The presentation of the SWAP award was Satur- day evening, the night before the playoff game. Terry dressed in virginal white to receive it. Stephanie was wearing a particularly sexy green evening gown.
Watching them up there together on the dais, I was struck by how much alike they were physically. Despite the fact that Terry weighed about ten pounds more, their heights and builds were identical to the eye. The ten pounds was all hidden muscle. They were both bosomy, long-legged, and pinch-waisted. They both had hips made for lovemaking and high, beautifully sculpted derrieres. Terry had short blonde hair and blue eyes, while Stephanie’s tresses were long and red and her eyes jade green but, nevertheless, their faces resembled each other. They had the same high cheekbones, full, erotic lips, and firm tilted jawlines. They could easily have been sisters.
Sisterhood, however, has its limits. This is true even for the most dedicated feminists. I learned that after the ceremony, when Stephanie and I found ourselves alone together while Coach Newtrokni and Terry, with whom we were sharing a table, were dancing.
“Are you sleeping with her?” Stephanie asked me, her green eyes flashing true to their nature.
“Of course not!” I lied with real indignation in my voice.
She stared at me and said nothing.
“Why are you looking at me that way?”
“Your nose just grew three full inches, Pinocchio.”
“I don’t see that it’s any of your business anyway. You said you were through with me.”
“I am.” Stephanie sighed. “I miss you, you bastard!”
“Yeah. Well, I miss you, too.”
And so, of course, we went to bed together. I almost blew it while we were undressing.
“Why,” I wondered, “did your group give Terry Niemath, of all people, an award for her contribution to the fight for women’s rights?”
“Because she’s the first woman in organized football.”
“But she’s not interested in women's rights. She’s only interested in screwing.”
“That's a woman’s right, too,” Stephanie murmured.
I bit my tongue and let it go at that. She was naked. It was a time to make love, so that’s what we did. It was great.
The next day, Terry completed nineteen for twenty-seven. The Whittier Stonewalls won the playoff game twenty-eight to fourteen. Next stop, the Superbowl!
That night, Terry Niemath disappeared!
CHAPTER TEN
“What the hell do you mean, she disappeared?” Coach Newtrokni demanded.
“She never came back to her room last night,” I told him.
“Maybe she met some guy and she’s shacking up with him.”
“Could be.” I shrugged. “Only she’s never done that before. Probably,” I added maliciously, “because she was getting enough around here.”
“Maybe she wanted variety.” Coach was optimistic.
“Yeah, Victor.” Nuke Outlaw threw me the zinger. “Booming with you, that’s probably what she wanted all right.”
“She’s never missed the post-game movies before,” Rhino pointed out while the tackle and I exchanged glares. “And it’s already cohabitating afternoon and she hasn’t called or anything.”
“Let’s get on with the flicks,” Coach decided. “Maybe she’ll turn up.”
But she didn’t turn up. Not that afternoon. Not that night. And not the next day, either.
“Where’s your star quarterback?” the sports reporter wanted to know at Tuesday practice.
“Coach “was” so happy with her performance Sunday that he gave her the day off,” the Stonewalls’ publicity man told him.
Obviously, we could only get away with that excuse once. With the Superbowl game less than two weeks off, more and more attention would be focused on Whittier every day. If it came out that our star quarterback was missing, there was bound to be a furor in the press. '
Late Tuesday night, Rhino and I went to Coach Newtrokni’s room to discuss the situation. We were a little puzzled to find the team physician waiting there with Coach. What did he have to do with Terry’s disappearance?
“Tell them what you told me, Dr. Fink,” Coach instructed him.
“I examined Terry Niemath the day before the playoff game,” he told us. “I have a friend at the local lab, so I got the results of certain tests back very quickly. I told Terry what they were just after the game on Sunday.”
“That was just before she disappeared,” Coach Newtrokni pointed out. “
“What kind of tests and what kind of results?” I asked with a sinking stomach.
“Pregnancy tests,” Dr. Fink replied.
“And?”
“Terry Niemath was pregnant.”
“Why don’t you call the rest of the team in here?” I suggested to Coach Newtrokni. “We could all congratulate each other on our impending fatherhood.”
“Pregnant!” Rhino exclaimed. “Feces! That must be why she took off.”
“It’s gonna be one helluva paternity suit!” I realized.
“It’s the logical explanation.” Coach Newtrokni responded to Rhino and ignored me. “The question is, now that she’s gone, what do we do?”
“Maybe she went to get an abortion.” Rhino looked on what he thought was the bright side. “Maybe she’ll come back after and play in the Superbowl.”
“Will she be able to?” Coach asked Dr. Fink.
“Perhaps. With the right drugs . . . We’ve done worse things medically in pro football. . . Of course, I’d have to examine her first .”
“Then you have to find her,” Coach decided, looking straight at Rhino and me. “And meanwhile, we have to think of something to keep the press off our backs about her not being at practice.”
“Like what?” I was dubious.
There was a long silence. Rhino broke it with a snap of his fingers. “A ringer!” he suggested. “What we need is a maternal-mating ringer!”
“Where are we going to get a quarterback like Terry to be a ringer?” I wanted to know.
“Season’s over. I’ll bet any one of the pro quarterbacks would do it for the right price.”
“I can’t think of one who’s built like Terry,” I reminded him.
“In drag,” Rhino offered optimistically.
“Rhino, you’ve got to get over the idea that people who watch football—even practice sessions-—are blind. You can’t pass a woman off as a man on the football field, and it‘ won’t work vice versa either.”
“Right idea. Wrong approach.” Coach shut us both up.
“What do you mean?” we asked him, speaking in tandem.
“What we need is a woman ringer to stand in for Terry. Someone who looks like her enough so that, if we put a uniform on her and a helmet and don’t let anybody too close, it’ll fool the press.” ‘
“It’ll only fool them until she gets on the field,” I pointed out. “As soon as-this woman throws a pass, they’ll know it isn’t Terry.”
“This ringer won’t have to throw a pass. She won’t have to do anything. She won’t even have to go on the field. All she’ll have to do is sit on the bench.”
“How come?”
“Because we’re going to leak it that Terry has a back injury that temporarily keeps her from passing or running. We’ll say that it’ll be okay by Superbowl Sunday, but that meanwhile, Terry has to take it easy.”
“That’ll wreak Hades with the point spread,” Rhino commented.
“So what?” Coach Newtrokni shrugged. “It can't hurt us to go into the Superbowl the underdog. It won’t be the first time this year the experts have figured us to lose. The big question is, where do we find a woman who looks enough like Terry to pass for a ringer and who’ll be willing to do it?”