Whether his appearance was a directive of corporate or just the sick bastard’s idea of having some fun, Sarconi didn’t know and didn’t much care. However it originated, the intent had found its mark. He, and his family, was accessible at any time.
If things got bad for SynTronic, they would get bad for the Sarconis as well.
The minute the guy left, Sarconi excused himself to his office and had an anxiety attack that lasted ten minutes. By the time he was able to breathe again his face was pale and his shirt was plastered to his skin, any hope of eating dinner or facing his wife the rest of the night obliterated.
Instead, he called Pinkering and told him they needed to meet first thing in the morning before excusing himself to bed under the guise of feeling ill. As it turned out, the ruse did little more than make a night of staring at the ceiling that much longer for him.
Eight minutes after six Sarconi walked into the same conference room they had met with Margie Bentley in just a week before. Seated across the table from him was Pinkering, his white lab coat draped over a chair back, a tie atop it. He yawned as Sarconi entered, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“This had better be important, you know I was on until after midnight last night.”
Sarconi stepped forward and slid the box of donuts across the table. “Here, eat one of these you skinny bastard. The sugar will wake you up in no time.”
Halfway through his eye rub Pinkering stopped and stared at Sarconi, his hand frozen by his temple. Sarconi ignored the look, going straight back to the door and checking the hallway before closing it behind him. The sound of the deadbolt turning rang out, cold and metallic, in the room.
“What the hell’s going on here?” Pinkering asked, ignoring the pastries.
Sarconi dropped into a chair across from him and leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. Dark circles hung in concentric rings under his eyes, his hair oiled down even heavier than usual. When he spoke, his voice was somewhere between a hiss and a whisper.
“Tyler Bentley filed a lawsuit against us yesterday.”
Three long wrinkles creased Pinkering’s forehead, his eyebrows rising almost to his scalp. A knot in his throat worked itself up and down as he tried to swallow. “Us as in you and I?”
“Us as in SynTronic,” Sarconi replied, his eyes flashing dark. “Though I don’t think that matters now, do you?”
A sheen of sweat appeared on Pinkering’s forehead as he leaned forward in his chair, matching Sarconi’s pose, elbows braced against the table.
“What are they claiming?”
“The usual stuff. Gross negligence, fraud, misrepresentation. Just civil charges right now, but they could go for maiming if anybody tried to press criminal charges.”
The response was met by another heavy swallow from Pinkering, followed by a small twist of the head. “How do you know this? Did he contact you?”
Sarconi leaned back just an inch or two, trying to decide how to best answer that one. There was no way he wanted Pinkering knowing about his contact, especially if things started happening to people connected to the case in the very near future. For the time being, it was best to be as vague as possible.
“Our lawyers received notice yesterday that a complaint had been filed against us. They called me last night, I called you.”
A terse bob of the head relayed that Pinkering bought the story.
“What’s he asking for?”
“We don’t know yet. That part was left blank, though my guys say that’s not uncommon in a jury trial. They’ll just pray for damages, pain and suffering, lost wages, let the system figure out what all that’s worth.”
Pinkering fell silent for a moment, mulling the information. “My God, Tyler Bentley was set to become a top-five draft pick. That could end up being millions.”
“Yeah, no shit,” Sarconi muttered. He raised a hand to his forehead and kneaded it with his hand, pushing the soft tissue back and forth with his thumb and forefinger.
“What are your guys saying?” Pinkering asked.
Sarconi stopped rubbing and sighed, leaning back in his chair until the stopper on it kept him from going any further. “This isn’t the first time one of our devices has failed. Our attorneys will reach out to Bentley and offer a settlement. After that, we’ll see what happens.”
Pinkering nodded several times in rapid succession, his mind chewing through the new information. After a moment he stopped, his gaze focused on Sarconi.
“We’ll see what happens? Is that supposed to be some sort of joke? This thing could sink us, both of us. If this goes to trial...we took the leg from a Heisman Trophy finalist for crying out loud!”
As Pinkering spoke, his voice raised several decibels, the initial fear of the situation subsiding into anger. The words echoed through the small room, drowning out all other sounds, even overtaking the smell of the curlers between them.
In response Sarconi just sat and stared, his face impassive.
“You think I don’t know that? You think SynTronic doesn’t know that? You think the fact that we produced a complete piece of shit and then stuck it in one of the most visible athletes on the planet is lost on any of us?”
Several tense moments passed as Pinkering stared back at him, both men panting.
Pinkering was the first to blink, leaning back and shaking his head in disbelief.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “This just isn’t what I expected this morning.”
Sarconi waved off the apology, saying nothing.
“Alright, so what do we do now? Rally the troops?”
“Right now, I think we are the troops,” Sarconi said, his face even more dour than usual. “The only other person to have any actual contact with the Bentley’s was Manningham, and he didn’t come in until after they’d agreed to the procedure.”
“Yeah, and he’s got a reputation as a real company man around here anyway,” Pinkering added. “No way he goes to bat for us.”
“After that, who else is there?” Sarconi asked. “The hospital director? The University president? Those guys are in the business of saving their asses, nothing more.
“And that’s what we need to do.”
The Adam’s apple again bobbed up and down as Pinkering nodded in agreement. “Alright, I’m with you. How’s this going to go?”
“According to my guys, the first step is still to look for a settlement. Maybe this won’t be anything after all. If not though, we need to get our story straight, and fast.”
More enthusiastic nodding from Pinkering. “You lie and I’ll swear to it.”
“Good,” Sarconi said, rising from the table. He shoved the box of donuts over in front of Pinkering and turned towards the door. “Have a curler, it’ll help calm your nerves. Don’t mention a word of this to anybody until we hear back from our guys.”
“Got it,” Pinkering said, reaching out for the box in front of him.
Sarconi went straight for the door, unlocking it and cracking it open. He started to pass through into the hallway, but stopped to look back at his colleague.
“Oh, and Leo? Put your tie on for Christ’s sake. You look like shit.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A tiny circle of sweat droplets formed on the concrete floor beneath Tyler, each one starting high up on his scalp, running down his forehead, and ending on the tip of his nose. It would hang there, swaying back and forth for several long seconds before falling to the floor, a new one appearing with each pushup he pressed out.
“Ninety-seven,” came the cadence, shouted out in the same ingratiating nasal voice that was fast starting to haunt Tyler’s dreams.
Another push-up, another droplet of sweat to the misshapen amoeba on the floor beneath him.
“Ninety-eight.”
Chest screaming, shoulders burning, breath coming in ragged gasps, Tyler paused at the top before lowering himself towards the floor.
“Nine-nine. Come on now, one more. You mean to tell me Mr. All-American can’t
do one more pushup?”
A small flame ignited deep inside of Tyler, a rage that started somewhere in his stomach and permeated his limbs. With it came a complete dulling of the senses, a total dissonance from the fatigue gripping him. In its place was fury, a tidal wave of pain and anger.
“Seventeen...eighteen...nineteen...” the voice kept calling out, that same stilted accent that refused to ever relent.
Tyler made it to one hundred and twenty-seven, a small puddle on the floor beneath him, before no amount of fury could overcome the lactic acid coursing through his body. One moment he was pumping out pushups, the next he was face down on the ground, his lungs clawing for air, heartbeat pounding in his ears.
There was no effort to move from the floor, the cool concrete soothing his aching body. Tyler lay there for almost two full minutes, a misshapen star fish with his head turned to the side, cheek pressed flat to the ground. He stayed that way until a gym towel smelling of fabric softener landed on his head, blocking all light from view.
A deep, guttural groan slid from Tyler’s lips as he pulled the towel away from his head and rolled over onto his back. He didn’t give a single thought to the fact that he was lying on the concrete floor, could care less that he was wallowing in his own sweat.
Above him, a middle-aged woman with a tight halo of orange and silver curls peered down, a quizzical look on her face. She was dressed in a black track suit with a hot pink t-shirt beneath it, a whistle hanging from around her neck.
“Damn boy, I’m dying to know where those last thirty came from,” she said, a bemused expression serving as the front for her annoying voice.
Disgusted, Tyler wiped his face with the towel and sat up, his right leg pawing at the floor for traction while his left remained inert. He leaned forward and rested his forearms around his knee, staring up at her with a look that bordered on contemptuous. “Do me a favor, don’t ever call me All-American, superstar, football hero, anything like that again.”
The words surprised the woman, blowing her back a bit, eyebrows raised.
Tyler stared at her a moment longer before shaking his head, his face softening. “Listen, Trudy, I appreciate everything you’re doing here for me, I do. Just...let’s leave that stuff at the door, alright?”
Trudy stared back at him, considering the words, before nodding and extending a hand down towards him. Tyler accepted it and pulled himself to his foot, hopping over to the leg extension machine.
“Apology accepted,” Trudy said, “though unnecessary.”
“Still,” Tyler said, sliding himself onto the seat of the machine and selecting a weight, his ankle fitting in behind the pad. “I didn’t mean to snap like that.”
A snort lifted Trudy’s head towards the ceiling, followed by a deep guffaw that started in her diaphragm and rolled out in a slow wave. “You call that snapping? I’m a physical therapist, I see people at their weakest, their most vulnerable, their most angry. I’ve been called every name you can imagine and had my mama called worse. That, my boy, was not snapping.”
Tyler smirked at the comment, his lips cracking into the faintest bit of a smile. “Sounds a lot like freshman football camp.”
“Yeah, except I get paid to be here. So let’s stop talking and get back to work. Fifty reps and you’re done for the day.”
Tyler’s eyes bulged at the command, but he said nothing, knowing better than to argue. It would only up the total to sixty. Instead he set his jaw and started into the set, his right quad burning, Trudy’s voice keeping count.
When at long last the set, and the misery of the workout, was done, Tyler thanked Trudy for her time and retired to the locker room of the Worland Community Hospital. Armed with the only fitness facilities in town not at the high school, it would have been far too Spartan for him to try and train for an upcoming season, but given his current state it was enough to make him flat miserable.
A pair of young orderlies was finishing changing after their shift as Tyler entered, both of them pausing by the door to give him a second glance as they passed. He pretended not to notice as he wheeled himself in and dropped down onto the floor, letting the cool relief of the tile seep into his skin. The towel went back over his face as he laid there, lactic burn retreating from his muscles, when his phone chirped to life beside him.
Tyler pushed an exhausted sigh out and rolled onto his side, reaching into a side pocket of his wheelchair and fishing for the phone. He had no doubt who the call was from before even answering it, his mother having done so after every workout he’d been to so far.
Every anything he’d been to for that matter.
The towel still affixed across his face, Tyler thumbed the phone on and pressed it to his face, a heavy sigh preceding his voice. “Hey, Ma.”
A full moment of silence met his ears.
“Um, I’m sorry, I must have the wrong number,” responded a male voice, familiar but not quite recognizable.
Tyler snapped the towel away from his face and pulled the phone back, staring down at the screen before pressing it back to his ear.
“Damn Shane, I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting it to be you.”
A quick chuckle returned to his ear. “Don’t sweat it, just the first time I’ve been called Ma before.”
A smile cracked Tyler’s face as he raised the towel to wipe away another trickle of sweat. “Yeah, ever since I got back she’s been kind of hovering. Makes sure I’m eating, calls and checks on me every time I go to the bathroom, everything.”
There was a small but noticeable pause.
“Must be nice,” Shane said, a different tone in his voice. He paused once more, before saying, “So listen, the reason I’m calling is to give you an update and to ask you a question.”
“Shoot.”
“I heard back from SynTronic’s counsel this morning, guy named Connor Reed. Used to be a big-time litigator back in the day, was brought on in-house almost fifteen years ago.”
Tyler closed his eyes, swallowing hard. “So that’s bad?”
“It ain’t good, but it doesn’t have to be bad either. Sometimes guys that have been around the block know when they’ve got a losing hand. This guy seems like one of them.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He called this morning and wants to set up a meeting to talk about a settlement.”
Tyler’s eyes flew open, bulging a bit at the words. “Already?”
“Yeah, though don’t let that fool you, could be nothing more than an attempt to keep the thing out of the paper. Even if he thinks they have the upper hand, they could be willing to pay just to make it disappear.”
“Alright,” Tyler said, working his jaw and nodding his head. “So what did you tell him?”
“Well, that leads me to my question. I told him I’d set it up for just as soon as I could talk to you.”
Tyler pulled the phone away again and checked the time. He ran the towel back over his face before pressing the phone back to his ear. “Can you give me three hours? I’d like for mom to be in the room when we talk about this, if you don’t mind.”
There was the sound of movement through the phone, as if Shane was checking the time himself. “That’s perfect. I’m on my way over to the athletic department this afternoon to do a little research, I’ll give you a call then.”
“Sounds good.”
“Alright Tyler, I’ll talk to you later tonight then,” Shane said, finality in his voice.
Tyler nodded, his gaze far away, before snapping his focus back to the phone. “Hey, Shane?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think I should be there for the settlement meeting?”
A long pause met his ears, long enough that Tyler had to check to make sure the connection wasn’t interrupted.
“No. If this thing goes to trial, I want that to be the first time anybody sees you.”
Tyler made a face, no idea what Shane was alluding to.
“Just, trust me,” Shane said, sensing the uncertaint
y through the silence. “If it gets that far, I’ll explain it all to you, I promise.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
An enormous emblem of the OTU Crimson Knight mascot was stamped into the floor of the athletic complex as Shane stepped through the front doors. It was the same traditional logo that had been in place for decades, a galloping knight with helmet visor pulled down, lance at the ready. Beneath the knight was his trusty steed, eyes wide, nostrils snorting steam.
Whatever this tandem of terror is headed at is in for a world of hurt, make no mistake of that.
Without a second thought to the impending doom that the duo might bring him, Shane strode across it and through the circular rotunda to the single desk on the far side of the room. A handful of student-athletes shuffled out as he entered, none giving him even a passing glance.
A young black man with close cropped hair sat behind the desk, a dog-eared paperback in his hands. In front of him was a half-full sign-in log, a computer off to the side. He seemed to sense Shane as he approached, setting the book off to the side and folding his hands atop the desk in front of him.
“Good afternoon,” the young man said, his voice much deeper than expected.
“Um, hi,” Shane said, his own coming out a decibel lower as if by a subconscious attempt to keep up. “Shane Laszlo here to see Marty Graham, please.”
“Okay, please sign in,” the young man said, motioning towards the page in front of him while lifting the receiver on the phone. He spoke into it for a moment, mumbling only a few words, before placing it back in its cradle. “Be down in just a moment.”
Shane thanked the young man and retreated away from the desk, circling to his left around the room. The entire rotunda was lined with floor-to-ceiling trophy cases, all of them bursting with team memorabilia.
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