Line of Scrimmage (29 page)

“Are you coming in?”

“Not yet.”

She reached for him. “Stay for a minute. Please?”

He shrugged off his coat and stretched out next to her.

“That’s better,” she said with a sigh, as she curled up to him.

She fell asleep to the feel of his fingers running through her hair. When she woke up, it was twelve thirty, and she was alone
and nauseous. Groaning, she rested her hands on her still-flat abdomen. “Please tell me you’re not going to make your Mama
sick for months.”

Her stomach surged, and she ran from the bed, making it to the toilet just in time. Since there wasn’t much left after the
last time, she suffered through a wicked bout of dry heaves that left her weak and sweating. She sank to the floor with a
whimper.

Ryan stood at his favorite ridge and absorbed the stunning view of the Rocky Mountains, replacing the flat image from the
interrogation room poster with the magnificent real thing. His hands had finally stopped shaking, but he hadn’t been able
to sleep or eat. He still couldn’t believe how easy it had been for everything he’d worked so hard for to be seriously threatened.

On his first day at rookie camp, Duke Simmons had taken him aside for a stern lecture about protecting himself from the crazies
who followed professional athletes around. It was a lecture Ryan had taken to heart, and he had a strict rule about never
being alone in a room with a woman who wasn’t his wife. He had broken that rule only once and paid a mighty price for it.
In a culture where celebrities were guilty until proven innocent, he had learned that accusations on their own could be destructive
enough.

Another piece of advice—this one from his mother in the days just before he signed with the Mavs—kept running through his
head: it takes a lifetime of hard work to build a reputation and just a minute of stupidity to lose it. He’d found out in
the last twenty-four hours that your reputation could also be stolen from you if someone hates you enough to go to such extremes.

He cringed when he imagined the headlines in the morning’s
Denver Post.
Just weeks after he had been hailed as his generation’s greatest football player, his fans were reading about statutory rape,
restraining orders, and broken engagements. He wondered how many people wouldn’t bother to read the whole story and would
come away thinking he
had
impregnated a sixteen-year-old while separated from his wife. The whole thing made him sick, and for once he was actually
grateful his mother wasn’t around. It was also sickening to realize he had to rely on his deadbeat father to provide an alibi.
But at least his old man had stepped up for Ryan when he needed him for once, so there was that.

With a deep sigh, he finally allowed himself to think of Susannah and the flash of revulsion he had seen on her face in the
minutes before the police had led him from the house. When he needed righteous indignation, she had given him mute shock.
He wanted her to scream and yell and tell the cops there was
no way
he could be guilty of these charges. No way. But they had spent fourteen long months apart—fourteen months during which she
was well aware that he had been confronted with opportunity every day. So in some deep, private part of her where her insecurities
lived, he was certain she
had
believed what the cops were saying, despite her protests to the contrary.

With one last long look at the spectacular view, he turned to walk back to the cabin to check on her. As the snow on the path
crunched beneath his feet, he told himself he couldn’t let these feelings fester or Henry would succeed in destroying something
far more valuable to Ryan than his reputation. He and Susie had worked so hard and come so far—too far to let the hatred of
others bring them down. So as he approached the cabin, he made a decision to chalk up her reaction to the shock of the moment
and let it go. It might not happen overnight, but he
would
let it go.

Inside, he shed his coat and kicked off his boots before he went into the bedroom to see if she was still asleep. The bed
was empty, so he called for her.

“In here,” she said from the bathroom.

He found her on the floor crying. “Susie,” he said, alarmed. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

Sobs hiccupped through her as she said, “I’m bleeding.”

Forgetting every thought he’d had at the ridge, he dropped to his knees in front of her and reached for her hands. “Susie,
look at me.”

She raised her shattered eyes to meet his.

“I need you to listen to me, okay?” Where this calm was coming from, he couldn’t say, because what he really wanted to do
was bawl right along with her. “Are you listening?”

Fat tears fell from her eyes as she nodded.

“I’m right here, I love you, and everything’s going to be fine. We’re going to get you to a doctor, and

they’re going to tell us the baby is just settling in for the ride, okay?”

“I can’t,” she sobbed. “I can’t do this again.”

“Susie,” he said firmly. “You’re a mom now. The baby needs you to be strong.
I
need you to be strong.” With his hands under her arms, he helped her up, and then held her close to him. “Can you be strong?
For me?”

With her head resting against his chest, she whispered, “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

His eyes flooded with tears, and his voice was hoarse with emotion when he said, “Come on, baby. Let’s go.”

Epilogue

“IT’S A PERFECT DAY FOR FOOTBALL IN THE MILE HIGH City of Denver, Colorado. Welcome to Fox’s coverage of the Denver Mavericks’
final home game of the regular season. I’m Steve Tate along with Terrell Peterson. Terrell, the Mavs secured a place in the
playoffs with last Sunday’s spectacular come-from-behind win against Chicago and will end their season with this match-up
today against the Kansas City Chiefs. And what a season this has been for the Mavericks, behind first-year Quarterback Todd
‘Toad’ McNeil, who’s done an admirable job of stepping into the formidable shoes left by Ryan Sanderson.”

“That’s right, Steve,” Terrell said. “And today the Mavericks will honor Sanderson, who brought home three Super Bowl trophies
during his ten years with the team, by retiring his number.”

“While we wait for the ceremony on the field to begin,” Steve said, “we’re joined by Ryan Sanderson’s high school football
coach, Jimmy Stevens, who’s in the studios of our affiliate KDFW Fox 4 in Dallas. Thanks for joining us, Jimmy.”

“It’s a pleasure to be with you, but I sure do wish I was there!”

“We should mention Jimmy just had a knee replaced or he’d be here in Denver today,” Terrell said.

“You bet your life I would,” Jimmy said.

“Tell us what this day means to you as the coach who first saw a potential NFL quarterback in Ryan Sanderson,” Steve said.

“Oh, I can’t tell you how proud I am of him and everything he’s accomplished in his career. Ryan always played with guts and
smarts. I see a lot of players with one or the other but few with both. He was such a pleasure to coach, and I’m delighted
the Mavericks are honoring him this way.”

“And just days after we heard Sanderson has signed a new five-year deal with Nike came this week’s news that he’ll be taking
over for you as coach of the Arlington Colts when you retire next month,” Steve said. “Can you tell us how that came about?”

“Well, since Ryan announced his retirement from the Mavs earlier this year, he and I have had several conversations about
his interest in coaching at the high-school level.”

“Did that come as a surprise to you, Coach?” Terrell asked. “I mean he could do anything he wants in the NFL, on television
. . . ”

“No, it really didn’t surprise me,” Jimmy said. “He believes he has something to offer these kids, and I couldn’t agree more.
I’ve been contemplating retirement for some time now, with my bum knee and all, and the idea of turning over the reins to
Ryan took hold over the last few months. Who better to coach the Colts than a guy who got his start right here in Arlington
and went all the way—and did it with so much style and class.”

“Well said, Coach,” Steve said. “Thanks for sharing your thoughts with us. It looks like they’re ready on the field, so we’ll
turn it over to Darren Murphy who’s with Mavericks’ owner Chet Logler. Darren?”

“Thank you, Steve. Chet, before we get started, let me ask if you thought you’d see your team back in the playoffs again this
year—the first year in a decade without Ryan Sanderson calling the plays.”

“No,” Chet said bluntly. “I didn’t expect it at all, but as we’ve seen all season, Toad McNeil wasn’t just sitting on the
sidelines collecting dust the last few years. He was watching Ryan, taking notes, and mentally preparing himself to do exactly
what he’s done for us all season. He learned from the very best.”

“Thanks, Chet,” Darren said. “I’ll turn the microphone over to you.”

“Good afternoon, Mavericks, fans!” Chet said to applause. “I’m Chet Logler, and it’s my pleasure to preside over this very
special day in the history of the reigning world champion Denver Mavericks! Today we honor the greatest player ever to wear
the Mavericks’ purple and yellow.”

The crowd went wild.

Ryan and Susannah waited in the tunnel by the forty-yard line while Chet gave a quick overview of Ryan’s many accomplishments
as a Maverick.

She brushed her hands over his Mavericks’ jersey.

“You look great.”

He tipped back his Stetson and leaned in to kiss her.

“So do you.” Wiggling his eyebrows, he added, “You know I love it when you wear my jersey.”

“It covers all my baby fat.”

“You are
not
fat! You’re gorgeous. And since my number is being retired, maybe you could retire tonight wearing just my number, hmmm?”

She rolled her eyes. “Two more weeks until you’re back in the saddle, cowboy.”

“I’m
never
going to make it,” he groaned.

They fell silent when Chet said, “Ladies and gentleman, please give a warm welcome to the last man to ever wear Mavericks’
number eighteen—Ryan Sanderson, accompanied by his wife, Susannah.”

Susannah looked up at Ryan. “Ready?”

He nodded and adjusted his Stetson. “Let’s do this thing.”

Holding hands, they emerged from the tunnel to thunderous applause that lasted for almost ten minutes. Ryan and Susannah waved
to the crowd while his former teammates stood on sideline benches and cheered.

As Ryan stepped to the microphone, Bernie came out of the tunnel and handed a purple and yellow bundle to Susannah.

“Thank you so much,” Ryan said as he took off his hat and waved again to the fans. He took a full minute to gaze at the capacity
crowd, as if to drink it all in one final time.

“On a day a lot like this one, but under much different circumstances,” Ryan said, “Lou Gehrig stood before his hometown crowd
in New York and declared himself to be the luckiest man on the face of the earth.” Ryan paused, cleared the emotion from his
throat, and said, “Thanks to all of you, that distinction surely belongs to me today.”

The crowd replied with another enthusiastic round of applause.

“I was blessed to play this game with some of the finest people I’ve ever had the privilege to know.” He gestured to his teammates
as he said, “Everyone in the Mavericks organization, from Chet Logler to Duke Simmons to all my teammates and coaches to Tony
in the locker room, and all the folks who work behind the scenes—you made my stay here in Denver the greatest ten years of
my life. But it was you, the fans, who made coming to work every Sunday such a pleasure. You stood by me through the good
times as well as the not-so-good times, and I’ll never forget you.”

As the crowd responded to him, Ryan swiped at his eyes and reached out to bring Susannah closer to him.

“I’m also blessed to be joined today by my wife, Susannah, and our one-month-old daughter, Hope Theresa Sanderson.”

After the fans had expressed their boisterous love for Susannah and the baby, Ryan said, “It’s certainly no secret that Susie
and I have had our struggles and our challenges, but her love and support have sustained me. There’s no way I’d be here right
now if I hadn’t had her to remind me every day of what’s really important in this life. Now, you’ve heard this week that we’re
moving to Texas, but I want to assure you we’re keeping our place in Breckenridge, so you won’t be getting rid of us entirely.”
With his hand over his heart, Ryan concluded by saying, “No matter where I am or what I’m doing, I will
always
be the Denver Mavericks’ biggest fan—and the biggest fan of the Mavericks’ fans. Thank you all so very, very much for this
overwhelming honor.”

Dealing with her own flood of tears, Susannah smiled up at him as he wiped his face and absorbed the deafening roar of the
standing ovation.

Chet returned to the microphone. “At this time, please direct your attention to above the Mavericks’ end zone where eighteen
becomes just the third number in franchise history to be retired. Ryan, you’re joining number four, Johnny Palmer, and number
twelve, George Urban, as a legend among legends.” He handed Ryan an elaborate plaque to commemorate the moment. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you, Chet,” Ryan said, accepting the award with a hug for his former boss.

The crowd grew silent as Ryan’s number made the slow climb into history. Just as it reached its destination to the right of
the purple number twelve, Ryan’s teammates, led by Marcus Darlington, broke into an off-key but loud and enthusiastic chorus
of
Hero.

Ryan looked down at Susannah, and they burst into laughter.

With their daughter between them, he leaned in to kiss her before he wrapped his arms around his girls. They had everything
they’d ever dreamed of—and then some.

Acknowledgments

AS A LIFELONG BOSTON RED SOX FAN, WRITING A FOOTBALL book wasn’t in my plan. So when my muse showed up one day toting Ryan
Sanderson—every inch the NFL quarterback—I did what any self-respecting baseball girl would do and turned to the football
people in my life for guidance. Thank you to my brother, George Sullivan, for helping me flesh out Ryan’s career and stats;
my husband, Dan Force, for tolerating my presence
and
my questions during the 2006 NFL season; and my friend, Julie Cupp, for filling in some missing details while resisting the
urge to razz me about venturing into
her
sport. Joy Morgan answered all my Denver questions, and Gator fan Debby Boree helped with the Gainesville details. I appreciate
their assistance. Thank you also to my eagle-eyed copy editors, Lisa Ridder and Paula DelBonis-Platt, for cleaning me up and
keeping me sane. To all those who read, critiqued, cheered, and prayed from the sidelines, you know who you are, and you
have my undying love and gratitude for not allowing me to give up. To my editor, Deb Werksman, thank you for making the dream
of a lifetime come true. And finally, to my daily reader, plot coach, and coffee tawk compadre, Christina Camara, I simply
couldn’t have done any of it without you. The wrist twist is all yours, babe.