by Wil Mara
Kayland shook his head as he watched Buffalo’s third-string quarterback, a fifth-round pick named Justin Miller, get sacked for the second time in as many minutes. They had just begun the fourth quarter, and the only players anywhere near the field were unknowns—undrafted free agents, late-round picks, and also-rans. These were the guys who hoped for nothing more than to make a roster spot, names you saw once on a uniform, if you watched preseason closely enough, and never saw again.
“Our boys just couldn’t seem to get anything going today,” Kayland said into the microphone, a device he barely noticed anymore. “Just terrible.” He glanced at the end-zone scoreboard and winced at the numbers—41 and 6.
“Yeah, this has been pretty ugly,” Cummings replied with his deep, handsome voice. “But I have to say, to be fair, the Giants looked pretty good, particularly on offense.”
“Their running backs zoomed around like banshees today. Did we even have a D-line down there?”
Cummings laughed. “I’m not sure.”
“No second-guessing where we’ve got some gaps in the depth chart, hmm?”
Cummings paused the discussion to announce the next play—a Bills shotgun formation. The line did manage to fend off the Giants’ six-man rush for a few seconds, but the pass that Miller eventually released was tipped at the line, then spun high into the air before sailing harmlessly out of bounds.
“And how about those three tight ends New York’s got, huh?” Kayland went on. “I have to tell you, they look decent.”
“They do indeed.”
“According to the stats we’ve got in front of us, Jermaine Hamilton posted a total of fifty-two yards in the first half alone, along with one touchdown. Corey Reese didn’t reach the end zone today, but he caught six passes, including one bomb for forty-eight yards. And that kid, Foster.”
“Yeah.…”
“Who knew he could throw the ball? Only his second NFL game, and he tosses a little blooper to Todd Kardinski for their third touchdown. Unbelievable.”
“And what’s going on with T. J. Brookman?” Cummings asked in an easy, conversational manner.
Kayland held his hands out as if the listeners could see this. “I have no idea. He and the Giants are still having their little spite match. As far as I know, he hasn’t officially been cut or traded or anything.”
Cummings laughed again. “So they’ve got four choice tight ends, then. And five if you count Glenn Maxwell, the mainstay.”
“They’re trying to corner the market, it seems.”
“Well, something has to give. No one needs more than two.”
“That’s right. Somebody’s going to be heading home soon.”
* * *
He felt as though he’d been hit by a goddamn garbage truck.
Every bone, every joint, every muscle—barely movable. From the dull, relentless throbbing in his head to the creakiness in his feet, Jermaine Hamilton had never experienced a hurt with this kind of depth.
When it began, just after the game while he was jogging back to the locker room with his teammates, he thought, Oh, yeah, here it comes.… It was normal—of course you felt like this after a game. Considering the beating your body took, it was a miracle you could move at all. Some guys didn’t even do that—they were carted off or carried off, depending on the extent of the damage. This wasn’t Ping-Pong or chess, after all. Pain was a natural part of football, and he’d felt plenty of it through the years.
But this was something different. This was wrong.
The healing period had never been particularly long for him. He’d been in battles that made Custer’s Last Stand look like a dance recital, and never once did he feel the way he did right now.
It’s taking longer now, he realized. I’m not bouncing back like I used to.
That hadn’t been the case in the first preseason game, but then he hadn’t absorbed some of the sadistic blasts he did today. There was one in particular—a draw play in the middle of the second quarter. He had a standard blocking assignment, but just before the snap the two linebackers rushed up to blitz. Hamilton chose to get in front of one of them, and the guy barreled through him as if he weren’t there. When the play was over, he felt like his brain was spinning. Yet he managed, somehow, to get on his feet and make it to the sidelines without attracting any attention. It was like driving mildly drunk—through the alcoholic fog you were still able to perform the basics. The failed play resulted in a fourth down, so he had a chance to rest. He slumped onto the bench and put a towel over his head, the universal signal that a player wanted to be left alone until further notice. The swirling feeling didn’t stop for another five minutes, during which time Hamilton felt nauseous and thought he might vomit. But he struggled against it, for he knew what everyone would say. Old man. Too old to play this game anymore. See? Can’t take a good hit. How will he be when the regular season starts and they’re really whacking him?
He got lucky in another way, too—Greenwood wanted to see more of Reese and Foster when the offense got the ball back. By the end of that series, he felt all right.
But now.…
He waited for everyone else to clear out of the showers in the visitors’ locker room. Now it was empty, the only sound being the lonely drip of the shower heads on the tile floor. His teammates were busy getting dressed or whatever. Some were already on the bus, talking to their wives or girlfriends on their cell phones.
After he washed off, he sat in the last stall, wrapped only in a towel. He kept his eyes closed, breathed deep, and waited.…
For what? For everything to feel better?
That’s how it worked before. But not tonight. Maybe not ever again. He’d never felt like this; never.
Maybe the time really has come for—
He looked up, alerted by the echoey footsteps. He realized he would’ve heard the guy sooner if he hadn’t been so deep inside his own thoughts.
The visitor stared hard at him for what seemed like a long time, and there weren’t many people Jermaine Hamilton would’ve wanted to see less than this one.
“I’m sorry,” Daimon Foster said with surprising civility. “I just came looking for my toothpaste.”
An opportunity was presenting itself, they both knew—to finish what they started the day before, and without the impediment of their colleagues. They could beat each other into comas before anyone realized what was going on.
Yet nothing of the sort happened. More unspoken information was transferred between them. Hamilton somehow knew that Foster was aware of what he was doing back here, and why. Foster knew that Hamilton was worn down, more so than he should be. And he knew it was because he was past his prime, with each day carrying him closer to his inevitable exit from the game.
“I’ll just get another one,” Foster said finally, as if Hamilton gave a damn, and turned to leave.
Then, to Hamilton’s astonishment, he turned back.
“Did you take it?” he asked plainly. He didn’t appear to be making an accusation—he really just wanted to know.
“And Corey Reese’s alarm clock. Did you reset it so he’d be late?”
Again, this inquiry came across without the slightest trace of nastiness. He could’ve been in a department store asking a saleswoman if she had the same sweater in green rather than blue.
Now the silence stretched on forever. The dripping became louder, the space between them smaller, and the air heavier.
“Of course I didn’t do any of that. I don’t do that shit.”
“Well, someone did. And it seems reasonable to believe—”
Hamilton said wearily, “Look, I didn’t do any of it. You’ll have to believe that.” He set his head back into his hands. “Now leave me alone.”
Foster lingered for a few more seconds, studying the man’s body language for more clues.
Finally he left.
23
Dale Greenwood could barely hold his head up. His eyes burned, his joints ached, and there was a dull throbbing
in the core of his brain. In spite of all this, he maintained an upright and professional demeanor. It was killing him, but he did it. Midnight was less than twenty minutes away.
“I think we’re going to have to let go of Cleveland, too,” he said with great reluctance. Darryl Cleveland was a guard from the University of Texas, an undrafted free agent in whom Greenwood saw some potential. He was surprised no one grabbed him back in April—both Tennessee and Arizona were in the market for some depth at the position. He was also a good kid who got solid grades in school and kept out of trouble. Greenwood always placed a high value on character, and Cleveland had it. His fatal flaw was his inability to read defenses; he simply could not absorb data and quickly convert it into an appropriate action. Linebackers zipped past him left and right, diving onto his hapless quarterbacks. His blocking skills were adequate, but complex defensive schemes left him befuddled. He’d managed to get by in college, but in the accelerated world of the NFL, he had no chance.
Alan Gray, who by no means burdened himself with Dale Greenwood’s concern for etiquette, yawned like a lion. All the players were asleep, most of the front-office people had gone home, and a million stars speckled the night sky. It was too late for deep thought.
Although coaches often met during these hours—for them, training camp really was a 24/7 affair—Greenwood knew that Gray purposely saved the offensive discussions for last. Still, it was his job to give these reports.
“I think I’m also going to have to cut Maloney.”
“The running back?”
“Fullback.”
“Right.”
“He drops the ball too much.”
“I agree,” Gray said, turning to his computer. There was a spreadsheet open, a defense-only roster that was heavy with statistics. At the bottom was a short list of players he wanted to sign if and when they became available.
“What about those three tight ends? Who’s the top guy there?”
Greenwood managed a laugh. “We still can’t figure that out. Jim and I have been discussing it, trying to get a grip on it. They’re all performing well.”
He couldn’t understand why this made Alan Gray smile.
“Yeah? Well, that’s good for you guys. I’m glad it’s working out. You’ve got to make a decision at some point. Don’t rush and get it wrong, but don’t take forever. Every spot on the team is precious.”
“We’ll puzzle it out.”
“Good. All right, that’s it for today. Thanks for the update.”
Gray closed the door after Greenwood was gone and went back to his desk. He studied the spreadsheet for another moment, relishing the fantasy of signing all of the guys on his wish list and moving another millimeter closer to his dream of being a revered defensive mind. Then he saved the file and shut the computer down.
On the other side of the room, hanging on the wall like a modern masterpiece, was a flat-screen plasma TV. As a matter of routine, Gray turned it on at the end of each day to catch up on the latest ESPN stories. Part of the reason for this was to see if there was anything happening around the league that he could benefit from—players being cut or released, players on rival teams sustaining injuries, etc.—but he also had to admit he enjoyed seeing stories about himself. Some, of course, were less complimentary than others, and he didn’t care for those any more than anyone else would. Even then.… He had long ago accepted the fact that he had a sizable ego.
He grabbed the remote from the chrome-and-glass coffee table and settled into the couch. SportsCenter was going over some baseball scores, then on to a quick mention of some multiplayer deal that had been made in the NBA. When they shifted to the NFL, a Giants logo appeared in the right corner, floating by the broadcaster’s head. A little smile broke out on Gray’s pudgy face. He might be mentioned.
He wasn’t—at least not directly.
“The latest incident at Giants camp involved an on-field fight between their three tight end prospects—the ones who are supposedly competing for T. J. Brookman’s position. An anonymous team source told ESPN that all three, while performing well in preseason, have still not reached Brookman’s level of play, and that their bad behavior is putting a strain on their chances of making the team.…”
In spite of a fatigue that he could feel in the core of his brain, Gray scrambled from the couch and grabbed the phone on his desk.
Chet Palmer answered right away. “Yes?”
“Have you seen ESPN?”
“No, not since this afternoon. Why?”
Gray repeated the report.
“Jesus,” was Palmer’s distant reply.
“Who told them this? Where did they get this information?”
“Now how do I know that?”
“Who the fuck is this goddamn ‘anonymous source’?”
“I’d tell you if I knew.”
“God dammit!”
“Calm down, Alan.”
“This guy—or girl, or whatever—is killing us! I’m trying to get Brookman and that asshole agent of his into a certain position!”
“I know that.”
Chest heaving, heart pounding, Gray looked back to the screen. The Giants logo was now replaced by the official team headshot of T. J. Brookman. Gray couldn’t hear what was being said, but it didn’t matter. It was time to issue a decision he’d been planning for a while now.
“I want you to bring our guy in here to find out who’s doing this.”
Another pause, and then Palmer said, “A witchhunt?”
“That’s right. That’s exactly right.”
“You sure?”
“YES, I’M SURE!!! I want him here, first thing tomorrow, working his way through everyone and everything until he finds our mole. Not in a few days, not next week—first thing tomorrow. Got it?”
“Sure. But.…”
“What?”
“Well, what are you going to do to the person responsible if and when you catch them?”
“I’ll take care of that.”
* * *
Garrick Hart had a problem. Actually, he had four—and they were all in the form of speeding tickets.
“You’ve got to get me out of this,” Hart pleaded. “They’re going to take my license away!”
Maybe they should, Freddie Friedman thought. You drive like a damned lunatic.
“All right, take it easy” was what Friedman actually said into his headset. The wire down ran into his shirt, snaked around his back, and connected to a cordless phone attached to his belt.
Friedman was a small, spare man of forty-six, with dark hair that he kept well oiled and combed straight back. He was the president and CEO of Good Sports Ltd., an agency that represented over two dozen pro athletes, most of whom were in the NFL. He had built the company from nothing, starting with a gifted basketball player who had gone to high school with him back in Brooklyn and eventually landed a contract with the Dallas Mavericks. Friedman had a gift for numbers and powers of retention that bordered on freakish, but his most endearing quality from his clients’ perspective was his integrity. He could be so brutally honest at times that it stung, but he always played it straight. In a business infested with maggotry, this was by far his greatest asset. He kept his client list relatively small, but they were all big-ticket people. He didn’t steal their money, didn’t sleep with their wives, and didn’t ignore their phone calls. In return, all he asked was the standard 15 percent of their earnings—which they happily gave. As a result, he had become a very wealthy man.
One of the only disadvantages, he had come to discover, was having to deal with the antics of mental toddlers like Garrick Hart.
“I just bought that Alfa, man!” the four-time Pro Bowler whined on. “Over two hundred grand! If I can’t drive it around—”
“I said take it easy,” Friedman repeated, firmly but kindly. “I’ll make some phone calls and see what I can do.”
“Shit, they’ll want me to go to one of those driving schools with all those losers.”
&nbs
p; If there’s anyone on this earth who needs to be schooled in the art of driving.…
“You won’t have to go to school. But look, if I manage to get this cleared up, you’ve got to start driving a little more responsibly.”
“Responsibly?!”
“That’s right. Doing ninety through a mall parking lot might be a bit much.”
“They were closed, Freddie. I just wanted to see what she could do.”
“You could’ve killed yourself, or your girlfriend. Or both.”
He knew the mention of the girlfriend would get him to back down. Friedman didn’t even know the woman’s name. It might be Alexandra; or maybe that was the last one. He’d lost track at some point and didn’t really care enough to follow up. What he did know for sure was that Hart’s wife wouldn’t be too happy if she found out.
“Shit … all right. I’ll try and slow down.”
“I hope so, because next time they’ll stick you in the cooler for a month. That’ll mean the end of your endorsements, too. And I won’t be able to do anything to help you if that happens. You’ve got to behave yourself.”
“I know, I know.”
There was a beep, and Friedman snatched the handset from his belt. The tiny screen displayed a phone number with an 816 area code, and the words above it read KANSAS CITY CHIEFS. Since Friedman didn’t have any clients with them, he was a little puzzled.
“Garrick, I’ve got to go. I’ve got another call. I’ll let you know what happens.”
“Okay, thanks.”
He thumbed the FLASH button, and Hart disappeared.
“Hello?”
“Is this Freddie Friedman?”
The voice was familiar, but he couldn’t quite put a name to it.