Titans

by Tim Green

  His team could lose this one and still get to the play-offs and even win it all. It was only one game, and it sure as hell didn't matter to Hunter in the grand scheme of things. It was strange how suddenly the whole notion of winning and losing had been put into perspective for him by Tony Rizzo. Really, what did it matter? To anyone? Yes, coaches and players could lose their jobs by losing games, but only lots of them over an entire season. Each single game in itself meant nothing. The world would wake up Monday morning and life would go on. No one would live or die because of the outcome of a football game. No one would be a better or worse person. When you broke it down to the essentials, it was a meaningless exercise.

  These thoughts allowed Hunter to plot his team's defeat without remorse. He'd make it up to them next week anyway. Still, he'd have to play his role and make it look good. He wanted everyone around him to believe that it was his shoulder that would be responsible for his erratic and at times downright despicable performance. When the game began, Hunter lived up to his own worst expectations.

  The Colts didn't help matters much. They could do almost nothing against the Titans defense. Every time during the first quarter the Colts got into the red zone and in a position to score, they would turn the ball over to the Titans. It was a bizarre feeling for Hunter to be secretly rooting for the opposition's offense to score. But without a score from Indianapolis, Hunter had absolutely no intention of putting his own team on the board. He had only three completions in fifteen attempts, and twice he had to throw interceptions to stop potential scoring drives. Two times he let the play clock run out to get a five-yard delay-of-game penalty, and once he had fumbled a snap.

  Still, for all his blundering, the Titans defense was rising to the occasion and apt to score themselves on an intercepted pass or a blocked punt, and if they did . . . Hunter couldn't even consider it. Crazed by this thought, that the Colts might in fact give up points to the Titans defense, Hunter decided to take matters into his own hands. Right before halftime, with the offense driving down the field, Hunter called an audible at the line of scrimmage, changing the play from a run to a pass. It was third and one, a down when most teams would run the ball. The percentages for gaining one yard were clearly in favor of a run. Hunter had no business changing the call Price had signaled in from the sideline. He dropped back and threw an interception on the screen pass he had called. A Colts linebacker picked the ball off with ease and practically waltzed into the end zone, giving the visiting team a 7-0 lead.

  To have the Titans defense play so well, only to see their efforts foiled by Hunter Logan, who had done nothing all day except fuck up, was maddening to the crowd. They booed wildly as Hunter shuffled off the field, avoiding the irate Price on his way to the bench. From the stands Hunter could hear the murderous cries for his head.

  "Logan! You stink!" someone shrieked.

  "Logan! You're killing us!"

  "Take that contract and stick it up your ass!"

  "My mother could do better than you! Go home!"

  The obscenities and insults poured out from the stands like a flood. Hunter tried to ignore them. He pretended not to hear. Then Price was in his face.

  As much as Hunter wanted to be absolved from having to shave points in the game, he had no intention of letting things reach the point where he was taken out of the game altogether. But that's exactly what happened.

  "I'm putting Stevens in," Price said, then turned to walk away.

  Hunter grabbed him by the arm and spun the coach around. Price stared incredulously at the player's restraining hand.

  Take your arm off me, Logan," Price said. "You're done for the day."

  "You can't," Hunter heard himself say. In the split second after he'd heard the coach's words, Hunter realized that although he could not be blamed for getting benched, it was not something Rizzo would forgive.

  "I can and I will," Price said. That audible was the last straw. There is absolutely no excuse in the world for that shit! You made me look like an ass!"

  They're not going to let you pull me," Hunter said desperately, referring to the owner's obvious bias for a player he was paying so much money to.

  "I'm the coach here, remember?" Price said maliciously. "And if Mr. Carter calls down, well, your shoulder obviously can't take it. Now let the hell go of me."

  "It's not my shoulder," Hunter heard himself saying.

  "I don't care what it is really," said the coach. "I won't have you out there playing like this, especially after Miami last week. I've got a game to win and I sure as hell can't do it with you playing the way you are. Now get a cup of Gatorade and come keep the stats for Stevens.

  "Besides," Price added with a vengeful grin, "the crowd won't mind . . . they've been asking for Broadway."

  Hunter let his hand fall to his side. He didn't even feel the sting of the insult of having the young rookie supplant him. He felt paralyzed, as if in a dream, as he watched Price make his way back to the sideline to pat Blake Stevens on the rump and send him in with the rest of the Titans offense. Hunter looked vaguely around him at the crowd as if to plead with Tony Rizzo, wherever he was, that what was happening was beyond his control. He couldn't help it. Surely Rizzo would understand that?

  But the only thing that came into his mind was the leering face of Carl Lutz in the locker room before the game. Hunter knew from that face that he was the sick son of a bitch that Rizzo was referring to when he talked about someone who liked little girls. Hunter felt sick, sicker than he already was. He tried desperately to think of ways that he could protect his family. If Rizzo was in front of him at this moment, he thought he would try to kill him with his bare hands. That wasn't happening.

  He'd take them away, he'd have to. He could go to the bank and cash out everything he had. He could contact Madigan, his financial adviser, and have him convert his investments to cash within a week, then wire it somewhere. He'd take Rachel and Sara and run. They could go somewhere, maybe even out of the country. It wasn't his fault. If he hid somewhere good, they wouldn't look too hard. They'd realize it wasn't his fault. It was mad! But what else was there? He wouldn't have another moment's peace if he stayed.

  Tony Rizzo was nervous. Even though his man was doing everything he could to keep the game within the spread, things looked bad. He could see it the same way Hunter could: The Titans defense would score a touchdown and it would destroy him. When Hunter threw the interception, Tony couldn't help himself from standing on his feet and cheering madly. The crowd around him glared vengefully.

  He glared back. He'd kill every fucking one of them! He had four million dollars on this game, and he didn't give a good fuck what these people's sentiments were. He sat back down.

  Camille glanced at him nervously and said nothing. He looked at her and shook his head. She was really beyond worthless. He preferred her nagging to the mousy deference she now gave him. It was like something had snapped in her the night before. She bored him now to no end. He turned back to the game. The Colts kicked off. Tony's face dropped. The crowd roared with approval as Broadway Blake trotted out onto the field amid the rest of the Titans offense. Tony searched frantically for Hunter Logan. He'd kill that piece of shit! What was Logan trying to pull? He spotted Logan on the sideline, gazing absentmindedly into space.

  "What the hell is going on?" Tony said out loud.

  "It's about time they pulled that bum out of there," Tony heard a fat woman in front of him say to her long-haired, chain-smoking husband. "The son of a bitch killed us last week in Miami."

  It hit Tony hard. The coaches had pulled Hunter Logan from the game. He had never considered it! Who ever heard of taking out your starting quarterback? But Price, the coach, he was supposed to be some tough guy. Iceman, they called him. The tough-guy coach was showing who was boss. Tony's face flushed. He'd kill the fucking coach, too! His mind spun. How could he get to the coach? He turned to Camille.

  Take me to your father's box," he ordered, pulling her to her feet.

&nbs
p; Camille knew better than to ask why. The demonic determination shone on her boyfriend's face.

  Grant Carter's luxury sky box was actually directly above them on the fifty-yard line. They climbed up two levels of stairs without a word between them. People were already milling about the concourse in thick numbers, trying to beat the halftime rush to the bathrooms and hot-dog stands. Tony became impatient at the top of the second stairway and pushed an older man out of the way, almost knocking him over the railing. A few people made some indignant noise about this, but they, too, could see the resolute and angry look on the face of the young, well-dressed man. And, after all, it was a New York and New Jersey crowd, and people didn't think much of getting themselves into a scuffle or shot over an affront to some unknown man.

  Until she'd met Tony, the sky box was the only place Camille had ever pretended to watch a Titans game, so she didn't waver in the crush of people but went right for the unmarked door that was guarded by a uniformed police officer. The cop must have been a regular, because he recognized Camille instantly and stood aside. The inside of the box was like a transplanted uptown cocktail party. People stood toe-to-toe, talking and drinking and paying little attention to the game itself. It was the affair that they were there for. Since the Titans were the reigning world champions, it was exceptionally fashionable to be seen in the team owner's sky box. There were a few die-hard football fans among the fray of tweed jackets and turtleneck sweaters. These people, men mostly, included Camille's father, and they were given the reverence of space and comfortable chairs pushed to the outer limits of the lavish room overlooking the playing field.

  Grant Carter was sitting pensively in his favorite chair, flanked by a senator, a movie star, and a middle-aged woman whose bloodline was as blue as the crisp autumn sky. It was obvious from the stress that lined his face that Grant Carter was completely engrossed in the workings of his team and whether or not they were going to prevail. When Carter was brought from his reverie by the voice of his daughter, he broke into an immediate smile. But when he saw the impudent Tony Rizzo standing next to her, bending down to whisper in his ear, his smile faded quickly.

  "I need to speak with you," Rizzo said. "Now."

  Grant Carter looked quickly from side to side, although his expression didn't show anything but detached calm. He stood up to speak to his new guest and leaned close to his ear.

  "You're a damned fool coming here like this!" he hissed between his teeth. "I've got three people from the NFL office here in this box!"

  "I don't give a flying fuck if you've got the pope and the chief of police!" Rizzo said, his voice rising above its original whisper, causing a few heads to turn.

  Grant Carter excused himself momentarily from his immediate guests and led Rizzo over to a corner that was somewhat private.

  "You owe me, Carter," Rizzo blurted out rudely. "Don't give me that indignant look like you're some kind of high-society asshole! I saved your ass, and I can fuck you over just as easily, so you just listen to what I'm going to tell you and you do it."

  Carter's face turned red, almost purple. His upper lip trembled slightly with rage. Still, he listened. It wouldn't be long before he could put this trash in his place, he told himself. It would not be long . . .

  "I want Hunter Logan back in that game," Rizzo said, pointing down at the field where the teams were both milling towards their locker rooms for halftime.

  The words hit Carter like a cattle prod. Hunter Logan? Carter had a million thoughts go through his mind.

  "I'll wait here until I see it," Rizzo added, planting himself firmly with his arms folded across his chest.

  Carter calculated for only a moment, then said, "I'll do it, but don't stand around here. It's damn foolish for both of us if you do. I'll do as you ask because I had the same thought myself. Why you want him in I don't want to know. Don't say anything more to me."

  "How are you going to make, it happen? I'm not fucking around here."

  "Listen," Carter said, bringing his icy stare close to Rizzo's face, "I'm not a fucking street thug! I'm a businessman. I don't fuck around. If I say I'll do it, then it's done. Now don't be a damned fool!"

  Carter stalked away, not even noticing his daughter, who was standing by ashen-faced, shocked at having seen the power that Tony Rizzo could exert over her father. Tony stood long enough to see Carter sit back down and pick up one of three phones on a small cocktail table next to his chair. Then he turned and left with Camille trailing behind him like a tattered kite.

  When Cook saw Rizzo jump up and drag Camille with him up the stairs and out of sight, he immediately shouldered the duffel bag that lay at his feet and made tracks for the locker room. Cook was in such a tear that he didn't even think to say anything to the usher, who by now considered himself a friend to Cook. As he skipped down the concrete steps inside the stadium two at a time, Cook hoped he was guessing right. But what else could Rizzo be doing if not going to have some words with Hunter Logan? Why else would he jump up and disappear right before halftime? If Cook could catch Rizzo and Logan together--in the locker room, of all places-he would certainly have all the leverage he would need to get Hunter Logan's cooperation. Certainly the way Logan had been performing on the field until this point in the game told Cook that his suspicions were entirely correct.

  Cook had another stadium pass from the security office, and it allowed him to penetrate the depths of the stadium, down into the protected reaches where the teams dressed and prepared for the game. The same pass allowed him to walk right by the security guards at the door to the home locker room. Cook was surprised at how easy it was. He imagined it was even easier for Tony Rizzo when he was being accompanied by the owner's daughter.

  Inside the locker room the team was separated into two distinct groups, one being the offense players and the other the defense. They were on opposite ends of the large room, and each were clustered around a chalkboard listening to coaching instructions and sometimes rising to illustrate a point of their own in chalk. A few of the players and the equipment people were roaming in and out between the bathroom, the equipment room, and the locker area, so Cook was not noticed by anyone. A quick scan told him that Rizzo was nowhere around. Cook didn't think it was possible that he'd already been there and left, so he simply found the most innocuous place to stand and settled down to wait. Hunter Logan was easy to spot. He was sitting just outside the circle of offensive players in front of his own locker. Instead of paying attention to the coaches at the board, Hunter was staring blankly into space as though none of what they had to say mattered. Cook assumed the superstar's conscience was weighing him down. That was good. If the guy had any kind of conscience at all, Cook would have no problem securing his assistance.

  But then Cook overheard something that explained Rizzo's sudden irate disappearance from his seat as well as the look on Hunter Logan's face. Two players had stopped on their way into the bathroom right in front of Cook as though he wasn't there at all.

  "Bert," said a linebacker named Johnson, pulling a blood-soaked

  glove off of his hand and tossing it into the bottom of his locker, "what the fuck? What happened to Hunter? Is it his shoulder?"

  "Nah, man," Bert said bitterly. "Fucking Price just pulled him, man. Just fucking pulled him!"

  "No shit?" said the linebacker incredulously.

  Those were Cook's sentiments exactly.

  "Did you hear the fucking crowd?" Johnson went on. "What a bunch of assholes. They forget that he's the guy who won it all for us last year."

  "Fucking assholes is right. The only thing I can't figure is who's a bigger asshole, the fans or the Iceman," Bert said and walked away in obvious disgust.

  The only question that remained for Cook now was where Rizzo had gone. He understood Rizzo's predicament exactly, if in fact Hunter Logan was working with Rizzo. Rizzo probably had a tremendous amount of money on this game, maybe millions. Suddenly his ringer, the only man who could control the entire outcome of a game single
-handedly, had been pulled off the field. Rizzo would have to do something to try to get him back on--that or pray, and Cook knew Tony Rizzo wasn't the praying sort. Cook decided to keep close to the team and see if Rizzo showed his face. "Excuse me," Cook said to the player named Johnson, who was now alone at his locker pulling on a pair of fresh gloves, "could you tell me where Coach Price would be?"

  Johnson looked up at the source of the voice. "Down there," he said, eyeing Cook with suspicion, "through that doorway and halfway down the hall is the coaches' locker room."

  "Thanks," Cook said and slipped through the door and down the hall until he came to a door that was marked Coaches Locker Room. Cook looked around, then pushed the door and stuck just his head inside the room. Price was sitting alone smoking a cigarette. It looked funny to Cook, seeing someone so closely tied to the world of sports sitting there with a butt hanging out of his mouth. There was a shattered red phone hanging off the hook on the wall just off to the side of the bench. The broken phone was dangling, as though it had just been thrown. Price suddenly looked up at Cook.

  "Who're you?" Price demanded without getting to his feet.

  "Oh, I'm sorry," Cook said, not wanting to blow his cover, "I'm looking for the bathroom. I'm with the media. Is everything OK, Coach?"

  "Yeah. What the hell do you mean by that?" Price said like a man whose problems could never be solved. "Get the hell outta here!"

  Cook had no way of knowing whether or not Rizzo had somehow contacted the coach, either in person before he'd gotten there, or over the now-broken phone. He knew one thing for sure, though. By the time he got back to his post with the usher, Rizzo was sitting calmly in his seat, and Hunter Logan was jogging out onto the field with the Titans offense.

  Chapter 31

  Hunter knew from Price that the call had come from upstairs. Nothing else on earth could have gotten Hunter back in the game. Price had stormed into the locker room just before the end of halftime and angrily told Hunter that he would be starting the second half.