a downside. She was in California. He was in Kansas. She had her love life, dismal though it was; he had an occasional closeted fuck. Who the hell was going to know it was a fairy tale?

Neither of them had forseen his overnight stardom. Truth be told, they'd never even discussed it. It was a convenience for Whitney that hadn't cost Lois a damn thing.

Until now.

Today had cost her. Big time.

In front of the entire study group, Zach Urich had tossed a printout of John Vincent's online column at her and asked when she was planning telling him that she was practically engaged to Whitney Fordman. Stunned, Lois had scanned the article and her first instinct was to laugh at the absurdity.

"You think it's funny?" Zach had demanded, red-faced with rage. "I'm sure Fordman would find it hysterical that he too is fucking a Two-Timing Ho!"

The clumsy alliteration had struck her even funnier, but she'd brought her laughter under control and opened her mouth to say -- What? What could she say? It's a sham. Whitney Fordman is gay and I've just been pretending to be his girlfriend.

She'd closed her mouth, her mirth dying a violent death. The only way to talk herself out of this one was to tell six journalism grad students -- most of whom had work-study jobs in local or regional media outlets -- that the Sharks' hot new Quarterback was queer.

Save yourself. Betray Whitney.

Rock, meet Hard Place. Hard Place, Rock.

Tough choice, but Whitney eventually won.

It was a short term victory only, though, because sometime this weekend she was going to have to tell him that their mad, passionless affair was over. It wouldn't be easy, but she had to do it. And then she could could hie herself back to Berkeley and repair the damage to her reputation by tracking down her pissed-off boyfriend and announcing that she'd broken off her relationship with Whitney Fordman because it was Zach she wanted. She'd throw herself on his mercy and word would get around that she had "done the right thing."

And if Zach didn't forgive her, well, she might get a little sympathy out of it, and at the very least, it would get rid of the "taken" sign around her neck that would keep decent guys a mile away.

But that was all for tomorrow, because her flight was late and even with the limo Whitney said he'd have waiting for her, she was barely going to make it to the Adam's Mark in time to get ready. They'd go to the Sharks' Charity Ball tonight. She'd have a couple more bourbon-and-sevens, dance, flirt, play her part to the hilt and tell him tomorrow before brunch that he was going to have to find himself a new beard.

It was a plan. After six little bottles of bourbon, it seemed like a perfectly acceptable one, and she deplaned at Metropolis International with an adorable wiggle in her walk, humming, "Breaking Up is Hard to Do."

***

The storm-tossed flight from California only a harrowing memory, Lionel scowled his way through the letter Jacob Manning had handed him as soon as he settled into the limo. Whitney's stalker had read John Vincent's Tuesday column that identified Lois Lane as the love of Whitney's life. Needless to say, she had not taken the information well. Her latest letter demanded that Whitney set Vincent straight and promised dire consequences if she saw Lois Lane's name again.

"Damnation. This is going to make Whitney insane." Lionel handed Manning the letter. "How credible is the threat to Miss Lane?" he asked.

Jacob tucked the plastic-sheathed letter back into his briefcase. "I think the threats have to be taken seriously -- I've always believed this stalker was on a path toward violence. If Miss Lane lived in Metropolis, I'd say the danger was immediate. Living in California makes an attack more difficult, but not out of the question. She should definitely be warned and instructed in the art of self-protection."

The limo merged onto the freeway and picked up speed. Lionel barely noticed as he weighed their options. The letter made it clear that up until now, Whitney's stalker had believed she was the un-named girlfriend Whitney had mentioned in numerous interviews. Vincent's identification of Lois Lane as the love of Whitney's life had unleashed a maelstrom of threats against Lois, against Whitney, and even against John Vincent.

The only one on the list Lionel didn't feel even remotely inclined to protect was Vincent.

"Miss Lane is joining us at the Penthouse for brunch at 10. You be there, too, and we'll tell them then. I see no reason to spoil their evening with something they can do nothing about."

"Yes, sir. About the Cheryl Bower problem..." Manning took a manila envelope from his briefcase, extracted an 8-by-10 photo and handed it to Lionel. "The composite you asked for."

Under normal circumstances, Lionel would have been pleased by Manning's quick action, but this new wrinkle in the stalker case was far more serious than the question of Whitney's fatherhood. Still, he studied the picture for flaws and found none. An image of Cheryl Bower had been lifted from a windy grade school playground and seamlessly integrated into a photo of the street across from Whitney's condo. The image was realistically blurred, but not so much that it made Bower hard to recognize.

"Excellent work, Jacob," Lionel complimented, handing the photo back. "Let's hold onto that for a while, shall we? This latest stalker threat needs to take priority. Have you increased security on Whitney?"

"Yes, sir."

"And Miss Lane is being covered