The mail was piled up and I didn’t have the heart or the courage to look through it. The bills couldn’t worry me, but I guess I was frightened there might be one from Brett. Now my vacation was spent, I had to go back to work at the Mill. People thought I was taller, but the only person I let see my new physique was Coach. And even he was surprised. I went in for these crazy workouts: people watching me doing my ultra-contractions thought I was mad. Even Coach got worried I was going to burst something but the only things likely to

burst were the baggy clothes I wore to hide everything. Unfortunately they were no longer baggy enough.

Weeks went by, and Coach and I spent many long hours in his office after the gym closed hashing it all out. Not surprisingly he found a lot of the stuff difficult to believe or, at least, understand. But we hashed it all through anyway. Again and again. And finally, as Dad had said, Coach said I had to make up my own mind.

No word from Brett, or his dad. And they had none from me. I was thinking of entering a contest over in Denmark in a few weeks and was working like a maniac to that end. Eventually those clothes had to come off in the gym - they got to be too stifling and started to get in the way. No one could quite believe what they were seeing, and the whole gym started to get excited about the contest. Everyone did, except me. I was just trying to cover up my guilt by working my head into a muscle-mad frazzle. Anything to put Brett and his dad out of my head. But of course they were there, with every rep.

I think Coach thought I was working myself into a nervous breakdown. One day I surprised him arguing with the mailman about cost of postage. When he saw me he turned pink and paid up anyway. Then he turned his back on me and slammed into the gym. What was up? He told me he was sending in my contest fee and that the price of mail to Denmark had gone up. I shrugged it off - but I often wondered about that letter.

By now I was well-primed for the contest. Coach was feeding me with stuff that I discovered he had ordered form La Jolla - no wonder I felt so charged up. I guessed that was what the letter had been about. As it happened, I was wrong.

The contest came and went. Yes, I won. A phenomenon, they called me. At last I started to get invitations for guest posing, even some in Europe. Just as well, for I was suffering from post-contest, La Jolla-missing blues. Coach had to work overtime to keep me together.

I guess what saved me, apart from Coach’s constant support, was that I could lose myself when I was posing. Those weeks of ultra-contraction paid off as I flexed into each pose, seeing and feeling each great muscle clench and try to burst through the paper-thin skin while the veins darted across every muscle peak.

I did a gig in Amsterdam,. Paid well. Went well. Even the great, retired, Berry de Mey was complementary and asked Why wasn’t I entering other contests in Europe? I could even see his mouth watering as he sussed out my muscles in the pump-up room. And the gay guys and straight gals were all going crazy - screaming for me to come back on stage. I repeated the whole thing and the contestants got drafted to keep them from climbing up on the stage. It was quite a turn-on. But it made me sad again, thinking of La Jolla. I flew home the next day, really blue.

Couldn’t believe my eyes when Coach met me at the airport. This was a first! He didn‘t even do that when I came back from La Jolla. We jawed about Amsterdam all the way home and, when we were nearly there, he suddenly said, glumly, You’ve got a visitor. He’s been here for 3 days, waiting. My heart sank. If it had been just anyone, Coach would have told me sooner. I knew that whoever it was, I was going to be forced into a decision. I was expecting it would be Pilot, or even Tattoos - they’d both been here before.

“Staying at the hotel?” If they were I could possibly avoid them.

“No. Your place.”

“My place! “ Shit! Whoever it is probably froze to death overnight.

When we got there Coach said, “Want me to come in with you?”

I sighed. “Probably better if I face it myself, Coach.”

“Probably.” And he drove off.

I opened the door. I gasped. He was at the top of the stairs.

“I’ve come to take you home.”

“Shit, Brett!”

But before I’d got it out he had jumped down the stairs into my arms. We both fell backwards into what remained of the snow, him on top of me - and before I could draw breath he’d stuffed a handful into my gaping mouth. •