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"All right, LISTEN UP!"

The sharp command caromed off the walls of the gymnasium, bringing a swift silence from the hundred or so students seated on the bleachers. All were part of the varsity and JV teams spanning all disciplines, called in for a special announcement, they were told. In front of them, the dozen coaches and assistant coaches from the various sports represented on campus - for the male population, at least - stood waiting for the head coach and department chair to make his statement.

The massively-built, tawny-furred, thickly-maned Leonberger stood tall, his stern dark-eyed gaze peering from the black mask of his face, riveting each player from each sport, demanding and easily receiving every bit of the respect he had earned. Elliott Bruno Stackhouse double-lettered in football and wrestling, still managing to earn his degree in sports medicine and graduate cum laude; he was semi-pro for years, and got his Ed.D. while working his way up the ranks from assistant coach at a small college to running the show here at university. Well-respected by students and peers, the "Leo" was more father than coach, but not a father anyone would want to anger or disappoint.

"Welcome to Rumor Control," he announced, beginning a slow pace back and forth across a small section of the gym floor, his huge hindpaws making no sound as he padded his carefully charted course. "We all know what happened last Friday night... or rather, we know about fifteen different versions of the essential story. I'm not here to downplay or censor anything. I am here only to present facts, as best we know them.

"Varsity fullback Zachary Parker attacked an opposing player on the field, to the point of hospitalizing the other player. First rumor control: There is no clear evidence regarding why he did this, other than that he was verbally provoked. We think we know what was said, but it's the sort of bullyragging that most of you have heard in much worse terms while attending a frat party. And don't think I'm so old that I don't know about frat parties."

A low chuckle rumbled through the crowd of students, although Stackhouse saw a few derisive head-shakes. He could guess what they were about, and he pressed forward.

"Rumor control two: Mr. Parker is not being charged with any criminal action, and there is no evidence at this time of any civil suit pending. Both players are barred from athletic competition for the remainder of the school year; I don't know about the other player's academic situation, but Parker will still be a student here. It is known that a condition of his academic probation is that he undergo therapy. Now, apart from this information, anything else is rumor, speculation, or outright lying, and let me be extremely clear here: I won't have any. I've already gotten wind of a few of them, including the one where Parker was about to be blackmailed by the other player for any number of perceived sins, from homosexuality to getting some sorority female pregnant. Another had something to do with a stolen playbook, which at least goes to prove loyalty to his team."

Another chuckle made its way around the various jocks. The head coach paused in his stalking to pin a few particular faces with his gaze.

"This leads me to the third part of Rumor Control. It would appear that our local press is trying to make hay with this story. Those of you unfamiliar with the term 'muck-raking' should ask your history professors. The point is that we're not here to provide grist for their mill, or to be more direct, keep your maws shut when any reporters are around. Just as I don't want rumors circulating around our teams, I don't want them appearing in the campus paper or TV department. If they won't leave you alone, refer them to my office. I don't want to hear the words 'a source close to the football team' leading some asinine statement designed to help sell tabloids.

"I'm here to promise you that I'll keep you apprised of any changes, any facts that come to light, or anything else you need to know to help stop the rumor mill. My information comes directly from Dean Williamson's office, and to that end, he's asked for our help. If you know something about this, anything at all, please go see the dean. Some of you have trained and played alongside Parker for this season, maybe the last few seasons - he's been here on scholarship from the beginning. I'd like to think that some of you might be friends off the field."

As usual when called upon to recite, the various students all became mute.

"I see that having several hundred friends on Facebook doesn't mean that you have several hundred friends. Something for you to consider. Also, if you don't want to visit the dean, you all know that my door is open. That's not a cliché around here. If something is bothering you, including rumors, come tell me about it. I'd rather we stopped that crap before it starts. Questions?"

A plethora of non-verbal cues accompanied continued silence. The Leo knew better than to push the point. He only hoped someone would come forward who could actually provide some help.

"Feel free to pass this information along to anyone who didn't show up today. And one more time: The press gets a polite 'no comment.' I will take grave exception to anything else. Got it?"

Some nodding heads and mumbles were met with an explosive barking cry from the coach.

"GOT IT?"

"GOT IT, COACH!" came the immediate response from every student in the bleachers, followed by a long moment of absolute stillness, none of them willing to risk a more personal reprimand.

"All right, get your tails to practice or whatever." He eyed his coaching staff with a raised brow. "Try to sweat some sense into 'em today, eh fellers?"

"Tall order, boss," smirked the black jaguar in charge of the JV footballers. The other coaches joined in with Stackhouse's chuckle.

"Give it a try anyway."

The Leo kept his face passive and his eyes on a distant spot on the horizon of his vision, all the better to hear the sounds around him. His large, pendant-shaped ears generally hung low on his head, which led many to think that his hearing was muffled, when in fact it was more keen than one would have believed. Most of the students were either polite or canny enough not to make any impolitic comments on their way out the doors, but there were always a few. Key phrases filtered in through the background noise...

_ "...Parker's really a fag?"_

_ "...female ain't pregnant..."_

_ "...wonder who else..."_

_ "...nobody's damn business..."_

About what he expected, and from the few players he'd mentally tagged earlier. They'd bear watching, but not too closely. There's a difference between being prepared and being paranoid. He was more interested in the quiet ones. In an all-male sports environment, the overall testosterone level would peg any meter in the red; it had to go somewhere, and not all of it ended up expended through exertion on the field or otherwise spent in socks, jocks, and catcher's mitts. Stackhouse knew the sliding scale all too well, with the famous 10% referring only to exclusivity on either end, which left 80% in the middle ground and open for experimentation.

The thought didn't bother him. He knew what happened on the long road trips of semi-pro ball. In a lot of ways, it was a helluva lot safer to play with someone you knew rather than try to pick up one of the twilight daughters in a strange town. Apart from abstinence, unsatisfying on any occasion, the alternative of going "deep into their known right paws" (as the poem tells us) gets old quickly. The sheer weight of statistics suggested that, even if Parker had dallied in the gardens of Ganymede, he wouldn't be the only one in the athletic department. There would be even more who wondered but hadn't done anything about it, and there were likely to be some who so feared the possibility that their fear would turn to rage...

Shaking himself gently from his reverie, the Leo turned and padded toward the field to see how the varsity squad would rebuild itself for this week's game. He had no worries about the JV; they were in good paws, both in terms of coaching and leadership from the quarterback. That team would stand strong and make an impressive showing in the playoffs. He had already mentally slotted young Harris into next year's varsity team, assuming he kept his game up.

* * * * *

Coach Carbajal, the compact black jaguar in charge of the junior varsity football team, blew his whistle in the pattern some of the jocks had nicknamed the "all clear." Practice was over. As far as Bobby Harris was concerned, the timing was just about right; less, and he'd have thought it not enough, while more might have made him worry that his passing arm was going to fall apart at the seams. It was possible that he was still a little tired from all the exercise he'd had over the weekend. He slept alone last night, solidly if reluctantly. His dreams had been pleasant enough, if the rather drippy morning wood he had sported was any indication. He tried not to think about it too much; he was, after all, on his way to the showers.

Abram Holm, JV first string center, a blacktailed jackrabbit with the overall musculature of a welterweight wrestler, pulled off his helmet with an immense sigh of relief as his long ears were freed from their specially-designed protective gear. Harris clapped him on the back with his usual camaraderie. "Good Easter, Abe."

The hare smirked good-naturedly. "That never gets old with you, does it?"

"What? The Easter bunny knows how to deliver the egg. Makes perfect sense to me." The quarterback paused, checking the reaction. "Want me to stop?"

"Ah hell no, lion. Don't go all soft on me or somethin'."

"Not on a bet," Harris laughed. Something in his mind registered the exchange for future reference. Changes...

A lean, hard cheetah came bouncing up to the pair, doffing his helmet. "Cheer up, Abe. I'm more cliché than you are. A speedy-cat as a wide receiver?"

"It's those semi-retractable claws of yours, Velasquez. Helps you hold on to the ball."

"And whatever else I can pick up."

"Oh yes," the hare chuckled. "And you're a frat boy in the bargain. How do you survive?"

"Package deal," the receiver grinned. "I signed up for college on the Pre-Fab Lifestyle ticket. Everything paid and ready to use, from room and board to personal identity. At least that's what my social psych professor is trying to teach us."

"Kordinak?" Harris wondered.

"Naw, Mac Griffith. Kordinak is behavioral psych."

The lion nodded, then noticed a calmly restraining paw on his shoulder. "Guys," the center slowed to a stop, "hold up a minute."

Most of the players had already reached the field house as the early twilight began to take over the skies. Quarterback and receiver paused, waiting for Abe to continue.

"I don't want to come off like a complete ass-hat here. It's just... this whole thing with Parker. I mean, I grew up pretty liberal, I suppose, but I never really met anyone gay, and I... aw crap, you probably think I'm a redneck butthead."

Hoping the smile on his muzzle didn't look as forced as it felt, Harris chuckled. "You say 'redneck' like it's a bad thing. My family practically invented 'em. You know my dad was from West Virginia, right? The state with two million people and 15 last names?"

"You really don't know anyone who's gay?" the cheetah asked mildly. "Statistics say otherwise, ya know. One in ten. We had our disproportionate share at my high school, or at least it seemed that way. Big drama department, very liberal atmosphere. Males and females both coming out like blooms at a flower-fest... no pansy jokes intended."

"Would you tell me if you were gay?" Abe looked as though he might not really want an answer to that question.

"I don't know. To save you wondering, I'm straight, at least so far as I know. Maybe if the right male came around, I'd change my mind... but I gotta tell you, I got a thing for titties." Velasquez strutted, fisted paws on hips and chest forward, as if bearing an overly-large pair of breasts himself. "Bazooms, fun-bags, pontoons, Satan's love pillows, chesticles, howitzers, 36-of-D Borg implants, lung-warts, flesh melons, Twin Peaks, gimmie dem big beautiful bodacious TATAS!"

Despite themselves, the other two players howled with politically incorrect laughter. "I foresee a complete failure of the gender sensitivity training portion of your corporate future!" Harris slapped the cheetah on the back in the properly male-bonding fashion. "C'mon, let's hit the showers. Some of us have to keep up a grade point average to keep our scholarship."

As they began shuffling back toward the field house, Abe said, "What about you, Harris?"

"What about me what?"

"Would you tell me if you were gay?"

The lion kept his face a frozen mask, a task made easier by the sensation of the blood in his veins turning to ice water. "Hey, don't go making assumptions just because I put my forepaws between your legs. All quarterbacks do that."

"Hell, you had to make me think about that..." The interior of the hare's long ears began to redden along with a blush across his cheekbones.

Velasquez kept his voice soft. "Why does it bother you, Abe? What would you want to know for? You afraid you're gonna catch the gay?"

The center whirled to face the receiver directly. "What's that supposed t'mean?"

"Chill, you two." Harris stepped nimbly between them, eyeing the cheetah sharply. "This is what Coach was talking about. Rumor control. If we're gonna get crazy wondering what about who, we're gonna be at each other's throats. And whatever the reason, Velasquez, the idea bothers Abe, so maybe he don't need teasing about it, okay?"

Raising his forepaws in a placating gesture, the cheetah backed up a few steps. "S'cool, Harris, s'cool. Wasn't tryin' to get anyone's fur up, just talkin'. Abe, are we okay here?"

"Yeah, sure." The hare looked down. "Sorry, Hector."

"No problem." After an awkward moment, the receiver moved off to the field house at a light run, leaving his teammates behind.

"You really okay, Abe?"

"Sure."

"Look at me."

The hare slowly raised his head. Harris looked into his eyes, wondering what it is that he thought he would find there.

"I count on you, Abe. For what it's worth, you can always talk to me about anything."

"Even if I were gay? I mean, I'm not, but...?"

The young lion nodded, his full russet mane dancing even though it was liberally soaked in sweat from his workout. "You and I are a team within a team. Without your snap, I got nothin'. We're running a hella good season this year, and I value you. Don't care if you're gay, straight, or like to get kinky with Legos, postage stamps, and banana pudding! You're a good guy, a great player, and anyone who says otherwise answers to me... and probably the rest of the team, and the coaches too."

The hare tried to chuckle. "How did you find out about the banana pudding?"

"Thought that was on your Facebook page?"

"No, Tumblr."

Harris grinned. "Yeah, you'll be okay. C'mon, let's hit the showers." The lion held up a single index finger in warning. "No jokes."

"Okay. No jokes."

* * * * *

Most of the other players had already finished showering by the time Harris and Holm sauntered in. Even Velasquez was toweling off his short fur in front of the wall dryers, with the rest of the players in various stages of redressing, hoping to get to the cafeteria for dinner before all that was left was the Mystery Mess in the last pan on the end (the one that never seemed to be emptied). With virtually no thought, Harris stripped, his pads and equipment stashed in their slots in the common storage shelves, his uniform and cloth goods in the laundry hamper; he grabbed his bottles from his locker, a towel from the table, and went into the nearly empty showers. It wasn't until he stood under the hot needle spray that he thought how he'd done the same thing only five nights ago, with Parker standing at the entrance of the showers.

He paused for the briefest of moments, his forepaws soaping his firm chest. His whole world, thrown upside down, in so short a time? And Malcolm... no, better not think about him too closely right now, or Houston will report a lift-off. The last thing Abe needed was to think his worst fears were realized...

Before he could think better of the idea, he glanced a few spots down and saw the buff young jackrabbit enjoying his own shower. The hare's body was a study in the artistic form, his impressive musculature, the earth-brown fur shot through with white and gray and black like a lynx, his short black tail perched over a perfectly sculpted ass... and what startled the young lion was his somewhat clinical assessment. If he were gay, wouldn't he be thinking about humping a naked stud not twenty feet away? Shouldn't he be turned on and trying to figure out a way to get his paws in the hare's crotch from the front for a change?

Abe had finished and shut off his shower, shaking off a little and padding over to his towel and the dryers. He passed Harris without speaking, without even looking, and the lion let him go. He lingered under the hot spray, both for his own enjoyment and to give the hare a little space to himself. It also gave him a moment to wonder about this new discovery. Before meeting Jerry, before he had found his passionate attraction to Malcolm, he'd never been bothered much about another male being gay. If a guy had tried to touch him, he'd get the guy to back off, either with words or a swift punch where it counts. Now here he was, a fag in the locker room showers, staple of homo-fappia porn the world over, and he really didn't have any interest even in trying to make a mental movie of the usual jock orgies that he'd heard about since high school.

As he applied the conditioner to his mane, Harris thought about a question he'd heard regarding the subject. Why are you worried that a gay guy is going to want to hump every male he sees? Do straight guys want to hit on every female they see? A rueful smile appeared on his muzzle as he thought that there was some truth in that. At a certain age, males discover that thing between their legs, and they spend an inordinate amount of the next several years trying to find new places to stick it. He wasn't sure if it was more true for jocks, but it seemed to be. Could any of that be laid at the females' door? Is it a bigger goal for them to get an athlete in the sack? Does being a jock make it somehow okay for females to "just have fun"? Do the sororities have contests - ball the whole team and win a toaster oven?

Harris laughed as he rinsed himself off. This was a conversation that would give Malcolm a giggle as well.

"Did you leave any hot water, Harris?"

The lion turned sharply toward the unexpected voice. "Didn't know you were coming, Coach."

Chuckling, the Leonberger jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "Plumbing problems in the coaches lav. Got the water turned off on that side. Do you mind?"

"No problem. Just leaving; place is all yours."

"Obliged." Stackhouse doffed his towel and strode to one of the many showerheads in the space. Harris struggled not to gulp as the Leo passed by him. A full 15cm taller than himself, the coach was huge in other ways that even his long, thick fur couldn't conceal. Okay, maybe I'm more gay than I thought at first, he thought, focusing very carefully on toweling himself off in front of the wall dryers. After all, the only fap-fodder more potent than a locker room orgy was student/coach yiffery. The lion contented himself with the thought that, as only junior varsity, he probably didn't qualify in Stackhouse's league.