Chapter Two

Shane

"Omaha! Red! Omaha! Omaha! Set-hut!"

I drop back in the pocket three steps and rock forward, scanning the field for an open receiver. On the outside left sideline, Ricky is jetting down for an L route. Up the middle and heading across from Ricky is Amal, a speedy fucker. On the right is Daron, also going short, likely heading back to the line of scrimmage in case the heat from the linebackers gets to me. Smart play. But wait. Way down in the distance is Kev. Kevin J. Baker, that fast motherfucker, is going for the Hail Mary play.

Deep breath.

I know Coach wants to see me make the smart play, but fuck that. I've spent years making things happen, and it usually works out for me. I have a ring for every finger on my right hand, not including college. I have won every imaginable award a quarterback can win – not because I only make smart plays. I make big plays. Game winners. The ones that put nails in the coffins of teams with a whole quarter left to go. The ones that deflate an entire home crowd because they know their team can't beat us. Can't beat me.

Except for last year, but that was an anomaly. I was distracted. I was upset. I wasn't myself. I'm fine now, and I can prove it. I scan downfield and see Kev throw his right hand up in the air, signaling he is open. No losing record this year. Not with Kev getting open like that.

I scramble to my left to avoid the outstretched hand of the high school lineman who won the opportunity to practice with us today. He's a fast kid for pushing nearly four hundred pounds. Gonna make a good player if he can stay healthy. Not as fast as me though. I take a few steps and rock back on my back foot again. Ricky is open, but barely. I could laser it to him, but there's a risk the corner could drop in and snatch it. Amal and Daron are being smothered by linebackers, though I could loop it over their heads and hope they can outjump these kids. Kevin though, Kevin is open. Deep.

Fuck it.

I rear back and let it fly. The ball cuts through the air in a neat spiral, and it is soaring sixty some yards. I know Kev is going to look up in a second and see it.

Who the fuck is that?

Oh, shit.

Out of nowhere comes Bobby Kilmer. The son of a bitch who tried to ruin my life. The son of a bitch who pretended to be my friend before stealing my ex. The son of a bitch who called me a whiny elitist in the media, and who has no damned business that far downfield, jumps into the air and snatches the ball right before Kev can get it. Kev doesn't even get a hand on him before Bobby is gone. He zooms back up the field toward me. The bastard just intercepted me, and now he is damn near at the line of scrimmage, aiming right for me. He wants to plow through me. He wants to hit me and keep going. Not today, jackass.

Just as he reaches the line, I am there, waiting for him. He doesn't bother feinting, and I don't bother to prepare for one. I lower my shoulder and prepare for impact as he does the same, and suddenly the sound of my shoulder pad meeting his chest protector thunders all around me. The crunch of our bodies violently slamming into each other sends shockwaves through my body as I push forward, nearly lifting him off the ground before driving him into the field. We land in a tangle of arms and legs, and the ball scoots loose. Usually, my instinct kicks in and I would chase it, but one of my linemen is already there, grabbing it while whistles blow all around us. I am vaguely aware of screaming, particularly angry screaming, and I hear my name being called through the fog of anger.

I stand up, looking down at Bobby, who immediately pops up to his feet. He jumps directly into my face, his helmet coming off and spittle flying from his mouth as his voice joins the screaming still surrounding me. I am right back in his face too, my helmet coming off and slamming on the ground as a dozen players try to get between us. They all know what went down between us, and have tried to avoid choosing sides. The ones who come to calm me is telling, and I make a mental list of the ones going to Bobby.

Traitors.

"Eat shit, you fucking princess!" screams Bobby, pushing against his teammates in a way that looks impressive, but I know is probably intentionally ineffective.

"Go to hell, dickhead, and take that bitch with you!" I shout back.

I can see the venom in his eyes when he hears it. He knows I mean it. I may not have ever really cared about Vanessa, but knowing she cheated on me with him and left me because she thought he had 'a more impressive future' pissed me off. Being over her, though, means Bobby can't find sick pleasure in rubbing it in my face anymore.

"Dammit all to fucking hell, Lawson, Kilmer! Shut the hell up for a second! Get away from each other! You're on the same goddamn team! I said step away!"

I move back a few steps and the guys holding Bobby back start to push him away too. I see him turn his back and head to the opposite sideline, and figure I will do the same. Before I can turn though, Coach is right in front of me.

"Lawson, what in the fuck do you think you are doing? It's goddamn May, Lawson, May! It's not even fucking summer training camp, dammit! I can't have you taking shots on a field before they even teach the goddamn cheerleaders a fucking two-step! What the hell were you thinking in that brain of yours? Why did you throw to Kevin in the first place? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Lawson! What are you thinking?"

"Sorry, Coach," I say.

I feel like shit that I got intercepted, especially by Bobby, and I know the team looks bad for the scuffle too. I am sure it will make all the morning sports shows. On the other hand, I really like watching Coach turn completely purple when he gets on a good rampaging scream-fit, and I am fairly certain he is about one shade past it already.

"Sorry? Sorry! Sorry! Sorry, you say! Well, I'll be damned and fortified, our star fucking quarterback said sorry, so I guess I'll just let this all slide under the goddamn bleachers! Sorry! Lawson, I am madder at you than I have ever been at a player in my forty-three years of coaching football, and 'sorry' ain't gonna fucking cut it. Hit the showers."

Wait, what? What did he just say?

"You look like I just told you to stand there and look pretty for another goddamn razor commercial! I said hit the showers, Lawson. Double time."

"No."

It was all I could force out. Never, in my entire life, has a coach told me to hit the showers unless I was hurt, or the game was over. Not one time have I ever been sent off a field in punishment. The hell if I was going to start today.

"Who in the hell says you have a choice in the matter, Lawson? I said off the field. Now!"

"I am the quarterback, Coach. The captain."

"And I am a Sagittarius that enjoys long walks on the beach and mint ice cream. Neither makes a difference. I said off the field, Captain. You have a meeting with the ownership at five, and I want you clean, shiny, and maybe just a little bit fucking humble when you get there! Go!"

Ownership? I have a meeting with the owners today? Damn. That means something is up, and I don't know about it. No wonder Coach has a stick up his ass today. The owners are fairly new, a family who bought the team out of nostalgia. They run another successful business and are trying to run the team like one too. They know that means significant investments. Like me. I took in the highest signing bonus of a first-round draft pick and proceeded to helm the team to championship after championship for seasons. Two years ago, we made it to the league championship game. We lost that game when I tried to run for a first down on a fourth and one. I got creamed and lost the ball, and that was it. Then last year, well, last year sucked. We went 7-9, and I was intercepted more times than ever before in my career. I know I need to get my shit together, but I'm not about to admit that to anyone.

I pick up my helmet and fling it at the sideline. It takes down a few orange cones on the way and knocks over someone's drink. One of the towel boys runs over to grab it, and I turn my back on Coach.

Suddenly, I am painfully aware of how many people are watching us. I haven't been publicly dressed down like that on the field since high school, and it hits me that how I react to it will impact the entire team. I want to turn around and get in Coach's face and tell him what a dipshit he is. A coward. Someone who always wants to play the safe route and move the sticks a yard at a time. Someone who frankly couldn't make it as a player if he played now like he did when he was active. I want to tell him he can take his precious playbook and all the metrics and optics and math they think they have figured out and shove it up their ass.

I also know if I do that, it will only make things exponentially worse. I know my reputation has declined over the last few months, and how disappointing last year was for everyone, including Coach. So, I walk back to the showers, muttering under my breath, and ripping off my jersey and pads violently on the way. By the time I make it out of the sun and into the cool of the shadowy walkway leading to the locker room, I am shirtless and only wearing my tights and pads over my legs and my cleats.

The locker room is empty, and I slam the door shut and lock it. No one should be coming in here for a good hour or so, outside of reporters wanting a quote on what just happened, and I know better than to talk to any of them right now. I need the solitude and darkness. I toss off my cleats and fling them toward my locker. I walk into the shower room, turning on the hot water before taking off the rest of my uniform. Stepping into the water, the sting of the heat makes me take in a deep breath. I forget how sore I am after a hit like that until I get into the shower and the heat works its way into my muscles. My left shoulder, thankfully not my throwing arm, is lighting up signals of pain to my brain. I can tell it's bruised, and there is a knot coming up over the rotator cuff, but it doesn't feel like it is actually injured. My back is sore from the jolt of smashing into another human being, and I try to relax everything as best as I can.

After a few moments, I finish cleaning up and change into slacks and a button-up shirt I keep in my locker for situations like this. As I unlock the door, I hear the murmur of reporters outside, and I take a deep breath.

********

After attempting to brush off the scuffle on the field as nothing more than some good-natured horseplay, I finally get frustrated with the wall of jackasses in sports coats that won't let me through. In a few minutes, the team will be coming down that hallway, heading for the showers themselves, and I have no interest in being anywhere near Bobby right now.

"Ok, you guys, I know you are angling for a story, but there isn't one. Now if you could get out of my way, I need to get to a meeting."

"There's that ego," I hear from somewhere in the group.

The words make my blood boil.

"Who said that?" I command as the group goes silent. Not one of them comes forward in the tense seconds that follow, not a single person brave enough to say it to my face. "Yeah, that's what I thought. You want to talk about ego, how about the coward who thinks because he writes about football he can say shit about a player he doesn't know? Now move out of my fucking way."

I know I really shouldn't lash out at them. The last thing I need is for popular opinion of me to dip even more. It will just end up in the story they write, and all middle America will see me as the foul-mouthed East Coast elitist again, but I can't help it. I push past them and head to the door leading to the offices behind the lockers. Somewhere back here are the owners, and I need to make sure they see me early. I glance at my diamond-encrusted watch and see its only four thirty.

********

I walk through the door into the conference room and am startled to see Coach sitting there. I figured he would still be down in the lockers, but here he is, still in his khakis and usual polo shirt with the team emblem logo on the breast. The outfit he always wears on the field, sweat stains under his arms and around his neck, and his hair tousled from where he always wears his hat. It's easy for people to miss that he is almost bald under there because of the curly white tufts that come out from under his hat in all directions. As he sits here, the light from above reflects off his sweaty scalp so hard it's nearly blinding.

In one chair is Mr. Tinker, his sister Mrs. Evans, and team president, Ed Chance. I nod at them and take a seat across the table, a few down from Coach. Mr. Tinker looks around the room as if he is waiting on someone, and it hits me that they probably don’t know I fired my agent a few days ago. He had negotiated my contract, helped me get a giant signing bonus, and made sure I was given the starting spot rather than riding the bench my rookie year. He's also loudly opinionated on my personal life, and how it was affecting Bobby, who was also his client and going into a free agent year. In response, I had been equally loudly combative about his line of thought. It all came to a head recently, and I finally told him exactly which bridge he could jump off, and how many ways he could fuck himself on his way down.

Mr. Chance clears his throat, and I know that means we're about to begin. I was early, but I guess that doesn't matter much to them. The sound doesn't seem positive, and I'm even less optimistic than before I came in.

"Shane," Mr. Tinker begins, using my first name the way a disappointed parent would with a petulant child, "we called this meeting today because we have some issues to speak to you about regarding your role on this team off the field. I would feel much better about it if you could call Mr. Lahey in with you. I know I saw him out there earlier, and I am sure word of our meeting should have gotten to him by now."

"No need to have him here. He's no longer representing me."

"Excuse me?" Mr. Chance asks.

Ed is a nice guy, amiable, and maybe a bit naive. He was bent over the barrel by my former agent when it came time for the new ownership to sign my extension and had somehow been convinced he was doing Ed a favor in doing it. Lahey might be a disloyal jerk, but he was a hell of an agent, as well as a great schmoozer.

"I fired him. Conflict of interest. It's fine. I'm more than capable of speaking for myself."

"Would you rather we reschedule this for another time?" Mrs. Evans pipes in.

She is a sweet lady who seems completely out of place running a professional football team. According to Coach and Lahey, however, she is actually the most versed person on the actual game in ownership.

"No. I don't need you speaking through someone else to get to me."

"We are running out of time, Martha. It has to be today, anyway" said Mr. Tinker.

Mrs. Evans nods, and folds her arms on the table, looking down at a sheet in front of her. Ed clears his throat again, and I feel Coach shift uncomfortably in his seat.

"We are thinking about trading you, Shane."

It hits me like a ton of bricks. Trade me? I am the face of the team. Why the hell would they even think about trading me?

Almost as if he can hear my thoughts, Ed Chance continues.

"It isn't something we are taking lightly, and frankly, none of us really want to do it. We are very heavily invested in you, Shane. We want you to succeed like you did for years here. But we also must remain cognizant of the fact that your attitude and behavior, on and off the field, has made it very difficult for our franchise to flourish with you as its face. Not to mention the fact that last year your play was –"

There is a pause as Ed seems to search his mind for the word.

He clears his throat. "It was inadequate. Our analytics team found that we could have had any average quarterback on the field and they would have performed at roughly the same level. So why should we pay you twenty million a season?"

"Part of that is on me," pipes in Coach. I look over to him, but he isn't making eye contact. "I choose the plays, me and the OC, and I think our strategy last year was a bit apprehensive. He obviously is a talented player who needs a bit more freedom than I have been giving him. Maybe" he looks over at me, and eyes twinkle brightly, "he needs to take more chances downfield."

"Perhaps," continues Ed Chance, "that is true. But aside from the coaching, Frank, the fact is Shane has been a polarizing figure. Not just in the industry, but in the community as well. This whole mess with your ex-girlfriend has become a stain on the team and your reputation."

"So, I ended my relationship with a woman. People do that all the time. Why does it matter?"

"It doesn't matter that your relationship ended. It's what came out this morning."

"What are you talking about?"

I focus my attention on Mrs. Evans and see her squirm a bit. I know that I have an effect on women, especially when I want too, and Mrs. Evans is no different. But that's not what's happening here. Something's going on that they haven't told me.

"You haven't seen the news?" she asks.

"No," I say. "I haven't had any downtime today."

"Vanessa contacted the media."

The way she says it suggests it should carry some meaning I'm not catching.

"Bobby's been bad-mouthing me to the press for a while now. It seems natural she would join in at some point."

I came into this meeting not wanting to talk about Vanessa or Bobby, but since they brought it up, I guess I can’t avoid it.

"It's not just bad-mouthing," Tinker says. "She is making very serious accusations."

"Accusations? What do you mean?"

They all exchange uncomfortable glances.

"She made a report stating your...treatment of her was behind the end of your relationship."

"My treatment of her?" I snort. "I treated her like a queen. Not that she deserved it."

"According to her, that's not the case. She says she worked hard to make it look as though you were the perfect couple, but behind closed doors, things were very different. She says you were violent with her on more than a few occasions."

Lights burst in front of my eyes, and I suddenly feel like the walls are closing in.

"That's a fucking lie," I hiss through gritted teeth. "I never laid a hand on her."

"Regardless of whether there's any truth behind it, it is a public image nightmare. Your behavior has been spiraling out of control, and even you have to admit it's been impacting how you play lately. Something like this can destroy how people see you, and whether fans have any trust in you. You need to be a hero, and that's hard when you keep doing things parents would never want their kids to hear about, much less imitate."

"So, I'm going to be held responsible for something I didn't do? What happened to being innocent until proven guilty?"

My speech doesn't seem to have much impact.

"We are aware of your… difficulties with the various PR firms in the state. We also know that you do not like being 'managed.' It is our decision, however, that you need someone looking after your reputation if you are to remain an effective figurehead for the team, or, in a worst-case scenario, to maintain your value should we decide to trade you."

The words came out cold, robotic and piercing. I want to protest, but it feels like they’ve turned on me, and I know my options are limited. She is right, I absolutely detest being managed. I hate having some PR rep follow me around, telling me what tie to wear, who to smile at, and what words I am allowed to say. But, I also want a career after I play. I know I am good looking and will do well on camera, maybe as a sportscaster or talking head on one of the million pre- and post-game shows that seem to be on these days. I can't do that if no one will hire me because I have a reputation for being difficult. I understand that. I feel like I've been backed into a corner. Shit.

"I don't want to be traded. I want to play here my entire career. But I also have no interest in being managed. I’ve met with reps, and even the owner of the firm my former agent suggested, but none have suited me. I am a football player and what I do outside of the stadium should be my business. Why should my standing on this team have anything to do with my personal life?"

"It does, especially when we believe your personal life is getting in the way of your playing ability, Shane," Mr. Tinker sighs. "You don't really have a choice in this matter."

"Fine," I say.

"Good. Very good. Then you will have no problem going back to see Mr. Slidell at the agency so he can assign someone else for you. Work with them, Shane. Work with them like every other quarterback in the league does, and together we can not only craft a winning image for you as a player, but the entire team. That kind of confidence leads to actual momentum, you know that. And Shane," Mr. Chance pauses, looking over at Coach, "stay away from Mr. Kilmer for a while, will you? We haven't officially made any tough decisions regarding our roster, but any more outbursts like that will force our hand."

"Understood," I say.

I stand to leave, and Mr. Tinker offers his hand. I shake it firmly while maintaining eye contact.

"Don't fire this one, Shane. There aren't many left."

I grin. I know he is saying this not only to be funny but because it’s true. I still resent being told I need to be babied, and he knows it.

"As long as they don't piss me off, I won't," I say.

I quickly shake everyone else's hands and head out of the room.

The air in here is suffocating, and I escape to the lobby yanking at the top button of my shirt. I need to get out of here and clear my mind.