Chapter 7

OCTOBER

“Nice game, King,” Rebels team captain Cass Zielinski said as he passed by their lockers. “You’ll get the hang of the new playbook, Sam,” he added as an afterthought, already moving on to talk with the new left tackle, Kitt Doyle. Cass turned back around, walking backward. “Hey, Sam, maybe you and Goodman could work on it together. He’s having trouble, too.” He didn’t wait for an answer. By the time Sam was ready to give one, Cass was already clapping Doyle on the back and congratulating him on a great game.

“I already know the playbook,” Sam mumbled, throwing his shoulder pads into his locker. He and Goodman didn’t even play the same position. Sam was a linebacker and Malachai Goodman was a defensive end. But it was true that Goodman had no clue what was going on. Mal was a good kid. Maybe Sam should have King find out what was up with him. King was good at that kind of stuff, and as the nose tackle, he worked more closely with Mal than Sam did.

“New season, Sammy,” King said, sitting down next to him. “You’ll turn it around.”

Sam stared at the picture of his team in Afghanistan, the one he always carried in his pocket. Berkovitch was always smiling. During practice and games he set it up on the shelf in his locker. Sam sighed. He wasn’t so sure he’d ever turn it around. It was nice to have King cheerleading in his corner, but the fact was that he was playing the best he could. He didn’t have any more gas in the tank. Maybe the Cowboys had been right. Maybe he was too old and too jacked up in the head to play pro ball.

“You are not too old,” King told him, reading his mind again. Sometimes Sam liked that he didn’t have to talk for King to know what he was thinking. And sometimes, like now, he wished that King wasn’t so perceptive. “You didn’t sleep last night.”

“I never sleep,” Sam said, shrugging. “So that shouldn’t make a difference.” King frowned.

“Since when aren’t you sleeping?” he demanded. “Have you seen the new team psychologist?”

“No,” Sam explained patiently. “Because I’ve seen a fuckload of psychologists and I’m still not sleeping.”

“Have you talked to Carmina about it?” Carmina De La Cruz had moved to Birmingham to be closer to Sam. King wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. It was good for Sam to see that she was okay on a daily basis, but the two of them were always holed up together at Sam’s, playing videogames and watching movies, and generally avoiding the rest of the world.

“I don’t think she sleeps, either,” Sam said. He grabbed a towel and rubbed his wet hair. “I need a shower. Badly. Playing like shit gives me flop sweat.”

“You didn’t play like shit, mate,” Nigel Locke, the new British kicker said. “You played like a huge pile of stinking shit. But then, so did I.”

Sam winced. Locke had missed a thirty-five-yard extra point that would have locked down the game for the Rebels in the third quarter. They’d won it in the fourth, but it was close. “You made that last point,” Sam said, staying positive. “So your shit didn’t stink as bad as mine.”

“Thanks,” Nigel said. He pulled a nicotine patch off the backing and slapped it onto his arm. He was still sweating and it hung there, half on and half off. “I’ve got to get out of this dick showroom and have a smoke. Cover for me.” He reached under the pile of clothes on the top shelf of his locker and felt around. He got a funny look on his face and yanked the clothes down, searching the corners.

“Looking for this?” Assistant coach Marian Treadwell stood behind him holding a pack of Marlboros. Nigel was a hardcore nicotine addict.

“You stole my fucking fags?” Nigel said with a sigh. “Seriously?”

“No smoking means no smoking,” Marian told him. “You’re already wearing a nicotine patch. Isn’t there some sort of limit to the amount you should have or something?”

“You Yanks are crazy for the not smoking,” Nigel complained. “I’m not forcing my secondhand smoke on you, you know. I was going out to the parking lot. Banished for love of tobacco.”

“I’m more concerned about your physical well-being and preparedness,” Marian said. “You were huffing and puffing on the track yesterday.”

“I don’t run the ball,” Nigel explained calmly. “I kick it.”

“Does smoking make you kick the ball harder?” Marian asked curiously.

“No,” Nigel said, sounding testy. “Not smoking does. I imagine the ball is some fucking Yank who won’t let me smoke.”

“Watch it,” Cass growled over Marian’s shoulder. “Language.” Cass was at least a foot taller than Locke, but the kicker didn’t seem concerned.

“I wasn’t cursing your girlfriend,” Nigel told him, sitting down and pulling off his shoe. “I was cursing the assistant coach who won’t let me smoke. Completely different. Back me up here, Sam.” Sam felt like a deer caught in the headlights as they all turned to look at him. “Should I be allowed to smoke?” Nigel asked point-blank.

“Well,” Sam said, thinking fast. “I think a man should be allowed to do what he wants.” Nigel smiled smugly at Marian. “But,” Sam continued at Marian’s glare, “not where he’s not supposed to.” He sighed. “Look, just smoke where she can’t see you. It’s a compromise,” he said helplessly to Marian.

“Totally,” Marian said drily. She crushed the pack of cigarettes in her hand and Locke whimpered. “See the trainer about the cessation program, Nigel. Again.”

“You are a sadist,” Locke told her. He gestured at Cass. “I get what he sees in you. Two peas in a pod.”

“Three,” Marian said, pointing at her other boyfriend, tight end Beau Perez, who was even bigger than Cass.

“Smoking will kill you,” Beau said, shaking his head. “We’re just worried about you.”

“About me?” Nigel said, shock on his face. “I can take care of myself. See these?” He pointed to the identical scars on his face, one on each side, curving up from the corners of his mouth to midcheek. They made him look like the Joker. Sam had wondered about those. Nigel had the curly blond hair and cherubic face of an angel, and the scars seemed so out of place. “A bookie decided to give me a Glasgow smile when I was late paying a debt. I survived that, didn’t I?” He glared at Marian. “But you? You might kill me.”

“I think you need to see the team psychologist,” Marian said, a little pale. “Someone actually did that to you?”

“What did you think they were?” Nigel asked.

“I don’t know. Like a birth defect they had to correct or something. Like a cleft palate.” Sam had thought the same thing.

“You people,” Nigel said in disgust. “What sheltered lives you’ve led.” He jerked his head to the side, toward Sam. “If I have to go to the psychologist, so does Sam.”

“Me?” Sam said, alarmed. “Why me?” Did everyone know he was crazy? He glared at King, who shrugged defensively.

“Well, you and I are the only ones here that people have tried to kill,” Nigel said logically. “Aren’t we? Hey,” he hollered out to the locker room. “Raise your hand if someone has tried to kill you.” He raised his hand and waved at Sam to do the same. To Sam’s surprise, Dominique Reyes raised his hand, too.

“What?” Reyes asked belligerently. “I grew up in the hood, man. Fuck you.”

“Okay,” Nigel said. “You’re not really a surprise. I can see wanting to kill you.” He ignored Reyes’s raised finger and looked around. “Anyone else?”

“Does your old lady count?” linebacker Esmond Southern asked.

“My old lady tried to kill you?” Nigel said in horror. “When?”

“Not yours, mine,” Esmond said.

“Oh, well that makes much more sense,” Nigel said, nodding. Esmond threw a towel at him and Sam laughed along with everyone else.

“All right, Marian, my dear,” Nigel said. “Sam and I will go see the psychologist tomorrow.”

“Wait, what?” Sam said, alarmed again. “I still don’t see why I’m even part of this conversation.”

“Someone else has to suffer with me, mate,” Nigel explained. “It’s called a team.”

“There’s no Sam in team,” he mumbled.

“That’s the spirit,” Nigel said. He reached down and pulled a cigarette out of his boot and grinned at Sam as he put it in his mouth. He jerked out of the way when Marian tried to grab it. “Hold off,” he said. “I’m not lighting it. I’m just savoring the flavor.” Marian walked off with a huff of displeasure. “So, Sam,” Nigel said. “What’s with the haircut? I’ve been meaning to ask. Did you lose a bet or something?”

Did you lose a bet? Sam could hear Jane asking him that same question a few months ago. “King made me do it,” he said with a sigh.

“Sam looks edgy,” King said, making some sort of movement in the air that Sam supposed was meant to represent edgy but looked more like a bad Soul Train impression. “It’s hot. The chicks love it.” The only chick he’d been with was Jane, and she hadn’t loved it. Although it hadn’t turned her off, either. The truth was Sam still had the stupid haircut with the shaved sides because it reminded him of their night together. And if he ever ran into her again he wanted her to recognize him. Which was stupid.

Right then, linebacker Jo Jo Jones swung onto the bench beside Sam. “Sam, my man,” he said. “Coach Casey has decided us linebackers need to have a special jam session tomorrow morning. You good with that?”

“Before or after I talk to Dr. Sweeney?” Sam asked in disgust. He knew it was just an excuse for them all to work with Sam. Jesus, he really stank today. He’d allowed the Titans tight end to slip past him like a greased pig. The Titans had scored on the next play and that was entirely on Sam’s shoulders.

“You’re going to see the head doctor? Good deal,” Jo Jo said with a big smile. “I think that will be a big help to you.” Jo Jo slapped him on the back as he stood up and headed over to his roommate, Kitt Doyle. It was clear that Doyle was going to have a career season.

“Here comes the press,” someone called out as the chattering of voices grew louder at the locker-room door.

Right then Sam wished he could smoke, too.