"It looks nice, don’t you think?" Callie asked.

"Mm-hmm," Frank managed, his mind fixated on the way Callie had positioned herself oh-so-close to him.

"Me, too." Callie slid her hand down his back and linked her arm through his. "So will you be driving to the game with Joe?" she asked as they started across the gym for the exit.

"Uh, no," Frank replied, wondering why he still felt so tongue-tied around her. "He has to be here early so Biff is picking him up. I’ll come a little later."

"With your parents?" she asked, coyly.

"No, by myself."

"Ah… I see."

Callie said nothing more, but hummed softly as she and Frank emerged into the parking lot.

"Where are you parked?" Frank asked, intending to walk Callie to her car.

"Right next to you," she pointed.

‘What a nice coincidence!’ Frank thought, oblivious, as he happily enjoyed the feeling of Callie’s hand on his arm.

Coming to a stop between their two cars, Frank turned to her and smiled nervously. He still had to wait for Joe and wondered how much small talk he could make before he sounded like a babbling idiot.

"Are your parents coming to the game tonight?" he asked, his mouth suddenly dry.

"Yes. Dad loves football. Pro, college, high school, pee-wee… he doesn’t care!" Callie laughed.

"So, I guess you’ll be coming with them?"

"I could," she relied stepping closer to Frank. Slowly, Callie slid her hand down his arm until it rested comfortably in his hand, her fingers entwined with his. "Unless, of course, I got a better offer," she said, her voice low and inviting.

‘A better offer?’ Frank thought, puzzled at the strange answer. Then it hit him like a lightning bolt. ‘You idiot! She wants you to pick her up!’ Frank swallowed nervously aware she had taken another step closer.

"I… I could pick you up if you want," he offered, hoping his voice wasn’t shaking too badly.

Callie smiled enchantingly, melting his heart and setting all his senses on fire. "I’d like that." She moved closer still, placing her right hand behind his neck. "I’d like that very much," she murmured tilting her head up.

Frank’s heart was racing like a runaway freight train. Was he reading her signals right? Did she want him to kiss her? Or was it still too soon? They hadn’t even been out on an official date yet! Was anyone watching? Surely they weren’t the only students in the parking lot.

Feeling slight pressure against his neck, Frank took the hint and leaned down, dizzy with anticipation. He closed his eyes, felt her breath on his face. He wanted to remember every detail of their first kiss. Sensing their lips were about to meet, Frank shut out the world around him…

The car horn blared so loudly, Frank knew his feet left the ground as he leapt backwards.

"Hurry up, Greg!" a voice shrilled loudly.

Frank heard the sound of a car starting up and looked around. Several spaces over a student was skidding to a stop next to an idling car. He pulled the door open and hopped in, as the driver backed out and took off out of the parking lot.

Flushed with embarrassment, Frank looked back at Callie hesitantly. She shrugged and smiled sadly. The moment was gone – again. Frank wondered if it were possible to get it back when he heard the sounds of approaching voices. Looking up, he saw Joe and Chet closing in on them.

"Hey can we drop Chet off?" Joe asked, opening the back door of the station wagon and throwing his backpack on the seat. "Biker’s still working on his car."

"Yeah, sure," Frank replied dejectedly.

"Great, let’s go," Joe said, climbing into the passenger seat. He leaned over and gave Callie a half-hearted wave. "Come on, man, I’m starving!"

*****

Frank sat across from his brother at the dinner table, both of them listening intently to Fenton Hardy. He’d spent most of the day at the police station, listening to the interrogations of Steven Miller and Jonathan Black. He’d also been allowed to sit in on the questioning of Coach Miller, the details of which he was now relating with unconcealed disgust.

"The man admitted outright that winning football games was the most important thing in his life. The hazing, the fear the younger boys had of the upperclassmen – even his own son meant nothing to him!" Fenton said angrily.

"He admitted he knew his son was abusing the younger players and did nothing about it?" Laura asked, clearly shocked.

"No, not at first," Fenton admitted. "He was pretty slick in the beginning, talking about building team spirit and bonding. But then Collig asked him about the incident with Heath and he lost his cool. Blamed it all on his ‘stupid son’."

"Stupid?" Joe repeated in disbelief. "He called Steven stupid in front of everyone?"

"Mm-hmm," Fenton nodded, a moment of sadness lighting his eyes. "Said he wasn’t aware Steven and the others were being so abusive and had no idea when or why Steven had essentially turned into a bully."

"If he calls his own son stupid in front of total strangers, I can just imagine what he does to the boy in the privacy of their own home," Laura remarked, her eyes narrowed in disapproval.

"Collig was thinking along those very same lines. He put the pressure on Jonathan. Being Steven’s best friend, he was more than happy to spill about Steven’s less than ideal home life. That’s where Steven got the idea to escalate the hazing to outright physical abuse. He figured since he had to deal with it every day at home and no one came to his rescue, it couldn’t be considered all that bad.

"Con Riley interrogated Steven who eventually broke down and admitted his father had no qualms about using him for a punching bag, especially when the football team had a bad game."

Joe put down his fork, no longer hungry. He thought about how understanding and encouraging Fenton had been with him the previous night, even though Joe probably deserved a tongue-lashing. Thinking back, he couldn’t recall either of his parents ever lifting so much as a finger in anger towards he or Frank, no matter what they’d done. He exchanged a look with his brother and suddenly felt very, very sorry for Steven Miller.

"The Millers moved here about eight years ago from Philadelphia. Collig did a little checking and found Miller’s wife had him arrested for spousal abuse and domestic violence there three times. She even got a restraining order against him once, but she always recanted and the charges had to be dropped." Fenton sat back, pushing his empty plate away. "When Miller got the position here, his wife stayed behind in Philadelphia saying she didn’t want to give up her job – an assistant to some corporate bigwig. She comes to Bayport every other weekend and for holidays, but that’s it. With her gone, Miller turned his aggression on Steven."

The Hardys sat silently for a few moments, absorbing this disturbing information.

"What happens now?" Frank finally asked.

"It depends on how many students come forward and what kind of charges they bring against Steven and Jonathan. They swear the talk of drugging freshmen girls and sexually assaulting them was just that – talk. They’re insistent that nothing, aside from a few kisses and a lot of innuendo, ever happened. Although based on what they admitted to, they could conceivably be charged with offensive touching if the girls involved were unwilling participants."

"I know of at least one who was," Joe said disgustedly.

"At any rate, these are their first offenses and I got the impression they truly were sorry. It took most of the morning, but eventually they both seemed to grasp the severity of the situation. If they’re very lucky and their victims are compassionate, they might get off with juvenile detention, counseling and probation once they’re released."

Joe gazed at his father as the words struck deep in his soul. He couldn’t even fathom what it must be like to be raised in a home that wasn’t overflowing with love and compassion.

"As for Coach Miller, the D.A. is hoping to gather enough evidence to charge him with child abuse and terroristic threatening at the very least. I think this was a real wake up call for Steven. He has no qualms about testifying against his father in court."

The sound of a car horn broke the somber silence. Joe glanced at his watch, his eyes growing huge. "Oh, man, that’s Biff! I gotta run!" He jumped up from the table, hastily kissed his mother on the cheek and ran for the door.

*****

Joe lay on the football field, dazed. As the athletic trainers face came into focus, he was aware of the hush that had fallen over the crowd that was packed into the bleachers.

"Joe? Joe, can you hear me?" the trainer asked concerned.

"Yeah," Joe mumbled attempting to push himself up.

"Stay there," the trainer ordered, gently holding him down. "How many fingers?" he asked.

Joe squinted at the hand in front of his face. "Three," he announced confidently, knowing he was right when the trainer let out a sigh of relief.

"Good, good. Now tell me where it hurts."

"It’d be easier to tell you where it doesn’t hurt," Joe cracked, feeling physically exhausted and emotionally drained.

Since the opening play, most of his teammates had left him unprotected and vulnerable to Southport’s imposing defensive line. Despite throwing only two passes in the entire first half, Joe had lost count of the times he’d been sacked. At one point Joe thought his ribs had actually been broken, despite the tape and extra padding. While he knew many of his teammates held more than a little animosity towards him, he was still surprised at the apparent depth of their anger.

Even when Bayport’s defense was on the field, Joe still felt as if he were under attack. He was continuously being bumped into, water cups were ‘accidentally’ knocked from his grasp, an open seat on the bench would suddenly disappear, all ostensibly while the coaching staff was otherwise distracted.

To keep his spirits up, Joe frequently looked into the stands, searching out his parents who would wave enthusiastically; Frank and Callie who stood and clapped loudly and Iola, who would throw him a dazzling smile and blow him a kiss.

This time as Joe was helped up, he heard the announcement that the remaining seven seconds of the first half would be added to the beginning of the third quarter. Walking off the field wedged between Biff and Chet, Joe glanced at the scoreboard. Miraculously, Bayport was only losing by two points.

When the game began, it didn’t take long for Joe to realize the few upperclassmen that were left on offense had no intention of playing to their abilities. As far as they were concerned, Joe was a traitor. They purposely missed their marks and frequently dropped hand-offs that a five-year-old could have made. Rather than succumbing to their tactics, Joe had used it to fuel his drive to win. He began ignoring the juniors and seniors regardless of what play the coaches called and focused on the freshmen and sophomores he knew he could trust. While they lacked experience, they easily made up for it with a passion and desire that came from the heart. Thanks to them, Joe thought, Bayport still had a chance to win this game.