by Tim Green
Murphy was on the rookie immediately and began pummeling him as if he would kill the young player if left to his own devices. Hunter popped up and got into the fray himself, trying with his teammates to pull the two battling bulls apart before someone got seriously hurt. When Murphy was finally subdued, and the defensive line coach had the rookie off to the side and was giving him a rabid verbal lashing, Hunter realized that something was running into his mouth. He put his fingertips to his lips, and they came away bright red with blood. The impact had crammed his helmet down onto the bridge of his nose, and he was bleeding like a stuck pig.
Hunter had the trainers jam some cotton up his nostrils and immediately stepped back into the huddle so he could continue to run the offense. After four more plays, the teams switched and the backup offense huddled up to take their turn against the first-team defense.
The defenders, more violent by nature than their offensive counterparts, were lathered up with excitement at the sight of blood. They couldn't help themselves. They were like sharks, or a pack of wild dogs. When they saw blood, it made them hungry for more. Broadway Blake stepped up to the line and checked the defensive formation.
"Gonna get you, rookie!" Bert bellowed from directly across the line. "Gonna get your blood, too!"
Players began barking out calls all up and down the line on the defensive side of the ball.
"Get you, rookie!"
"Gonna bust your ass, rook!"
"Rookie's got that long, pretty hair! He must be a punk!"
Hunter was almost blushing on the sideline at the obviousness of Bert's and his teammates' intimidation ploy. The ball was snapped and the rookie fumbled. Bert pushed past the center and bumped into Blake hard, like they were on a crowded elevator.
"Come on, rookie," Bert said, pushing his face mask into the quarterback's until the two rang and clanged like armor. "You can't throw it if you can't hang on to it."
The next nine plays went downhill for Broadway Blake. As the defense growled and snorted and bumped and bruised him in what Hunter would consider very innocuous ways, Blake lost his cool. When they threw a blitz at him on the fifth play, the young QB did not even know it was coming. He tossed the ball pathetically into the air and cringed at the same instant like some little sissy on the playground. The ball went up and the defensive backs were actually fighting among themselves over who was going to get the interception. It was bad.
"No wonder you got them earrings," Bert said loudly in disgust after the play. "Shit, we didn't even hit you, punk. I can't wait until camp comes and we can get a shot on your big sissy ass in a live scrimmage!"
The rookie mumbled something under his breath and started back to his huddle.
"Don't you mumble shit at me!" Bert bellowed, not giving the young player an inch. "You got something to say to me, you say it, punk! You come in here shooting your mouth off, you better be ready to back it up!"
Bert jogged after the rookie and grabbed for his face mask. Again the rookie cringed. Bert got him anyway and turned his head toward where Hunter was standing silently behind the huddle with the other offensive players who were watching.
"You see that man there?" Bert said. "What? I said, 'Do you see him?'"
'Yes," Broadway Blake said.
"Yeah, well, he's the man around here. You got that?" Bert demanded amid grunts of approval from players on each side of the ball. "He's our man. He took us to the show last year, boy. You ain't shit until he says so. So you better start to fly straight and shut your fucking mouth, 'cause everyone here can see that you're just a big-mouthed pussy!"
Bert shoved the rookie back toward his own huddle and returned to the other side of the ball.
"All right, Meyer," Price said, "that's enough."
Only Broadway Blake's original arrogance kept Hunter from feeling truly sorry for him. Besides, Hunter figured Bert's rough treatment was probably the only thing that would keep the rookie quiet long enough to let Hunter enjoy a peaceful summer with his family.
Chapter 9
A week later Hunter and his family were at their home in the Hamptons. Hunter was feeling good about the prospect of spending the summer at the beach. With the challenge from the young draft pick behind him and the hurtful encounter with Henry a fading memory, Hunter was ready to relax before training camp cut the summer short a few days after the Fourth of July. He got dressed in the sunny master bedroom suite that overlooked the grassy dunes and the sparkling surf and was feeling a little nervous and self-conscious about the party he and Rachel were preparing to attend at Grant Carter's home that afternoon.
"So how do I look?" Hunter asked.
"Fine, honey," said Rachel. Then she saw his frown. "You look sensational. Hunter, how can you even worry? A man as handsome as you next to all those old geezers with their knobby knees sticking out of their shorts like hairy beanpoles ..."
"I don't mean me, I mean what I'm wearing. Does it look OK?"
"Hunter, it's a pool party. You've got on a nice pair of shorts and a polo shirt. You look fine, really. You don't have anything to worry about."
"I know. You keep saying that. I'm just not used to this kind of thing."
"Having second thoughts about all this?" she asked.
"No, not really."
"Well, remember, you've always looked nice, even when you haven't given a shit. You've got me for a wife, don't you?"
"I want to make sure I don't dress like I just popped out of the hills of West Virginia," he said, looking awkwardly over his shoulder into the mirror, "even though that's exactly what I've done."
"I told you," Rachel reminded him, "just drink your beer from a glass, look bored, and frown at everything anyone says. Oh, and don't forget, don't rave about the food, even if you love it. Remember, you've had better. They'll think you've summered here since you were born," she chuckled.
Rachel's parents had a modest home in nearby Quogue near the center of town. They dropped Sara off there for the afternoon, then headed back toward the beach. They turned west on Dune Road and drove down the wide street lined with old, wind-tortured pine trees until they spotted the enormous gables of the Carter mansion. The house could only be truly appreciated from the beach, and Hunter and Rachel had walked past it many times from the ocean side. It was a little over three miles from their own house, and they had admired it many times on their early-morning walks. Being able to take long strolls on the beach was one of the reasons they'd purchased property in the Hamptons.
Hunter drove the Town Car up under a large portico in front of the house. A valet took the car, and a butler guided them through a maze of beautifully furnished rooms and out to a fantastic redwood deck with an unmatched view of shoreline that stretched for miles. At the center of the deck was a diamond-shaped pool that mirrored the azure blue of the cloudless sky. Tables with umbrellas scattered around the deck were half filled with West Hampton's social elite. It was Memorial Day, the beginning of the summer season, and even the large, accommodating deck was crowded.
Before long Hunter was actually having a good time. He found that most of the people there were friendly and excited about meeting the New York Titans quarterback. Grant Carter was a gracious host, introducing his guest of honor with effusive compliments.
Hunter tried hard to remember as many names as he could. He received invitations to countless tennis games, dinners, and barbeques. He gave out his phone number liberally.
"Hunter," Rachel whispered to him during a break between introductions, "I guess they like what you're wearing. It would take us all summer to do all the things you've been invited to."
"I feel like I'm making up for seven years of social seclusion in one afternoon," he said.
"You're doing a pretty good job at it, that's for sure," she replied.
After about an hour, Hunter excused himself and went inside to look for a bathroom. A caterer carrying a silver tray of freshly shucked oysters pointed down a long hall. Hunter took in the grand scale of Carter's home as he pas
sed a vaulted room filled with antiques. Large windows looked out over the ocean. The bathroom was equally impressive. The floor was covered with a plush Oriental rug, and an ornate divan was set against a wall that faced a full-length mirror and an expansive marble sink. Hunter pulled the solid mahogany door shut behind him and found the toilet. Afterwards, he stared at his face in the mirror as he washed his hands. He thought about the rural farm boy he had been. He could still see signs of that boy in his face, but they were growing fainter every year.
A figure appeared behind him suddenly and made him jump. He quickly turned around.
"I didn't mean to scare you," murmured Camille. "I followed you."
She was dressed in an electric blue one-piece bathing suit covered by a long, silk beach shirt. Her golden hair hung wildly about her shoulders.
Hunter was surprised to see her and could not keep his eyes from traveling down the length of her long and supple body.
They say fear illicits the same neurochemical reactions as sex," she said in a husky voice.
Before Hunter could respond, Camille closed the gap between them and pressed her body to his, finding his lips with her own and separating them with her tongue. Hunter felt her large, firm breasts and the soft mound between her hips as she ground against him. He lifted her arm from around his neck and turned his head away slowly as he gently pushed her away. Even as they separated he felt himself stiffen with excitement. He could smell the liquor on her breath. His pulse pounded in his chest from the stirring of blood, and he actually found himself gasping for a breath.
"I can't do that," he said.
She looked at him in a puzzled and hurt way. She was drunk, he knew.
"You want me," she said with certainty.
Hunter felt his head nod almost involuntarily. "I can't imagine anyone who wouldn't want you. But wanting and having are two different things with me."
"How, different?" she said in an almost bored tone of voice.
Hunter shrugged. He felt embarrassed. He started to move toward the door.
"I admire it, though," Camille said abruptly as Hunter stepped past her into the hallway. He entered the great room and looked nervously about. No one was around. He glanced back down the hall. Camille was leaning against the wall, staring after him hungrily.
He found Rachel among a group that included Grant Carter. Hunter was only able to exchange perfunctory smiles with his wife before the owner asked if he might speak to Hunter alone. Hunter was relieved. He'd done nothing wrong, but he was afraid Rachel's sixth sense would detect what had just happened and that she'd make a scene. He wondered what had made him rush back to her side. He needed to cool down.
"Of course, you two go ahead," Rachel said pleasantly. The rest of the group nodded, and Carter led Hunter by the arm away from the pool. They ambled along the private boardwalk that passed over the dunes to the beach. Carter nodded to other guests along the way and occasionally stopped to introduce Hunter. When they reached the stairs to the beach, they were alone.
"Mind if we take a walk?" Carter asked.
"Not at all," Hunter said. He couldn't shake the nervous feeling that he had done something wrong, that Carter knew what had just gone on with Camille. That, of course, was impossible.
When they reached the firm sand just above the tide line and turned, Carter put his arm around Hunter's shoulder, "I wanted to talk with you about your contract, Hunter," he began. 'That's not why I asked you here today. I want you to know that. But I didn't want to miss an opportunity to reiterate what I said to you in January after the Super Bowl. I'm serious about us hashing out this deal between ourselves. Your bargaining position is fantastic, I know that. You led my team to the top, and I want you to be compensated. There's no need to let some agent get between us and muck things up for next season. Hell, I'd like to see us do it again."
Carter released Hunter and looked at him for a reaction. Hunter only nodded, listening. Rachel had told him to say as little as possible when Carter brought up his contract. She'd warned him when they got the invitation to the party that just such a discussion was going to happen. Hunter marveled to himself now that she had known what Carter was up to.
"Once you say something in a negotiation you can't undo it," Rachel had said when he told her he was determined to settle this contract on his own. "Let him do the talking. Take everything in, and then you can take time to think about what he's said to you. You can ask other people what they think. The less you say, the more Carter will respect you. The more he respects you, the more fair he'll be with you."
They walked almost another hundred yards before Carter finally accepted Hunter's silence and continued. "Now, Hunter, I'm not trying to demean what you've done, but I want you to know how I'm figuring this. I look at Dan Marino and Joe Montana. They're the two top-paid players in the league. They've both led their teams to the play-offs year after year. They've also both been perennial Pro Bowl quarterbacks. Now, what I've got in mind is this: I'm going to put you in their category, but you'll have to prove yourself again this next season to make their kind of money. I want to tie part of your contract to your performance. If we do well again, or if you have another Pro Bowl year, no one will make more money than you."
Again Carter looked at Hunter for some sign. Again Hunter remained impassive.
"If you agree with what I'm saying in principle," Carter continued, "we'll sit down, you and I, and look at their contracts. Then we'll tailor it to what you want within the bounds of what I'm talking about. I think it makes sense for us both. If you have the kind of year you had this past season, you deserve to make that kind of money. But if there's some kind of unforeseen problem, which we both know there won't be, then I won't feel cheated for having paid you a king's ransom. But... if I do this, I don't want you running to the press talking about how you should be paid more than anyone no matter what. I want to be fair. I want us to work this out. You'll make a lot of money either way, at least a three-million-dollar base. I'm just talking about the big, big money being tied to your performance."
Now Carter stopped and began walking back toward his home. Hunter was having a hard time containing himself. He wanted to jump in the air when he heard the words three million. But he'd promised Rachel he'd hold his tongue, so he waited.
Finally Carter said in an exasperated voice, "So what do you think, Hunter? Have you heard anything I've said to you?"
Hunter couldn't help breaking into a small smile, even though he kept his eyes trained ahead. "I'm going to go home and think about everything you've said to me, Mr. Carter. I'm sure between us we can work something out. I just need to think about it a little more."
That was it. Hunter had repeated it to Rachel a hundred times. That was all he would say. And as Rachel had predicted, it was enough. Carter smiled and patted him on the back.
'You're right, son," he said jovially. 'This is no way to enjoy a party. You think about what I've said, and I'll call you some time next week. Maybe we can play some tennis out here next weekend and talk a little more. . . . Let's get back to the party."
Camille was not a woman to take rejection lightly, even if the man was married. She thought of herself as a magnet that pulled men to her like helpless bits of steel. No one was immune, or so she thought. So when she awoke on Sunday morning, she was feeling low. She wanted to get away from her father's house and away from Hunter Logan. He was a trophy that had gotten away, and she needed no reminders of it. By noon she was in her Mercedes convertible, headed west on the Long Island Expressway, back to the city. There was little traffic, and an hour and a half later, she was home.
Her apartment looked out over the East River, and on a clear day like this she could see for miles. She pulled the blinds. The bright light did nothing good for her headache. She flipped on her answering machine and poured a screwdriver while she listened. The messages were dull, a party next Friday, two requests for dinner during the week, and an old friend from school calling to say hello. Then she heard an unu
sual voice from the past. She hadn't expected to hear it ever again; he didn't seem like that type. The voice brought back the image of a wonderful and dangerous night she had spent in the company of Tony Rizzo, several months before.
She'd met him at a party. It was a big party, not the kind with the same old crowd--it had been something different. It had been in the winter, and it had been cold out. She spotted him the moment he walked in the door. He slung off his long black leather coat like a cape. He was dark and exotic-looking. She suspected he was a foreigner, so when she heard him speak with a silky Brooklyn accent she was surprised. The way the other women in the room followed his movements made her determined to have him much the same way she had been determined to have Hunter Logan just the night before.
The attraction was mutual, and before midnight they were both high and his limousine had delivered them back to his apartment overlooking the park. Soon they were naked on his bed. Camille remembered his voice, soft but threatening. He talked dirty to her and fucked her violently. She remembered being frightened. She remembered liking it. She wrote down the number he left on the answering machine, thinking she could use a little excitement in her life.
Chapter 10
Ellis Cook strode purposefully down the sidewalk. The sun was bright. He took off his jacket and dabbed his forehead with his shirt sleeve, leaving it soaked to the skin from his elbow to his wrist. He had walked home to meet Natasha and Esther for lunch. He cursed himself for not taking one of his team's air-conditioned Crown Vies. He had assumed a summer as far north as New York would be a relief from the heat of the deep South. He was wrong. The city held a special heat of its own. It drove those who could escape far out to the cool beaches on the end of Long Island and blistered those who remained behind.
