Blackout

by Jason Elam

  “Aw, heck,” he said, punching the Send button. “Hey, Whitney! Long time no talk!”

  “Riley Covington,” Whitney answered with a bit of playfulness in her voice, “do you mean to tell me that you’ve been traded to Washington and you didn’t give me a heads-up? That’s not very nice, you know.”

  Riley smiled in spite of himself. He had been determined to keep things purely professional and to end the call as soon as possible. But Whitney had a way of flirting with him that got through whatever defenses he could put up. Come on, Covington, don’t be a sap. You’re not that easy of a mark, are you?

  Actually . . . you probably are. “What makes you think that I’ve been traded? Have you been listening to the Denver rumor mill?”

  “I think you’ve been traded because I have ears, and what makes you think I’m still in Denver? Don’t you pay any attention to the media news?”

  “You’re not in Denver? I had no idea. Media comings and goings are right below British royalty on my list of things I feel I need to keep up with. So where are you?”

  “I’m going to try not to be offended by your comments, Mr. Covington,” Whitney said with a little pout evident in her voice. “And, just so you know, I arrived last week in Bristol to work at ESPN.”

  “Seriously? The big time? Congratulations,” Riley said, half of him thrilled that she was again so close and half of him terrified that she was again so close.

  “Thanks. But remember, this call isn’t about me. So what is it? Are you a Warrior or not?”

  Riley thought. He didn’t want to cross any lines he wasn’t supposed to. But he knew how an exclusive like this could help Whitney in her new job.

  “Tell you what,” he said, “this has got to be off the record—”

  “Come on, Riles. Then what good is it?” Whitney interrupted.

  Riles? “Let me finish, missy. Off the record, I’m 90 percent sure that I’m a Warrior. However, there are extenuating circumstances that make it impossible for me to say any more. But . . .”

  “But . . . ?” Whitney repeated hopefully.

  “When everything is announced—which will probably be later today—I’ll give you the exclusive interview on how I’m feeling about the trade, about leaving Denver, etc. Also, from here on out you can be my primary pipeline into the network. Fair enough?”

  Whitney was ecstatic. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! Honestly, part of the reason they hired me was because of my promise of access to you; did you know that? Oh, I hope that wasn’t too presumptuous of me. But you’ll forgive me, won’t you? Oh, Riley, this will be huge for me.”

  Riley couldn’t help but smile. He could picture her face all lit up, her green eyes beaming. “This is the least I could do. You helped me when I really needed your help.”

  “I’ve told you not to mention that again,” Whitney lightly scolded him. “I was just doing what any friend would do. Now, how about we meet for coffee tomorrow? I’d be happy to drive down your way.”

  Too dangerous! Say no; say no; say no! “Sure, that’d be great,” Riley answered, grimacing even as he did so.

  “Fabulous! I can’t wait to see you again!”

  “Yeah, me too.” As soon as he hung up the phone, Khadi’s face popped into his mind. Come on, it’s only a cup of coffee. Purely professional.

  Maybe, but are you planning on telling Khadi about it?

  Riley picked up his sandwich to take another bite but found he wasn’t hungry anymore. He pushed the plate to the other side of the table so he wouldn’t have to smell the food.

  You’re a football player, and she’s a reporter. It’s as simple as that. This is just a part of my job. And if Khadi can’t understand that, then she needs to reevaluate our relationship!

  What relationship? Do we even have a relationship?

  And whom exactly are you trying to convince—Khadi or yourself? Especially since you are the only person involved in this internal monologue.

  “Whatever,” Riley said out loud as he picked up the phone to call Keith Simmons. “Everything will work out.”

  But even as he dialed the numbers, the half-finished Reuben began turning somersaults in his stomach.

  Thursday, July 23, 9:45 a.m. MDT

  Inverness Training Center, Centennial, Colorado

  As Keith burst through the weight room door, the summer heat hit his face. Typically he took great pleasure in that feeling, especially when it combined, as it did today, with the smell of freshly cut grass from the manicured practice fields. Right now, though, all of those sensory pleasures were lost on him. He wove his way through the German luxury cars, the Italian sports cars, and the Japanese and American SUVs parked in the players’ lot. As he passed Coach Burton’s Capri Blue Mercedes S600, he was glad he wasn’t carrying anything sharp and metallic.

  There is no way it can be true! Burton wouldn’t let it happen; Mr. Salley wouldn’t let it happen. Keith knew A. J. Salley was an unbelievably shrewd businessman, and the presence of American hero Riley Covington on the Mustangs meant millions to the franchise through ticket sales and merchandising. But deep down, Keith also knew it was a very rare occasion when ESPN had to go back on one of its rumors.

  Cutting through some picnic tables, he approached the facility’s main building. He pushed through the doors and into the cafeteria. The large room was nearly empty; only a few players sat with reporters or with their agents. To his right, second-year offensive tackle Travis Marshall was talking with his agent.

  “Hey, Simms, did you hear—yeah, I guess you did,” Travis said as Keith brushed past his table without a second look.

  Keith punched the crash bar to the inside doors, sending them slamming against the hallway wall. After rounding a corner, he flew up a flight of stairs and marched his way down a long hallway filled with offices and decorated with jerseys of eras past. At the end of the hallway was Coach Burton’s office—a place Keith usually tried to stay as far away from as possible. Most often, if you were summoned to the coach’s office, the news was not good.

  Without thinking of the consequences, Keith opened the door into a wide reception area. Karen Watkins, the coach’s secretary, was stunned; no one ever burst into the coach’s office. Finally, she called out, “Wait, you can’t go in there!” just as Keith threw open the door to the forbidden sanctuary.

  Coach Burton was sitting on his desk. Seated around him were Rex Texeira, defensive coordinator T. J. Ceravolo, and team general manager Anthony Lawrence.

  All eyes were on Keith, but now that he was in the office, he realized he had no idea what he was going to say. Texeira, Ceravolo, and Lawrence were obviously shocked, but Burton looked just plain angry.

  “What?” Burton growled.

  Keith opened his mouth, and words came falling out. “Coach, is it true? Did you just trade Riley? I mean, I can’t believe that it would be true, but they’re saying it on ESPN, so I’m not sure what to believe. A bunch of the guys and me were wondering whether the rumor is actually true . . . sir.”

  “It’s true,” Burton said matter-of-factly.

  “It’s true?”

  “That’s what I said,” Coach answered, his face starting to color a deep red. “Now get out of my office. And if you ever barge in here again uninvited, I’ll see to it that you spend the last few years of your career playing in Detroit!”

  To his left, Coach Texeira was nodding and motioning with his hand for Keith to leave, but Keith stood there not moving. He knew he should defend his friend. He should tell Burton what a mistake he was making and that he needed to rescind whatever deal he had made. He should threaten the coach and tell him that if Riley went, so would he! He should . . . he really should . . .

  But in the end, he simply turned and walked out of the office, closing the door behind him. Karen Watkins looked like she was going to let Keith have it, but after seeing his face, she sat behind her desk and let him pass.

  In the hallway, waiting for him, were Afshin, Danie Colson, Travis Marsha
ll (who must have left his agent sitting all alone in the cafeteria), and Chris Gorkowski. At the end of the hallway, right at the top of the stairs, stood Zerin, but as soon as Keith’s eyes met his, he retreated back down the steps.

  “What’d Burton say?” Afshin asked for all of them.

  “Get out of his office,” Keith said quietly. “And the rumors are true.”

  “What?” Gorkowski yelled. Turning, he punched a hole through the drywall, causing a 1974 team picture to fall to the ground and shatter its glass. As soon as he did, his face fell. “Oh, crap; I’m going to pay for that!”

  Sure enough, offensive coordinator Brandon Murray stormed out of his office, which just happened to be on the other side of the offended wall. “Snap, was that you?”

  “Uh, yeah, Coach,” Gorkowski answered sheepishly.

  “Get into my office! And the rest of you, get out of my hallway!”

  As Gorkowski followed Murray through the door, the rest of the guys made their departure. When they reached the stairs, Keith was peppered with questions from the other guys.

  “I don’t know!” he snapped. “I’ve told you all he said! Riley’s gone! That’s all there is to it, so you might as well start getting used to the idea!”

  Keith pushed past them and made his way to the locker room. All the pain in his ankle that had been hidden by the adrenaline was now back in spades, and there was no masking the limp anymore. Quit your bellyaching! Players come and players go. It’s happened before, and it will happen again.

  But this time was different. For once in his life, Keith had felt that he had a friend who was going to help him be a better man, someone who would lift him up rather than drag him down. Now that friend was gone, and Keith was faced with trying to live a right life without his external conscience near him.

  God, I gotta tell You, this really sucks! I mean, how could You take Riley away just when I was starting to really learn how to live the way You want me to? Now how am I going to figure out all that Bible stuff?

  Suddenly he stopped in front of the team equipment room. Oh, man! All I’ve been thinking about is myself! This has got to be horrible for Riley! God, forgive me for my selfish attitude. Riley needs You more than I do right now, and I know he’s struggling to get adjusted to life without his friends and teammates. Go get him, God; he really needs You!

  Monday, July 27, 7:45 a.m. EDT

  Warriors Park, Ashburn, Virginia

  Riley sat in a rented Chevy Trailblazer, staring at the front of the building. The entrance had a large, caricatured Indian face on both sides of the doors, and a giant spear was cocked at a twenty-degree angle over the entrance. The words Warrior Pride were printed on a vinyl banner that hung from the spear.

  Classy, Riley thought, shaking his head. People buzzed all around the front of the building on this unofficial first day of training camp—unofficial because training camp didn’t technically start until 5:00 tonight. However, the players were still expected to be here for today’s practice.

  Mapquest had told Riley to plan for forty-five minutes to make the drive from Washington, D.C., out to the Washington Warriors training facility in Ashburn, Virginia. However, having heard about the notorious D.C. traffic, he’d decided to leave at 6:15, and he was glad he did. His SUV had rolled up only about ten minutes ago.

  He had not moved since.

  All sorts of emotions shot through him—sadness, frustration, nervousness. Getting to know the players wasn’t a big deal. He already knew four or five guys who were former Mustangs and another couple whom he had gotten to know a bit during his college days. Besides, the turnover in the PFL was so great, a player had to get used to seeing new faces.

  No, it wasn’t the players who were causing the anxiety. Riley was much more concerned about getting to know the owners and the coaching staff. During training camp, a player’s every move—on and off the field—was already scrutinized, but a new guy was truly under the microscope. And even though Riley had a strong record of achievement behind him, that could be a double-edged sword. Playing professional football was very much a “What have you done for me lately?” proposition. He was going to have to prove himself to the coaches just like everyone else on the team—maybe even more so.

  A call yesterday to tight end Don Bernier, a former Mustang who now played with the Warriors, let Riley know that both the coaching staff and the players expected him to be a bit of a prima donna. A little self-righteous anger crept up in Riley as he worked that through his brain. I may be a lot of things, but I’m no prima donna! In fact, I try to be the farthest thing from it.

  Idiot Scott! Him and his stupid ideas! I shouldn’t even have to be dealing with this! I should be back in Denver, laughing with Keith and Afshin as we watch the rookies scramble to make it out onto the field on time. Instead, I’m stuck here with a bunch of teammates I don’t know, playing for coaches I don’t know, in a city with enough water in the air to turn the whole Sahara Desert into an oasis.

  But those thoughts were quickly followed by a wave of conviction. Yeah, I know, Lord. You’ve got me here for a reason. Forgive my lousy attitude. Help me to take hold of the plan You have for me. Make me open to Your will!

  With a deep breath, he turned to Skeeter, who had been patiently waiting in the passenger seat, and said, “What do you think? You ready to do this thing?”

  “Warrior pride,” Skeeter answered without looking at Riley.

  “So according to Bernier, these guys already think I’m some sort of a diva.”

  “And they’re wrong how?” Skeeter asked, the slightest of smirks showing in the corners of his mouth.

  “That’s cold, Skeet,” Riley said, feigning a hurt look. “All I got to say, though, is that my private locker area better be ready for me, and if I find any red M&Ms in my candy dish, heads are gonna roll.”

  “Rightfully so.” Skeeter nodded.

  Riley sat for another minute trying to will himself out of the SUV. I hope I don’t have to deal with the media today. That’s going to be the worst part. If they’d just ask about football, that’d be fine. But they’re going to ask about my dad and about Sal Ricci and about the bombings and about the torture. Riley fought the urge to hit the ignition, throw the truck in reverse, and take a road trip back to Denver.

  Finally, looking at his watch and seeing that he had five minutes to get in, he said, “So what I was going to say earlier is that since they’re already thinking I’m a prima donna, walking in with a bodyguard is not going to help that perception. Would you mind giving me an hour or two? Then you could go in and get to know the security folk at the facility. From what Scott said, they should be expecting you.”

  “Sure,” Skeeter replied, but Riley could see that he wasn’t really happy with the plan.

  Sorry, buddy, but that’s the way it’s got to be.

  Riley appreciated Skeeter’s protectiveness—it had saved his life more than once in the last year. But sometimes having a six-foot-seven-inch walking shadow could feel just a wee bit confining. Although where he was going, a six-foot-seven-inch giant would actually fit right in.

  Somewhere along the line, though, Riley was going to have to start separating himself from Skeeter—if not for his own sake, then for Skeeter’s sake as well.

  Riley smiled as he pictured himself, old and wrinkly, in a bed in a nursing home, and Skeeter, just as old and just as wrinkly, lying in the next bed over with his feet hanging off the end of the bed and an M4 strapped across his sunken chest. The smile left him quickly. Yeah, but with the way things are going, the chances of either of us living to be old enough for a nursing home are pretty slim.

  “Pach,” Skeeter said, nodding toward the dash clock, which now read 7:58.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’re right. Can’t be late for my first day.”

  But still he sat there.

  Finally Skeeter said, “Go!”

  “I’m going! I’m going!”

  Thankfully, it looked like the media must be setting
up around the practice fields, because the entrance seemed to be fairly free of big-haired gals and jock-wannabe guys. So if he was quick, he might be able to make it in without having to deal with any obnoxious questions. Riley opened the door and quickly retrieved his bag from the backseat. With a sigh, he jogged to the entrance, under the mighty spear, and in to meet his new team.

  “Good morning, Mr. Covington! Welcome to the Washington Warriors,” said a perky receptionist from the middle of a long half-moon desk set in the middle of the spacious lobby. “Coach Medley and Mr. Bellefeuille are waiting for you in Mr. Bellefeuille’s office. Let me show you the way.”

  “Thank you.” Oh man, right into the fire!

  Coming around her desk, she held out a dainty hand. “My name is Madeline. May I take your bag and leave it up front for you to pick up after your meeting?”

  “No thank you. I’ll keep it with me,” Riley said, not wanting to leave his gym bag and the concealed Smith & Wesson .357 Sig around for potential prying eyes.

  As Madeline began narrating the club’s history while they crossed the tiled logo on the floor and ascended a flight of dark wood-paneled steps, all the nervousness Riley had felt outside in the truck multiplied tenfold. Scott Medley had the reputation of being a “players’ coach,” which Riley thought was kind of a misnomer. A players’ coach would fire your butt just as quickly as any other coach. But at least Coach Medley seemed like a fair man and would hopefully be a little easier to get along with than Coach Burton had been.

  Rick Bellefeuille was another story. He had made his hundreds of millions in the sign business—which makes the cheesy Warrior Pride banner out front that much more out of place. Bellefeuille had bought the team twelve years ago and was very involved in the day-to-day operations. He could be seen on the sidelines at some point every game yelling at the players or laying into the coaches—sort of like the NBA’s Mark Cuban, but with more self-control and less legal trouble. He was the guy that Riley was the most worried about.