CHAPTER EIGHT
CHANCE
I wait by the gates the following morning my head ablaze with thoughts, mostly the lingering memory of Sam’s lips. I’m waiting for David’s Tesla, which is why I’m a little surprised when a minivan drops him off instead.
He comes out the side door and runs to the driver’s door, kissing Sarah, his wife, before returning to the windows on the side, his two girls leaning out to hug him goodbye. “I love you, Daddy,” the eldest says, holding him tight.
He pulls away and blows them a kiss, Sarah waving as she takes off.
David walks over, his gear bag over his shoulder and a smug look of satisfaction on his face.
“So you decided to get rid of the hippie-mobile. Good for you.”
He plants a soft punch into the middle of my chest. “No. I’ve still got the Tesla and it will still wipe the floor with your Mustang. As for the minivan, Sarah had an early appointment, said she could drop me off, so what the hell?”
“The girls are looking older.”
“That is what kids do, Chance. They grow up.”
“Really?” I mock.
“Do you need me to fill you in on the birds-and-bees again? Oh wait, I think you’re well up to date given your Instagram feed.”
“I cleaned up all my social media after Sam left last night.”
Oops.
David shakes his head. He hasn’t missed it. “You fucking dog.”
“It was just a kiss.”
“Yeah, between her legs, right? That’s the kind of kissing they do in Australia, you know. Down-under and all.”
“No, a regular kiss, my friend, and it was actually quite beautiful.”
David drops his bag and cups his hands around his mouth. “Attention, LA. Chance Adams has lost his mind. I repeat, Chance Adams has lost his mind.”
“There’s more.” I add.
“There always is with you.”
“She is in trouble.”
The joker is gone, David’s suddenly all concern. “What did she tell you?”
“Long story short, the Mob is after her. The place she was working at in Vegas was raided by the cops the morning after she quit.”
“And they think she was responsible?”
I nod.
“Was she?”
“No, but they’re after her all the same. A co-worker tipped her off. That’s why she left. That’s why she’s here.”
David places his hands on his hips. “Fuck me.”
“Precisely.”
“Do we go to Morgan?”
I nod again. “We go to Morgan and we help her, any way we can. Is he even around this time of morning?”
David laughs. “You’re kidding, right? The guy lives here, as in he’s got a bed down in the old storage room next to the showers.”
“Is that what’s in there? I always thought it was a bondage dungeon, Masonic meeting hall at best.”
“Should we go wake him?”
I smile. “We are the golden boys, are we not?”
*
I rap on the door. “Morgan?”
It opens a solid minute later, a highly disheveled Morgan staring at us with squinty eyes. “Am I seeing things or are my two best players interrupting my beauty sleep five minutes before they’re due for training?”
I look to David. He’s blank. No support there. “It’s about Sam.”
That piques his interest. “I’m listening.”
“She opened up to me.”
I expect David to snigger at that one, but he keeps his composure.
“The Mob’s after her,” I continue. “The parlor she was working at in Vegas was raided and they think she’s the one responsible. It’s a real clusterfuck.”
Morgan looks to the flickering lights above our heads. “The Mob, those fuckers.”
I exchange another look with David. “You’ve dealt with the Mob before?”
“Boys, you build up enough money and the Mob always comes knocking, overtly or not, but I know better. I want nothing to do with those pricks. You told her about the PI?”
“I did.”
“How did she take it?”
“Better than I thought, but I made sure to emphasize it was only done with her best interests in mind.”
Morgan scratches his stubble. “Good, good. Maybe I’ll have a word with her later, make sure we’re all on the same page going forward, because we are going to deal with this.”
“I appreciate the help, Morgan.” And I do. I don’t know many team owners who’d go to these kinds of lengths for the team massage therapist. But that’s the thing. Morgan used to be a player. He knows how it works on the bottom rungs of the ladder. “Speaking of, have you heard from the PI yet?”
A solemn shaking of the head. “Hate to tell you, boys, but I haven’t. Now that we know the Mob’s involved…” He trails off. “It doesn’t look good.”
Morgan claps his hands together. “But enough for now. We’re taking on the Bengals tonight, one of the first games of the season and absolutely crucial to get us to the top of the ladder. I need all your energy focused on that. Let me deal with this Sam stuff. Is that a plan?”
“Yes, sir,” we both reply.
“That’s what I like to hear. Now, can I get that beauty sleep or what?”
*
I’m so caught up with training I don’t get to see Sam at all during the morning. She remains tied up with a couple of our backs, all of which are nursing various soft-tissue injuries from a fiery clash with New York. I sure could do with her hands on me, but I’ve got to remember she’s a professional too. My needs shouldn’t come before the team’s, urgent as they may be.
My cock tightens thinking about last night. The kiss was everything I imagined it would be—light, soft, the heat of her body against mine. So why’d she go running off then?
I don’t have an answer. I’m not used to rejection, though that’s perhaps too harsh a definition for what went down last night.
A snap press conference doesn’t help matters. The coaches follow with a solid hour of play strategy stuffing my already overflowing head with yet more diagrams and lines and numbers, because that’s what American football is at its core—a carefully calculated game of chess.
The heat that’s been bearing down on the city over the last few days has dissipated when I head onto the field come night, the reception warm given this a home game.
I scan the lower stalls. Sam usually places herself there, but tonight’s she’s nowhere to be seen. Yeah, like your fucking head.
“Chance,” calls David, running ahead of me. “Why don’t you come down from Cloud Nine and get with the game, hey?”
No bullshit—that’s another reason David I get on so well. I salute him and run to join the rest of the team taking their positions.
I scan the Bengals line-up. These guys came from a five-straight losing streak in the opening round playoff games last season to seriously dominating the league this year. I’ve got to be at my absolute best here. Dalton, the Bengals quarterback, gives me a wave. Yeah, yeah, pretty boy. Watch and learn.
It takes a lot to stay at the top of this game. The pressure would defeat most, but after what I went through in Afghanistan, it’s fucking nothing. This? Football? It’s so insignificant compared to what went down over in the Sandpit. A couple of guys in padding and helmets trying to hunt you down? Nowhere near as scary as AK47-weilding extremists happy to lay down their lives to take yours.
The game kicks off and whatever was choking up my thoughts is gone. That’s the way it works when I’m on the field. Hell, it’s the half the reason I do it.
I knew the Bengals would come out hard, but I didn’t expect this much fight. They’ve got the best pass rush I’ve seen all season, our boys under heavy pressure with every snap. Still, we manage to keep it together and hold them off, but it’s fifty-fifty.
At half-time I check for Sam again, but she’s still absent from the stands.
“You seen Sam?” I ask David. He shakes his head and points up at one of the VIP boxes. “No Morgan either.”
I relax a little. So they’re together, maybe having their chat. That’s good.
“Wait.”
I follow David’s eyes to the other side of the field where Morgan is talking with one of the refs, probably ripping into him about the incomplete pass call.
The anxiety returns. Morgan is here but Sam is not. Maybe she’s in trouble. You should be out there, protecting her.
The siren goes and we’re back on.
“Chance!” yells David. “What the fuck? Come on, man.” He looks up to where Sam should be. “Worry about it later.”
I breathe in, let my lungs fill, and get my head back into the game.
This time I can’t keep thoughts of Sam away. For all I know they might be snatching her right now while I’m out here doing what? Fumbling around with a fucking leather ball.
It’s a miracle I hold it together, but I’m losing it fast. I’m sweating. I almost fumble the ball completely coming out of the third quarter. The forth doesn’t start much better, but I force myself to push through. Come five minutes to full time and we’re tied. I watch a punt soar high, look to the stands again hoping with everything I have she’s there.
She’s not.
I check again and it’s in this moment of distraction I miss the next play completely.
Something smashes me to the ground, the wind knocked from my body. I’ve been on the receiving end of some brutal take-downs, but this is like being blind-sided by a bus.
It gets worse, the weight builds on top of me as the dog pile forms, the world going dark and my face pressed hard into the turf, grit in my mouth, struggling for breath, unable to get out.
I panic, a boot digging up into my ribs, another jamming down hard on my thigh. My helmet starts to dip, crushing my skull, a whistle blows madly but no one does anything to relieve the pressure.
My vision starts to flicker, the voices around me growing dim.
The body directly on top of me shifts and finally I’m able to pull in air, gasping with it, rolling over onto my back as the dog-pile clears and David gets down beside me. The ref next to him calls my name, but it’s blurry, everything fuzzy at the edges.
I see the ref signal to the sidelines while David continues to shout my name, slapping the side of my helmet.
I try to get up, but the slightest movement causes pain to flare throughout my body. My helmet’s removed, sweat cooling on my face.
“Sam?” I manage to get out. David looks at the ref, others players ringed around us now, the murmur of the crowd low and quiet.
I start to drift away once more when they place me onto the stretcher. It’s nice. There’s a bee-sting in my arm, the pain moving further and further into the distance and with it rational thought.
When I wake up it’s in a cinder block-walled medical bay, a woman who could well be my mother reincarnated asking me questions you wouldn’t waste on a five-year-old.
“Sam?” I ask again. Where is she? Why the fuck is she ignoring me?
I say her name again before I realize my mouth isn’t moving.
Fuck. I should be out there, taking us to the Bowl, not… here, with whoever the fuck this is.
The woman disappears and returns with another syringe. A cold rush runs through my arm and the world pulls into a tight tunnel before, finally, it’s gone altogether.