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World Cup Domination (m/f)
by
Kid Indy
As he turned the corner into the sports bar’s parking lot, his podcast was just getting into the improbable domination that had the world’s attention: 13-0 in a World Cup game was not anything that anyone in the world expected, and the unbelievable 1996 USA Olympic Women’s Team 1999 USA Women’s World Cup Team seemed to have a rival for the greatest international competitors to come from the States.
Jerry was just thinking about seeing Billy and Melissa.
The three had been college friends, and both of the young men had lost their hearts to Melissa as they made their way to graduation. As events unfolded, all three ended up starting strong in the year after college, but Jerry wound up the third wheel. He hadn’t seen the other two since the winter, and now, knowing that they had been together for a few months, Jerry prepared himself to see the girl he imagined himself with when he imagined riding off into the sunset with his former roommate.
Still, he wanted to remain a good friend, so sliding his keys into his pocket and walking towards the bar’s door, he took a deep breath and prepared to be pleasant.
The two were sitting at one of the tall tables at the bar and grill, looking up at a large screen where a silent head moved his mouth for the benefit of those at home, where the sound was up. Everyone watching, though, could see the images over his shoulder and the text that moved around the screen, and like so many others, he was talking about that World Cup match.
Jerry got close enough to see Melissa, and his heart skipped a beat as it had to often at university.
She was an undeniable vision: light brown hair tied back in a ponytail, sparkling eyes that captivated anyone who looked that way every time she laughed. A red tank top let her shapely shoulders enjoy the air, and her shorts showed slender legs, tanned. Each sported an ankle bracelet, memories of spring breaks on the Gulf Coast. Her feet, accentuated by leather sandals, were smooth, all tan and tipped with nearly-glowing coral orange toenails.
Jerry shook himself out of his reverie and greeted the pair.
“Hey! How are you two doing?” You two. You two. You two.
Billy was the first to stand up and greet him with a handshake-back pat-hug. “Jerry! It’s so good to see you, man!”
Melissa was out of her tall chair as well, and when she wrapped her arms around his neck for an old-college-friend’s hug, Jerry feared that his face or his pants might betray him.
They all sat down at the tall table, and the boys ordered beers and Melissa a water. Jerry enjoyed seeing them, and conversation was light until Melissa took a sip of her water and looked Jerry square in the eyes. “Jerry, Billy and I are moving in together. Isn’t that great?”
Jerry’s world died within.
He managed to congratulate them, then hang in as the trio remembered stories from years gone by. He searched for a moment in which he could excuse himself, go home, and do some real drinking; when Melissa’s eyes went from the boys to one of the big-screen televisions.
“Do you really think that Team USA could take it all again?”
Billy laughed. “Nobody cares about soccer, Melissa. And besides, who did they beat? Indonesia or somebody?”
Jerry took a sip of his drink. “Thailand. Solid team, really. I don’t think anyone’s going to be able to stop them in this World Cup.”
Melissa grinned. She never could resist a safe bet. “Do you want to lay down some money on that?”
Jerry looked at her again. “A hundred bucks say that Team USA takes it all.”
Melissa’s hand immediately shot across the table, and Jerry shook it. “You hate to bet against your own country, but I’ll take your money anyway!”
After a few more minutes the trio dispersed and Jerry shook his head in frustration. Now, win or lose, he was going to have to see them again. He got into his car and started driving home.
* * * * * * *
Jerry didn’t hate his job, but he always enjoyed the drive home more than the drive to the office. Waiting at a red light on Thursday at 5:17, his hand tapped on his steering wheel, keeping his phone’s playlist on the beat. The drive out to the edge of town and to his apartment complex took longer than he preferred, but once he exercised at home he didn’t have many people to talk with, so he learned to enjoy even the indirect company of his fellow-commuters.
This commute started to get weird, though: he looked up and saw a car that looked just like Billy’s. He knew full well that he and Melissa lived on the other side of town (ouch--there was that thought again), so he switched lanes and got closer. Sure enough, the parking sticker from their senior year of college was still on the rear windshield. Jerry decided that his stop at the gym could wait a few minutes and started following the car.
He tailed his old college friend into an apartment complex he had never seen before, and he waited back a block or so as the car pulled into a parking spot in front of one of its buildings. Sure enough, Billy emerged from the car and walked in between two buildings. Jerry activated his hybrid’s all-electric mode (he knew there had to be some use for that mode) and crept up on the gap between buildings. He caught only a thin arm, definitely not Billy’s, pulled a door shut. Jerry wheeled around and got a couple blocks away, then told his car to dial Melissa’s mobile phone.
The phone’s chirps took an eternity to pass. Then he heard the speaker engage.
“Hey Jerry! What’s up?”
Shit. Should have planned this out first. “Hey, I’m off work and wondered whether you and Billy wanted to grab a bite. I don’t have anything to cook at my place.” Good improv, Jerry!
“Oh, I’d love to, Jerry, but Billy’s in Los Angeles for work until Monday.”
“Really? That’s too bad. Some kind of training trip?”
“Yeah, some conference about international business. You know his company is trying to reach out into Chinese markets.”
Yeah, right. He’s reaching out somewhere. “Oh, alright. Well, remember our bet--I want to watch some of these games with you so you know just why you’re going to lose!”
“Dream on, Jerry. Yeah, we’ll watch a game before you pay up.”
They wrapped up their brief phone session as Jerry was pulling in at the gym. He opened a web browser on his phone and started searching for the name of Billy’s company and training sessions. Sure enough, there was a conference in Los Angeles that weekend.
It started Friday evening.
Jerry got out of his car and grabbed his gym bag. There was plotting to be done, and the treadmill would work as well as any other place to start.
* * * * * * *
Billy was waiting for his flight when the text messages started coming in from Jerry.
[Naughty boy. Cheat on Thursday, fly on Friday.]
What? Billy shot one back. [What r u talking about?] Several seconds passed.
[I followed u on my side of town yesterday]
[What do you mean?]
[Your car was still at that apartment this morning]
Billy’s heart skipped a beat. His thumbs fumbled. <Be cool, man. Back a bro up.>
[Backup costs. World Cup game on Thursday night. Meet me at the bar.]
Okay, that’s not so bad. [Okay, man.]
[Bring Melissa. Run with my play, or she finds out.]
Oh no.
* * * * * * *
Billy played cool as well as he was able when he returned to town Monday, and he sold the trip to the bar like it had been his idea all along. His heart was taking its turn at the races as they approached the bar’s door a few minutes ahead of kickoff. Jerry was sitting at the same table they had shared before, his arm up on the back of one of the chairs. He motioned for Melissa to sit in that one, and Billy gritted his teeth as they settled in to watch the game. Sweden fought as best as they could, but ultimately, as time expired, the three friends watched their national team roll to a 2-0 victory.
Jerry hooted in celebration along with other sports fans at the bar. “What do you think of our team now, Melissa?”
“They’re good, but they’re not going to beat England when that matchup comes.”
“England? Really?”
“Just wait until the playoffs. When Team USA meets up with England, that’s going to be the end of it.”
An eager sports reporter noted, as the day’s scores rolled by beneath him, that Team USA had outscored all opponents 18-0 in the World Cup up to that point. Billy, who had been quiet, let out a low whistle. Melissa play-glared at him. Jerry saw his opening.
“I’ll tell you what: I’ll bet Team USA not only wins it all but outscores all of its opponents by 21 goals.”
“What? No way! You’re still hung up on that Thailand game, aren’t you?”
“You’ll take the bet, then?”
“What about the original bet?”
“If Team USA falls short of 21, we’ll call it square, even if they win the World Cup.” Melissa gaped at him. Billy sat up straight, knowing that trouble was coming.
One of Melissa’s brows went up. “And what if they get their 21?”
“Then at the final game, in this bar, at this table, I get to tickle you for ten minutes in front of all of these people.”
Billy’s heart jumped into his mouth. Jerry fixed him with an ultimatum in the form of a stare. Billy did the only thing he could do. “Come on, Melissa! Take the bet! They can only hit that spread if they win it all anyway!”
Melissa began to chew her lip, and Jerry could feel the trap beginning to close. She extended her hand, but when Jerry extended his, she pulled it back. “And if Team USA doesn’t win it all, you have to take the Ice Bucket Challenge here in the middle of the bar.” Jerry grinned. “With your shirt off.”
He fired back. “Wear your beach sandals and something that shows your tummy for the final game, Melissa. This is going to be fun.”
Melissa licked her lips as her eyes sparkled again. “You’re going to be out of this bet well before that, Jerry!” Her hand extended again.
Jerry shook it.
Billy’s stomach twisted into a knot.
* * * * * * *
Melissa watched the semi-final game alone in her own apartment. She howled in disbelief as Team USA gained the advantage, then held it. (Billy was out of town again.) When commentators came on after the final score became official, the graphic on the screen told her just how much was going to be on the line Sunday: Team USA had outscored all of their opponents by 21 goals. If they won the final, she lost her bet. If they lost, she won everything.
Her phone buzzed. A text message had come in.
[Be sure to wear a belly shirt and some nice sandals!]
[Get ready for a chilly Sunday, Jerry! You’re going down!]
[No looking at the score ahead of time--let’s find out at the bar who wins this bet!]
Jerry’s response was an emoji. Melissa’s bare feet walked to her bedroom. The sandals were on the floor. A bright orange midriff tank top was in the drawer. She swallowed hard and got ready for bed.
* * * * * * *
Sunday night Jerry kept his side of the deal; he didn’t check Twitter, didn’t look at ESPN, didn’t do anything to find out whether he was about to get his revenge on the world for putting Billy and Melissa in an apartment and on Billy for wasting that opportunity. He wore a polo shirt that he could take off easily just in case, but something told him that this was going to be his evening.
Melissa was an utter dream walking in: the painted toenails that arrested his attention weeks before were about to be his toys, the legs his playground, and now she was also wearing a top that offered him a sight that he had not seen since their last Spring Break trip together. Now he knew that his Team USA girls just had to win: there was too much to lose here!
Billy couldn’t hide his sulk at this point, and Jerry made a point of taunting him as the game rolled on, as the first goal went in, then the second, and as the possibility of a comeback faded away, it was Jerry’s turn to revel in his own victory and his country’s. The bar went wild as time expired, and Jerry leered at Melissa as soon as he looked away from the television.
“You’re not really going to do this, are you?”
“Ten minutes, Melissa. A bet’s a bet.”
“Come on!”
“Do you want to pay up first, or should I start tickling first?”
“I’ll pay you two hundred if you don’t tickle me!”
“No can do! A bet’s a bet!”
Melissa stuck a pouting lip out and looked at Billy, who looked positively nauseated. When she turned back to Jerry he was motioning to her feet. She slid the sandals off of her feet, those tanned, smooth feet, pedicured and perfect. Jerry motioned to his own lap, and she lifted one, then another onto his thigh.
Jerry grabbed an ankle and raised his voice to a shout that about half the bar could hear. “Hey everybody! Melissa here said that Team USA could never win this World Cup!”
A dozen people booed in jest, and the rest of the bar turned their attention to Jerry’s table.
“So here’s what she loses since she bet against her own country!” His grip on her ankle hardened, and his other hand descended to meet her feet. He didn’t bother starting slow; he was going to get ten good minutes out of this. His fingertips met the base of her heel in a frenzy of motion, and she screamed at the sudden tickling. Her legs surged and tried to kick away, but his grip was firm, and the bar erupted in hoots and laughs as the beautiful tan girl’s shriek turned almost instantly into tickled giggles, then a full-bodied laugh. Camera phones started to come out, and at least one patron of the bar was making plans to upload this clip to his favorite message board.
Billy was mortified. “Come on, Jerry! People are making videos of this!”
Jerry grinned at his former roommate as he ticked the girl he wished he had in his bed. “A bet’s a bet, right, Billy?” His arm now gripped her calves like a wrestler’s headlock, and his fingers skittered over both feet. Melissa, who knew that she was ticklish, flushed red as she squealed and struggled and laughed at the intense attention that Jerry paid to her feet.
Jerry had to stand up carefully when he stopped tickling her feet--his khaki shorts would have betrayed how much he was enjoying this had he risen at the wrong angle. “That was three minutes, Melissa. Now I need you to stand up!” Once again the bar was cheering at the prospect.
Melissa panted as she caught her breath from the vicious foot-tickling. “Come on, Jerry. I can’t take any more!”
“Seven more minutes, Melissa! Stand up!” She did, slowly, her knees a bit wobbly as she stood. He walked behind her. “Hands on top of your head!”
Melissa whined at him. “Come on, Jerry!” But when she turned and caught his eye, she could tell that she was not going to convince him. She put her hands atop her head, her elbows bending like the handles on a trophy. The bar roared its approval.
Jerry’s hands dug into her sides just where her ribs ended, and her hips bucked sideways as her knees gave out completely. Jerry quickly shot out an arm to catch her fall, and that arm wrapped around her waist as his other hand dug fingers into her side, pinching and clawing, tickling without mercy. Her arms came off of her head, but that was entirely too late: she only put an elbow over his hand and held it in place as greedy fingers dug into her. His hand moved up into her underarm, and the tank top offered no shelter. Her legs back under her, Jerry’s other hand had liberty to reach down and squeeze the back of her thigh, which turned her knees to jelly again. Her body began to drop, but Jerry descended with her, and they landed on the bar’s wooden floor together. Jerry’s hands did not stop moving at any point in all of this, poking and strumming and kneading her ticklish body and making her squeal in ways that she never wanted to do in front of a crowded bar and giving everyone present a show that they did not know they had come for. She now lay on top of him, and his hands wrapped around her torso, his left hand tickling high right side and his right hand tickling her left. Her own arms flailed and grasped at the tickling hands, but six minutes of tickling can sap the strength even from strong arms, much less thin limbs and ticklish-weakened hands. He squeezed hips and ribs and belly, enjoying the exposure that the tank top allowed him and now not even caring that anyone who looked (nobody did; a ticklish girl takes everyone’s attention off of everything else) could see that he was living out a fantasy.
This time, when he stopped tickling, Jerry helped Michelle to her feet, and everyone applauded. Michelle was horrified at her embarrassment. Billy was only held back from throwing punches by the secret that he knew Jerry kept. Jerry looked at his wrist watch.
“Two more minutes. Back on the stool!”
Michelle’s face was utterly despondent. “Please, Jerry, no more!”
“Two more minutes. A bet’s a bet!”
She knew that nobody was going to talk this maniac out of taking what was his. She obeyed his order, sitting on the stool and realizing that the room was spinning around her.
“Grab the seat behind you and stretch your feet out.”
“You’re going to tickle my feet again?”
“No, keep your sandals on. But lean back.” She did, and everyone in the bar knew why: her tan midsection stretched out before Jerry. He reached into a back pocket, and the bar seemed to gasp as he brought out a glossy blue feather.
Now it was Billy’s turn to whine. “No, Jerry. Come on!” Jerry flashed him a devil’s grin, and Billy knew that there was nothing that he could do.
Turning back to Michelle, Jerry approached her navel and began to twirl the feather. As the spinning blade made contact with her skin, eight minutes of tickling caught up with her, and her belly became her betrayer. Her legs kicked at the air as the feather spun, and the bar leaned in to take in the sight and the sound. Her laughter mixed with a wail of protest; she did not want to laugh any more, but the feather didn’t care. With quick whipping motions he disengaged with the navel and slashed the feather’s blade across her abdomen in wide whipping motions. She squealed in forced delight, and Jerry could feel his own body betray him. It was a good thing the polo was too big and untucked.
And so with a minute left, Jerry stood up, took a bow for the bar’s patrons, who were now applauding raucously, and started to walk out of the bar. He did not have his hundred dollars, but he knew that would just be another occasion to meet up with Melissa. When he got to his car, he pulled out of the parking lot and got to a red light before he pulled a fast-food napkin out of his glove box and began to clean himself up.
When he got home he would decide whether or not to send the pictures of Billy emerging from the Caribbean woman’s apartment on Friday morning, almost-dressed Caribbean woman in the background. For now, he just drove and enjoyed his triumph.
World Cup Domination (m/f)
by
Kid Indy
As he turned the corner into the sports bar’s parking lot, his podcast was just getting into the improbable domination that had the world’s attention: 13-0 in a World Cup game was not anything that anyone in the world expected, and the unbelievable 1996 USA Olympic Women’s Team 1999 USA Women’s World Cup Team seemed to have a rival for the greatest international competitors to come from the States.
Jerry was just thinking about seeing Billy and Melissa.
The three had been college friends, and both of the young men had lost their hearts to Melissa as they made their way to graduation. As events unfolded, all three ended up starting strong in the year after college, but Jerry wound up the third wheel. He hadn’t seen the other two since the winter, and now, knowing that they had been together for a few months, Jerry prepared himself to see the girl he imagined himself with when he imagined riding off into the sunset with his former roommate.
Still, he wanted to remain a good friend, so sliding his keys into his pocket and walking towards the bar’s door, he took a deep breath and prepared to be pleasant.
The two were sitting at one of the tall tables at the bar and grill, looking up at a large screen where a silent head moved his mouth for the benefit of those at home, where the sound was up. Everyone watching, though, could see the images over his shoulder and the text that moved around the screen, and like so many others, he was talking about that World Cup match.
Jerry got close enough to see Melissa, and his heart skipped a beat as it had to often at university.
She was an undeniable vision: light brown hair tied back in a ponytail, sparkling eyes that captivated anyone who looked that way every time she laughed. A red tank top let her shapely shoulders enjoy the air, and her shorts showed slender legs, tanned. Each sported an ankle bracelet, memories of spring breaks on the Gulf Coast. Her feet, accentuated by leather sandals, were smooth, all tan and tipped with nearly-glowing coral orange toenails.
Jerry shook himself out of his reverie and greeted the pair.
“Hey! How are you two doing?” You two. You two. You two.
Billy was the first to stand up and greet him with a handshake-back pat-hug. “Jerry! It’s so good to see you, man!”
Melissa was out of her tall chair as well, and when she wrapped her arms around his neck for an old-college-friend’s hug, Jerry feared that his face or his pants might betray him.
They all sat down at the tall table, and the boys ordered beers and Melissa a water. Jerry enjoyed seeing them, and conversation was light until Melissa took a sip of her water and looked Jerry square in the eyes. “Jerry, Billy and I are moving in together. Isn’t that great?”
Jerry’s world died within.
He managed to congratulate them, then hang in as the trio remembered stories from years gone by. He searched for a moment in which he could excuse himself, go home, and do some real drinking; when Melissa’s eyes went from the boys to one of the big-screen televisions.
“Do you really think that Team USA could take it all again?”
Billy laughed. “Nobody cares about soccer, Melissa. And besides, who did they beat? Indonesia or somebody?”
Jerry took a sip of his drink. “Thailand. Solid team, really. I don’t think anyone’s going to be able to stop them in this World Cup.”
Melissa grinned. She never could resist a safe bet. “Do you want to lay down some money on that?”
Jerry looked at her again. “A hundred bucks say that Team USA takes it all.”
Melissa’s hand immediately shot across the table, and Jerry shook it. “You hate to bet against your own country, but I’ll take your money anyway!”
After a few more minutes the trio dispersed and Jerry shook his head in frustration. Now, win or lose, he was going to have to see them again. He got into his car and started driving home.
* * * * * * *
Jerry didn’t hate his job, but he always enjoyed the drive home more than the drive to the office. Waiting at a red light on Thursday at 5:17, his hand tapped on his steering wheel, keeping his phone’s playlist on the beat. The drive out to the edge of town and to his apartment complex took longer than he preferred, but once he exercised at home he didn’t have many people to talk with, so he learned to enjoy even the indirect company of his fellow-commuters.
This commute started to get weird, though: he looked up and saw a car that looked just like Billy’s. He knew full well that he and Melissa lived on the other side of town (ouch--there was that thought again), so he switched lanes and got closer. Sure enough, the parking sticker from their senior year of college was still on the rear windshield. Jerry decided that his stop at the gym could wait a few minutes and started following the car.
He tailed his old college friend into an apartment complex he had never seen before, and he waited back a block or so as the car pulled into a parking spot in front of one of its buildings. Sure enough, Billy emerged from the car and walked in between two buildings. Jerry activated his hybrid’s all-electric mode (he knew there had to be some use for that mode) and crept up on the gap between buildings. He caught only a thin arm, definitely not Billy’s, pulled a door shut. Jerry wheeled around and got a couple blocks away, then told his car to dial Melissa’s mobile phone.
The phone’s chirps took an eternity to pass. Then he heard the speaker engage.
“Hey Jerry! What’s up?”
Shit. Should have planned this out first. “Hey, I’m off work and wondered whether you and Billy wanted to grab a bite. I don’t have anything to cook at my place.” Good improv, Jerry!
“Oh, I’d love to, Jerry, but Billy’s in Los Angeles for work until Monday.”
“Really? That’s too bad. Some kind of training trip?”
“Yeah, some conference about international business. You know his company is trying to reach out into Chinese markets.”
Yeah, right. He’s reaching out somewhere. “Oh, alright. Well, remember our bet--I want to watch some of these games with you so you know just why you’re going to lose!”
“Dream on, Jerry. Yeah, we’ll watch a game before you pay up.”
They wrapped up their brief phone session as Jerry was pulling in at the gym. He opened a web browser on his phone and started searching for the name of Billy’s company and training sessions. Sure enough, there was a conference in Los Angeles that weekend.
It started Friday evening.
Jerry got out of his car and grabbed his gym bag. There was plotting to be done, and the treadmill would work as well as any other place to start.
* * * * * * *
Billy was waiting for his flight when the text messages started coming in from Jerry.
[Naughty boy. Cheat on Thursday, fly on Friday.]
What? Billy shot one back. [What r u talking about?] Several seconds passed.
[I followed u on my side of town yesterday]
[What do you mean?]
[Your car was still at that apartment this morning]
Billy’s heart skipped a beat. His thumbs fumbled. <Be cool, man. Back a bro up.>
[Backup costs. World Cup game on Thursday night. Meet me at the bar.]
Okay, that’s not so bad. [Okay, man.]
[Bring Melissa. Run with my play, or she finds out.]
Oh no.
* * * * * * *
Billy played cool as well as he was able when he returned to town Monday, and he sold the trip to the bar like it had been his idea all along. His heart was taking its turn at the races as they approached the bar’s door a few minutes ahead of kickoff. Jerry was sitting at the same table they had shared before, his arm up on the back of one of the chairs. He motioned for Melissa to sit in that one, and Billy gritted his teeth as they settled in to watch the game. Sweden fought as best as they could, but ultimately, as time expired, the three friends watched their national team roll to a 2-0 victory.
Jerry hooted in celebration along with other sports fans at the bar. “What do you think of our team now, Melissa?”
“They’re good, but they’re not going to beat England when that matchup comes.”
“England? Really?”
“Just wait until the playoffs. When Team USA meets up with England, that’s going to be the end of it.”
An eager sports reporter noted, as the day’s scores rolled by beneath him, that Team USA had outscored all opponents 18-0 in the World Cup up to that point. Billy, who had been quiet, let out a low whistle. Melissa play-glared at him. Jerry saw his opening.
“I’ll tell you what: I’ll bet Team USA not only wins it all but outscores all of its opponents by 21 goals.”
“What? No way! You’re still hung up on that Thailand game, aren’t you?”
“You’ll take the bet, then?”
“What about the original bet?”
“If Team USA falls short of 21, we’ll call it square, even if they win the World Cup.” Melissa gaped at him. Billy sat up straight, knowing that trouble was coming.
One of Melissa’s brows went up. “And what if they get their 21?”
“Then at the final game, in this bar, at this table, I get to tickle you for ten minutes in front of all of these people.”
Billy’s heart jumped into his mouth. Jerry fixed him with an ultimatum in the form of a stare. Billy did the only thing he could do. “Come on, Melissa! Take the bet! They can only hit that spread if they win it all anyway!”
Melissa began to chew her lip, and Jerry could feel the trap beginning to close. She extended her hand, but when Jerry extended his, she pulled it back. “And if Team USA doesn’t win it all, you have to take the Ice Bucket Challenge here in the middle of the bar.” Jerry grinned. “With your shirt off.”
He fired back. “Wear your beach sandals and something that shows your tummy for the final game, Melissa. This is going to be fun.”
Melissa licked her lips as her eyes sparkled again. “You’re going to be out of this bet well before that, Jerry!” Her hand extended again.
Jerry shook it.
Billy’s stomach twisted into a knot.
* * * * * * *
Melissa watched the semi-final game alone in her own apartment. She howled in disbelief as Team USA gained the advantage, then held it. (Billy was out of town again.) When commentators came on after the final score became official, the graphic on the screen told her just how much was going to be on the line Sunday: Team USA had outscored all of their opponents by 21 goals. If they won the final, she lost her bet. If they lost, she won everything.
Her phone buzzed. A text message had come in.
[Be sure to wear a belly shirt and some nice sandals!]
[Get ready for a chilly Sunday, Jerry! You’re going down!]
[No looking at the score ahead of time--let’s find out at the bar who wins this bet!]
Jerry’s response was an emoji. Melissa’s bare feet walked to her bedroom. The sandals were on the floor. A bright orange midriff tank top was in the drawer. She swallowed hard and got ready for bed.
* * * * * * *
Sunday night Jerry kept his side of the deal; he didn’t check Twitter, didn’t look at ESPN, didn’t do anything to find out whether he was about to get his revenge on the world for putting Billy and Melissa in an apartment and on Billy for wasting that opportunity. He wore a polo shirt that he could take off easily just in case, but something told him that this was going to be his evening.
Melissa was an utter dream walking in: the painted toenails that arrested his attention weeks before were about to be his toys, the legs his playground, and now she was also wearing a top that offered him a sight that he had not seen since their last Spring Break trip together. Now he knew that his Team USA girls just had to win: there was too much to lose here!
Billy couldn’t hide his sulk at this point, and Jerry made a point of taunting him as the game rolled on, as the first goal went in, then the second, and as the possibility of a comeback faded away, it was Jerry’s turn to revel in his own victory and his country’s. The bar went wild as time expired, and Jerry leered at Melissa as soon as he looked away from the television.
“You’re not really going to do this, are you?”
“Ten minutes, Melissa. A bet’s a bet.”
“Come on!”
“Do you want to pay up first, or should I start tickling first?”
“I’ll pay you two hundred if you don’t tickle me!”
“No can do! A bet’s a bet!”
Melissa stuck a pouting lip out and looked at Billy, who looked positively nauseated. When she turned back to Jerry he was motioning to her feet. She slid the sandals off of her feet, those tanned, smooth feet, pedicured and perfect. Jerry motioned to his own lap, and she lifted one, then another onto his thigh.
Jerry grabbed an ankle and raised his voice to a shout that about half the bar could hear. “Hey everybody! Melissa here said that Team USA could never win this World Cup!”
A dozen people booed in jest, and the rest of the bar turned their attention to Jerry’s table.
“So here’s what she loses since she bet against her own country!” His grip on her ankle hardened, and his other hand descended to meet her feet. He didn’t bother starting slow; he was going to get ten good minutes out of this. His fingertips met the base of her heel in a frenzy of motion, and she screamed at the sudden tickling. Her legs surged and tried to kick away, but his grip was firm, and the bar erupted in hoots and laughs as the beautiful tan girl’s shriek turned almost instantly into tickled giggles, then a full-bodied laugh. Camera phones started to come out, and at least one patron of the bar was making plans to upload this clip to his favorite message board.
Billy was mortified. “Come on, Jerry! People are making videos of this!”
Jerry grinned at his former roommate as he ticked the girl he wished he had in his bed. “A bet’s a bet, right, Billy?” His arm now gripped her calves like a wrestler’s headlock, and his fingers skittered over both feet. Melissa, who knew that she was ticklish, flushed red as she squealed and struggled and laughed at the intense attention that Jerry paid to her feet.
Jerry had to stand up carefully when he stopped tickling her feet--his khaki shorts would have betrayed how much he was enjoying this had he risen at the wrong angle. “That was three minutes, Melissa. Now I need you to stand up!” Once again the bar was cheering at the prospect.
Melissa panted as she caught her breath from the vicious foot-tickling. “Come on, Jerry. I can’t take any more!”
“Seven more minutes, Melissa! Stand up!” She did, slowly, her knees a bit wobbly as she stood. He walked behind her. “Hands on top of your head!”
Melissa whined at him. “Come on, Jerry!” But when she turned and caught his eye, she could tell that she was not going to convince him. She put her hands atop her head, her elbows bending like the handles on a trophy. The bar roared its approval.
Jerry’s hands dug into her sides just where her ribs ended, and her hips bucked sideways as her knees gave out completely. Jerry quickly shot out an arm to catch her fall, and that arm wrapped around her waist as his other hand dug fingers into her side, pinching and clawing, tickling without mercy. Her arms came off of her head, but that was entirely too late: she only put an elbow over his hand and held it in place as greedy fingers dug into her. His hand moved up into her underarm, and the tank top offered no shelter. Her legs back under her, Jerry’s other hand had liberty to reach down and squeeze the back of her thigh, which turned her knees to jelly again. Her body began to drop, but Jerry descended with her, and they landed on the bar’s wooden floor together. Jerry’s hands did not stop moving at any point in all of this, poking and strumming and kneading her ticklish body and making her squeal in ways that she never wanted to do in front of a crowded bar and giving everyone present a show that they did not know they had come for. She now lay on top of him, and his hands wrapped around her torso, his left hand tickling high right side and his right hand tickling her left. Her own arms flailed and grasped at the tickling hands, but six minutes of tickling can sap the strength even from strong arms, much less thin limbs and ticklish-weakened hands. He squeezed hips and ribs and belly, enjoying the exposure that the tank top allowed him and now not even caring that anyone who looked (nobody did; a ticklish girl takes everyone’s attention off of everything else) could see that he was living out a fantasy.
This time, when he stopped tickling, Jerry helped Michelle to her feet, and everyone applauded. Michelle was horrified at her embarrassment. Billy was only held back from throwing punches by the secret that he knew Jerry kept. Jerry looked at his wrist watch.
“Two more minutes. Back on the stool!”
Michelle’s face was utterly despondent. “Please, Jerry, no more!”
“Two more minutes. A bet’s a bet!”
She knew that nobody was going to talk this maniac out of taking what was his. She obeyed his order, sitting on the stool and realizing that the room was spinning around her.
“Grab the seat behind you and stretch your feet out.”
“You’re going to tickle my feet again?”
“No, keep your sandals on. But lean back.” She did, and everyone in the bar knew why: her tan midsection stretched out before Jerry. He reached into a back pocket, and the bar seemed to gasp as he brought out a glossy blue feather.
Now it was Billy’s turn to whine. “No, Jerry. Come on!” Jerry flashed him a devil’s grin, and Billy knew that there was nothing that he could do.
Turning back to Michelle, Jerry approached her navel and began to twirl the feather. As the spinning blade made contact with her skin, eight minutes of tickling caught up with her, and her belly became her betrayer. Her legs kicked at the air as the feather spun, and the bar leaned in to take in the sight and the sound. Her laughter mixed with a wail of protest; she did not want to laugh any more, but the feather didn’t care. With quick whipping motions he disengaged with the navel and slashed the feather’s blade across her abdomen in wide whipping motions. She squealed in forced delight, and Jerry could feel his own body betray him. It was a good thing the polo was too big and untucked.
And so with a minute left, Jerry stood up, took a bow for the bar’s patrons, who were now applauding raucously, and started to walk out of the bar. He did not have his hundred dollars, but he knew that would just be another occasion to meet up with Melissa. When he got to his car, he pulled out of the parking lot and got to a red light before he pulled a fast-food napkin out of his glove box and began to clean himself up.
When he got home he would decide whether or not to send the pictures of Billy emerging from the Caribbean woman’s apartment on Friday morning, almost-dressed Caribbean woman in the background. For now, he just drove and enjoyed his triumph.
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I like the intertwining with the women's world cup. 
