Blackout (11 page)

Thursday, July 23, 9:30 a.m. MDT

Inverness Training Center, Centennial, Colorado

Keith Simmons's face contorted as he squatted, then pushed himself back up. Sweat had completely darkened his clothing, and his right leg had just the slightest tremor. On the bar across his shoulders hung 625 pounds of black metal weight. Normally he could get eight to ten reps without too much trouble, but today he was straining just to get to number five. Letting out a yell from the depths of his being, he pushed his body to standing position and stepped back, indicating for Afshin Ziafat to guide the bar down onto its pegs.

Keith tried to hide a limp as he slid out from the apparatus, but obviously he didn't do a good enough job because Afshin asked him, “Are you sure you don't want to have a trainer look at that ankle?”

Last Saturday, Keith had gone to his sister's house to hang out for the evening. After dinner, he and his two teenage nephews and young niece had walked up to the neighborhood school to play some soccer. As usual, Keith had begun messing around and showing off, and at one point he broke away and ran down the field, dribbling the ball all the way.

Just before he shot into the open goal, his right foot hit a dip in the grass. Even as his ankle was turning, Keith knew it wasn't good. He fell, shouting out a few words for which he'd later had to ask forgiveness from God and the kids.

As he lay in the grass, he kept praying,
Please let it be nothing; please let it be nothing.
But when he stood up, his fears were confirmed. He hobbled back to his sister's house and began a regimen that he had been following during all of his off-hours since then—ten minutes ice, ten minutes heat, ten minutes ice, ten minutes heat—over and over, trying to get the joint back into shape before training camp started in another week and a half.

Grabbing Afshin by his damp shoulder, Keith said, “Rookie, you've got to learn now. Never—I mean
never
—let a trainer know you are injured if you can help it. Letting a trainer know means letting the coaches know, and letting the coaches know means letting the owner know.

“Soon you'll lose all your free time. Unless it's surgery-worthy, you'll end up having to come in at least an hour early every day for rehab. Then it's practice with everyone else. Then afterward, it's another hour or two of getting rubbed, twisted, and yanked. Trust me, kid; it's not worth it. Besides, I'll be past this in no time.” Keith laughed. “Come on, it's your set.”

But underneath Keith's surface of confidence was a sea of doubts. As he helped Afshin pull fifty pounds off the bar for his own set of squats, he pondered the future of his career. Five years ago, he would have bounced back from something like this in no time. Now it seemed every little injury turned into a rehabilitation.
What is it Riley's grandpa always says? “Why does everything have to be a project?” No doubt! Especially in football. Nothing's easy anymore.

So why keep doing it?
he wondered, even as his mouth was automatically encouraging Afshin. “Push it! Push it! C'mon, Rook!”
It's certainly not the money—I've got plenty of that. And while I enjoy the fame, I'm getting to the point that a little anonymity might be nice for a change. So what is it?

Suddenly the answer came to him, and with it came a feeling of sadness and frustration.
It's because I have nothing else! Look at Riley; he's got meaning to his life—real meaning beyond just hitting people for the sole reason that they're carrying an oblong ball. He's shown that he can take or leave football. But me? This is all I have. If I weren't playing football, what would I be doing other than sitting around playing
Guitar Hero
and hoping my phone would ring?

The thought so depressed him that he missed Afshin's step back.

“Keith!”

Keith quickly took hold of the bar and set it in place.

“Come on, man, you can't leave me hanging like that,” Afshin said angrily.

“Sorry, Z, my mind drifted off.”

“Well, let it drift off when the bar's on your shoulders,” Afshin replied, walking off to find an open stationary bike.

Not good,
Keith thought. He had broken one of the cardinal rules of the weight room. If you're spotting someone, you have to keep your head in the game, because you might be the only one keeping a friend from an injury, possibly even a career-ending one.

Frustrated, Keith leaned against the cold metal squat rack, rehearsing in his mind his nonlimping walk across to the bikes. As he did, he absentmindedly watched one of the weight room's six flat screens. All were tuned to ESPN and were muted with the closed-captioning on. Suddenly, a uniformed Riley appeared in a box next to the SportsCenter anchor.

Keith chuckled to himself.
As much as Riley tries to stay out of the spotlight, his face probably shows up on this channel more than anyone else's.
But then he saw something that made his heart sink. Through the magic of Photoshop, Riley's Colorado Mustangs uniform transformed into a Washington Warriors uniform. Keith's eyes dropped to the captioning in time to read,
“We'll let you know as soon as we hear if the trade rumors are confirmed.”

A string of profanities came from across the room where Chris Gorkowski had thrown down a set of dumbbells. All around, guys began talking, but Keith was too stunned to move. Afshin came running over, but by the time he arrived, Keith's shock had transformed into anger. Pushing past the rookie, Keith strode toward the door of the workout facility—all pain in his ankle forgotten.

Thursday, July 23, 11:40 a.m. EDT

Washington, D.C.

Riley leaned back on the leather couch, savoring the combination of flavors in his corned beef Reuben. The meat was lean and perfectly seasoned, the sauerkraut still had the slightest of crunches, and the dark rye bread was toasted to perfection.
Just think, I could be sweating with Keith and Afshin back in Denver!

He lifted the sandwich from the table he had pulled over by the couch and took another bite, dropping a big glob of Thousand-Island-dressing-infused pickled cabbage on his plush white robe.
Bummer,
he thought with a smile, picking up the blob with two fingers and popping it into his mouth.
Gonna have to make sure the laundry service knows to soak that.

Riley knew he should probably be up and doing something, but he so rarely had any time off. Besides, Scott had interrupted his vacation. He deserved a little bit of R & R.

He also knew that a lot of what he was feeling was just plain tiredness. Between his whirlwind two days and Skeeter's knocking on his door at 2:15 that morning to let him know he had made it, Riley was simply exhausted.

That late-night meeting with Skeeter had been interesting. It had been obvious that Skeet was still angry. He had wanted to go immediately to Scott's house. When Riley told him that there was no way he was getting dressed so that Skeeter could go give Scott a pounding—as deserved as it may be—Skeeter had demanded a first-thing-in-the-morning smackdown.

Riley knew that the best thing he could do would be to keep the two men apart as long as possible. The fireworks resulting from that initial meeting could leave a bad taste for months to come. So while Riley made the excuse that he was extremely worn-out and needed to sleep late, the real reason he was still lounging in his room was to let Skeeter calm down before meeting with Scott.

However, Riley would have a hard time convincing anyone that he was making any sort of sacrifice by keeping the peace. He had told Skeeter that he didn't want to be disturbed until 1:00 p.m. That had given him time to sleep in, brew up some coffee and have some cereal, get some reading in, then order up this incredible sandwich from Mackey's Pub downstairs.

As he ate, he casually watched SportsCenter. Scott had asked him to wait until the trade was announced before he called anyone back home in Denver. He felt bad knowing that his teammates and friends would be caught totally off guard, but he understood Scott's reasoning. This was a very delicate negotiation that Scott, Khadi, and Stanley Porter were involved in. If word got out and then the deal fell apart, it would be embarrassing for all parties, particularly if there was any hint of governmental involvement.

But Riley had a feeling that everything would work out just how Scott wanted it—it always did, didn't it?
After all, I'm a Warrior and not a Mustang. I'm here in muggy Washington instead of beautiful Colorado. And they call
me
a golden boy!

But here he was, and here he would stay, because he had every confidence that Scott, Khadi, and the gang would work the negotiations. And also because he had a feeling that if need be, the talks would broaden to include one owner's tax problems and the other owner's son, who had just been convicted of an intent-to-distribute-cocaine charge.

Yep, I'm a Washington Warrior. No two ways about it.
The same feeling of nervousness that he had felt the previous night came back.
Thankfully, I don't have to report until Monday. But still . . . isn't that just putting off the inevitable?

Something on the television pulled Riley out of his musings. On the screen he saw a picture of himself dressed out as a Mustang. Then, as the anchor spoke, his uniform slowly morphed him into a Washington Warrior.

“. . . unconfirmed report that Riley Covington has been traded to the Washington Warriors. If this is true, it would cause a general outcry of ‘What are you thinking?' among the Mustang faithful and would probably lead to a marked increase in lottery sales among the Warrior fans who have just hit their lucky day. The terms of the alleged trade have not been announced, but word is that Washington is considering sending Denver four senators, two congressmen, and the Lincoln Memorial. We'll let you know as soon as we hear if the trade rumors are confirmed.”

Guess that means I can call Keith now,
he thought, reaching for the phone. But before he had a chance to dial a number, the phone rang.
Whitney Walker,
the caller ID said.

Riley debated whether or not to answer it. Whitney was a sports reporter from the local Fox News station in Denver. She was a class act and had helped Riley out of a major jam just a couple months ago.

Riley's hesitancy came not from the fact that she was media. She had already proven to him that she could be trusted to quote him accurately and in context—something that was a little too much of a rarity among many in the journalistic field. His concern was that since meeting Khadi seven months ago, Whitney was the only female who had piqued his interest. In fact, it was piqued enough that even though he and Khadi were only in the loosest of relationships, he had felt a lot of guilt over his two or three coffees with Whitney—
all of which were media-related,
he reminded himself,
purely professional. Still, there's something about those green eyes of hers and the way she laughs that just brightens up a whole room—and she knows football!

“Aw, heck,” he said, punching the Send button. “Hey, Whitney! Long time no talk!”

“Riley Covington,” Whitney answered with a bit of playfulness in her voice, “do you mean to tell me that you've been traded to Washington and you didn't give me a heads-up? That's not very nice, you know.”

Riley smiled in spite of himself. He had been determined to keep things purely professional and to end the call as soon as possible. But Whitney had a way of flirting with him that got through whatever defenses he could put up.
Come on, Covington, don't be a sap. You're not that easy of a mark, are you?

Actually . . . you probably are.
“What makes you think that I've been traded? Have you been listening to the Denver rumor mill?”

“I think you've been traded because I have ears, and what makes you think I'm still in Denver? Don't you pay any attention to the media news?”

“You're not in Denver? I had no idea. Media comings and goings are right below British royalty on my list of things I feel I need to keep up with. So where are you?”

“I'm going to try not to be offended by your comments, Mr. Covington,” Whitney said with a little pout evident in her voice. “And, just so you know, I arrived last week in Bristol to work at ESPN.”

“Seriously? The big time? Congratulations,” Riley said, half of him thrilled that she was again so close and half of him terrified that she was again so close.

“Thanks. But remember, this call isn't about me. So what is it? Are you a Warrior or not?”

Riley thought. He didn't want to cross any lines he wasn't supposed to. But he knew how an exclusive like this could help Whitney in her new job.

“Tell you what,” he said, “this has got to be off the record—”

“Come on, Riles. Then what good is it?” Whitney interrupted.

Riles?
“Let me finish, missy. Off the record, I'm 90 percent sure that I'm a Warrior. However, there are extenuating circumstances that make it impossible for me to say any more. But . . .”

“But . . . ?” Whitney repeated hopefully.

“When everything is announced—which will probably be later today—I'll give you the exclusive interview on how I'm feeling about the trade, about leaving Denver, etc. Also, from here on out you can be my primary pipeline into the network. Fair enough?”

Whitney was ecstatic. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! Honestly, part of the reason they hired me was because of my promise of access to you; did you know that? Oh, I hope that wasn't too presumptuous of me. But you'll forgive me, won't you? Oh, Riley, this will be huge for me.”

Riley couldn't help but smile. He could picture her face all lit up, her green eyes beaming. “This is the least I could do. You helped me when I really needed your help.”

“I've told you not to mention that again,” Whitney lightly scolded him. “I was just doing what any friend would do. Now, how about we meet for coffee tomorrow? I'd be happy to drive down your way.”

Too dangerous! Say no; say no; say no!
“Sure, that'd be great,” Riley answered, grimacing even as he did so.

“Fabulous! I can't wait to see you again!”

“Yeah, me too.” As soon as he hung up the phone, Khadi's face popped into his mind.
Come on, it's only a cup of coffee. Purely professional.

Maybe, but are you planning on telling Khadi about it?

Riley picked up his sandwich to take another bite but found he wasn't hungry anymore. He pushed the plate to the other side of the table so he wouldn't have to smell the food.

You're a football player, and she's a reporter. It's as simple as that. This is just a part of my job. And if Khadi can't understand that, then she needs to reevaluate our relationship!

What relationship? Do we even have a relationship?

And whom exactly are you trying to convince—Khadi or yourself? Especially since you are the only person involved in this internal monologue.

“Whatever,” Riley said out loud as he picked up the phone to call Keith Simmons. “Everything will work out.”

But even as he dialed the numbers, the half-finished Reuben began turning somersaults in his stomach.