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Classes started, and free time ended. Between doing laundry, work-study, classes and outside of class studying, I found little time for the clubs I'd signed up for. I did find the exercise trails that ran through campus and tried those out, twice a week. Work study with the football team gave me other chances to exercise when I joined in their calesthenics. "Hi," said a zebra, about my age, as we did a few laps. "What position do you play?"

I laughed, "student assistant." I seemed to have a gift of confusing people. "Broke too many bones and stuff, my parents won't let me play football. Or any sports." I sighed.

"Oh. I'm Al," he said. "Right across the hall from you."

"Nice to meet you," I panted, being a touch out of shape. "George."

We shook hand to hand-hoof while jogging along the track. "You play linebacker, right?"

"Well, defensive back, but I should be offense." He shrugged. "They play you where they need you, right?"

"Let's hussle!" said the hare chasing after us. Coach Sandusky. At the time, none of us had any real clue what he was doing. Well, most of us did not. I slowed down and walked back to get my gear together and record the practice.

"Thanks for letting my practice, coach," I smiled to the hare.

"You need it," he snorted. "So out of shape, even for a pink-skin," he added with a laugh. "I like the footage you shot," he said. "But we're not too interested in the art of it. Just get me good coverage of Al today." As a freshman, the zebra who lived across the hall from me, was not likely to actually play in a game. Most of the time, he impersonated players from other teams in practice, but they did drill him on his position. I winced, watching him practice interceptions, and really winced when I got hit in the face by one of his failed attempts at an interception.

The camera did not survive, the lens a complete loss, and I ended up with quite a black eye and a bloody nose. As I sat on the bench with an ice pack, he was all over me, apologizing.

"Dough worriedz," I assured him. "Oggupazhional haggared. Bud degst dibe, gadze da ball, bleaze."

X-rays showed nothing broken, only a bruised ego. Sandusky signed my papers excusing me from the rest of the practice for that day and I returned to my empty dorm. After copying some notes and working on my term paper, I decided to walk no where in particular. As I wandered one of the art galleries, I heard a most amazing piano duet and followed the sound. I did not, at first, recognize anyone in the room, but a few students stood around the pianists, taking notes as the instructor critiqued the performance in progress. Rather snooty and rude, I thought, but the music was nice and I took a seat to enjoy the performance.

Honestly, I did not hear any of the mistakes she pointed out. She smiled to me as I sat there but said nothing.

"Okay, not a bad performance, you two," she praised. "But don't hesitate. You have to hit the notes on the beat. Not before. Not after."

She turned to me, "And would you like to explain how you're late to class and what happened to your eye?"

I laughed softly. "Football practice," I grinned. "And I'm not in this class. I just like music, took some piano lessons because I wanted to play the organ someday."

"Did you advance beyond chopsticks?" she sneered. The class laughed, except for one who winced a bit.

"A bit beyond it, yeah, but not much."

"What's the worst that could happen?" she sniffled. "Let's hear your performance." As I took the sheet music from her and sat down, she asked, "What is your major?"

"Cinema studies," I smiled back, then recognized one of her students. Mark had been playing when I arrived.

"Would you like lessons?" she asked after the students had left. Mark hung around also.

"I'd love them, but between my courses and work study, I don't have any free time. Thanks, though." Once we're alone, I turned to Mark."Well, I thought you did okay."

He followed with a lot of words I don't understand. My grandfather would hate me for that. Among his many professions, he was a composer in the waning days of pre-Communist Russia. "What happened to you?" Mark asked, concerned.

"Oh, fumbled pass at practice. It destroyed the camera," I shrugged.

When we got back to the dorm, Al was knocking on my door. "Oh, there you are," he chuckled nervously. "I feel bad, so, I was wondering if I could buy you dinner?"

I decided to tease him gently, "I'm not sure I'm your type."

"Err, what? Uh, no! I'm not a fag!" he protested.

I grinned and nudged him, "Sorry, I didn't mean to say you were." I patted his shoulder. "But it's okay, really. It was just an accident!" We walked into the room. "But dinner does sound nice. Want to come, Mark?"

"I'm not paying for his," Al muttered.

"Not paying for mine, either," I said. "This isn't a date, just friends hanging out. OK?"

Al hesitated. "Uh, OK." He rubbed the back of his neck nervously.

Mark shrugged, "Sure. I'm a bit hungry too."

Al relaxed a bit when Mark agreed to come along. Perhaps having the extra person along, even if it was another guy, relieved the pressure of appearing gay. We chatted for a bit, trying to decide where to go, eventually setting out to Whiskers for some munchies, more a snack than a meal.