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"Before we dig in, just a few words, please..."

The field house never smelled better, all jokes about jocks after a summer scrimmage aside. As per usual for the time of year, Head Coach Elliott Bruno Stackhouse had arranged the catering of his "orphans' Thanksgiving" for those of his athletes who might not be able to go home for the holiday. Adding in the invited hangers-on and significant others, his estimate of 60 attendees was just about on the button. He stood near the buffet spread, certain that the attention of his audience was more on the food than on him.

"I'm wagering you're all just about as hungry as I am this afternoon, so I'll keep it short." A ripple of appropriate laughter went through the crowd. "There's been a lot of upheaval over the past several weeks, and I want to thank you for how well you've all rallied to keep it from escalating. We did have a report of some trouble at The Point After last night, but I'm sure none of you had anything to do with that. I just mention it because it's easy for things to get out of paw when tensions run high. I'm really proud of all of you. My thanks this year goes to you. And that's enough of that - let's eat!"

The big Leonberger stepped slightly to one side and gestured grandly to the buffet tables. He and his own guests watched with some amusement as the athletes fell upon the feast with all the social grace and delicate sensibilities of a swarm of locusts. The caterers tended their stations well, carving and serving quickly during this first onslaught, having experienced it in prior years and taking it all in good humor.

"I remember having an appetite like that," the well-dressed wolverine noted quietly, a smile on his muzzle.

"I remember having to fight off predators like that," commented the crimson dragon drolly. "Good speech, Bruno. Precisely the right key words. I have what you want."

"Who?"

The dragon jutted his jaw shortly toward the far end of the buffet table. "That one. The bear closing in on the dessert section. He was out with at least two others..." He scanned the scene, indicated a few jocks at the carving table. "The two big cats there, the bulky little studs. Tight ends, by any chance?"

"Not if you had your way," the wolverine smirked.

"Now, now, Nelson... jealousy does not become you!"

"Did I lie?"

"Not a jot."

"Thank you, gentlefurs, I think we've got the point." Stackhouse looked at the dragon. "Benedict, I know better than to ask if you're sure. Do you think we should go ahead as planned?"

"Yes, for three reasons. First, we want to catch the miscreant in order to stanch the rumor mill; whether we have him arrested or not, we'll have confirmation that we can use. Second, I feel like having a bit of fun. And third..." A wisp of smoke curled up from one delicately rounded nostril even as his eyes took on a sense of hardened flint. "I know three young males who deserve better than what they've suffered this Thanksgiving. They deserve a very special dish, and what I intend to serve up will be very cold, and on a silver platter."

* * * * * * * * * *

The annual orphan-jock Thanksgiving dinners were always successful, this one no less than those of prior years. Stackhouse, Nelson, and Benedict all joined in the general merriment, the dragon managing to keep his natural libido in check sufficiently that he didn't utterly terrify the jocks. One or two actually managed to joke about his reputation and played off of his more comical flirting, much to the slightly disturbed amusement of the pawful of females present. Stackhouse, less secure in his detection of micro-expressions than was Benedict, nevertheless caught a few particularly overt bits of body language from the bear - Sullivan, his name was - and the lion and panther who sat with him during the meal. With Benedict's behavior as visual bait, the trio of footballers all but confessed to being homophobic, at the least, and guilty at worst. He felt resolved. More than that, he felt good. Gods help him, he felt good.

Gradually, as the afternoon began to melt into evening, the repeat visits to the buffet dwindled, and the caterers (as instructed previously) began preparing the leftovers into take-away containers. The dinner was winding down, with many of the participants remembering enough of their manners to thank the coach, some even thanking Nelson and Benedict for their company. The trio of footballers in question looked as if they might want to sneak quietly away unnoticed which, as Benedict might have observed, simply would not do.

"Hey, Sullivan!" the coach enthused (as modern illiterates would have described him). "So glad you could make it. Ready for the last game next week? One big send-off for the season, eh?"

"Sure, coach." The bear, as predicted, didn't know what was going on, which caused the fair-weather-friend cats to take their quiet leave without him. Cut from the miniature herd, the bear let the Leo put an arm around his shoulder and guide him back toward the coach's offices.

"Wanted to chat about that for just a minute, you don't mind, do you? Of course you don't." He called over his shoulder. "Hey, Dean, would love to introduce you to one of our stars; come join us, won't you?"

"Of course," the wolverine demurred. "Perhaps Professor Spenser would care to join us?"

"By all means. We're proud of Sullivan." The coach shook the bear gently, the soft rictus of a false smile drying like poorly applied plaster to his muzzle. "Yep. Really proud."

The coaches' offices were on the opposite side of the players' locker room area. Stackhouse remembered startling Harris, the young lion, by needing to use the showers on that side when the coaches' side had the water turned off one evening. Generally, the players didn't find themselves on the coaches' side of things, unless there was something wrong, something that needed correction, something that in a high school would have resulted in swats, and in college was more likely to result in anything from academic hell to extra workouts. That was not an impression that Stackhouse actively encouraged; he'd rather have been the benevolent dad than the disciplinarian. On occasion, however, the reputation had its advantages.

The Leo kept his grip on the shoulders of the defensive lineman as tight as he dared, not to make the largely-ignorant kid too nervous. He waxed on about the final game of the season, and how late it had dragged on this year with all the colleges pushing back the start of classes, and this last team should be a pushover, nothing to worry about, they could be mowed over by a team of only seven, if they were as good as old Sully here. The praise rang to the rafters, not really a lie, merely an exaggeration. Upon entering the Head Coach's office, Stackhouse guided the bear to sit on the couch to one side, taking up his own chair behind the desk. Dean Williamson took a chair and moved it to the near side of the desk rather than across it, and Professor Spenser, finding nowhere else to sit (surprise, surprise), took up the rest of the couch after closing the door behind him.

"Sullivan, give me and the Dean just a moment here, there's something to clear up about a scholarship thing, then we can all just relax." With that, the coach turned toward the well-dressed wolverine and began chatting softly over a folder, opened and rifled through, appearing for all the world not to notice Benedict staring almost hungrily upon the bear at his side.

"Tell me, young fur," the dragon oozed softly, "what position do you play?"

"Tackle." The bear squirmed a little. Clearly, the crimson dragon's reputation preceded him.

"Mmm, sounds scrumptious. Very physical. Is it true that the most fun part of American football is piling on?"

"What?"

"I'm from England, after all; the accent probably gives me away. Some of you young males think it charming. Anyway... I was a footie player, myself, once in a while anyway. Of course, when I say 'football,' I'm referring to a game where the hindpaws actually touch the ball."

From the corner of his eye, Stackhouse could easily see that the large and intimidating dragon had managed to creep closer to the bear, and the bear was clearly beginning to feel the effects of it.

"That could be a little kinky for some, I suppose, having one's hindpaws actually touching the balls. Of course, a lot of games have balls that touch. Like billiards. Do you play billiards, little bear? Do you enjoy racking the balls, making them slam against each other?"

"Billiards?" the bear mumbled, his eyes large, his posture trying to lean away from the dragon just as far as he could. "You mean pool?"

"You Yanks have such quaint little terms, don't you?" His voice nearly purring, Benedict leaned in a little closer. "Pool, then."

"Yeah, I shoot pool sometimes."

"I'll just bet you do." The dragon's eyes glittered, narrowing with lustful predation. "I'll bet you shoot well, too. And a lot. I'd like to see that sometime."

"Uhh... Coach?"

Stackhouse continued his pretense of going over a file with the Dean, pointing to various things on a document neither of them was seriously looking at, occasionally making little confidential rumblings about academic requirements, the possibility of finding extra credit or other amendments to the program of the player in question (who was never named; the paper they were looking at could have been a shopping list, for all they cared). The coach was well aware that the Dean was just as involved in the conversation on the couch as he was.

"Oh, never mind them," Benedict oozed softly. "They won't mind. We're just talking sports here, like a couple of good old jocks. I like a good time with a jock, don't you? A particularly well-filled jock? I've known many a well-filled jock... or at least they were after I had them where they wanted me." With no real sense of his having moved a centimeter, the dragon now had the young bear well cornered against the far edge of the sofa. "Tell me, schatzi, is it true what they say about how your species is ... gifted?"

"Yo, Coach...!"

Without looking directly at the bear, the Leo waved a gentle paw, apparently intent upon the folder in front of him and the Dean. "In a minute, Sullivan, we're almost done here."

"But... I..." the bear spluttered.

"Patience, Sullivan; it's a virtue, one I hope you'll learn." He looked up at the Dean, then back to the folder. "Okay, this course series here..." His voice dropped, ostensibly for confidentiality, but in truth just to be able to hear the conversation on the couch better.

"Pay them no mind at all," the dragon hummed softly, having gotten yet another few centimeters closer without seeming to have moved at all. His right arm now lay across the back of the couch, a foreclaw close enough to touch the bear's neck with just the merest gesture. "Hope you got plenty to eat today. A big strapping athlete like yourself needs to keep up his strength. And stamina. I do so hope you've got plenty of stamina. Something to help those powerful ursine urges last a good, long, strong, hard while..."

"Coach!"

The bear was visibly shaking as Stackhouse turned a slow and baleful gaze upon the bear. "Sullivan, the Dean and I are busy here. Tracking all these requirements to keep a player in good standing with the university is really difficult. If you and Benedict want to make out, just go on ahead. I'd recommend the locker room; you can shower after, if you don't want to reek of dragon all day long."

The professor looked positively wounded. "Bruno! How crude! You never used to complain about such things. In fact, I thought you liked it."

"A time and a place for everything, Benedict. I might prefer to smell like a musky mustelid today... if the Dean's in the mood, that is."

"Why, Coach Stackhouse, I thought you might never ask."

The Leo would have loved to have watched the ever-increasing look of horror on the young bear's face, but his cue had been called, and the play now insisted that he move ahead. He turned to the Dean and leaned over the corner of his desk to kiss the wolverine fully on the lips. Stackhouse was certain that his player would be just about ready to pass out from shock by this time, but in that particular moment, he was much more interested in the discovery that Nelson was a damn fine kisser. Performance or not, the wolverine was definitely putting "method acting" to its best advantage.

"So, big bear," the dragon cooed at his cornered prize. "You gonna let them have all the fun, or do you finally want to find out how good it can be? Let me show you a few things in praise of the older drake..."

"GET AWAY FROM ME!"

The shriek, in a register that suggested Benedict had squeezed the young bruin's balls (even though he hadn't), was accompanied by utterly futile slaps and punches against the dragon. Stackhouse and Nelson broke their kiss - slightly reluctantly, if the coach were being honest - and watched with grim amusement as the professor easily prevented the bear's would-be attack. Sullivan weighed in at a good solid 130kg of mostly-muscle, but he was no match for Benedict's skill, strength, or determination. The coach smiled at the realization that the defensive lineman, in this situation at least, lived up to the cliché of "hitting like a girl."

After a quarter minute of useless struggle, the bear seemed finally to realize that not only was he not going anywhere, he was also under the close scrutiny of the other three males in the room. "Dear, dear, dear," Nelson observed, his rolling basso dripping with schadenfreude, "I do believe we've just witnessed a case of assault and battery."

"Assault, certainly," the dragon said glibly. "Not so much battery as windmilling, but I'm willing to concede the point."

"Two highly credible witnesses and one venerable victim, against one young jock who was already worried about his academic suspension from the team. Unstable at best."

Sullivan's saucer-like eyes bulged slightly. "Suspension?"

"Whose file do you think we were looking at?" Stackhouse rumbled. "Why do you think you were asked back here? I'm thinking you might have to be cut from the team; your grades..."

"That's shit!" The young athlete momentarily forgot who he was talking to, as well as just how tightly he was being restrained. "My grades are..."

"...a matter of record for the Office of the Dean," Nelson nodded. "I do so hope that the information is accurate and up-to-date. There are moral turpitude clauses in your scholarship; I assume you're aware of that?"

The bear looked as if the Dean had been speaking another language.

"If you're convicted of a crime, Sullivan, particularly one that could be considered sexually-motivated, you can kiss your academic and athletic careers a truly fond goodbye." The Leo felt his eyes grow hard and cold as he looked at the enraged ursine. It was sad for him to think about losing the defensive tackle, because as a footballer, he was actually worth something. As a male and a civilized being, he was sorely lacking in every respect. "We've got enough to bring charges. Even if they don't stick, they'll make a stink you'll never shower off."

"You'll wish that you'd have taken me up on the offer after all," Benedict grinned toothily. "Dragon smells much better than what you'll get in a prison shower room. Or the fickle whims of social media."

"This is a set-up!"

"And a damned fine one, if we do say so ourselves," the Dean observed. He paused before speaking again. "Jerry Bunting."

"Who?"

"The young otter that you kicked half to death last night. His name is Jerry Bunting."

Rage became sheer terror as the bear's eyes betrayed everything. "Dunno what you're talkin' about."

"Never play poker," Benedict advised, his snout near enough to Sullivan's to be within licking distance, should he wish to taste ursine flop-sweat.

"There's still plenty of time for him to press charges against you," the Dean continued smoothly. "And he'll be much more inclined to do so, when he discovers that you're being charged with another assault. If you've had any other incidents of bashing, they might all come out of the woodwork... or the closet, as the case may be. You should also know: This state does have precedent for assessing larger penalties for hate crimes, Sullivan, and both of these incidents clearly qualify."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're a fag-basher, Sullivan." The coach rose slowly to his full height his presence seeming to fill the room even further. "You like beating up on queers, right? Like Bunting? He came on to you, and you weren't enough of a male simply to decline, or maybe even help the drunken sod back to his chair, or call him a cab, or treat him like a real furson. No, you had to prove just what big strong hetero bull-male you are, kicking the crap out of an opponent even after he couldn't possibly have risen against you." The Leo stepped around his desk and over to the sofa, towering above the terrified bear. "You aren't worthy of drawing a free breath, much less wearing the uniform of any team I'm in charge of."

"I didn't, it wasn't, it never happened like that, he tried to, he touched me first, he..."

Stackhouse swiftly raised his arm as if to strike the double-cursed bear hard across his muzzle to stop the vomit of lies that spewed from him. Sullivan shrieked in genuine fear, cowering away from the threatened blow. Neither Benedict nor Nelson moved; they could see the fury in the Leo's eyes, but they also knew that he would not resort to the cowardice of striking a surrendered foe, not even a rancid turd like this miserable waste of fur.

Slowly, the coach lowered his arm to his side and let it hang there as he watched the bear shake and fall just short of blubbering. Between the psychological torture and the threat of actual violence, he had managed to collapse completely. Glancing at his witnesses, he saw them each nod slightly. Enough was, it seemed, enough.

"Let me explain how this goes, Sullivan," the Leo quietly intoned. "You are going to make whatever arrangements are necessary to leave this campus tonight. You will pack up and be gone by morning. You are off the team, out of school, and if you're still anywhere in town tomorrow morning - if you're even in the same county - you will be arrested for two counts of assault and battery, one of them heinous, both of them hate crimes. If you leave and say nothing, you can keep your life and your freedom; all else is forfeit. If you stay, or if you speak about this, if you even hint at it in a Facebook account or whisper it to anyone anywhere, we will track you down and throw you to every law agency necessary to lock you away for years. While you're in, you'll get a whole new education in what prison inmates do to sex offenders, and we promise you, that's the image we'll help to instill. You'll discover the term 'cocoaing the S.O.'s' - that's where the inmates pour boiling cocoa over you. The sugar holds a lot more heat than just coffee, you see. Fur that grows back over a scalded patch - if it grows back, of course - is often a silvery white, like age, or an unwanted tattoo that never goes away. You'll discover a whole new football game too, Sullivan; you'll be the one passed around, and you'll start as a tight end and wind up a wide receiver. And when you get out - assuming you survive all that - the closest you'll get to a football field is selling peanuts in the stands, and even then, they'll double-count your till after every quarter. Are you getting the picture here, cubbie?"

The bear tried to nod and mumble.

"GOT IT?" Stackhouse bellowed loudly enough to make even Benedict jump.

"GOT IT COACH!" the bear screamed, his jaw trembling, his eyes a mixture of rage and horror that was terrible to see. The Leo stared into those eyes, his muzzle set, his teeth clenched hard, wondering how much of the anger he felt was actually his own fear in disguise.

"Now get the fuck out of here before I forget that I'm a gentlefur."

The dragon had leaned back from the bear, giving the young fur barely enough room to struggle to his shaking legs and tumble past the coach and out the door of the office, tearing through the locker room with speed that would have scored high on his Physical Training Progress chart, if there were any point in keeping that record any longer. The Leo watched him go, not wholly aware of his own trembling or touch of vertigo until he felt Benedict's foreclaw on his arm.

"Steady the buffs, my friend. Sit down. Dragon's orders."

Stackhouse let himself collapse on the sofa. He didn't feel weak, or frightened, or even angry. Truth told, he didn't feel much of anything, and certainly "happy" or "satisfied" didn't fit the bill. He felt the frown touch his brow as Nelson stepped to his other side and put a forepaw to his shoulder.

"You okay, Bruno?"

"Probably." He looked up at the wolverine, a slight smile on his lips. "You never told me you were such a great kisser."

"Never had a better chance to demonstrate," the Dean smirked softly.

"Seriously, Bruno." Benedict's voice held deep concern. "Are you okay?"

After a long moment, the coach nodded. "I've had to kick poor players off of teams before. Just never had to do it for reasons like this... nor kick so gods-damned hard. Not," he added sagely, "that he didn't deserve every last bit of it."

"I have to admit to a bit of disappointment," the dragon offered. "My choice would have been to challenge him to a proper wrestling match, there in the ring. If he really wanted to try to beat me up, the least I could do would be to offer him satisfaction."

"Quite the loaded phrase," Nelson observed. "What would you have considered as satisfaction?"

"Nude wrestling by the fire, as in D. H. Lawrence's_Women In Love._"

"And your honor would be satisfied... how, exactly?"

"Like any proper wrestling match - pinning your opponent."

"Is that what you call it these days?"

"Since I've no longer even a half-Nelson to enjoy these days..."

In spite of himself, Stackhouse felt the laughter bubbling up from deep inside, and he gave into it in the form of a low, rolling chuckle that helped him regain himself somewhat. "I can't envision Eoin wearing a wrestling singlet."

"That's because he doesn't," the dragon grinned.

"I should have known." The coach nodded his head slowly, sadly. "It's done."

"Is it?" The wolverine looked at his companions levelly. "I know that we're all hoping that the cub is smart enough to know he's better off if he just gets the hell out of town, but what makes any of us think that he actually will? Don't you think he'll be looking for his drinking buddies, to tell them what happened?"

The coach shook his large head, his pendant-shaped ears bouncing. "They left him behind. No loyalty there. Even if he told the tale, do you think the two cats would believe him? They'd sooner believe that he and Benedict actually hit the showers together, and they'd ostracize him."

"And without the benefit of the actual glorious experience," Benedict observed. "Life can be so cruel."

For a long moment, the coach simply enjoyed the touch of the Dean's forepaw petting his head softly, affectionately, as an old friend would do for another. "Are you really all right, Bruno? I know Megan is still out of town with the kids. Do you want some company?"

"I'm not at all sure that Emily could trust you alone with me tonight, Nelson."

"I could make it a threesome." Benedict grinned, holding up a forestalling foreclaw. "Not that way. That would have been too easy a joke. Do you want company?"

"Yes and no," the coach admitted, the ghost of a smile on his muzzle. "Part of me wants to resurrect an old vice and indulge in just a little too much of the fermented grain. Part of me wants to go to sleep for about a week. And yes, if Meg were here, we might need to farm out the kids for the night."

"Still no soundproofing in the bedroom?" the dragon inquired, anything but innocently.

Turning to the professor with absolute seriousness, the Leo produced a particularly fine raspberry. "You need to get home to Eoin; you did, after all, leave him alone with Parker, and not at all happily." He turned to the Dean. "And you need to get back to Emily, if only to remind her of how lucky she is."

"Goes both ways." Nelson leaned down to kiss the coach chastely on his forehead. "Call me later, whatever the time. If you sound dangerously drunk, I'll come to your house and sober you up personally."

"So shall I," Benedict nodded.

"Against such threats, I shall remain indisputably sober." Rising slowly, the huge canine stood and hugged the Dean and the professor in their turns, clapped them jovially on their backs, and led them toward the outer doors. "At the risk of pushing our combined metaphors to the breaking point, we've made this bed; now, we'll have to lie in it."

"A metaphor with double entendre and double meaning as well," the dragon noted. "The Bard would have been proud." He leaned in to nuzzle the great Leo once more before taking his leave. "Call us, Bruno. Any hour."

The Dean reaffirmed the sentiment, and the two left the coach alone to his huge and empty domain, his musings, and his conscience. After locking up the field house against all intruders, Coach Elliott Bruno Stackhouse went back to his office, stripped to the fur, and padded silently to the showers. The water ran as hot as he could stand it; he hoped it would help his muscles to relax. With a dexterous thumb, he flipped open the bottle of fur shampoo that he saved for occasions of deep stress. Sniffing gently at the sharply sweet aroma, he let the combined scents of eucalyptus and spearmint help to calm his mind, even as he focused on his breathing and his heartbeat to slow the results of the adrenaline surge he'd experienced moments ago. Calming thoughts pushed aside the rage that he had felt for the bear, the pity for the otter, the disgust for the fear that masqueraded as bravado in bullies like Sullivan, and the painful hope that he hadn't been just as guilty in his treatment of the young athlete. Letting thoughts slip away as best he could, he used the shampoo liberally, slowly, repeatedly, rubbing firmly over his entire body, keeping his claws in check as he scrubbed himself thoroughly, wondering if he'd ever really feel clean again...