Blown Coverage

by Jason Elam

  Riley turned on his stereo and pushed the button for disc five. The stark snare-drum opening of U2’s War album filled the interior of his black Yukon Denali. Riley used the steering wheel as his own snare and began singing along when Bono’s voice launched in.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a smirk form on Skeeter’s forward-looking face. Riley pretended to ignore him. If I’m going to have to live with this giant walking shadow, he’s going to have to deal with my habits. I’ve already lost my privacy. I’m not going to sit here and shut up just because he’s riding shotgun.

  Riley kept singing in his off-key baritone, slipping into an auditorily uncomfortable falsetto when Bono rose out of his range. However, when the song reached its chorus, Riley quickly hit the power button. “Sunday Bloody Sunday” ventured a little too close to what he was trying to forget.

  Unfortunately, the silence left him alone with his thoughts.

  Another issue that concerned him was having to face the coaching staff and Robert Taylor, the Mustangs’ public relations manager. It had been two weeks since Riley had returned any of their phone calls—something he was sure he’d have to answer for this morning.

  The reason for his prolonged silence was that as late as this morning, he still wasn’t sure what he was going to do about football. At 7:30 a.m., Riley had been on a conference iChat with his parents and his grandpa. During the off-season, he had purchased MacBooks for all of them so that they could better keep in contact through the video-chatting program.

  From the left side of his laptop screen, Mom and Dad had both wished him well for the day and said they’d be praying for him. But it was Grandpa’s words from the right side of the monitor that had stuck with him.

  “I know today is going to be a tough day for you, son. Your folks and I just want you to know how proud we are of you. As you head out today, try to keep your eye on the big picture. We’ve talked before about how, from time to time, you’re going to face situations that may seem too much to take. It’s times like this you’ve got to remember that God won’t give you more than you can handle. He’s promised that, so you can take it to the bank.”

  “Yeah, I know, Grandpa,” Riley had replied. “I just don’t know if I still have football in me.”

  Grandpa had smiled and said, “I understand. A lot has happened. I was just thinking back to the day you were drafted. Remember the excitement you felt? The feeling of a dream coming true? The Mustangs fulfilled that dream of yours. When you finally signed that contract with them, you were telling them that in return for that dream, you would give them your best. Riley, as long as you are out there giving your best, your best will always be good enough.”

  After disconnecting the videoconference, Riley had sat at his kitchen table rubbing his face with his hands. Riley knew Grandpa was right. He had made a commitment, something he didn’t take lightly. A quick prayer later, he had gathered up Skeeter and his gear and headed toward the garage.

  Now that he was so close to Inverness Training Center, the apprehension was growing stronger than ever. He knew there would be unpleasant people he would have to see and verbal lumps he would have to take. But there was one group of people that he just didn’t have the strength to deal with this first day back. So for the last five minutes of his trip to the training center, Riley turned his thoughts toward plotting all the creative ways he could avoid facing the media today.

  8:45 A.M. MDT

  INVERNESS TRAINING CENTER

  ENGLEWOOD, COLORADO

  It had been less than a month since Whitney Walker had joined Fox 31 News. The competition among reporters was fierce, and she knew there were hundreds of other applicants who would jump at the chance to take her job. The window for her to step up and make a name for herself was small. So she had decided to “catch the worm” and had gotten to the Inverness Training Center early with her cameraman, Mark Sandoval, to begin gathering sound bites from Mustang players as they straggled in.

  Unfortunately, things were not going well. Sure, she was getting all the usual comments: “We’re just looking for a fresh start” and “I think we have what it takes to go all the way this year.” But that was the problem; they were just the usual comments. Every other reporter was hearing the same thing. There was absolutely nothing that would help her stand out in the crowd. Whitney hated to admit it, but she was bored with her material.

  She sat down at one of several green picnic tables that were located under a covering next to the east practice field. Sandoval sat at the next table over, which was a relief. All morning, anytime she looked at him, he’d been staring at her. He would quickly look away, but it was still giving her a bit of the creeps.

  It was hardly as if she wasn’t used to the attention. Whitney Walker was a knockout, and she knew it. Her long blonde hair framed a face that on anyone else might be considered a little long. But the perfect balance of her features, along with the surprisingly rich emerald green eyes that everyone was constantly accusing her of aiding with contacts, created in her a beauty that was difficult not to stare at.

  While Whitney was not averse to using her beauty to her advantage—whether it was to further her career or to get out of the occasional speeding ticket—she also wanted to be taken seriously, something men seemed to have difficulty doing. To this end, she had graduated from UCLA in the top 5 percent of her class and was now working hard to develop an on-air personality that showed true professionalism yet still drew the viewers in.

  That desire to be taken seriously was what was plaguing her today. The one thing that would brighten Whitney’s day today would be to talk to Riley Covington. He was the story of minicamp. Football star, national hero, and let’s face it, extremely good-looking guy—a few minutes with him would brighten any girl’s day, Whitney thought with a smile.

  The problem was that getting to him seemed near impossible. The Mustangs’ media relations department was already busy earning their salaries for the day trying to keep the mob of reporters away from the players’ parking lot in anticipation of Riley’s arrival. If I try there, I’m just another goldfish in an already crowded fishbowl. Think—what would Riley do?

  Whitney had spent a lot of time researching Riley since taking this job, and in many ways she felt like she already knew him. He’s always ready to do a scheduled interview, but he still avoids media whenever he can. He has to know what’s waiting for him here. If I were him, you couldn’t catch me dead driving into the insanity of the players’ parking lot.

  Then an idea popped into her mind.

  “Come on, Mark,” she said to her cameraman, “let’s try something different.”

  Sandoval, who was in the middle of a Butterfinger bar, stuffed the uneaten half of the candy into his pocket and enthusiastically followed Whitney, no doubt hoping for something to break the minicamp routine.

  Walking quickly, they passed the crowd in the parking lot. Whitney motioned for Sandoval to slow down so they wouldn’t attract notice as they exited the gates and excused their way through the crowd of fans who had gathered to try to get autographs when the players pulled up to punch in the gate code.

  Once through the fans, they sped up again, going all the way around to the front of the main building. Just as they rounded the front corner, Whitney saw that her hunch was going to pay off. Fifty feet in front of her, Riley Covington was stepping out of a black Yukon Denali parked in the guest lot.

  “There he is!” she shouted to Sandoval and began hustling over until she saw another person step out of the passenger side.

  This other man was, as best she could tell, six feet seven and solid as a tree trunk. His hair was shaved tight against his scalp, and his dark skin showed lighter scars in a number of areas around his face and head. He was dressed all in black, and as he stepped out, his right hand was tucked in the left side of his sport coat.

  Gathering all her courage, Whitney moved forward to intercept Riley before he made it to the building’s front door. She knew he had sp
otted her when he answered his cell phone even though she hadn’t heard it ring. A bigger problem was that the other man had spotted her too, and with surprisingly few strides cut off her progress with his body.

  “Riley, please?” she called out, trying to look around the human roadblock. When he looked at her, she made a dainty little dip with her knees, and pled with her eyes for him to stop. Riley paused, smiled thinly, and put his cell phone away.

  “It’s okay, Skeeter,” he said as he walked up to her.

  Whitney held out her hand to him, knowing the value of physical contact. “Hi, Mr. Covington. My name is Whitney Walker with Fox 31. Is there any way I could talk you into just a quick interview?” She could see that he was annoyed at having to stop, so she was laying the charm on thick.

  “Sure, Miss Walker, a very quick one. I have to get in,” Riley said matter-of-factly.

  “Please, call me Whitney,” she said with a flash in her eyes.

  When Riley didn’t respond, it threw her off her game a bit. She had the interview all planned out—flirt a little to loosen him up, ask him about his off-season, get him to talk about the tragic and heroic events surrounding his time with the counterterrorism division, then transition to discussing the selection of Afshin Ziafat in the first round of the draft—a perfect journalistic coup that was bound to get her noticed by her higher-ups.

  But there was something about Riley that made her uneasy. Whitney had never felt so much pain and struggle in one person before. There was a sadness in his eyes that made her want to wrap her arms around him and tell him everything would be okay. She tried to ask the first question but couldn’t get it out. The silence became awkward.

  “Miss Walker?” Riley asked.

  After a few moments, Whitney finally spoke, amazing herself with her words even as they came out of her mouth. “Mr. Covington, I know you’ve been through a lot. I want you to know how sorry I am for what you’ve experienced. I was just hoping that . . . that maybe you would be willing to give us a station tag?”

  Riley’s shock showed in his eyes. “Uhh . . . sure.”

  Whitney quickly wrote out some words on a slip of paper and handed it to him.

  He read it over, then smiled at the camera and said, “Hi, I’m Riley Covington of the Colorado Mustangs, and you’re watching Fox 31 Denver.”

  Whitney smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Covington. I hope you have a great day.”

  This time Riley reached for her hand and shook it. “No, thank you. And please, call me Riley.”

  “Do you mind if . . . ?” Whitney asked shyly, holding out her business card to him.

  Riley took it with a smile, then turned and walked toward the entrance of the training center. Whitney watched until the doors closed behind him and his friend.

  Sandoval’s angry voice interrupted her reverie. “You just had the interview of a lifetime! I mean, that was one that people would be telling stories about for years to come! What happened?”

  Without looking at him, she said, “I don’t know, Mark. I honestly don’t know.”

  As she walked back around the building, she couldn’t help but wonder two things—whether that card she had handed Riley would ever produce a call, and whether or not her heart would ever slow down.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  MONDAY, MAY 11, 9:00 A.M. MDT INVERNESS TRAINING CENTER ENGLEWOOD, COLORADO

  Heads turned and conversations died when Riley and Skeeter passed through the frosted glass doors into the Mustangs locker room. Riley suddenly felt like he had walked in wearing his mother’s housecoat. Never had he felt uncomfortable in a locker room . . . until now.

  “Skeet, I think I’m okay in here,” he whispered to his friend. “Would you mind putting an eyeball on the media folk outside?”

  “Yes, sir,” Skeeter replied. He gave the staring faces one last look over, then walked back out the doors.

  Activity slowly returned as Riley made his way to his locker. Most of the players were already sitting under their nameplates performing various prepractice rituals. Some taped their wrists; others rubbed lotions on their legs. More than one man had his playbook on his lap while he tried to memorize new codes and their corresponding actions.

  Riley felt out of place as he walked past the lockers. Most of the players that he knew greeted him with a “What’s up, Covington?” or “Hey, Pach.” But since he hadn’t shown himself around the Mustang facility for any of the precamp workouts, there were a lot of faces he’d never seen before. It was a little disorienting being somewhere so familiar but seeing new people sitting in old friends’ places.

  At least thirty or thirty-five of the players here were new to Riley, but he knew he wouldn’t take time to get to know many of them. The reality of the PFL was that stints with teams tended to be quite short, and careers typically ended sooner rather than later. A vast majority of those thirty or thirty-five new faces would not still be here by the time the season rolled around.

  Riley continued his journey, but when he passed by Keith Simmons’s locker, he stopped and did a double take. Sitting back by his street shoes were books by C. S. Lewis and Lee Strobel. Then, set out proudly so everyone could see, was a beautiful two-tone leather New Living Translation Study Bible with Keith Simmons embossed in gold lettering right on the cover. I think Keith’s got some ’splaining to do, Riley thought with a surprised smile.

  His smile was short-lived, though. The locker three down from Simmons’s belonged to Riley. The one just past his had, until the end of last season, belonged to his best friend, Sal Ricci. Memories of conversations, jokes, and pranks flooded Riley’s mind—like the time he had filled the toes of Sal’s new ECCO Supercross shoes with shaving cream. Sal was quick to avenge himself, substituting Riley’s aftershave with Johnnie Walker Red.

  Riley smiled sadly at the memories. But then reality set in—grief, betrayal, torture, all culminating in a final gun battle. Riley closed his eyes and felt again the warm wetness of Sal’s—Hakeem’s—shattered head on his face. His stomach turned.

  Riley took a deep breath to steady himself, thankful that everyone seemed to be giving him the space he needed. He took the final steps to his locker and stood in front of it, trying hard not to look next to him. But the more he tried to avoid looking, the more he felt drawn that direction. Finally he gave in, and what he saw took his breath away a second time.

  On the nameplate above the locker was a piece of white athletic tape—a sure indication that the player was a rookie. And on that piece of tape was written AFSHIN ZIAFAT #59.

  Oh, Lord, what are you doing to me? This was too much, even for the normally easygoing Riley. He felt his face reddening with anger. What am I even doing here? You know, I gave it my best shot today! If I bolt out now, I can try to explain tomorrow. If they fine me, they fine me!

  He turned to leave the way he had come but was met by Robert Taylor, head of Mustangs public relations. “Hey, Riley, how’ve you been?” Taylor asked with a big smile on his face. Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “Listen, buddy, there’s a group of national guys outside aching to talk to you. You got a quick second?”

  “Not right now,” Riley shot back a little more aggressively than he had intended.

  Surprise showed on Taylor’s face. “Okay, what should I tell them?”

  Regretting each word even as he said it, Riley leaned into Taylor’s personal space and said, “Tell you what, I’ll let you know when I’m ready. Until then, I don’t really give a rip what you tell them.” Riley turned to his locker and began fiddling with his workout clothes until Taylor walked away.

  Once he was alone, he placed his hands on either side of his open locker and slowly began doing standing push-ups with his head down. Come on, man, Robert’s your friend. After all he’s done for you, you’re going to treat him like that? Slowly he moved in and out of his maple-wood locker, his head brushing against his workout uniform with each pass. Father God, if I’m going to survive this, I’m going to need Your help. Protect me
from any more surprises, and please help me to get a grip.

  “Riley?” came a voice from behind him, stopping him halfway through another descent. While he couldn’t know for sure who had said it, with the way his day was going he had a pretty good idea.

  Riley straightened up and turned around.

  There stood a young guy with a huge white smile on his face and his hand held out. “Riley, I’m Afshin Ziafat. It’s an honor to meet you.”

  Riley slowly met Ziafat’s hand and said coldly, “Likewise.” ‘Likewise?’ Brilliant! Riley silently chastised himself.

  Suddenly, something very large slammed into him, knocking him back into his locker. Riley looked up to see another big smile beaming down at him.

  “Keith, what’s up?” Riley managed.

  “What’s up? Bro, you can’t even begin to imagine! We seriously have to talk.”

  “No doubt. I saw you were reading C. S. Lewis’s Screwtape Letters. Not exactly what I would have pegged you to have on your library list.”

  Keith pretended to be offended. “What? Do you think all I do is sit around playing Xbox and reading back issues of Modern Black Male? Wait, modern blackmail! Get it? I crack myself up!”

  “I’m glad to see you amuse yourself,” Riley said, smiling despite himself.

  “I’m a regular one-man comedy show,” Keith said proudly. “But seriously, we do need to talk. That little brush with death in December really got me thinking. I ended up going in to see my sister’s pastor, and next thing you know I’m on my knees in his office giving my life to the Lord.”

  “Simm, that is so awesome!”

  “Isn’t it, though? But I’ve got so much more to tell you about. Why don’t we grill out at your place this week? You do the cooking, and I’ll do the talking and the eating.”