The Draft (35 page)

He left the phone on the couch and got up. A second shock came when he found Gary Stone standing in the hallway.

“Hey, Gary. What are you doing here?”

Stone, who was normally a friendly and cheerful sort, looked downright pissed. Macintosh found this distinctly unsettling.

“You need to come with me.”

“Why? What's wrong?”

“Come on, you'll find out shortly.”

In that instant, Macintosh had a pretty good idea he'd been caught. His stomach lurched.
They found out. But how…?

“I … I'd like to call someone fir—”

Stone shook his head. “No, Robert.
Now.
”

“Can I at least get dressed?”

Stone paused, then said, “Sure, but if you so much as go near the telephone, I'll tear you a new asshole and stuff your head into it. Are we clear on this point?”

Macintosh looked into his eyes, saw the hate and the revulsion, and nodded resignedly.

Jennifer was still waiting on the phone when they went out.

20

NFL Commissioner George J. Moran
sat in a comfortable chair in the living room of his Manhattan townhouse reading a book. It was nearly ten o'clock, and after a long and busy day he wanted to relax and clear his mind. On the couch across from him, his wife, Patricia, sifted through paperwork from an open briefcase. She was a marketing executive by trade and liked to keep a full schedule. Their children were both grown and had moved on to their own lives.

Along with his regular duties, Moran spent part of the day with the handful of the college players who were expected to go in the first round of tomorrow's draft and would be making an onstage appearance, including Christian McKinley. The meetings were brief and cordial, more tradition than anything else. Moran also finalized last-minute preparations for his role in the proceedings, at least the public part of it, and found himself leaving the league offices, as he did so often, long after the sun had set and most people were home watching television.

As he turned another page, the phone rang. The commissioner, deep in his reading, didn't appear to notice. His wife reached over and picked it up. After a brief exchange with the caller, she said, “It's for you, George.”

Moran marked his placed with a playing card and closed the book, setting it on his lap. He didn't sigh, but he looked as though he wanted to. His wife got up and handed him the phone.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Commissioner? It's Jon Sabino, of the Baltimore Ravens. I'm sorry to bother you at home, sir.”

Moran glanced at his watch. “It's getting very late, Jon,” he said with the tiniest hint of irritation. “Is this an emergency?”

“Yes, Mr. Moran, I believe it is. Let me explain…”

Which Jon did, in detail. Fifteen minutes later he finished with, “So we were hoping you would make a ruling on this before the draft begins, for obvious reasons.”

Moran shifted in his chair. “I can't rule on this without Alderman present. Any decision would deeply affect them as much as it would affect you and your club.”

Jon paused purely for effect, then said, “I understand.” He wanted to sound displeased, too, which he believed he did.
So far so good.

“I suggest we have a conference call early in the morning. I will be in my office at seven thirty and will speak to all of you then.”

“Okay, seven thirty. Thank you, Mr. Moran.”

“Uh-huh. Good night.”

The commissioner went back to his book

*   *   *

Michael Bell lay still in his bed, sheets pulled up to his chest, arms lying on the blanket. The hospital machinery blinked and beeped softly around him. It was just after four thirty in the morning.

The door opened, bathing the room in a bright fluorescent glow. The nurse who stuck her head in was young, blond, and pretty. The nameplate on her tight-fitting nylon uniform read “K. Hailey.” She was new to this floor but a veteran to the night shift. She was a serious woman of thirty-eight, patiently ambitious and without a sense of humor.

She had two small boys at home, Dennis and Kyle, and they were huge fans of Michael Bell. They wanted to be NFL quarterbacks, too. They had little Bell jerseys and Bell posters in their room. There were Ravens sheets on their bunk beds, and the lamp on their dresser featured a little Ravens helmet. Dennis was the older of the two and had once been given a thumbs-up by Bell while he and his father watched the players arrive at the stadium before a game against the Bengals. Kyle had been green with envy and cried for hours.

When they heard their mom would be one of Bell's nurses, they begged for autographs—one for each of them. She decided to issue the parents' standard “maybe with no promises” edict. Personally she held no such fascination for sports stars, or any other stars for that matter, and had never asked for an autograph in her life. Bell seemed nice enough in spite of his swashbuckling reputation.

His eyes blinked several times before opening fully. He was disoriented for a moment, then smiled as he recognized her.

“Hi there,” he said.

“Hello, Michael. How are you feeling?”

“A little groggy, but then you guys are still pumping all sorts of pharmaceuticals into me, right?”

“Only those that you need,” she said, straightening his pillows and blankets.

“What time is it?”

“About six thirty
A.M.
”

Dr. Blackman came in a moment later, looking fresh and ready for another day.

“Good morning, Michael.”

“Hi, doc. How are things?”

“Good, good.”

He looked at the nurse in a way that caught Bell's attention—as if he wanted to tell her something but was holding back. As soon as the nurse noticed this, she nodded and left.
Something's wrong,
Bell told himself, and suddenly he felt real fear coarsing through him.

When the door clicked shut, Blackman pulled a rolling stool to Bell's bedside and sat down. His grin was still there, but it was accompanied by genuine concern. It was a fatherly smile, a “son-I-have-some-bad-news” kind of look.

“What's wrong, doc?” Bell began, trying to take control of a conversation he knew he wasn't going to like. “Is there a problem?”

Blackman looked away for just a second, then back.

“Yes, I'm afraid there is.”

Bell felt every muscle go cold. They say when you receive devastating news, you first become chilly and tingly, like you've been hit by a blast of arctic air. Bell noted, somewhere far in the back of his mind, that this is exactly what happened.

“Go ahead,” he said, trying to be brave but barely able to steady his voice. “Tell me.”

Blackman took a deep breath and released it before continuing.

“As you know, we've continued to run tests on you. Taken more blood, more X-rays, everything.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I'm afraid we've found something. Several tiny fractures … in your spine.”

“Oh, good God.”

Blackman quickly put a hand to his patient's shoulder.

“Oh no—no, don't take that the wrong way. It doesn't mean you won't be able to walk or anything like that.” He managed a little laugh. “No, no paralysis.”

Bell looked down and saw the shape of his two feet moving under the blankets.

“See?”

“So then what's the problem? I don't really
feel
any pain when I do that. Shouldn't I?”

“Well, we've got some heavy medication in you right now. Without it, you'd feel plenty of pain, believe me.”

“Then what's the bad news?”

Blackman looked away again—a gesture of brief procrastination that Bell considered a sign of weakness.

Blackman straightened his glasses. “Well, I'm afraid you're not going to be able to go back,” he said gently.

“Go back? Where? To my house?”

“No—to football. I'm afraid your career ends with this injury, Michael.”

Bell suddenly realized the doctor had wrapped a hand around his wrist. In any other circumstance it would've been considered a questionable action between men, but Bell immediately realized this was simply Joshua Blackman's way of being comforting.

“My career?” he heard himself reply. The voice seemed tiny, almost frail. “Over? Th-that's it?”

Blackman nodded once. “I'm afraid so, Michael. I could give you the detailed medical explanation, but I don't think it would help. Put simply, if you continue playing and take one good hit back there—
just one
—you would indeed run a tremendous risk of paralysis. Better than fifty-fifty, I'd say.”

“Even with rehab now? And plenty of time to—”

Blackman was already nodding. “No matter what we do. Your spine has suffered tremendous trauma. We knew that when you came in, but we didn't know the full extent of it. Now we do.”

Bell pulled his gaze away from Blackman's and stared up at the ceiling.

“My God … it's over.”

Blackman stood and tightened his grip on Bell's wrist.

“Listen, Michael, you've got to focus on the other side of it. You're
lucky,
son. It's a miracle you survived that crash in the first place, let alone without permanent brain or spinal damage. Like I told your friend, Jon Sabino, it was all those years of taking hits on the field and all that training that allowed you to get through the accident in one piece.”

Still staring at the ceiling, Bell nodded.

“I know.”

Blackman studied him closely for a few seconds, searching for any further indication of what was going on behind those famous eyes. He had limited training in human psychology, but he'd learned enough to know that a person who has just received harsh news can always use a friend.

“Michael, is there anything I can do for you right now?”

“No,” Bell replied. It came out as a hoarse whisper. “Thank you, though.”

Blackman lingered another moment, then patted him on the shoulder. “Look, I have to check on two other patients and then I'll be right back. Okay?”

“Sure, doc.”

“If you need anything at all, please ring us and we'll come right in.”

“Thanks.”

Michael Bell continued staring hard into the nothingness above him. Seconds turned into minutes, and those turned into hours. He sometimes wondered what the end of his career would be like. Would it happen with a flourish of drama, like one final Hail Mary caught in the end zone to win a big game? Or with a fizzle, like a handoff to some lukewarm running back during the meaningless last match of a 4–12 season after he was traded to one of the crappier teams? He often thought about this, and in all those fantasies—good, bad, or indifferent—he never once envisioned his days in the NFL terminating with an impassioned announcement from a man he barely knew, in a quiet and lonely hospital room.

He wanted to feel sorry for himself, and he tried for a time. But instead, a different emotion came up from the depths—to his utter surprise, he sensed the tiniest hint of relief.

*   *   *

Brendan Cavanaugh pulled his shiny black BMW into its assigned spot at the Broncos' administrative offices and got out. He slung a leather bag over his shoulder, and from it he pulled a plump apple; a McIntosh, ironically enough. It would be his breakfast this morning, for he was unable to sit still long enough to eat anything at home—he wanted to get here and get this day moving. He took the first bite as he headed for the door.

Sleeping hadn't been any easier—he couldn't suppress his excitement about that supercharged moment, less than twelve hours away now, when George Moran would step up to the podium and announce that the Chargers had given him the first overall pick. The crowd would gasp.
No—the entire football world would gasp.
And then, just seconds later, Moran would confirm that Christian McKinley was headed to Denver. Cavanaugh had given up a mint for him; everyone was screaming about it. But it would be worth it in the end. McKinley would usher in a new era in Denver history, and Cavanaugh would finally have his final, definitive victory over that SOB in Baltimore.

The rest of the story would break slowly—how Jon had swiped Michael Bell from the Broncos all those years ago, making him look like a fool, but he hung in there, patiently, and got his revenge. Somehow he had beaten the mighty Jon Sabino and the world champion Ravens. Maybe there was more to him than everyone believed. That was the best part, Cavanaugh had thought as his wife slept soundlessly beside him—the perception of him would be forever altered.
Let Sabino be the loser now.
It was time for someone else to wear that crown. Yes, the fans would be as appreciative, but in the NFL's cloistered subcommunity, it would be big news for years to come. A lot of his peers would be secretly jealous, and he'd love every minute of it.

He went through the glass doors and smiled at Holly Preston, the pretty girl at the front desk. Munching on a power bar, she smiled back and waved; a little wiggle of the fingers. He gave a half-hearted smile in return, then hit the stairs. He was too busy thinking about how he was going to handle McKinley's contract. McKinley's agent was a tough sonofabitch. He'd want big numbers; probably the biggest ever for a rookie. He'd want to make a statement with it, push the bar a little higher. It wasn't going to be an easy negotiation. But he'd get it done, somehow. That was his new reputation, he decided—he was a man who Got Things Done.

Once in his office, he tossed the apple core into the wastebasket and set his bag on his desk. And he suddenly realized how quiet everything was—almost like an ordinary day rather than draft day. Usually there were staffers running around, phones ringing. What the hell was going on?

He was about to step into the hallway to find out when Phillip Alderman appeared.