After exiting the plane, the players boarded buses to take them to Inverness. When Riley saw his Denali in the player parking lot, all he could think of was home, bed, and sleeping in as late as he could manage in the morning.
Chapter 12
Tuesday, December 23
Aurora, Colorado
“Merry Christmas to you,” Michael Goff sang as he opened the back door to his house. He had just returned home from another twelve-hour shift as a security guard at Sky Ridge Medical Center. The smell of homemade meatballs filled the kitchen—a smell so good it almost diverted him from his mission.
He caught his wife’s eyes as she turned from the stove and gave him a curious look.
Michael gave her a wink and continued his song. “Merry Christmas to you.” He moved into the living room, where his eight-year-old son, Kevin, was playing Madden football on the Xbox—as usual, Kevin’s team was the Mustangs. “Merry Christmas, dear Kevster,” Michael sang with much flair as he positioned himself between his son and the television.
“Dad, you’re in the way. Besides, Christmas isn’t for two more days,” Kevin scolded. But even as he halfheartedly complained, he was clearly intrigued by the look on his father’s face.
“Merry Christmas toooooo yooooooouuuuuuuu.” Michael dropped to his knees, pulled two tickets out of his parka, and waved them in front of his son’s face.
“Are those . . . are those Mustangs tickets?”
“No, Kev, they’re for Disney On Ice. I hear they’re doing the princess tour. What do you think, you knucklehead?”
Kevin dove for the tickets, snatching them out of his dad’s hand. The colorful background was a scene of Randy Meyer wearing an old orange jersey and throwing a perfect spiral. He ran his finger over the raised lettering. “‘Colorado Mustangs vs. Baltimore Predators. Monday, December 29. 6:30 p.m.’ Dad, these are the real thing!”
“Oh, are they? Sorry, I must have picked up the wrong ones.”
Kevin suddenly spun the tickets to the ground and began his best impersonation of Danie Colson. He cocked his arms to his side, thrust out his chest, and began moving in a circle in what could best be described as a chicken walk. “Hoodaman?” he called out.
“Yoodaman!” his father answered.
“Hoodaman?”
“Yoodaman!”
“Hoodaman?”
“Yoodaman!”
They fell into each other’s arms, laughing.
“Dad, you’re the most awesome dad ever! How’d you do it?”
“Well, it’s like this,” Michael began to explain as he dropped onto his beat-up La-Z-Boy and lifted Kevin onto his lap. “I called up Coach Burton, and I said, ‘Yo, Burt, my kid’s the biggest Mustangs fan on the face of the earth. We need tickets to the Monday night game. So fork ’em over, or do I have to come down there and give you a signature Goff smackdown?’ Half an hour later these came by special courier.”
“Yeah, right,” Kevin laughed and gave his dad another big hug. “Hey, let’s go tell Mom!”
They began a chant of “Go, Mustangs! Go, Mustangs!” and formed a mini conga line. They danced their way into the kitchen, where Marti Goff, who had heard everything in the small house, feigned shock and surprise when Kevin waved the tickets at her. She joined the conga line behind her husband as it snaked through the kitchen and down the hall to the bedrooms.
“So, how’d you swing that?” Marti whispered over Michael’s shoulder.
“Larry Gervin had these two tickets he was looking to trade away. In exchange, I promised to cover his shifts on Christmas and New Year’s Eve.”
Marti slapped his arm. “You’re going to be gone Christmas?” Then, after a few seconds, she leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the side of his neck. “You’re a good dad, Michael Goff. . . . Go, Mustangs! Go, Mustangs! Go, Mustangs!”
Tuesday, December 23
Denver, Colorado
Todd Penner stepped out of Trice Jewelers and into his 1986 Oldsmobile Cutlass. He had just paid the second-to-last installment on the layaway he had stashed in the vaults of the jewelry store. Walking the steps of Platte River Stadium with his tray of drinks at next Monday night’s Mustangs game should net him enough in tips to finally take the ring home. For now, home for this twenty-year-old was still Mom and Dad’s. But the ring—that precious circle of gold with its microscopic diamond chip ensconced firmly in its center—that ring was for her. The one. Sweet Jamie.
As he got into the car, he could still smell the remnants of the Chick-fil-A combo he had scarfed on his way here. Food’s great, but it takes a week to get the smell out, Todd thought. He took a swig of his large Dr Pepper (really the primary reason he went to Chick-fil-A to begin with) and successfully started up the car—not necessarily a given considering the 236k on the odometer of the vehicle that his friends affectionately referred to as “La Bomba.” True, it may be a bomb, but it gets me where I need to go . . . usually.
Back to Jamie—sweet Jamie—the girl he had been “dating” since sixth grade. At that time, dating meant hanging out together at church youth group and sitting together for lunch at West Middle School. There had certainly been some rough times in their relationship as they had both grown up at their own pace. But love overcame all odds, and eight years later Todd was ready to make things permanent.
He had the proposal all planned out. On New Year’s Day (a perfect day for a new start), he would drive her up to Red Rocks Amphitheatre. That was their special spot. They had seen concerts there by everyone from Kelly Clarkson (her choice) to Evanescence (his choice). The best concert of all, though, was back in 2003 when they spent an evening listening to James Taylor. Sure, he was possibly older than the rock formations themselves, but he was a favorite with each set of their parents. Thus, both Todd and Jamie had grown up on JT’s music. The summer night had been perfect, with thunderstorms way out to the east providing a light show to accompany the legend’s exquisite voice. It was an evening they would tell their grandkids about.
Todd’s plan was to sit Jamie down on the very spot where they had sat that magical night. He would get down on one knee, profess his eternal and undying love for her—Is “eternal and undying” a redundancy? he wondered—and ask her to be his wife. Although he was fairly sure of her answer, the thought of doing it both thrilled and terrified him.
He clicked on his AM radio and tuned it to 950. Sports analyst Jim Rome was on a tirade about the pitiful Bandits and their choke against the Mustangs on Sunday. That had been an awesome game! He had watched it at home, squished on a sectional with his two younger brothers and his younger sister—the sister being the most rabid Mustangs fan of all the siblings. For the past three years, she had handily won the family fantasy football league. The popcorn had been flying when Colson ran that interception back. One more game, Mustangs; just one more game!
After a twenty-minute drive, Todd pulled into the main parking lot at Arapahoe Community College—his last stop before heading to his job waiting tables at Chili’s. There was a problem with his spring schedule, and the three phone calls he’d made to the registrar’s office had not accomplished a thing. These next months were very important to Todd, because if he could get through this semester at ACC as well as he had made it through his last three, he could potentially enter Metropolitan State College next fall with a scholarship. And he knew that a scholarship was probably the only way he could afford Metro—even with the College Opportunity Fund stipend.
Jamie’s and his plan was to work hard at school for two more years. Then he would have his business degree from Metro, and she would have her BFA in 3-D graphics and animation with a minor in computer science from CU Denver—her parents had committed to fund her education through the bachelor level. After that, her artistic and Web skills would combine with his entrepreneurial spirit and business savvy, and they would slowly build what would ultimately become a thriving company. At least that’s how it looked in the business plan he had created for his small business management
class last semester.
Todd knew that things would probably not work out as smoothly as they looked on paper. However, he also knew that no trial could bring them down, as long as he and Jamie faced it together.
Tuesday, December 23
Arvada, Colorado
Carol Marks walked her final piano student to the door and waved at the child’s parents, who were waiting out in the car. “Good job, Eric,” she called out as the nine-year-old ran to the driveway. “Maybe next week we can get you to sing along as you play.” Fat chance, she laughed to herself. After nearly four decades of teaching, this boy’s got to be the most stubborn student I’ve had yet.
She often wondered if it was time to take down her teaching shingle. With her husband’s salary, she didn’t need the aggravation of grumpy kids and surly parents anymore. But there was still something about it that she loved. She loved experiencing those “aha” moments with the students when something new clicked in their young minds. She loved witnessing the joy of a great performance at the yearly recitals. She loved seeing the wonder in the eyes of the kids as they opened themselves up to new musical adventures—Yeah, all except for Eric!
Although her love for teaching was the main reason she kept doing it, there was a secondary reason, too: the income from the lessons helped fund a Marks family addiction. For the past thirty or so years, Carol and her husband, Paul, had been Mustangs season ticket holders—not an inexpensive undertaking.
They’d started out with four tickets in 1977, a season that had seen Marc Warmuth at quarterback, rookie head coach Gary Lewis at the helm, and the mighty Red Scare defense destroying all those who took them on. Although the Mustangs were embarrassed in the PFL Cup that year by the Texas Outlaws, Paul and Carol had been hooked. Every year since then, they’d scrimped and saved to keep their tickets.
Over time they had gotten to know the people in the seats around them. Soon, four of the families began getting together outside of the football games. The ladies even gave their little group a name—the Buckaroos—which caused much groaning among the men.
As the years went on, they had watched each other’s families begin to grow and then spread out across the country. There was even a marriage between the Markses’ eldest son and another couple’s daughter.
The group’s conversations had gradually moved from children to grandchildren. Their pregame tailgating increasingly included items listed as “low-cal” and “fat free.” There had been two heart attacks and a cancer scare, but through it all the Buckaroos held together.
The move to Platte River Stadium created a temporary crisis among this happy band of four families. They were determined to keep their gang from falling apart. So together they had gone and scouted out the new stadium. And together they had put in for their new seats—the Markses only putting in for two now, since the kids were out of the house and starting families of their own. And now, even after three decades together, the group met for every game, either at the stadium for home games or at one of the family homes for away games.
That was the other reason Carol continued teaching piano. Her parents were gone, her kids were out of the house, and she didn’t want to take the chance of losing more family. Quite a few times over the years, she and Paul had helped supplement the cost of tickets for other members so they could stay together. Sure, Carol loved the Mustangs, but the real reason she went to the games was to see the Buckaroos.
Chapter 13
Thursday, December 25
Parker, Colorado
Riley eased his Denali to the curb outside the Ricci residence in Canterberry Crossing, a subdivision in Parker. Off to his left he could see a group of four men teeing off on Black Bear Golf Course. Either they’re single, or they have very understanding wives, he thought.
He grabbed some packages from the passenger seat, then went around to the liftgate. There, protected in a shallow box, was his offering for the Christmas feast—brown bag apple pie (his mom’s recipe with the slight modification of a store-bought crust).
After Riley had left the air force, his mom had taken a day and taught him how to make one main course (pepper steak—steak au poivre, if he really wanted to impress), one side dish (green-bean casserole), and one dessert (apple pie). Mom reasoned that with these three recipes under his belt, he would always be prepared to bring something whenever he was invited to someone’s house. Good thinking, Mom, as long as I’m not invited to the same place twice.
He scooped up the pie, wrangled the liftgate closed, and walked up the path.
Before he even had a chance to ring the bell, Sal Ricci opened the door. “Welcome!” Ricci said as he took the packages from his friend’s hand. Then he called over his shoulder, “Riley’s here, babe.”
Riley pressed Lock twice on his key fob and followed Ricci in.
The smell of Christmas filled the air—the woodsy scent of a beautifully decorated fir tree, the cinnamon and clove fragrance of potpourri, the rich, thick smells coming from the kitchen, the . . . Whew, what is that smell? Riley looked down to see nine-month-old Alessandra preparing to crawl up his leg.
“Sorry, bud. I think she needs a change,” Ricci said, scooping his daughter up.
“What have you been feeding that poor kid? Pork rinds and broccoli?” Riley called after him. He sought refuge for his nose in the kitchen, where Megan was busy preparing the feast. “Merry Christmas, Meg. It smells wonderful in here.”
She put her spoon down and gave Riley a hug. “Welcome, Riley. It’s great to have you with us today. Wow, what is this?” she asked, taking the pie from his hand. “Is this homemade?”
“Yep—exactly like Mom used to make. But do me a favor—next year ask me to bring a side dish.”
“Sure thing,” she said, giving him a curious look. “What happened to my husband?”
“Alessandra had a toxic leak. It’s funny; I remember when you were pregnant. Sal said he would never change a diaper.”
“True, and for the first months it was all I could do to get him to change her. But recently, he jumps at the chance to change every diaper. It seems like every waking moment he’s playing with her or just staring at her.” She stopped for a moment, then looked Riley in the eyes. “You’re Sal’s closest friend on the team. Have you seen anything different about him lately?”
“Different how?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’d say he seems edgier than usual. He says it’s because of the pressure at the end of the season, but I think it has to be more than that. One moment he’s wonderful, and the next moment he bites my head off about something; then the next moment he’s staring off into space.” Megan paused and looked down. When she looked back up at him, there were tears in her eyes. “Would you . . . would you tell me if he was having an affair?”
“After I got through beating him to a pulp, yeah, I’d tell you—or at least I’d make sure that he told you. But I don’t think you have to worry about that. I would be truly shocked if he were messing around on you, Meg. I’ve seen the same stuff you have, but I see it all around the locker room. Everyone is on edge.”
“You don’t seem to be.”
“Well, that’s because I’m an extreme introvert who suppresses my feelings of angst until they reach a boiling point, finally finding a violent outlet on the playing field.”
“Impressive. You’ve been talking to the sports psychologist,” Megan said with a relieved laugh.
“Watching Dr. Phil, actually. Seriously, I’ll talk with Sal today and try to find out what’s going on.”
“Thanks, Riley.” She gave him another hug as Ricci came in with Alessandra.
“What’s-a happening-a here? Are you a-messing with-a my girl?”
Riley laughed. “Sal, for being Italian, you have the worst fake Italian accent in the world. You sound like a junior high production of The Godfather.”
“Well, let’s-a sitta at the table. Or am I-a gonna hafta make-a you an offer you can’t-a refuse?” They all laughed as they sat, i
ncluding Alessandra, who had no clue what was being said but apparently knew that her daddy was the funniest man in the world.
Thursday, December 25
CTD North Central Division Headquarters
Minneapolis, Minnesota
Scott Ross saw it as soon as he walked into Jim Hicks’s office. Sitting on Hicks’s desk was a case of Yoo-hoo.
“Merry Christmas,” Hicks said.
“Jim, I’m touched.”
“Now don’t go all sappy on me. I was getting tired of all your complaining, and . . . well, I appreciate all the hard work you’ve put in over the past few days. Let’s leave it at that.”
“Not even a Christmas hug to go with it?”
Hicks glared at Scott.
“Well, thank you anyways. And, just so you know that I didn’t forget about you this yuletide season . . .” Scott reached into his coat and pulled out a magazine with a little red bow stuck on its front cover.
Hicks took it from him. “Wow, Guns & Ammo. Exactly what I’ve always wanted.”
“Take a look. It’s the January issue!”
Hicks couldn’t help but smile. “Scott, you’re like the son I’m glad I never had.”
“Thanks, Pop. So, I’m assuming by your being here that you have no pressing family obligations.”
Hicks shook his head. “No, I stopped having family obligations three years ago when my second wife divorced me.”
“How’d that happen?” Scott asked as he cracked open his first Yoo-hoo bottle of the day. He offered one to Hicks, who quickly declined with a grimace on his face.
“Listen, Scott, I appreciate your feigned interest and all, but I’m not really into talking about myself.”
Monday Night Jihad Page 12
