The Total Package (6 page)

What surrounded him was a complete state-of-the-art training facility. It took up the entire floor and was completely disguised within the walls of your run-of-the-mill office building. Any lingering questions on how Barrow would keep Tyson’s training from being leaked were laid to rest. Whoever wanted to get to this gym had to already know its location. The few windows in the space were high and ran along the ceiling. Logan Montgomery was good at protecting his clients’ privacy. What he wasn’t good at was choosing music. The place sounded more like a disco, with bubblegum-like tunes reverberating through hidden speakers. Tyson would be pumping iron to Taylor Swift, not his first choice for producing adrenaline. He had spent the last two months in a serene, picturesque environment. If he was going to forsake all that and live in a gym, he wanted the deafening kind of music that would send him into beast mode, with pulsing bass lines and frenzied drumming to drown out any extraneous thoughts. He needed old school angry: Megadeth, Ozzy Osbourne, and Audioslave. Instead he was going to get Maroon 5 and Ed Sheeran. Good grief.

Holly came out of the office, gave Tyson another winning smile, said her good-byes, and left. A minute later, his new trainer came out of the office to join him. Tyson did a double take.

Tyson was no stranger to the term “man candy.” But there were pretty boys and then there was this guy, with his perfectly chiseled features, staggering physique, and swagger that oozed out of every pore.

Was this really the fitness guru to the sports world or a male supermodel? Logan gave him a curt nod and a brief introduction, which didn’t include a handshake.

“Palmer, I’m Logan Montgomery. There’s a shower room in the back. Change up and let’s get to work.”

Tyson took the duffle bag into the changing room without comment, thinking that Logan sounded more like a five-star diva than the Ariana Grande currently grating his nerves. What he came in wearing underneath his hoodie—basketball shorts and a T-shirt—was certainly sufficient to work out in, but he had no desire to start this association off on the wrong foot. He could always just take off the sweatshirt and make it look like he’d changed if there was nothing he could use in the new bag. There was no way he was taking off his new cap.

He found that, along with several pairs of blue jeans and new cross-training sneakers, the bag was full of shorts, T-shirts, sweats, hats, and gloves, all with the Mavericks logo on them. He felt an embarrassingly giddy rush that was hard to contain. There was even a sideline jacket. Tyson was part of a team again. He changed quickly, excited to get started.

The excitement was short-lived. When he came back out Logan was waiting for him, hands on his hips and his face anything but welcoming.

“Before we get started, Palmer, let’s get a few things straight. Whether you succeed or fail, I’m getting paid. I personally don’t give a crap which you choose. I’m not here to coddle you. I have no interest in following you around like some sort of spy to make sure you keep yourself clean. I’m here to train you, and I expect you to fall in line. My word is law. If you blow this, it’s on you. All I’m going to do is report back to the person who’s writing my big fat checks.”

“I accomplished my rehab without incident . . .” Tyson began defensively.

“Good for you,” Logan said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You successfully completed a stint at Club Med. Way to go. From here on out, when I want your opinion on something, I’ll ask you.”

Tyson was getting an unprovoked dressing-down that rivaled what he’d gotten from any coach he’d ever had, only without all the swearing and arm waving that usually accompanied such things. It only made him more insecure. It was hard to match up all he had heard about the legendary training authority with the bitchy Adonis who sounded like he listened to the likes of Britney Spears.

“I understand,” Tyson said, more determined than ever.

And that was how their relationship began. Tyson worked hard and Logan worked him harder. They went from interval training to power lifting as Logan Montgomery took assessment of Tyson’s strengths and weaknesses. There was no small talk. In between their two sessions that day, Logan retreated into his office and shut the door with a “Be back in an hour,” leaving Tyson alone and to his own devices. Tyson was so fatigued that he spent the time meditating in the corner Logan used to stretch him out.

It was already dark when Logan gruffly told him to get his duffle bag. They drove silently together to Logan’s high-rise condo.
Nice digs,
Tyson thought as Logan led him to one of two bedrooms and told him that’s where he’d be staying. Then Logan showered, leaving Tyson to acclimate to his new accommodations. Everything seemed to have a place and was in it. It was just like the gym, where as soon as Tyson was done with a free weight, Logan immediately reracked it. It was exceedingly tidy for a bachelor. Tyson added
anal retentive
to the list of adjectives he had started to compile about his host. Logan reappeared, grabbed his keys, and left with a “I’m not your babysitter. Make sure you’re here at midnight.”

Where was he supposed to go? He didn’t have a key and wasn’t even sure where exactly he was. Disoriented, Tyson sat on the imported leather couch in Logan’s living room until he felt strong enough to take a shower. Framed autographed jerseys and pictures of Logan with all of his famous clients decorated the hallway. His room was also full of carefully preserved memorabilia, so much athletic greatness reminding him to be inspired. He showered, then changed into fresh Mavericks gear. It rejuvenated him. He was also starving. Still feeling like an unwelcome guest afraid to touch anything, he wearily ventured into the kitchen to have a look around. Both the cupboards and the refrigerator were completely stocked with healthy, nutritious foods, way more than enough for one man. In the fridge was a stack of containers that held premade meals, mainly grilled chicken with vegetables and brown rice. He pulled two out, heated them in the microwave, and proceeded to devour them. He followed that up with some grapes while watching television. Not yet ready to dive back into reality full force, he kept away from sports and the news, and put on the History Channel, where he could watch the long line of people before him who’d messed up their lives and, in some cases, the world. His jet lag kicked in and he fell asleep watching a program about the Manhattan Project.

It was Logan who shook him awake early the next morning. He was also wearing the same clothes he’d had on when he left the night before. They ate breakfast with minimal conversation, both showered in separate bathrooms, and left to head back to the gym, where they resumed the grueling workouts. That was the pattern the two followed: working Tyson out until he nearly dropped, usually with Justin Timberlake making him think about getting it on and One Direction boring the life out of him, then going back to the condo, eating, and falling asleep alone. He was too exhausted to be depressed or give any real thought to the food that seemed to replenish itself as he ate it.

Logan had an intensity that at first Tyson understood and appreciated. But within two weeks, Tyson was longing for the warmth and compassion of the Goons. He was expecting a mentor; what he got was more along the lines of a tormentor. Logan was relentless with no sign of letting up, no matter how many challenges Tyson faced and conquered. His grim perseverance seemed to only aggravate Logan further. They never took a day off, and Tyson began to lose all track of time. There was only one bright spot in his routine, and it was the presence of Holly, who arrived around the same time every afternoon. She was unobtrusive and kept in the background, never contributing to conversation or getting in the way, instead slipping on the headphones to the iPod she brought with her and using an elliptical machine for an hour. That was the only time Logan actually took a break from his bombardment of animosity long enough to act somewhat human. Tyson tried to keep a respectable distance, but if “SexyBack” happened to come on during her visits, his testosterone would begin to flow whether he wanted it to or not. Add Jay Z with a little “Suit & Tie,” and unless he was willing to poke out his own eyes, there was no way to keep from noticing her.

“She’s my bookkeeper,” Logan snapped when Tyson innocently asked about Holly.

“Damn, what kind of tyrant are you?” Tyson couldn’t refrain from commenting in her defense. “Does her job depend on a weekly weigh-in?”

Logan floored him with the beginning of a grin. “Would you feel better if I told you she was my girlfriend?”

“No, not really,” Tyson replied, and Logan actually laughed. The first laugh Tyson heard from the man. And Tyson gained some insight on where Logan was spending his nights.

That glimpse of comradery was short-lived, however, and the acrimony returned, now overshadowed with jealousy whenever Tyson so much as glanced in Holly’s direction. Tyson thought he must be imagining it, since Holly had never been anything other than courteous in her comings and goings. He was hardly a threat. But the more they smiled at each other in passing, the more Logan would bark “Focus!” and some sort of borderline torture was sure to follow. Any admiration Tyson held on to based on Logan’s reputation quickly soured. The two were on a collision course. Less than a week later, Tyson finally surrendered and gave Logan the fight he wanted.

It started when Holly came in and took her place on her elliptical machine, and before putting on the headphones and starting it up, shared a small joke about there being no pain, no gain. Logan broke up the conversation from going any further, and as soon as he caught Tyson looking over in her direction, he growled.

“Are you flirting with my girlfriend?”

“No way!” Tyson replied quickly and hated that he sounded more and more like a wuss every day. 5 Seconds of Summer started blaring bubblegum pop from the speakers, grating him further. He resented the accusation that held a ring of truth and muttered under his breath, “But I would if I could get her to give up her iPod and save me from this asinine junior prom music.”

It wasn’t really about music anymore. It was about the abuse of power.

“Say what?” Logan taunted him. “If you’re going to insult me, why don’t you be a man and speak up?”

Tyson took the bait and dropped the barbell he was curling, which shook the floor’s foundation. “Your music stinks, and you’re a glorified prima donna. I can’t believe anyone would write a check and willingly subject themselves to you. Why don’t you go and report that back to the boss?”

“And deprive myself of the pleasure of riding your sorry ass? Not likely, at least not yet. Good to know you’re worried about that though.”

Tyson began to back up, his peaceful, easy feeling of self-control hanging by a perilous thread. “Maybe I’ll be the one who reports in, and tell Barrow all about the cash he’s throwing away on a little prick who’s more worried about his girlfriend than his client.” The threat was a total paper tiger. He didn’t know how to reach Barrow.

“Go ahead, crybaby. My reputation precedes me, as does yours. You might want to remember that.”

“Fuck you, man. I didn’t go to rehab to end up the whipping boy of a spoiled egomaniac. There aren’t enough drugs in the world to make it worth putting up with you.” Tyson started heading for door, momentarily forgetting that he had no place to go and everything he owned was in Logan’s condo.

“I think there’s a crack house a few blocks down,” Logan replied casually.

He stuck out his middle finger behind his head during his exodus with a resounding “Peace!”

Logan called from across the room, “Hey, Palmer, listen up! You’re not the first athlete that ever fell flat on his face after being given too much too soon. The only difference with you is somebody actually gave enough of a shit for you to get a second chance.”

Tyson stopped, had a nano-second debate in his mind, and walked purposefully back to where Logan was standing.

“And if you weren’t such a tool, you’d see I’m trying to make the most of it!” Tyson shouted in his face before forcefully giving Logan a two-handed shove against his chest, sending him reeling backward.

It might have turned into a full-on scuffle, but both men were stopped by the shriek-like gasp coming from the one other person in the room. They turned to look at Holly, Tyson heaving and Logan getting up off the floor. She was still on her elliptical, but it was no longer in motion. Her headphones were still on but her green eyes were wide. Then her eyes narrowed as she glared from one man to the other and she slowly shook her head. Saying nothing, she got off the machine and began to reach for her purse, intent on leaving. But Tyson beat her to the door and was gone ahead of her.

Once on the street, wearing sweaty, inappropriate clothes for a lion-like day in early March, Tyson did the only thing he could think of. He began to run. Knowing nothing of the area, he took the only path that was remotely familiar, the one from the gym back to Logan’s. After a couple wrong turns and through the course of several miles, some of them along a highway, his feet began to drum in time with the single thought that pounded through his head.

You blew it.

He viewed the attack on his trainer in the same light he would an attack on a coach. It was totally unacceptable, by any standards. It was probably too late to apologize. In all likelihood the first thing Logan did was call Barrow and inform him the project was a failure. And no doubt, he did it with pleasure. He could collect his salary and spend the rest of the winter in Tahiti. Once again, Tyson was a man with nothing, not even his identity, since his license was still at the apartment. With the one-hundred-dollar bill he hadn’t been given the time to spend. Tyson wanted that money back, after what he’d dealt with in the last month, he’d earned it. Then he pondered if Barrow would actually have him murdered or simply make sure he never threw a football professionally again. After all, Tyson hadn’t backstabbed Barrow, merely botched up the plan.

“Mavericks SUCK!” someone shouted at him from a passing car. The remnants of a Big Gulp hit him with such force, most of its contents splashed up his shirt and ricocheted onto his face. He licked his lips: Mountain Dew. Tyson continued on, only now trudging more than running. He was inclined to agree.