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His mother was waiting for us, of course, sitting in that favorite chair of hers, reading a book. She looked up when we came in. I looked helpless, and Scott looked unhappy."Sit down," she said. She didn't specify who should sit where.We both sat on the couch, directly across from her. I wondered if I should go to be beside her, but there was no place by her to sit, and she had said to sit, so I sat. I was at that awkward place between being a boy and a man. She had glimpsed and was nurturing the man in me, but I wasn't quite capable of doing that myself yet. That didn't matter at the moment, because she didn't look at me. She looked at her son."Why is Bobby your best friend?" she asked.I don't think either of us expected that question."I like him," said Scott."How about a little more detail than that?" she prompted."How much more detail is there?" he asked, his voice sullen. "I like him. Or at least I used to."She ignored his pout."Who else do you like as much as Bobby?"He might be. In the end, my team did win the championship that year, and after we lifted the trophy in the decisive match against our other main rivals, a team from Lancashire in the north of England, I noticed Carla on the fringes of the happy, clapping crowd. I beckoned her over – she looked really sweet and delectably girly, wearing something very like a schoolgirl outfit – white knitted knee-highs, a short grey pleated skirt, a plain white shirt and a red blazer-style jacket. She looked at me shyly, and then asked almost in whisper if I would take her home with me.Well, that was certainly too tempting an offer to be refused. Still, I looked at her questioningly, and then in an even quieter voice, she told me that ever since, as a schoolgirl, she had seen the pictures of me in my lingerie, she had desired me and now, after our two marathon fuckathons, she had fallen in love with me. Then she looked at me, in a very adult way, and said quietly:‘I know you’re not in love with me, maybe you.
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