by Tim Green
"Now, Clay, listen to me," Clancy said, "don't even talk like that. I have to look out for you, and anything like that wouldn't be a good idea. Really, it wouldn't. Let me set up a meeting and we'll get this all worked out . . . Come on, Clay, just trust me. Everything will be fine."
Clay was silent for a long while. "O. K.," he said finally.
"Shit!" Clancy said, after he'd hung up.
"Son of a bitch lied to me," Vance White reminded himself as he sat waiting for Humphry Lyles. "Said he'd do anything to play the game, anything to get better. Words. Well, he'll live up to those words or pay the price. No one deceives me. I've seen insubordination before, and I've crushed it."
The owner entered his office.
"Vance," Humphry said before he could get to his desk, "the first order of business is to contain this situation. We certainly don't need this thing getting out."
White looked stunned, as if he had not before considered the thought. Humphry could see from White's expression that he hadn't considered the far-reaching implications of what had happened. He guessed White's narrow viewpoint was what had gotten him into trouble at the college level.
"Vance," Humphry continued, "I know you don't like advice from anyone, even your friends. But I think that this situation is crossing over into the realm of business, which we have agreed is my domain. Right now we have something good going, something that we both know will help us win a championship. We have players getting stronger and better than the others around the league. Now, I have no doubt that Blackwell could go on CNN tomorrow with a story about our program and we could easily dismiss it as a ludicrous attempt to undermine a coach for whom he has ill feelings. I have no fear for you or me. I have a publicity firm in New York that could discredit Blackwell as a fool for the rest of his life. But you have told me that we need a winning edge, and I don't want to lose that. If Blackwell creates a disturbance, the program will have to be discontinued.
"Now, I know," Humphry said, holding up his hand, "I know that Blackwell is a player. And I know that on the field you need unquestioning obedience from your players. But right now Clay Blackwell is not on the field. Clay Blackwell is an investment, and one that I must protect from yielding a bad return.
"Vance, let me handle Blackwell. We'll bring him in here and calm him down, that's the most important thing in this matter right now. Then we'll spell the situation out for him, and let him think about it for a while. Once he sees the merit in his . . . discretion, and when he fully realizes that for two million bucks I have already purchased his skin and bones, then, it will be the time for you to try again with him." '
Humphry could actually see White bridle at the thought of such diplomacy. He knew White would prefer a fistfight or some other ugliness. He also knew that he was ultimately in control. This would be a good time for his friend to see that.
"I won't let you lose the ground we've gained these past months just trying to snap one player into line," Humphry said with all the severity he could muster.
"All right Mr. Lyles," said a constrained Vance White, "you do own this team. So if you want to keep this Blackwell around by pampering him even more, that's your prerogative. But one thing I can't do is be a party to it. I can accept Blackwell remaining here, even if that's not necessarily what I'd do with him, but I can't stop trying to mold him into a part of this team. That may not be pretty. He may not like my methods any more than our drug program. Then what will you do? Will you hold this program hostage to the whinings of one deceptive shit fresh out of college?"
"Vance, we're friends, don't yell at me," Humphry said calmly.
"Sorry." He wasn't.
"I know your concerns Vance, but this isn't college. We can't just take this kid's scholarship and send him home. We own Blackwell, and we have to work with him. Most importantly, we have to contain this situation."
White nodded his head. He had said all he had to say.
"Of course, you continue to run this team to your own standards," Humphry said. "Just let me take care of this Blackwell situation."
White nodded his head again. His face was sullen.
"What do you think, Max?" Clay said. "I mean, I know you use the stuff, right?"
Max looked at Clay long and hard, as if trying to decide just what to say. Then he laughed abruptly. "Ha!"
He held two fingers up to the bartender, signaling for two more beers.
"I'm their original boy," said Max, "their model player. Didn't know that, did you? Of course I'm on. I don't mind. I was going to use some shit to train for this season anyway. That's how I got in this league in the first place." Max looked keenly at Clay, cutting through the alcoholic fog. "They never would have even looked at me if I hadn't gotten on the juice and gotten bigger.
"This was my dream," said Max almost angrily, as if he were forced to do what he had done.
"Of course," Clay said.
"Really, I wasn't six four, two seventy-five, and I didn't come from a big football college."
"I know," Clay said apologetically. He had heard Max's story before. He knew that his own life had been blessed with the kind of talents and opportunity that young athletes dreamed of--size, strength, and natural speed. "But I worked too, Max."
"I'm not saying that. I guess I just . . . envy you, kind of. I mean, you know . . ." Max said in a subdued voice, looking down and turning the empty beer bottle in his hands.
Although they had spent much time together, it was the first time Clay had seen Max so pensive.
Then, abruptly Max said, "Aw shit, you do what you have to, you know. This shit is good for the team. You see what it's done for me. Hell, Clay, I'm stronger than you are and you outweigh me by thirty pounds."
Max saw the uncertain look on Clay's face and said, "Aw hell, I'm not sayin that what you're doin' is wrong, Clay. I'm just sayin' that this shit is good. With our guys on it we'll kick some ass and win. That's what this whole thing is about, winning. Believe me, you weren't here last year, but you don't want to go through a season like that, with everybody kickin' your ass and the fans booing you. Hell, if you can do without it and play great ball, then fuck it, you do it. And White can go fuck himself. You didn't do it in college, and you kicked ass there right?"
Clay nodded.
"Yeah, well, fuck, no problem," Max said, "you'll do it here too."
"I really think I can, Max," Clay said vigorously.
"Here's to kicking some ass this season," said Max, raising his new bottle. "You, me, and the whole fucking team.
"So," he added, "how about the Apex tonight?"
"What about Acapulco?" Clay said.
"Ah ha!" said Max. "Might see someone you know, huh? Why didn't you just call her for a date and bang her brains out instead of getting me out with you? Need me to hold your hand?"
"I wanted to talk to you," Clay said. "You asked, and I said Acapulco. It's not like I know many places . . . you think she'll be at The Acapulco?"
Max laughed. "Come on," he said. "Acapulco it is."
As it turned out, the Acapulco Club was just as satisfactory for Max as it was for Clay.
Denise's breath smelled strongly of bubble gum, and Clay found himself drunkenly thinking that surely a girl with bubble gum breath would not carry a venereal disease. She was probably very new at all this, an innocent nurse wanting only to help the sick and disabled, who had only recently fallen into the wrong company when she'd met Max.
The club was getting ready to close, and a thick-necked, grubby man was putting chairs up on top of tables. Clay could not remember exactly how long they had been there, only that it seemed a very long time. A friend of Denise's who was also a model, named Ginger, had seated herself on Max's lap and was stroking the nape of his neck. Besides Clay and Max, there were only a few businessmen in suits scattered about the club, finishing the last of their drinks, snatching greedy and indiscreet glances at the waitresses in their bikinis. Clay watched with dull eyes as one of the girls whose breasts he'd observed bulging
from her costume all night made her way through the club and out the front door. She wore a trenchcoat and sneakers, which made Clay chuckle. Denise leaned her sinewy form against Clay's alcohol-soaked body, and pouted when he laughed.
"I don't know why that's funny," she said testily, even though she remained sitting on his lap with her firm breasts pressed up against his arm. She had been talking when Clay chuckled.
"What?" said Clay with a drunken slur.
"I said I didn't see what was funny about a broken hip."
Clay, who hadn't been listening to what she was saying, said, "Whose hip?"
"Oh, what do you care?" she said with disdain.
Clay didn't care, so he said nothing. Instead he turned to Max and hoisted what was left: of a beer. "Thiz is to you . . . you an--an' me. Buddies for life!"
"For lives!" said Max. "An' now," he snickered, "it's time to take these young ladies, an' I use the term lightly, my frien', rather lightly indeed . . . an' now iz time to take these young ladies back to what I will call . . . my hummle abode. Exactly! My hummle abode."
"Layies," Clay said, "I believe my frien' has a tub which awaits us."
In the parking lot, Clay and Max argued about who would drive. It was finally settled that Ginger would drive Max's car and Clay would ride with Denise in her Honda Accord. During the ride, Denise continued to talk about what Clay deduced were family problems. Clay faded in and out of cognizance, but nevertheless learned enough about her family situation by the time they reached Max's apartment building to feel genuinely sorry for her.
Besides lust, any feelings, including sympathy for the unlucky girl, were quickly forgotten once the four of them had settled their naked bodies in the large, tiled hot tub on Max's roof. Max fondled Ginger indiscreetly under the bubbling water, and Clay likewise began to grope about Denise's superb body with intoxicated clumsiness. The tub, it seemed, was a mere formality. Before Clay had even begun to sweat from the steaming water, he found himself wrapped in a towel and stumbling behind the rest of the group down the stairs and through the hallway to Max's apartment. Clay declined as the three of them snorted cocaine from a mirror on Max's dresser top. Clay was too drunk to care what the others did, but nothing could sway him to snort the white powder himself. Instead he got another beer from the refrigerator.
By the time the cocaine was gone, only Clay remained with his towel intact. Then Denise led him silently by the hand out into the living room and gently undid his towel before she laid herself spread-legged on the plush gray carpet of Max's floor. She looked up glassy-eyed at Clay. The room was dark except for a thick, dull beam of light that seeped through the curtains from a streetlight outside. Clay was struck by how beautiful and vulnerable Denise looked. He felt no shame, only delight at the decadence of the entire night. There was some perverse pleasure, maybe it was pride, in taking the girl who only a few days ago at the bikini contest had been leered at and coveted by so many men. Clay smiled with drunken pleasure as he lowered his large frame onto the floor and pressed himself against her body.
Denise responded like a wild animal. She writhed and moaned as Clay entered her, grabbing his buttocks and squeezing them, forcing him into her still deeper. With surprising quickness she rolled them both over so that she was straddling him. Frantically she worked her hips, stroking his shoulders, then groping his chest as though he were a woman. Her long hair dragged across his face and his neck and chest. Then she arched back and with both hands caressed and toyed with him while she pumped herself ever harder and faster. He reached up and ran his hands from her long neck to her breasts, back and forth as if he couldn't feel enough of her body to satisfy him. Denise's hips stopped suddenly. Clay felt her shudder and she moaned in ecstasy. He flipped her on her back and violently rammed her, burning his knees on the rug until he winced and groaned, releasing himself inside her.
Max lay back on his bed and toyed with Ginger's hair. He wasn't normally given to such signs of affection, but it wasn't affection. Her hair was soft as silk and it felt good to Max's heightened senses to run it through his fingers. He was resting. Even though he'd had her once already, he wasn't tired, and he imagined he would be fucking her for the better part of the night. Her face rested on his muscular stomach and she purred lightly in response to his caresses.
"Oh God, I feel good," she said. "You feel good. Poor Denise."
"What the hell does that mean? 'Poor Denise,' " said Max.
"Nothing, just that Mr. Goody-Goody is probably out cold by now."
"What the hell is Mr. Goody-Goody?"
"I mean really, the guy couldn't even take a snort with us."
"Shut up," Max said coldly.
"What are you uptight about, honey?"
"I'm not your honey, and shut your fuckin' mouth about my buddy if you want to keep your teeth."
Max had a handful of her hair and was twisting it tightly now. He'd turned her head and he now looked into her eyes.
"Hey," she said in a frightened voice. "You're hurting me."
"Some people don't use drugs. You don't have a problem with that, do you? You think everybody's as fucked up as you and me?" Max said between tight lips and clenched teeth.
Fear flickered in her eyes now. Max rolled her onto her belly and got on top of her, still holding her hair.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Nothing you don't want me to do . . ."
Chapter ELEVEN
HUMPHRY Lyles sat quietly drumming his fingers on the desktop. He was angry with the fact that Clay Blackwell was not cooperating, but unlike Vance White, Humphry at least had to admire the principles that the boy seemed to stand for. Of course, he would not let that admiration show; that would be a weakness in which he would not indulge. Instead he stared grimly at the young man who sat with obvious discomfort next to Vance White in front of his desk.
Clay explained, "Mr. Lyles, I plan on being a great player for you, everything you drafted me for, but there really is no need for me to use this drug."
He looked sidelong at White, who remained silent as a form of protest. White was angry with Lyles for not allowing him to handle the situation his own way, which would have been to threaten Clay until he submitted. White, in fact, had said nothing during the entire meeting.
"Clay, we hope you understand that our program is in the best interests of not only this team but you. This drug is perfectly safe. It has undergone extensive tests, and it has proven to be a certain aid in athletic performance."
"Mr. Lyles," Clay said, hesitating a moment and shifting in the leather chair, "I admit I don't know all there is to know about this drug, but I do know that it is a steroid, and I know that they aren't good for you."
"Well," said Lyles with a wan smile, "certainly the game of football itself isn't good for you, Clay."
"And how could I take this drug anyway, and not get caught and suspended when the league does its drug testing during training camp?" Clay asked.
"The drug has a built-in masking agent which hides its presence from the test that the league uses. There is no way for the NFL to detect it," said Lyles.
Then, seeing Clay frown at the mention of the drug, he added, "Of course, Clay, the reason we are meeting here today is to assure you that certainly if you do not wish to use the drug, we cannot make you. You know that, don't you?"
Clay nodded.
White, on the other hand, snorted his disapproval, still saying nothing.
"And I want you to know, Mr. Lyles," Clay said, "that I will be the football player you want me to be without using any drugs."
"Very well," said Lyles in a friendly way.
Then the owner's brow darkened, he screwed up his face and said, "But do know this, son . . . you are a member of this team, and Coach White runs this team for me. He has a job to do, just like the rest of us. You don't want to be involved in a program that all your teammates are required to participate in, and that rubs Coach White the wrong way, as it should. You see, son, his job is to take my
team to the Super Bowl. We certainly can't expect him to do anything less than his best to get us there, and if he feels that part of that job is to get you involved in this program like everyone else, we can't fault him for that, can we?"
Here, Lyles glared at Clay. "I expect you to understand this and to act like a professional player, not threaten to run to your agent or the media every time Vance looks at you cross-eyed. You do understand me, don't you, son?" Lyles asked in a nasty tone.
"This asshole's going to ride me without mercy," Clay thought. "I disobeyed his very first instruction as a player. That's something he's got to get me for. And here Lyles is, telling him he can basically fuck me however he likes. He's telling me if I've got a problem to have it out now or don't come crying. Well, fuck both these guys. Whatever White's got, I can take. His shit can't last forever, especially when he sees . Me on the field. He'll forget about it quick when I crush a few quarterbacks. Meantime, go for it. That's what I should tell White, go for it."
"Yes," Clay said, "I understand."
"Vance White won't give you any special treatment," Lyles told Clay, "and I expect you to understand that it's his job to try to make you the best player you can be."
"I understand," Clay said, "I can live with that."
If nothing else, he thought White and Lyles would respect him for standing up for himself.
But to White, Clay had done nothing short of spit in his face. That was something Vance White would not forgive. Blackwell was done. He was no longer a soldier for the battlefield. His only value would be as an example to the rest as to just how seriously White treated insubordination. When the rest of the team watched him roast a first-round player, and a multimillion-dollar guy at that, they'd know no one was safe. They'd all drop to their knees. White would ride Blackwell until he either did as he was told, or he quit.
White remembered things of this sort he had done before. During his college tenure, when he was short on scholarships to give out to new recruits, he would occasionally run one of his unproductive players right off the team. As a coach, he was well versed in psychological manipulation. He had to be to motivate his players week after week. It was always easier to crush a player's morale than it was to raise it, and that was how he ran players off. He simply crushed their morale. That was what he would do with Clay Blackwell. He knew Blackwell's type. He had always been the coach's favorite and treated accordingly, praised incessantly and therefore looked up to by his teammates. That would end with White. Blackwell's psyche would become filled with doubt and insecurity.