by Tim Green
"Fifteen!" Clay screamed. "Fifteen!" and pulled the bar out of the rack, almost bringing it down on his head because of the lack of his own muscular control.
He let out another roar, enraged now and intent on finishing what he started. This time Max didn't let him struggle for long before he helped to bring the bar up and safely to the rack. Max looked up. The entire room was still, and every face was turned toward them.
"Rookie knows how to work," Max said calmly and pushed through them to get back to his own workout.
Clay sat panting, sweat streaming down his face. When he noticed everyone watching him, he stood. Spots danced across his vision, and he staggered, then caught himself and moved off to finish his work. His arms were numb and his head pounded. He was relieved to see everyone go back to work. No one would notice him using lighter weights and just going through the motions of his remaining workout. If he could have, he would have left that moment, but his pride made him stay and at least look like he was completing his remaining exercises even though his arms were now useless.
As he finished, he watched Max work. It was obvious to Clay that his teammate was not normal. He moved around the room like a wounded tiger, from exercise to exercise, attacking each piece of equipment. He groaned and shouted, cursed and screamed with a fanaticism that Clay had never seen before. Of course, the overall din of the weight room was more violent and aggressive than Clay had experienced in college. These men, his teammates now, were of a different breed and higher order of athlete than his teammates in school. They were working to keep their jobs. Each realized that every passing year brought on a newer and younger group of players from college who would try to usurp them, take their jobs, take food from their families. Yet even in this tough crowd of cursing men, Max stood out.
When Clay finished his lifting, he put on some grass cleats for a running workout on the practice field. The weight coach took the team out in different groups as they finished lifting. After he finished his running workout and just as he was stepping out of the shower, he saw Max stalk through the locker room, scuffing his cleated feet belligerently on the carpet on his way to join the last running group of the day. Clay would have liked to wait to see if Max was as focused on the practice field, but he had a meeting with White. The coach had told him yesterday after the press conference to report for workouts today and then see him as soon as he was finished. Clay instinctively knew White was a man who expected obedience, and he didn't waste any time heading to the coach's office.
"Clay," White said, "I'm glad you came right up like I asked. I watched your running from my terrace. Good to see you leading the pack."
Clay nodded and smiled despite himself. He felt uncomfortable showing any emotion in front of White. The man himself never seemed to smile. Clay thought that someone who didn't smile might look down on one who did, especially if it was over some simple compliment.
"You like to be the best, don't you, boy?" White said.
"Yes, sir."
"I know. That's why you're here," White said. "Clay ... we have what I know is the best and most advanced training program in the NFL. It's something we don't want anyone to know we have. You may remember that you were given a personality test back in April?"
Clay nodded.
"That was a test that we give all our prospective players," White said. "We want all our players on the same page. We want them all training under the same program. In fact, I insist on it. That's why we like to make sure that you all have the type of character that would be receptive to advanced ideas. And that you're trustworthy."
White paused for several long moments, then continued. "We weren't one hundred percent certain with you, Clay. That's why I went and saw you myself. And then you said something to me, you said, Td do anything to play the game,' and I knew you meant it.
"Clay, I know this isn't necessary with you, but I must insist that anything about our program stays within this team, and I need your word as a man that anything you learn will remain with you alone."
"Of course," Clay said.
White looked intently at him, "You will share it with no one." Then, in a more relaxed voice, "You see, to win in football, to be truly great, you have to have discipline before all else. You need to have players that act like soldiers, men who obey unquestioningly, men who have absolute faith in their leaders. That said, I don't expect you to question my instruction to see this doctor at the prescribed time and place." White handed Clay a handwritten note. "And I also don't expect you to ask why I'm telling you that I never gave you that piece of paper, and that I never had this conversation with you."
Before Clay could open the piece of paper, White held up his hand. "Your word."
Clay didn't know what to say, so he said what was expected of him, "Yes."
White stared silently.
"You have my word," Clay said.
"Your word that what?"
"You have my word that the program we have here will not be discussed by me with anyone else," Clay said.
"That includes even your teammates," White said with ice in his voice, and then stood suddenly, shaking Clay's hand. "Nice not talking to you." He laughed at his own humor, and Clay tried to join him.
Clay had gotten out the door when White's call brought him back. "Clay," he said with a twisted smile, "you're being paid a lot of money to be a part of this football team. I know you won't disappoint me."
On his way out of the coach's offices he ran into Gavin Collins.
"Clay," said Collins, eyeing the slip of paper, "what's up? Vance didn't take another bite out of you, did he? You haven't been goofing off. . ."
Clay stammered, "Uh, no, no I'm fine."
"You look kind of confused if you ask me." Gavin Collins looked around. "Why don't you come into my office for a minute?" he said.
Clay looked around too. "O. K.," he said, and followed Collins, who shut the door behind them.
"Sit down, sit down," said Collins, still eyeing the piece of paper. "Everything going all right?"
Clay looked at him. What did he want? "Sure."
"That must have something to do with our training program," Collins said casually, pointing at the paper.
"Yeah," Clay said, not knowing how much he was supposed to say or not say. "I guess it's a doctor I'm supposed to see. I guess I'm not supposed to ask about it--"
"Well," said Collins, clearing his throat and leaning forward to gently take the paper from Clay's hand, "I think it's probably best that some things are left unsaid."
Clay made no attempt to keep the slip of paper. He watched as Collins unfolded it and examined its contents. Clay didn't even know what was on it.
Collins folded it quickly and handed it back.
"Yeah," he said, "really, I probably shouldn't even be looking at this. You know how Vance is. Well, everything else O. K.?"
After a moment, he added, "Clay, you know you can call me anytime if you have any questions about anything."
He stood up, signaling the time to go.
"Sure," said Clay. "Thanks." He shook Collins's hand and left.
Gavin peered down the hall after him and shut his office door. He pulled out a pad and quickly wrote down everything that was on the paper. He sat staring at it on his desk. Why the hell were they involving Clay? If ever there was a natural player, it was Clay Blackwell. So why? Gavin tapped his pen on the pad and sat thinking with a disgusted look on his face. Finally he tore off the top page of the pad, folded it, and tucked it into the back of his file cabinet where it couldn't be found. It was always good to have a little something on file in case of a rainy day.
Clay's mind spun with all the possible outcomes of his strange meeting with White. His mind kept coming back to one conclusion.
As he descended the stairs, reading the slip of paper for the tenth time, his mind returned to steroids. Otherwise, why all the secrecy? Why all the rah-rah about doing whatever it took to win?
On the slip of paper was written the name of a D
r. Borne, his address, and an appointment time for Clay.
But Clay decided even White wouldn't do that. How could he? The, NFL tested players for drugs, including steroids. No way could he risk losing his players to suspension. And what about the scandal that would result? White would be finished. No, it just wasn't possible.
Clay laughed at himself, he was getting as nutty as White. No matter how he thought about it, they couldn't get around the test. It had to be something else. He could only imagine what their great training method was, probably some hokey vitamin injection, or Borne was probably one of those sports psychiatrists--what a joke.
The locker room was empty when Clay entered, except for Max, who was drying off after his shower. Max's locker was directly across from his. Clay couldn't help notice Max's tanned skin, taut over his bulging muscles. Angry veins popped and strained up and down his arms and legs. Without thinking, Clay stuffed the piece of paper into his pocket. Max said nothing as Clay retrieved his keys. Max liked being the last one to leave, and he had taken an extra long shower to outlast Clay, who he had heard was meeting with White. Clay found the keys and started to leave. Then, on an impulse, he turned to Max, holding out his hand.
"I'm Clay, Clay Blackwell," he said.
"Max Dresden. You work good ... I like that," Max replied, shaking Clay's hand.
"You pushed me hard," Clay said, "I like that."
"Yeah," Max said, and then smiled. "I saw you on TV. Figured you'd be kind of a prima donna, you know, with all the money--not that there's anything wrong with good cold cash."
"Yeah," Clay said, happy but not yet comfortable with his association with money, "well, I like the money, but I like the game too. No sense playing it if you don't try to be the best."
"You got that right. Hey," Max said, "you probably don't know your way around town at all. How about we get some food tonight and maybe a little tang afterward?"
He saw the look on Clay's face and asked, "You're not married, are you? I'd hate to get someone's wife pissed at me."
Clay wasn't certain what to say now. He didn't want to be a prude, but he didn't want to bullshit either. He didn't have to get laid. He could look.
"I have a girlfriend back home," he said, "but she's got two more years before she graduates."
"Good, where are you staying?"
"The Marriot."
"O. K., that's not far from me," Max said. "I'll pick you up at seven. We can go get some steaks and a few beers, then I'll show you around."
When Clay got back to his room, he called Katie. She was happy to hear from him, and he was glad to hear a familiar voice. She asked him what he was doing that evening.
"Not much," he said. "Just going out to dinner with a guy I met from the team. His name's Max Dresden."
"What are you guys going to do after dinner?" she asked? unable to hold back a pang of distrust and jealousy.
"Nothing, Kate. We're going to dinner, then for a couple of drinks. I don't even know where." He had a slight surge of guilt. Not that he was doing anything wrong. "Why'd you ask?" he couldn't help saying.
"No reason," she said defensively. "I was just making conversation."
Clay felt bad. Maybe he was being a little sensitive. Of course he was. She was just making conversation. He didn't know why he felt so defensive. Certainly Katie didn't want him to stay in every night.
But as much as he told himself this, during the rest of their conversation he couldn't help feeling that she wanted him to stay in. He said nothing more about it. Here he was in a new town with virtually no friends. He had worked hard for years to get here, and he was going to enjoy it. Part of that meant going out with his teammates and making new friends. If Katie stayed so uptight . . . well . . .
Max was waiting for Clay when he got down to the lobby. He looked much different dressed in jeans, an oversized yellow polo shirt, and tan loafers. In his workout clothes this afternoon, Max's over-exaggerated physique had made him look like a comic book character. Now he looked more like a model from GQ^
The car was parked right outside the main entrance and Clay gaped at the beauty of the machine. The black 928 had a deep shine. It looked like a car from a James Bond movie. Clay had never even ridden in a Porsche, and he had to admit that he felt a certain childlike thrill in going out on the town with a friend who drove one.
"This car is awesome," he said.
Max smiled uncertainly, and then remembered that Clay had just signed his contract the preceding day. He knew that Clay would soon become accustomed to nice things as even he had. Clay would certainly reach an even higher rung on the ladder of material possessions. After all, hadn't he just signed a $6.5 million contract? Max would never see money like that, but he did know how to live.
"If you like it," he said as they got into the car, "I'll take you to the dealer I got this from. The guy's a big sniffer and he'll give you a hell of a deal."
Clay nodded and discreetly buckled his seat belt as they surged past three cars on the ramp getting onto the expressway. "Do a lot of guys get deals?" Clay asked.
"Yeah, not bad, but no one gets 'em like Ferrone." "Our QB?"
Max nodded. "That bastard gets free wheels, free vacations, free TVs, and all the free pussy he can eat. Ha, ha."
"You hang out with him?" Clay asked.
"Nah," Max replied. "He's a good guy. More balls than talent. But he hangs out with Pike and Sick. I don't go for those assholes."
"What's a pikensic?"
"No, Dan Pike and Pete Makozych, everyone calls them Pike and Sick. They're both offensive guards, and they are offensive. Slugs, if you ask me. You'll get to know them . . . real well. They're the dirtiest players I've ever met, except maybe me. They'll hold you, grab your mask, kick you in the balls, all that shit."
"They sound like trouble."
"They're O. K. I don't like them on the practice field. Neither will you. They're real rednecks. I don't go for that country shit, so I just don't hang out with them. They're O. K., though. Ferrone likes them."
They were silent until Clay said, "So . . . you get free stuff?"
"Well, I'm buying these shoes the other day at the mall and the manager asks me, do I play ball? I said, 'Yeah, I'm with the Ruffians.' I don't mind telling anyone I play for the Ruffians, win or lose. I worked my whole life to be in the NFL, and the NFL is the NFL, no matter what team you're on. So anyway, the guy gives me these shoes . . . free."
"Great," Clay said.
"I know, we make big money," Max said, looking from the road to Clay, "so what should it matter, a pair of shoes . . . but it's nice. Anyway, the Porsche guy would blow it if you walked through the door."
"I'd really appreciate it if you took me there," Clay said. He was beginning to see that Max knew the limits of the machine, and although he was going faster than he ever had gone before, he realized that the car was made for it. He relaxed a little. "I think I'd like a Porsche."
"Best car made," Max said.
"Hey, you must have been born lucky," he said after a pause. "I'm at home and I'm on my way out the door, thinking that this will be a pretty dull night, being Tuesday and all, when I get this phone call from this bitch I've been boning on and off, a nurse. Well, I'm not too happy to hear from her, 'cause I got plans with you, right? And I figure she's gonna start to whine. I'm about ready to cut this one loose . . ."
Max looked over to see if Clay understood, and Clay nodded.
"But the bitch tells me she's in some modeling contest put on by a suntan lotion company at the Acapulco Club, and she wants me to come see her. You know, to cheer her on? What a fucking joke! I don't think I've ever met a pretty bitch that didn't think she was some kind of model. But then I realize that if this bitch is there, there's bound to be plenty of others just as hot as she is, and she is hot. Your first night out on the town and we're gonna be knee-deep in pussy."
Clay smiled. This was where the fun started. Max was definitely a little over the edge, but he also seemed like a good guy.<
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"Max, what's the deal?" he asked. "Every girl's a bitch. Do you ever say girl or something?"
Max smiled and said, "Every once in a while I meet a girl that's more than a girl . . . then she's a lady in my book. Sounds like you have a special lady of your own."
"Yeah," Clay said sheepishly, "how'd you know?"
"Well, first of all you told me you got a girl back home, and second, why else would you care why I call every girl a bitch?" asked Max.
Clay shrugged.
"O. K., here it is. You got this great girl back home, right?"
Clay nodded.
"O. K. But you're gonna be here for at least two years on your own, right?"
"Yeah."
"O. K., here's the thing. Whether you know it, or admit it now, or not, you're going to end up with some strange tang, meaning not your girlfriend. Don't look at me that way. What the hell, you think you're really gonna go for two years with bitches throwing themselves at you left and right, and you keep on saying, 'No, sorry, I got a girlfriend back home.^
"I'll tell you right now, buddy," Max continued, "it'll never happen. I've been around pro sports long enough to know. Hell, even the married guys are lucky if they can hold out! It's nothing to get upset over. It's just the way it is."
Clay didn't know what to say.
"So the thing is," Max said, "since it's gonna happen, my advice to you is to just relax and enjoy it."
As the 928 raced down the expressway, the two players' minds traveled different paths. Max's was free from restraint, comfortable with the possibilities the night had to offer. Nights like this were at the core of his existence. There would be good food and plenty of drinking, and by the end of the night he was confident that he would assuage his drug-height- ened lusts against the firm young body of some bitch.
He felt somebody had to set the kid straight. And what the hell good was all the shit he learned if he couldn't help some other guy out? Like a big brother.
Max smiled.
Clay had different thoughts in mind. He briefly wondered if he was soft in the head for mentioning Katie and asking Max about bitches. If the fun was about to really begin as he suspected, he hoped he wouldn't feel like so much of a heel that he couldn't enjoy it.