Zeke Dixon, 25. Gardener.

Please note that this story line starts several months earlier than those of other characters.

As usual, you wake without needing an alarm, rolling out of bed and hitting the toilet before running through your daily regime of exercise. That finished, you shower quickly, savouring the cleansing heat of the water, and following it with a quick blast of cold.

Toweling off, you look at yourself in the mirror, nodding at the chiseled body that you work hard to keep in shape. It's habit now, a habit for the last decade and a half, and even though the reason for needing it in peak condition is gone, you like the feel of exercise and the look of yourself.

"I look too damn good to be a fuckin' gardener," you mutter, shaking your head at your reflection as you remember how you got to this point.

You started playing organized football when you were ten, and quickly discovered an aptitude for the sport and a joy in its physicality and . By the time you were in high school you were a star linebacker, starting on the varsity squad as a freshman and named a high school All-American in your junior and senior years. Division 1 colleges sent recruiters to your door, and on commitment day you chose a full ride scholarship at Ol Miss, despite your mother's concern about you attending a Southern University.

"Those crackers aren't going to be kind to a black boy," she said repeatedly, shaking her head.

"Long as I can tackle they won't care," was your constant reply. And in large part you were right. There was the occasional racist comment, but your ability and your imposing physical presence deterred most, and the fact that you were a star of the defense gave you prestige.

Prestige and girls, you remember with a grin. Pretty college girls who loved to be seen with you, loved to be with you, and loved to share your bed. You savour the memory of their pale white flesh laying against your black skin, their sweet young bodies squirming as you fucked them with your ten-inch cock. Those horny Dixie Belles were used to their boyfriend's little white pricks, but you had made them squeal and buck with orgasmic delight as they experienced a thick black cock for the first time.

Your four years at Mississippi were a record of success from the beginning, making All-American the last three of them, and leading a ferocious defense that took the school to a national prominence. You were the second highest ranked defensive player in the NFL draft, behind an incredible rush end from USC, and were selected by the New York Jets in the first round, 14th overall pick. It felt like the world was at your feet.

A drunk driver ended all that.

It was your third day at your first training camp. You caught a ride with a teammate after the final workout, heading back to your hotel, when a pickup truck ran a red light and t-boned his car. He was killed instantly and you were pinned in the car until emergency crews cut you free. You remember the fierce pain in your leg and hip, trying not to scream as you were rescued. Rushed to hospital, you were stabilized and sedated, sinking into a dark warm pool of oblivion.

When you woke it was to the news that your life, as you knew it, was over. Your life was not in danger, but the injuries to your hip and leg were such that your football career was over. They told you that they could repair the damage and that you would be able to walk and even run, but the speed and agility that had made you a terror on the field was gone, and there was no way that you would ever play football again.

It was a bitter thing to hear, and you sank into depression, wondering what the hell you were going to do now. You had a degree in Psychology from Alabama, but you knew you didn't have much in the way of marketable skills to get a job. Certainly not a job that would have paid like an NFL linebacker.

It took a year of rehab after the surgery to regain full mobility, or at least as full as you were ever going to get. You threw yourself into it, hoping against hope that the doctors and scouts were wrong, and that you could be the one in a million chance that could come back from a career ending injury.

You couldn't. The Raiders took a chance and invited you to camp, but it only took two days to convince them and you that football was no longer an option. Sitting in the locker room, taking off your pads and cleats for the last time, you wondered again what the hell you were going to do. Leaving camp, you drove back to your motel and phoned your mother to tell her what had happened and that you were heading home the next day.

"You call your Uncle Reggie," she told you. "He says he's got a job for you."

You didn't know your uncle well. He lived up in New England somewhere, and had a landscaping business last you heard. You didn't feel much like being a landscaper, but your uncle was a good guy, and without hesitation you called him.

"So you got plans, something lined up?" he asked. "If you don't, I can get you on here. I got this gig at a private school. Work's good, pay's decent, and you get three hots and a cot too. And there's some side benefits I think you'll like."

"What kind of side benefits?"

"You best come on up here and see for yourself. I think you'll be happy with what you see."

You weren't enthusiastic, and didn't commit one way or the other. You went home and spent some time with your mother, looking for work around town and picking up a few temporary jobs. You looked into returning to school and upgrading your skills, but money was an issue. You had signed for a bonus, but a lot of that had been clawed back after your injury and much of the rest had been eaten up by medical costs.

Your uncle called a few more times urging you to come up and check things out, and finally, out of boredom, you took him up on it.

You arrived at Pink Rose Academy in late May, and remember driving onto the immaculately groomed campus with it's stately stone buildings. Parking where your uncle had told you, you looked around at the school and suddenly noticed that several people were looking at you with interest.

Girls. Pretty white girls in school uniforms. Giggling and whispering to each other as they looked at you.

Suddenly you understood what your uncle had meant by 'side benefits'.