"No Hard Feelings" - a Christmas gift from the Blog!

Just wanted to say Happy Christmas to you all, as I won't be able to update the blog myself for a while now. Thanks to all our readers for your support in the short time we've been online!

Here's a little gift for you all... sent in by one of our readers [and I'm not sure if he or she wishes to remain anonymous, so I won't say who it's from at this stage!]

PLEASE don't post this elsewhere - enjoy it, but respect that it is someone else's work...

NO HARD FEELINGS

John didn't really enjoy his last few months of high school.
He'd been to so many schools in his eighteen years of life; his parents kept sending him from one school to the next, hoping to improve the quality of his education. He *hated* it - by the time he managed to make friends at one school, he'd be off to the next - and often, due to conflicting schedules, he wouldn't get the chance to see his old friends after changing schools.
One thing that did stay with him throughout all those adolescent changes was his talent for soccer. He wasn't very sporty, generally, but he'd found when he was eleven years old that soccer wasn't very difficult for him. His parents, eager for him to exploit any skill that he had, made him play on a local team and through the regular practice and exercise he'd become quite a prodigy.
So, just a few months before he was to finish high school, he found himself at yet another school. He thought it was a bad idea, going to a school where the final exams would be based on an entirely different set of assessment tasks than the ones he'd already completed, but his parents knew that the latest school had a lot of students selected for sport-based scholarships at universities.
So he went, begrudgingly, and found that the school wasn't that bad. It wasn't until the head sports teacher noticed how good he was at soccer that things really got rough - he was quickly made captain of the team, and Scott, the former captain, was demoted.
Scott didn't like that.
The last few months did go by pretty quickly, however, and finally - on the last day of school - the soccer team was to play an exhibition match against a local school. It was purely for fun, and wouldn't even be formally umpired - but everyone knew that it was also the last chance for people to show off their sporting skill.
"I know this team," Scott insisted a few hours before the game was set to begin. "I know how to beat them. Make me captain, just this once, and we'll be sure to win."
"You don't need to be captain to give us a winning strategy," John said. "So no. I'm staying on."
"Fine," Scott said through gritted teeth. "Just don't expect to win."
The match was awful. The other team blitzed them and won 4-1, and that last goal had only been scored, by John, in the final minutes. It was not a good way to end the year, and the rest of the team, who had heard John and Scott's discussion before the game, blamed it all on John.
As the team started to head off to the showers, Scott hatched a plan.
* * *
"Oof!"
John had just removed his shirt when someone attacked him from behind. They pinned his arm behind his back and pushed him hard against the changing room wall. While John was held down, someone else grabbed his feet and removed his shoes and socks, leaving him in just his black PE shorts.
The person holding him down led him out of the changing room and pushed him out into the open, in full view of the other team and all the spectators - for John, the situation was more than embarassing; it was completely humiliating.
The door was locked behind him, and he couldn't get back to his clothes. To add insult to injury, a player from the other team, looking sympathetic, approached and gave him a black sleeveless t-shirt and a red sports shirt to get home in.
John thanked him and hurried off, before too many people started to stare.
Scott, from a high window in the changing room, frowned.
* * *
As John walked home, he suspected that someone was following him - but every time he turned around, there was no-one there. He put it down to paranoia due to his earlier humiliation and kept going.
He had to pass Scott's house on his way home, but it didn't bother him. Scott still would have been at school, washing off and getting dressed before heading home. Or so he thought.
As he passed Scott's front door, three people rushed him from behind. One held his arms while another slipped a blindfold over his eyes. When that was done, one each grabbed a leg while the third lifted him from under his armpits and carried him inside the house and down a flight of stares.
The blindfold was not thin enough that John could see who his 'attackers' were, but it was thin enough that he could see light around him. Wherever he was, it was quite dim, but after a few moments a blazing light was turned on above him.
"Who are you?" John asked. He didn't receive an answer, but he heard footsteps - many footsteps - coming down some nearby stairs. "Who's there?"
The room remained silent, but John knew there were quite a few people in the room. He could see their silhouettes blocking out the bright light.
John was still being held in place, but soon he was pushed down into a chair and had his hands tied behind him. Moments after he was secured, he felt a weight on his head and something cold and thick dribbling down his neck and back.
"What's that?" he asked in a panic, but he soon got his answer as whatever it was ran down the front of his hair and over his face. A small amount dripped into his mouth, and he was able to taste that it was custard.
"Let me go!" he cried out.
More and more custard washed over his head and shoulders, and down the front and back of his shirt. He'd be smelling of dairy for days.
After a few minutes, the custard torrent stopped... but that wasn't the end of his ideal. He felt something long, cold and soft being placed on either side of his head and then... squished. Whatever it was was smeared up and over his hair and forehead. It took a while, but he could soon smell that it was banana.
"That's enough! Let me go!"
He heard a bottle being shaken just in front of him, and he could smell what was in it as soon as it was opened. It was stinky, sticky orange juice. Someone pulled his head back and it was tipped over his face. Another set of hands pulled open his shirt and he felt it tickle as orange juice ran down his chest and stomach. His shirt was replaced and the same hands pulled open his black shorts - the rest of the juice was emptied inside, and he felt it pool near his knees. He thanked his lucky stars that he was wearing boxer shorts.
His shorts, however, were not left alone. A few seconds later, another big container of custard was emptied inside them, and he felt the thick and squishy mess between his fabric-covered thighs.
"LET ME GO!" he shouted.
"In a second, in a second..." someone muttered. He heard the rattle of a can being shaken and he froze. What could it be? He was relieved as the waistband of his shorts was released, but he soon tensed up again as whatever was in the can was emptied on top of his head and massaged into his hair along with the custard and juice.
The mob around him came closer - so close, in fact, that they blocked out all the light. He had no idea what they would do next, but he had given up resisting.
"3... 2... 1... GO!" a familiar voice cried, and all-at-once John felt at least a dozen eggs being cracked over his gooey head, with another five or six more being thrown, hard, at his chest.
"That's enough," the voice said again, and John's blindfold was slipped off.
He looked around to see that he was surrounded by both of the teams from the day's match. He was in a basement that he assumed was Scott's, and Scott himself stood directly in front of him.
"Untie him," he said, and John realised it was Scott's voice all along. "No hard feelings, John.