Inside Threat (5 page)

“Sorry, guys,” Riley called out. Then the picture flashed in his mind of all these huge, tough guys sprawled on this disgusting floor leaning against these just-as-disgusting dividers, and he began to laugh. It started small but quickly grew. Soon he had tears pouring out his eyes, and he was having a hard time standing up.

Meanwhile, the door slammed on the stall next to him, and someone noisily barked out the contents of his stomach. This sent Riley over the edge, and he dropped onto the seat of the toilet.

“It ain't funny, Pach,” a voice grumbled from next door.

“Sure it is, Panda,” Riley answered merrily, recognizing the voice. “Every week, you sound like you're giving birth to a baby through your esophagus.”

“Bite me,” Panda answered, starting to laugh himself. “By the way, this week it's a boy.”

Five minutes later, Riley emerged from the bathroom. He and Panda had gone back and forth about the newly arrived baby, covering topics from his name to his skin tone to his future college education.

The protests from the other stalls finally shut them up, and they quietly stepped from their stalls. It was a respect thing. Each player got ready for a game in his own way. The one element that was typically honored by all was quietness. The two apologized to their teammates, then snickered on their way out.

Riley arrived back at his locker and the waiting crew. But not before deciding that he was taking himself way too seriously. His pride was getting in the way again—an affliction that he constantly found himself battling. It wasn't easy keeping a small head when there seemed to be a television, newspaper, or magazine story every other day that talked about how he was America's hero and the greatest thing since frozen waffles.

The worst thing he could do would be to start believing his own press. Chasing down glory eventually turned into a losing proposition—it always did. Ultimately, why should he care what people thought of him? Whose affirmation was he trying to gain, after all?

He remembered the apostle Paul writing, “For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.” So his life wasn't really about himself anyway.
Just be yourself and try to show Jesus in how you're living. Beyond that, who really gives a flying flip?

As he sat down at his locker prepared to apologize to Novinger, he could see that the producer had tears in his downturned eyes and was desperately trying to suppress a grin. Riley looked around and saw that the rest of the crew were in various failing stages of laughter suppression.

“So I'm assuming you didn't mute the mic,” Riley said to Novinger, causing a brief snigger from two of the cameramen.

The producer tried a couple of times to answer, but each time ended up looking at the bench again—his shoulders silently bouncing up and down.

Riley could see that they were beginning to attract attention, which could mean trouble. He was about to tell Novinger that he and his crew better cool it, when he saw defensive coordinator Mick Fields come stomping through the locker room.

Too late.

“What's the matter with you people? Are you a bunch of amateurs? Aren't you supposed to be from HBO, the big leagues? In case you haven't noticed, I've got a team here trying to get ready for a PFL game—that's the Professional Football League, the big show—and you're all here tittering like a bunch of schoolgirls reading a
Tiger Beat
magazine! Well, I'm not having it! Get out of my locker room—all of you!”

Novinger began to pull out a piece of paper from his back pocket. “But we've got permission from Mr. Bellefeuille to—”

“Save it! I don't care if you've got a signed affidavit from the Almighty executed by seven flaming archangels; I won't have you disturbing my locker room. Now get out! You can catch up with Mr. Superstar on the field!”

As the crew gathered up their equipment and headed toward the doors, the crimson-faced coach swung around to Riley. “And you—don't think I won't throw you out with them!”

“Sorry,” Riley said sheepishly. “My bad. Seriously, Coach Fields, it won't happen again.”

Fields glared at him for a time. Seeing the sorry look on Riley's face mollified him somewhat. Grunting, he turned to go.

“Oh, Coach, one more thing,” Riley called after a few steps. Fields stopped and slowly turned, fire in his eyes. “If you happen to see a little kid named Ralph back in the bathrooms, would you mind sending him my way?”

Originating from just beyond the doors of the locker room, the sound of the HBO crew completely losing it echoed through the tunnels of the stadium.

Sunday, September 11, 2:35 p.m. EDT

Cleveland, Ohio

The eyes—watch the eyes! Riley backpedaled, staring hard at the Bulldog tight end. He felt his cleats tightly gripping the turf. A salty bead of sweat slipped into the corner of his mouth.

He's gonna break! Keep with him! There!

The tight end's eyes glanced right. It was just a flicker, barely noticeable, but that was all Riley needed.
Sorry, son, this is the big time!

But as soon as Riley committed to the right, the tight end bolted left. Riley tried to cut back, but it was too late. He had already lost two steps and the advantage.

All he could do now was chase as the tight end pulled in the pass and tacked on another fifteen after-catch yards. Sammy Newman, the Warriors' free safety, was the one who finally managed to trip the Bulldog up, sending him sprawling. As the tight end flew toward the ground, Riley launched himself into the man to finish off the play.

Unfortunately, the collision happened a fraction of a second too late for the referee. Riley groaned as he watched the yellow flag drop to the grass inches from his face.

The tight end—
Lendell . . . no Temple, second-year guy out of Penn State—
rolled out from under Riley, then turned and offered him a hand up. Riley grabbed it, feeling a bit like an old man being offered help up a flight of stairs.

“Nice juke,” Riley said after he was on his feet.

Lendell just grinned at him, then jogged back to his huddle.

As the ref announced to the world Riley's late hit, a hand tapped his back. Turning, he saw second-string linebacker Noah Keaton standing next to him.

“Coach sent me in, Pach,” Keaton said.

Riley looked toward the sideline and saw Mick Fields waiting for him. Ten yards to Fields's right, he saw head coach Scott Medley glaring at him. He was about to ask which coach, when Medley lifted a clipboard to his face and turned away. Fields, on the other hand, had not taken his eyes off of him.

This should be fun,
Riley thought as he jogged toward the sideline.

Fields didn't wait for Riley to reach him. Running onto the field, he launched in. “Really, Covington? Is that really all you've got? Because that second-year boy just schooled you! Seriously, what were you thinking? Crap play like that just ain't going to fly—especially not from you! Because I know your salary, son! I know how much Bellefeuille is dishing out for you each year!”

I'm not in the mood for this. I'm truly not in the mood.

Riley didn't bother to look at Fields. Instead, he just kept walking, forcing the coach to follow next to him. As Fields screamed, Riley led him on a maze through the players standing along the sideline, circling around the benches, and edging between the phone bank and the Gatorade table. All the while, though, Fields never left him and he never shut up.

I'll grant him one thing—he is persistent. He's like a little yappy terrier that you just can't shake off.

“In fact, I can tell you your salary per game—per play, even! The way I figure it, Mr. Bellefeuille and the fans of the much-storied Washington Warriors just dished over right around $10,000 for you to miss that coverage. Or we could say it was approximately $350 for every yard you just gave Cleveland!”

He's good with the numbers, too! Very impressive,
Riley thought as he gave an embarrassed nod to one of the Bulldog cheerleaders who had been intently watching the whole incident. He did an about-face and headed back toward the team.
I've got to find a way to lose him before I end up saying something I'm going to regret.

“Don't think you're getting rid of me, Covington! You're going to hear what I have to say!”

Finally, Riley saw his salvation. Moving toward the field, he made a quick right in front of a Fox Sports tech holding a parabolic audio dish. Fields, who was cut off, stumbled into the man, and then in turn was rammed by the HBO Steadicam operator who had been marching behind the two-man parade.

Seizing the opportunity, Riley ducked into the mass of players. Behind him, the crowd roared their approval for something that was happening on the field.
Good to know I'm not the only one stinking rocks today!

Sliding his helmet off, he fought the urge to throw it at . . . what? A bench? Coach Fields? Bellefeuille's private box?

I got it! How about those obnoxious Dog Pound fans with their Bulldog masks and their creative speculations into my lineage?
Riley made the mistake of looking in the direction he was thinking. This sent the Dog Pound into a barking and howling frenzy.

Ultimately, none of the options seemed practical or productive, so he settled for sitting down by himself and sulking. To say that Riley was having a bad game today would be like saying the Titanic was suffering from minor structural damage. His game was going down fast and it was going down hard—a fact that was as obvious to him as it was to the coaches. This was the first time that he could remember ever being pulled from a defensive series.

The crowd behind him roared again as the stadium announcer proclaimed another Bulldog first down.

A hand landed hard on Riley's shoulder. He looked down at it. Dirt formed a black crescent on the tips of the fingers, and three of the green-stained joints were oozing blood at varied rates. Following the arm up, he saw Don Bernier scowling at him.

Suddenly, the scowl transformed into a grin. “Well, Mr. Covington, I would venture to say that it truly sucks to be you!”

Riley chuckled in spite of himself. “Yeah, how many people hate me right now? I think I've got fantasy team owners all over the nation cursing my name.”

“Not if they drafted Lendell,” Bernier responded, just before dancing back to avoid a rapidly swinging forearm.

“Dude, I don't know what's wrong with me today,” Riley said when Bernier came around to the front of the bench. A groan sounded from the crowd—
Finally, a good sign!

“It's easy,” Bernier said as he grabbed a water bottle from a passing trainer. He squeezed the contents all over his face, only aiming into his mouth for the last four seconds. After shaking the water off, he continued, “You're thinking too much. You're overanalyzing. You're forgetting the fundamentals. You're letting your outside life affect your inside game. You're putting matter over mind. You're letting your form determine your function. You're not dancing with the one who brung you. You're putting on the Eminence Front. You're black and white, but you're not red all over. You're—”

“All right, all right, you've made your point—I think,” Riley interrupted, laughing again. “Now, please, can't you just go away and let me self-loathe in peace?”

Bernier leaned in close to Riley. “And most of all, mi amigo, you're forgetting that when it's all said and done, this is just a stupid—”

Riley cleared his throat hard, cutting off Bernier's final word and causing the HBO audio guy to curse and snatch the earphones off his head.

Don't forget . . .
Riley mouthed, then pointed to where the mic was tucked in his pads.
“Don't say anything near me you don't want Bellefeuille and millions of others to hear,”
Riley had warned his teammates in a meeting last night.

You could say a lot of things about football, your team, even the coaches. But you never let them hear you say it's just a game. Because then they start questioning your heart.

After a moment, recognition showed in Bernier's eyes. Standing up, he stuck his finger in Riley's face and, starting out slowly but building up steam, shouted, “What I meant to say is this is just a stupid way for you to be playing the game. Yeah, that's it. You get with the program, mister! Because, by gum, if my beautiful children, Ryan, Emma, and Leah, and my enchanting wife, Heather, could hear me now, I'd tell them that I love them and that I have too much pride in my profession to be playing as poorly as you are today!”

By now, Bernier was starting to draw a crowd. “And besides that, you slacker, you good-for-nothing ne'er-do-well, our beloved Mr. Bellefeuille deserves better! He is without doubt the greatest owner the PFL has ever seen. Not only is he wise and gifted and a paragon of virtue, but he is also kind and, I'm not afraid to say it, remarkably handsome! So you give him your all! He deserves it! You hear me? You give him your all!” Bernier's voice cracked in the final words of his speech. Then, giving Riley a quick wink, he turned and stomped away.