Blackout

by Jason Elam

  The onlookers, who had begun applauding as he was wheeled away, erupted into frenzied cheers as Riley’s thumb slowly rose up from his fist.

  Tuesday, September 1, 1:10 p.m. EDT

  Washington, D.C.

  Skeeter and the doctor followed the gurney into the ambulance. The rear doors slammed, the siren began crying out, and the ambulance began its journey.

  As soon as they rounded the first corner, Riley looked up at the woman who had been trying so hard to stem the flow of his blood and said, “Dr. Faroughi, I presume?”

  Immediately, everyone in the ambulance burst out laughing.

  “Oh, Riley, you should have seen your face when I came walking out of the crowd,” Khadi finally managed to say.

  “My face? What about Skeeter’s?” Riley said. “I honestly thought he was going to shoot you.”

  “Nah, I knew she was there the whole time,” Skeeter said.

  Riley whipped his head around to face his most loyal and trusted friend. “What? You knew about this? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Skeeter just smiled his answer.

  “Come on, Pach. You’re the worst actor in the world. If we had told you ahead of time, you would have been all tense, looking around, waiting for it to happen,” paramedic Scott Ross said, mimicking Riley with jerky movements reminiscent of a squirrel surrounded by a pack of angry schnauzers.

  “No, I . . . well, actually yeah, I probably would have,” Riley laughed. “So who clobbered me?”

  “That was Ted Hummel. He hit you with one of those retractable-blade stunt knives that you can load up with fake blood,” answered Kim Li, the tattooed driver of the ambulance. Li and Hummel were both part of Scott’s ops team, along with Gilly Posada, Matt Logan, Carlos Guitiérrez, and Steve Kasay. “Gilly picked him up a couple of blocks down. I got him on the line right now, and he says to tell you he’s sorry, but he had to make sure you were stunned enough to not mess things up until you could figure out what was really going on.”

  “Yeah, well tell him I owe him one—actually, two. Oh, and ask him what ‘Allahu alayla’ means.”

  “He says he was so nervous he was going to screw things up that he forgot what he was supposed to say, so he just winged it.”

  Scott, ever the linguist, said, “Tell him that he attacked Riley with a blended Arabic/Turkish battle cry of ‘God is sardonic!’ Words sure to strike fear in the hearts of all who hear.”

  As Riley laughed, he looked down to where Khadi’s hands were still pressing against his side. Watching his eyes, Khadi’s face colored, and she pulled her hands away, disappointing Riley immensely.

  “I’m assuming this is your way of taking me out of football,” he said to Scott.

  “Yeppers. A wound this severe will put you out for weeks, if not months.”

  Scott’s words were bittersweet to Riley. As much as he loved the idea of not playing for the Warriors anymore, he was still going to miss the game itself. But before he dealt with those emotions, there was something else he had to clear up.

  “I knew you weren’t telling me everything, Scott,” Riley said, his attitude suddenly serious. “We’ve always been honest in our friendship, even going back to Afghanistan. If you want me to work with you, I need to know I can completely trust everything you’re telling me. I don’t want to be wondering whether or not you’re keeping something back from me. So, is this all, or are you still holding out on me?”

  “This is it. I swear it. I’m sorry for the deception. There’s no more.”

  Riley nodded his belief in Scott’s words, then asked, “Can I ask you something, O great puppetmaster? Why’d you have to make it so dramatic? Why not just let me slip in my shower?”

  Scott smiled a smug little smile—the one he used when he felt he had all the answers figured out, the one that drove Riley absolutely crazy. “It’s simple. If you had just slipped in the shower, the team would have wanted you to be checked by their doctors and in for physical therapy practically 24-7. We would have had you less than we have you now.

  “Something this major, though, you’d not only be in the hospital while recovering but also under double-secret government protective custody. ‘Where’d Riley go?’ ‘Don’t know; he’s in double-secret government protective custody.’”

  Even Riley had to admit that was pretty good thinking. Although there was one wild card that Scott hadn’t factored in—Rick Bellefeuille. We’ll just see how this plays itself out.

  “So what now?” Riley asked Mr. Smug.

  “First, we get Atlas there a shirt,” Scott answered, nodding toward Skeeter. “Next we get you down to the RoU to get caught up on what’s going on. Then we get you rested and healed from Ted’s little love tap. Finally, at 0600 Thursday—and I hope you brought your swim trunks along for this part of our vacation itinerary—we hop a ship and head out to sea.”

  Sea? Why? For what? Riley was about to barrage Scott with a bunch of questions when he suddenly realized that the gurney he was on was really quite comfortable, the ambulance was well air-conditioned, and Khadi’s hand had managed to find its way back onto his arm. The time for getting answers to your questions comes later. Now’s the time to just kick back, close your eyes, and enjoy the ride.

  Tuesday, September 1, 12:15 p.m. MDT

  Inverness Training Center, Centennial, Colorado

  “Listen, Ziafat, I’ve had just about enough of you missing this coverage! How many times has it been now—ten, fifteen, twenty? This organization isn’t dishing out two and a half mil a year for some rookie who can’t figure out how to adjust to a freakin’ Tre package!”

  The three-tight-end offensive setup that the Mustangs were running had given Afshin fits for the last two weeks, and right now, linebackers coach Rex Texeira was letting him know that it had been noticed.

  “This is PFL football 101—no, I take that back; this is high school football 101! What’s Coach supposed to do? Every time he sees the other team lining up in a Tre, should he quickly call a time-out so he can put in someone who knows how to cover what to you obviously must seem to be the brilliant grand-master wizard formation of all time?”

  Keith Simmons looked at Afshin and could see the kid was struggling to keep his composure. Every player had received reamings like this before, and it was always telling to see how guys would react. Some would just take it, some would yell back, and Keith had even seen some break down in tears of frustration. Right now, it looked like Afshin was teetering between options two and three.

  This verbal assault was taking place in the linebackers’ meeting room. The entire linebacker corps had been watching film of the morning’s practice. However, for the last five minutes, the screen had been filled with the Afshin Ziafat Tre package blooper reel—all Afshin, all the time. The first time through the video loop, Coach Texeira had simply narrated the plays and the ensuing mistakes. However, for the last two loops it had been “tear Afshin to shreds” time in the old meeting room.

  “You know every game’s the real thing here in the PFL! There ain’t no minor leagues! We can’t send you down to some double-A Pueblo Ponies until you can figure out how to play this sport! Every mistake you make can cost us points! Every time you choke, it can cost us games!”

  “Hey, Tex-Rex, you’ve made your point,” Keith finally said. Texeira whirled on Keith, but before he could blast him, Keith continued, “I’ll work with the kid. Don’t worry, Coach; I’ll get him ready.”

  Texeira glared at Keith, apparently weighing whether backing down was worth Keith’s offer to be a scapegoat. “Okay, the kid’s yours. But if he blows it this Saturday, both of you are going to answer to Burton.”

  As Texeira moved on to Garrett Widnall, a second-year man who was barely hanging on with the team, Afshin leaned over to Keith. “Thanks, man.”

  “He made his point five minutes ago. After that he was just being an idiot,” Keith whispered back.

  The two half listened to the coach for another minute until Afshin again leaned to
ward Keith. “Listen, I know I blew it sometimes on the Tre, but was I really that bad?”

  “The eye in the sky don’t lie,” Keith answered, nodding toward the screen. The “eye in the sky” was what the players called the video camera mounted high on a portable lift over the practice field. The eye caught every move—and every mistake—of every practice.

  Afshin straightened, obviously not having heard the response he was hoping for.

  Better toughen up, kid. The PFL is the real thing. This is The Show. It ain’t your backyard, it ain’t high school, and it ain’t college ball. “What have you done for me lately?” applies even to rookie first-round draft picks with multimillion-dollar contracts. You better fix what’s broke, or you’re going to discover just what that nonguaranteed contract’ll get you out in the real world, where people don’t care how much you press or how fast you run the 40.

  Almost as if he heard Keith’s thoughts, Afshin leaned over one more time. “Keith, thanks for working with me. I know if anyone can drill that coverage into my thick skull, it’s you.”

  “Don’t sweat it, Z. It’s my pleasure.”

  “Hey, if you girls are through having your little tea party, maybe you can join the rest of us,” Texeira called to the two.

  Before Keith answered, he took a glance at the fines list that was written on one of the whiteboards—more precisely, at the Banned Words & Phrases section that had been created to “promote civility between players and between players and coaches.” Yeah, there’s a good one, and it’ll only cost me two bills.

  But just as Keith started to spend his money, one of the assistant trainers opened the door and said, “Sorry to interrupt, but Coach wants everyone in the main room immediately.”

  In all Keith’s years playing football for the Mustangs, never had Coach Burton called a team meeting in the middle of position time. Surprised and confused, the linebackers all got up and filed down the hall to the team meeting room. The offensive players were already sitting in the front four rows. The rest of the defense followed Keith’s squad in.

  Coach Burton was waiting up front, and as soon as the last guy sat down, he said, “You guys need to know that Riley Covington was attacked today on a street corner in Washington. He was stabbed twice in the side. They don’t know who did it.”

  A surprised and angry murmur rose from the players. Keith spotted Chris Gorkowski looking back at him. He nodded to him, and Chris turned around.

  “As of right now, we don’t know his condition because apparently he’s under protective custody, and nobody seems to know where. We’ve been promised word of his condition within the hour, and I’ll be sure to let you all know as soon as I hear anything.”

  Burton paused and took a deep breath. Keith was surprised to see that Coach actually seemed to be getting emotional as he spoke. “You guys know how we all feel about Riley. Even though he’s with another team right now, he will always be part of our family. Now, I’ve asked Walter to say a prayer for Riley. Walt?”

  Walter Washburne, the team’s chaplain, stepped forward. “Thanks, Coach. Let’s pray.

  “Lord, we pray for Riley right now. We ask for Your hand of healing upon his body. We pray for wisdom for the doctors who are working on him; guide their hands. We pray for diligence for those who are protecting him; sharpen their sight. We pray for those who are caring for him; fill their hearts. We also pray for Riley’s mom. She’s been through so much this year with the loss of her husband. Give her peace as she trusts You with her son.

  “Lord, You have promised us in Your Word that in all things You’ll work for the good of those who love You. None of us in this room have any doubt of Riley’s love for You, so we trust that You will keep Your promise and make something good come out of this. Thank You for what You’re going to do. Amen.”

  Muted amens could be heard throughout the room. Quite a number of the players were clearing their throats and wiping their eyes.

  “Thanks, Walt,” Coach Burton said. “That was nice. Listen, gang, I’m giving you all the rest of the day off. I’ve asked Walter to stick around if any of you want to talk. You’re dismissed.”

  Keith and Afshin sat stunned. Soon they heard cursing and jostling and saw Gorkowski come bounding through the lines of guys filing down the rows. Right behind him was Travis Marshall, traveling in his wake.

  “Keith, what do we do?” Gorkowski asked in a near panic.

  “Dude, there’s nothing we can do except pray,” Keith answered.

  “Come on, man, you know that’s not what I’m about! We gotta do something—help Riley out somehow!”

  “Believe it or not, Snap,” Keith said, “there’s nothing better we can do for him right now.”

  Frustrated, Gorkowski started making his way through the door. “Well, I’ll leave you guys to your little prayer meeting while I figure out something that’ll really help!”

  “If you think of anything, let me know,” Keith said, too softly for Gorkowski to hear. Man, it’s tough being your friend, Pach. If you ain’t off getting shot, you’re getting kidnapped by terrorists. If you’re not getting kidnapped by terrorists, you’re getting stabbed by unknown assailants. I remember when my friends in the PFL got injuries like pulled muscles and torn ligaments.

  “Hey, Simms,” Marshall said, “I was thinking we should get together tonight and spend some time praying for Pach.”

  “Good call,” Keith agreed. “I’ll snag us some Chili’s To Go, and we can meet at my place around seven. Sound good, Z?”

  Afshin was picking absently at his armrest and didn’t respond.

  “Hey, Z, did you hear me? Dinner and prayer at seven?”

  “What? Yeah. That’d be great. Mind if I ask Garrett to come along?”

  “Definitely; the more the merrier,” Keith answered, thinking just how inappropriate that phrase was for the circumstances.

  The three men filed out of the meeting room, giving a final wave to Chaplain Washburne, who was standing up front by himself. After walking down the hall, they passed through a pair of frosted-glass doors displaying the Mustangs logo and into the locker room.

  Inside, the typically raucous room was silent. Some guys were stripping out of their practice clothes and heading into the showers. Others were quietly going to the training tables to get worked on.

  Keith and Afshin went to their lockers, and Keith, out of habit, grabbed his phone to check for messages. One text message, it read. Pressing the envelope icon, Keith immediately saw the name of the sender—Riley Covington. Keith’s heart began to beat faster, then increased even more when he saw the time it was sent—thirty minutes ago.

  Taking a deep breath, Keith finally allowed his eyes to move down to the body of the message. He read: 4 u 2 only. Im fine. Cant say more.

  No way! I mean, thank You, Lord, and all, but no stinkin’ way! Keith didn’t know what to do. He was elated yet furious. He wished Riley were here so that he could give him a huge hug, then pummel him into the ground.

  Wait . . . “4 u 2 only”?

  Doing everything he could to keep a somber face, he glanced two lockers down. Afshin was looking at him with the same expression, but there was a sparkle in his eye that made it perfectly clear to Keith that he had found the other member of the 2.

  Tuesday, September 1, 4:15 p.m. EDT

  Washington, D.C.

  Scott picked up the phone, then put it back down. Come on, don’t be a wuss! What would Jim Hicks do? He picked up the phone . . . then put it back down.

  Scott had received an urgent message from Rick Bellefeuille. Of all people to deal with today, why him? Back when Jim Hicks was in charge, Scott would have handed the message off to him, and Jim would have been glad to have a little confab with the Warriors owner. But now Scott was the big kahuna, and there was no one else he could drop it on.

  What would Ozzy have done? he thought as his fingers scratched at the rectangular artwork on the front of the Black Sabbath 1978 World Tour T-shirt he was wearing. I mean
the old Ozzy, not the embarrassingly burned-out, caricature-of-himself TV Ozzy. Actually, come to think of it, the old Ozzy would probably have dropped another tab of acid, then called his manager to take care of the problem.

  Oh, just make the call! How bad could it be? Resolved, Scott picked up the phone and dialed. He had a brief moment of regret after touching the last number, but the first ring sealed the deal—he was in the whole way.

  A pleasant-voiced woman named Madeline told him that Mr. Bellefeuille was expecting his call and asked him very kindly if he would please hold. See, it’s already better than—

  “Ross, you overinflated rent-a-cop, what have you done with my player?”

  “Uh . . . good afternoon, Mr.—”

  “You can stuff your good-afternoon! What have you done with Riley Covington, you second-rate G-man wannabe?”

  “What do you mean? Haven’t you listened to the news?”

  “What do you mean, what do I mean? You and I both know that the news stories are a load of crap! You know, I’d been wondering what your endgame was in this whole trade thing you forced on me. Now I know! Well, let me inform you of something, Mr. Ross: I’m not playing your game! You can take your little agenda, roll it up, and sit and spin, because I’ve got an agenda of my own!”

  Scott could feel his face starting to burn, and sweat had begun trickling down his neck. “Mr. Bellefeuille, I don’t think you understand—”

  “Oh, believe me, I understand! I understand more than you think! So here’s how it’s going to be. You can have Riley during the week to do whatever it is you want to do with him. But starting the first regular season game, I better see Covington on the Warriors’ sideline—and the more bandages and casts on him the better! And after the game, he’s going to give the interviews that I choose for him to give. You following me?”

  “But, sir, that’s just not possible!”

  “Oh, it’s possible, all right! In fact, it’s going to happen. And you know why? Because if he’s not on that sideline, I’m blowing the lid off this whole thing. How do you think that’ll play? The government’s already taking over health insurance and the banks and the carmakers—now they’re stepping into the business of professional sports. How do you think that’ll help the president’s reelection bid?”