The Draft (13 page)

*   *   *

The voices were faint, distant. There were a lot of them—maybe hundreds—jumbled together in one crazy cacophony. There were sobs and cries, people trying to catch their breath. Someone was shouting. It was an older man, and there was authority in his voice, but Michael Bell couldn't make out what he was saying. Funny, that—he'd stood on every football field in every major stadium in the country, amid the roar of thousands of spectators, and zeroed in on the smallest sounds. Yet he couldn't focus on any one of these voices now. They were just too far away.

A siren began growing in volume. The pastiche of voices grew along with it. Everything reached a natural peak, filling every crack and corner of his mind. Then, as quickly as it had come, it faded again and there was only silence.

He had a sense that he was on his back, so he tried to get up. Impossible. He wiggled his fingers and clenched his hands into fists. At least that's what he
thought
he was doing, but he couldn't be sure. He couldn't even lift his head to look. He seemed to be glued down.

A realization struck him—wherever he was, he'd been here for a while. He didn't know how long, but a while. He believed his eyes were open, but there was nothing to see. He was enveloped by darkness, stretching to infinity in every direction. A hollow, echoed place, like something out of a dream. It wasn't frightening, but it wasn't pleasant, either. It was nothing. Nothing in a place of utter nothingness.
Yes, I've been here for some time, but I'm only becoming aware of it now.
Somehow he knew this. He would bet a game check on it.

The darkness began to recede, triggering a peculiar kind of excitement. It was akin to the anticipation one felt when the lights went down just before a movie started. At this point three shapes appeared. They jutted out on either side of his periphery—one of the left, two on the right.
People
, Bell thought.
People checking me out.

Then a new voice, much clearer than any of those he'd heard before—“Mr. Bell? Mr. Bell, can you hear me?”

He turned his head to the shape on the left. He was pretty sure that person was the speaker. His voice was soft, soothing, and patient.

“Mr. Bell? Michael? Can you hear me? Nod once if you can.”

He did as instructed, or at least believed he did.

“Excellent.”

The figures were becoming clearer now, but when he tried to blink his eyes felt like they were on fire. He went to rub them but still couldn't move his arms. When he tried to speak, bolts of pain shot up through the bones in his jaw. The joints felt ancient; mummy joints. He was sure they'd crumble if he tried them again.

“It might be best if you don't speak,” the same person suggested. “At least not until you get something to drink.”

Soon he could see his audience in detail. The guy on the left was without a doubt a doctor, with his white lab coat and his steel-rimmed glasses. Bell thought he looked like an accountant.

On the right were a pair of nurses. The one closest to him, he couldn't help noticing, wore one of those acrylic nurse's uniforms with the long zipper that ran up the front, and it was hitched down far enough to reveal the rounded tops of her considerable cleavage. As soon as Bell saw this, he felt a little better.

The second nurse didn't have quite the same effect. She was much older and heavier, with gray hair and a stern, almost grim face. Bell immediately thought of Nurse Ratched from
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.
It was one of the only novels he'd ever read.
She probably hasn't been laid since Eisenhower was in office.

In spite of the doctor's orders, he tried his voice again. “Where am I?” came out in a dry croak. It was the voice of an old man.

“You're in St. Caroline's Memorial Hospital,” Dr. Blackman told him. He made a conscious decision not to add, “… in intensive care” because he didn't want to alarm the patient.

A series of images flashed through Bell's mind—sitting in his car, leaning slightly to the right as he went through his CD collection, then being violently pushed forward. From his left the grill of a large truck filled the window, and then … nothing.

“I was in an accident,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Yes, that's correct.”

He looked at the younger nurse again, taking note of her face this time. She was a natural beauty, although in a purposely understated way. She was probably a suburban housewife; a soccer mom. The kind of girl who had inspired equal amounts of resentment and envy among the other girls in high school and college. Could've been a model, chose something more sensible and ordinary instead.

“I guess I survived it,” he managed to say, studying her eyes, “although from here it looks like I'm in heaven.”

The object of his current affections put on a tolerant smile and busied herself with his pillows. The other nurse's expression didn't change a whit. The doctor laughed politely.

“Yes, you survived it. And you were very lucky, too. As I told your general manager, Mr. Sabino, if you weren't used to getting hit by all those linebackers, you might not have survived.”

“What happened?”

“An elderly woman who was on medication struck you from behind, pushing you into a busy intersection. Then you were struck again, by a truck filled with railroad ties.”

“Whoa.”

The doctor laughed again. In that instant, somehow, Bell knew he was a fan.

“‘Whoa' is right. You're lucky you weren't killed. Your car wasn't so lucky, I regret to inform you. It's headed for the junkyard.”

“How long have I been out of it? I haven't been gone for like ten years or anything, right?”

“No, just a few days. Frankly we were expecting you to come back any time. There doesn't appear to be any permanent damage to your brain, I'm very glad to say.”

Bell managed a smile. “Other than the damage I already had, right?”

“Right.”

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The burning came back with a vengeance. He tried to rub them again, and again his hand refused to obey. This time the motory disobedience filled Bell with a fear like none he'd ever known before.

“I can't move my hand!”

“I know.” The doctor's voice had changed. The gentleness was still there, but the carefree aspect had vanished. It was more businesslike.

“Why not?”

“Because we've got your arms and legs restrained. We didn't want you moving around too much, which some people do even when they're comatose.”

“And why would that be?”

Blackman and the nurses looked to each other.

“Michael, you suffered some spinal damage.”

A cold finger touched the pit of Bell's stomach.

“I
what
?”

“Your spine suffered severe trauma during the accident.”

“Do you mean I can't walk?”

“No, no, I don't mean that. It's too early to tell what the long-term effects will be.”

“But my legs … I can feel them just fine.”

The doctor motioned to the twin sister of Nurse Ratched, and together they removed the sheet from Bell's feet.

“Can you move your toes?”

Bell tried, but it was more difficult than he expected. All of a sudden this simple action required the supreme effort of his life. He strained like he was on the last mile of the Boston Marathon.

“Did they move?”

Doctor and nurse threw the sheet back to its original position. “Yes, there was some movement.” Bell was relieved to see the doctor's smile return. “That's very good, especially at this stage.”

“So I'll be able to walk again?”

Blackman said to the younger nurse, “Jennifer? Please tell Margie that Mr. Bell is back with us.”

“Yes, doctor,” she said before heading out. Bell did not follow her with his eyes. She didn't exist now.

“I can't predict the future, Michael, but as far as I can tell, yes, you'll be back to your normal self eventually.”

“Full recovery?”

“I believe so.”

“And I'll be able to play again?”

“I don't see why not.”

Now it was his turn to smile. “Well that's great, doc. Fantastic. Just tell me what I have to do, and I'll do it.”

“Good. Nurse Moreland here will oversee most of your physical therapy.”

Bell shot her a quick look. Her eyes were already going over him. Probably searching for signs of weakness, he thought.

“How's it going, sweet thing?”

The doctor said quickly, “Uh, Michael, I'm going to check on some other patients now. But I'll be back in an hour or two to see how you're coming along.”

“Okay, thanks, doc, I really appreciate it. I appreciate everything you've done so far.”

Blackman put a comforting hand on his patient's shoulder. “It's been my pleasure. This is something of an honor for me—I'm a big fan of yours. Haven't missed a home game in three seasons.”

“Thanks.”

Just before he got to the door, Bell said, “Oh, one more thing, doc.”

“Yes?”

“Minicamps start late next month. Will I be ready for them?”

Doctor and nurse looked to each other again. In that instant Bell knew the answer.

“No, I'm afraid not. I'm sorry, Michael, but you won't be able to play at all this season.”

The numbness returned. Bell searched the ceiling for something to say, but no words were there. Then came with yet another concrete certainty—the team would try to replace him with Christian McKinley. And with that, to Bell's complete surprise, followed an almost drug-like feeling of relaxation.
Of course they would.
McKinley was the only other QB available that could get the job done. Bell knew it. He'd watched the kid, knew he had the right stuff. He even once thought,
Damn, he's as good as I am.
And that's how it went in this business—one day your were The Man, the next you were The Memory. He wanted to be upset, wanted to be frightened and angry, but he just couldn't muster it. He reached down, and it wasn't there. Just a sense of ease and, also to his surprise, a feeling of tremendous relief.

A smile broke across his face. “Well, it was great while it lasted,” he told his two-person audience. They responded only with expressions of confusion.

*   *   *

“You've got that kid from Fresno State,” Jon said into the phone. “Marcus Draper. He's a tremendous linebacker, and I'd be interested in acquiring him if you'd like to make a deal.”

There was a pause, and then, “Well, let me think about it,” Anderson said. Greg Anderson had been the GM of the Carolina Panthers for three years, and many theorized this would be his last. He was a competent man, but nothing more. No imagination, no willingness to take a risk. He'd built a team with mediocre talent, and thus the Panthers were just that—mediocre. Draper was a fourth-round draft acquisition from the previous management who'd turned out better than anyone expected, and he had a bright future to be sure.

Jon already knew Anderson didn't care for him very much. He knew about some of the snide remarks he'd made to the media. Sometimes Susan Schiff, in her unswerving loyalty, would Google Jon's name in search of interesting items, and if she found anything negative, no matter how small, she'd print it and leave it on his desk. Not to taunt him, but to make sure he knew who his enemies were. The latest Anderson comment came from the online version of
The Charlotte Observer.
When asked if he thought he would still have his job next season, Anderson replied, “We can't all have the security enjoyed by guys like Jon Sabino, who seems to have made a pact with the devil. Luck follows that guy around like cats follow garbage trucks.” Jon was long used to this kind of petty jealousy; it was to be expected when one was successful. But was it so severe with Anderson that it would actually get in the way?

“Okay, how long? I'm sorry to push, Greg, but I'm running on a tight deadline with this one.” Another pause, no response, and he added, “And I can make it a pretty good deal for you. I'm familiar with the details of Draper's contract, and I know your cap hit won't be that much if you give him up. But if you keep him, it could cost you. Give him to me for two less-expensive players and save yourself more cap stress next year. I'll give you two decent players that'll end up costing you less.”

“Um.…” Jon could hear the sound of papers being shuffled. “Yeah, let me toss it around here a bit and see what happens.”

Jon shook his head.
He's stalling on purpose. He's just busting my balls.

“Okay, but can I ask when you'll get back to me?”

“I don't know. I'm just not sure.”

More silence. Anderson was waiting; Jon could feel it.

“How about later today?”

“I can't, I won't be around.”

“First thing tomorrow?”

“No, Mr. Burke won't be in all day.”

“Okay, when?”

Anderson let out a long sigh. In that one gesture, the message was clear—
I'm trying to give you the runaround here, and you're not letting me get away with it.

“I'll … I'll have to call you back.” Jon was just about to reply to this when Anderson continued with, “You know, other teams are interested in Draper, too.”

This was his idea of negotiation. About as awkward and clumsy as it got.

With thinly controlled anger, Jon said, “Like the Chiefs and the Seahawks? Yeah, I know.”

“It'd be unfair of me to reneg on the deal I've been negotiating already.”

If Jon could've reached through the phone and choked the bastard to death, he would've done so without hesitation. Having to come begging to this poster boy for the Peter Principle made him sick to his stomach. The guy knew it and was twisting the knife just for the fun of it.