Blackout (5 page)

Monday, July 13, 10:45 a.m. MDT

Inverness Training Center, Centennial, Colorado

Riley's eyes opened, and the first thing he heard was shouting off to his left. He shook his head and tried to clear the cobwebs. Then the pain hit. It started like a small seed just under his right ear and soon grew to encompass everything from the neck up. His jaw felt like it had been nailed with a Kathy Bates sledgehammer swing, and he could taste blood in his mouth. There was a tickle under his nose, and when he went to wipe it, his hand came away red.

What is all that shouting?
he wondered. A hand slid under him, helping him to sit up on the grass.

“Pach. Pach, you okay?” Afshin was asking him.

“Yeah, I'm fine. Help me up, would you?”

“Don't you think you should—”

“Just help me up!”

Another arm slipped under his opposite shoulder. “You heard the man, Rook. Up we go,” safety Danie Colson said.

Riley's world spun, and he felt for a moment like he was surfing the earth's rotation. He was finally able to steady himself by picking a point on the north goalpost and fixing on it until his brain caught up with his body.

Turning around, he immediately saw the source of the racket. A scuffle was being broken up as one group of large bodies tried to pull apart and hold back a second group of large bodies. When things sorted themselves out, Riley could see linebackers coach Rex Texeira and several defensive players holding Keith Simmons and center Chris Gorkowski. Facing off with them and being restrained by two other players was one man—tight end Muhammed Zerin Khan.

Like a light being switched on in a dark room, the last several seconds came back to Riley with sudden clarity. It was minicamp, and the Mustangs were running a touch drill—no pads, no hard hits. Riley had spotted Zerin cutting across the middle. But the ball was thrown downfield to Jamal White, so Riley had let up.

Zerin hadn't.

The last thing Riley remembered was Zerin's head hitting his cheek. Then came the waking and the spinning.

Ted Bonham, the head of the medical team, came running up and set his bag on the grass. “Riley, you all right?”

“I'm fine,” Riley replied, unsure whether his answer was true or not.

“I want you to look at my finger and—”

“Hold on, Bones,” Riley said, pushing past the trainer and moving toward the crowd of players. “I'll be right back.”

Bonham's protests were quickly drowned out by the curses of various players as Riley approached the group. Standing just outside of the melee was Coach Roy Burton. He raised his eyebrows to Riley, and Riley nodded that he was okay.
He must be waiting for everything to calm down and disperse before he gets his pound of Zerin's flesh.

Riley put his hand on Keith's chest and then reached over to Gorkowski's. “I'm fine, guys. Really, it's all right. Back off.”

Both reluctantly stood down.

Riley spotted Texeira, who had found the receivers coach. Riley let them keep on arguing—that was none of his concern.

Turning to Zerin, who had quit yelling but was still pressed up against the hands of two other players, Riley said, “That was quite a hit.”

Zerin just stared at him silently.

The look in his eyes—angry, yet somewhat amused—unnerved Riley a bit. “Don't worry, man; accidents happen,” Riley said, walking up to Zerin with his hand held out.

Zerin's eyes never left Riley's. “Wasn't no accident.”

“I should have held you under the water while I had the chance!” came Gorkowski's voice.

Riley turned to see the center straining again against the hands that were holding back his attack.

“Snap! Leave it alone!”

But even as he said it, he could hear Zerin saying, “I'd like to see you try! How many steps have you lost now?”

Riley whirled around and walked directly up to Zerin until they were almost nose to nose. The crowd suddenly fell silent. Riley spoke quietly so that only Zerin and those holding him could hear. “Zerin, I forgive you.”

Zerin continued to fix Riley with his hard stare. “I didn't ask for no forgiveness,” he said with venom in his voice.

“That may be, but I'm forgiving you anyway, so you better get used to the idea. And if you cheap-shot me again, you know what? I'm going to forgive you again.” Then Riley broke into a grin that killed his jaw and cracked the drying blood on his mouth. “Sorry, man, but I'm not going to let you get in my head. You're just plumb out of luck.”

Riley turned and started walking to Ted Bonham. “Okay, Bones, now you can check me. Let's see just how badly Mr. Universe scrambled my already-mixed-up brains.”

As Bonham ran him through a series of tests, Riley could see the crowd breaking up. But one thing never changed—Zerin never took his eyes off Riley. At least until Coach Burton walked up to him, and then the volume increased all over again. This time, however, the conversation was completely one-sided.

Monday, July 13, 11:30 a.m. MDT

Inverness Training Center, Centennial, Colorado

After the drills, Riley wanted to get home as quickly as possible. But when he saw defensive lineman Tony Hawker, the team's only Muslim other than Zerin, getting a rubdown, he decided that his muscles felt pretty sore too. He stepped in front of a rookie tailback who was about to hop up on the adjoining table and took it for himself.

“Sorry, Rook,” Riley said, not really feeling sorry at all.
What can I say? Tenure has its privileges. Besides, the chances of this kid still being here in September are slim to none.

“Give me the works, Fletch,” he said to trainer Russell Fletcher, who was standing by ready to work on whoever took his table.

“You got it, Pach.”

As Riley stretched out, Hawker was already waiting for him. “I don't understand him either, man.”

“What?” Riley asked. “Who?”

Hawker chuckled. “Come on, Pach, I can read you like a book. You want to ask me about Zerin, and I'm telling you I don't understand him either.”

Riley laughed. “I'm that obvious?”

“You're so transparent, you're see-through.”

“Well, I guess that's not altogether a bad thing. I think the main thing I'm wondering is whether this is a—
uhhhh!
” Fletcher had just hit a spot on Riley's calf that made it feel like he had plunged his thumb through the skin, under the muscle, and onto the bone. That was the thing with these trainers. It felt great when you reached your destination, but sometimes the journey itself could be murder.

Hawker, white-knuckling the sides of his own training table, waited Riley out.

“What I'm wondering is whether this is a Muslim thing or just a Zerin thing?”

Hawker quickly sucked in air as his trainer began working on his quads. “I don't know,” he said through gritted teeth. “Both, I guess.”

“Go on,” Riley encouraged, his eyes just beginning to water—“involuntary eye sweat,” they liked to call it.

“I mean, he and I follow a different kind of Islam from each other. And while it's true that you've got to look a little harder for the ‘turn the other cheek' kind of forgiveness you guys have, it's there. I know you're kinda familiar with the Koran. Surah 42:40 says, ‘And the recompense of evil is punishment like it, but whoever forgives and amends, he shall have his reward from Allah.'

“But mostly, though, I just see my faith as trying to emulate the character and qualities of Allah. God is forgiving, so I too should be forgiving. God is merciful, so I too should be merciful. God is generous, so I too should be generous.”

“But Zerin doesn't see it that way. . . .”

Hawker gave an involuntary twitch as hands began probing his ribs. “No, he doesn't. I talked to him after the taping incident. I could see his heart was going the wrong way. He didn't say much, even to me. But what he did say got me a little scared for him. He's big into the whole honor thing, which I know is important among Middle Eastern Muslims. But the kid's from Atlanta!

“Still, he feels like his honor has been wounded and he needs to avenge his name. So you got that, and you combine it with his focus on the more controversial parts of the Koran, and you got trouble.”

“Controversial how?”

“Well, you got passages like Surah 22:60—‘He who retaliates with the like of that with which he has been afflicted and he has been oppressed, Allah will surely aid him.' And 5:45—‘Life is for life, and eye for eye, and nose for nose, and ear for ear, and tooth for tooth.' But you guys got that one, too, don't you?” Hawker said with a grin.

“Yeah, that's Old Covenant. Hey, Fletch, any farther center and you'll have to buy me dinner,” Riley called back to Fletcher, who was working his fist into Riley's glutes.

“Old Covenant, New Covenant. You Christians make things so complicated. We've got one God, one book, and one truth—there is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is his messenger. Plain and simple.”

Riley chuckled. “Yeah, one God, one book, one truth—and five pillars and five prayers and six articles of belief and two descending lines from Muhammad and twelve imams . . .”

“Okay, okay,” Hawker laughed, “I guess we both have our little complications.”

“But that's just the thing, Hawk. Christianity isn't complicated. It's the simplest belief system in the world. It's all about a free gift of salvation you don't have to work for.”

“Yeah, I know. Believe me, I've heard it all before. But, Riley, man, if it's all the same to you, I'm not in the mood to get all theological right now. You wanted to know about Zerin, and I told you what I know. Let's leave it at that. Cool?”

“Cool with me,” Riley said just as Fletcher reached his fingers into Riley's armpit. “Ow! Come on, Fletch, do you love me or do you hate me? You gotta decide, because I can't take this split personality thing you're giving me much more.”

A sharp dig into his serratus anterior gave Riley his answer, although it wasn't the answer he was hoping for.

Monday, July 13, 12:10 p.m. MDT

Inverness Training Center, Centennial, Colorado

As Riley toweled off from his shower, he thought about what Hawker had said.
How do two followers of one religion have such different opinions on how it should be lived?

He tossed his towel into the hamper in the center of the room, then began pulling his clothes out of his locker. As he did, he saw his ever-present Bible sitting on the top shelf. He picked it up and held it in his hand.
But I guess that's not too different from how people have used this over the centuries. In these pages, people have found excuses to go to war and slaughter innocents. Yet others have found reasons to go and tend to the wounded and dying that were left behind by the first group.

Putting the book back on the shelf, he thought,
I guess while there are huge theological differences between Islam and Christianity, there isn't necessarily that much difference in the people.

I mean, look at Khadi. She is one of the best people I know, and she is a good Muslim.
At that thought, sadness came over Riley.
Unfortunately, being good is not enough. And believing in something false is also not enough, no matter how passionate your faith.

As he finished getting dressed, Riley prayed for Khadi as he often did throughout the day. He also prayed for Tony Hawker, and he even forced himself to pray for Zerin.

Just before reaching
amen
, Riley's prayer was interrupted by a voice. “Covington!”

Turning, he saw Zerin walking by on the other side of the locker room. Suddenly, he underhanded something at Riley. Instinctively, Riley reached out his hand and caught the item—a mini bottle of Gatorade. He was so stunned that he didn't look back up to say thanks until Zerin had already walked out the door.

Dropping to the bench in front of his locker, Riley began laughing. He twisted the cap off the bottle and chugged the drink in one pass.
Wow, maybe things are starting to look up.
He put the cap back on and launched the bottle with an NBA-quality flip of his wrist. The empty sailed across the room, hit the rim of a trash barrel, and bounced to the ground.

“Missed it by that much,” Riley said, getting up to retrieve the bottle. But before he had a chance to collect it, defensive coordinator T. J. Ceravolo walked up and lifted it off the ground.

“Thanks, Coach. I think we need to put a backboard on that barrel,” Riley said, laughing. However, his mood quickly changed when he saw the look on Ceravolo's normally friendly face.

“Coach Burton needs to talk to you, Riley—ASAP.”

“Of course. What's up?”

“Just get up there,” Ceravolo said, not looking Riley in the eyes.

“Sure, Coach,” Riley answered, his anxiety level starting to rise.

As he traveled down the halls of the training center, his mind raced. A player never got called to the coach's office for good news. Typically, it meant you were leaving the team for one reason or another—suspension, cut, or trade. But none of those options made sense to Riley.

He hadn't done anything suspension-worthy—although his brain rapidly processed through every supplement and pain remedy he'd ingested over the past six months. He couldn't imagine getting cut, unless it was because he was becoming too dangerous to have around. And the thought of trading him, when the off-season talk had all been about designating him the franchise player, made absolutely no sense.

Franchise player—that's it! The July 15 deadline is only days away. These bums are going to go through with franchising me!

Up until recently, the Mustangs had been telling Riley that he was their franchise player. But for some reason, they had been holding off on making the final decision. The coaches had told him it was a done deal, his agent had told him it was a done deal, but Riley kept on holding out hope that it would fall through. It's not that he wanted to leave the team. Far from it—he couldn't imagine playing anywhere else. But while being franchised offered a player job security, it stunk in the financial department. Between salary and signing bonus, a “franchise player” designation could cost him upwards of seven million dollars this year.

“But now they're going to do it,” Riley grumbled under his breath as he opened the door to the coach's reception area.
I guess I should have expected it.

Karen Watkins, the same secretary Coach had had since coming to the team years ago, said, “Go on in, Riley. He's waiting for you.”

“Thanks,” Riley said as he knocked, then opened the next door.

Coach Burton was sitting behind his desk. Behind him was a bank of video screens that received feeds from each of the position meeting rooms. The desk itself was piled with large stacks of paper, and the bookshelves surrounding him held playbook binders and DVDs.

“Sit down, Riley,” Burton said.

As Riley moved to a chair, he decided to take the upper hand in the conversation. He was an elite veteran player, after all. Shouldn't he have some say in his contract designation? “Listen, Coach, I think I know what this is about, and you need to know that I'm not happy about this whole franchising thing. First of all, I think the whole rule is—”

“You're being traded,” Burton said.

Riley stopped cold. He wanted to ask the coach if he was joking, but Burton's face made it clear he wasn't. “I'm being . . .”

Burton leaned back in his chair. “I'm sorry, son. This is not my decision. You are a great player and a good person. You're also an American hero, and it's been an honor to have you playing on my team.”

“I'm being . . .” Riley's body had taken on a lightness that made it feel as if he were dreaming.
Wake up! Come on—wake up!

“I don't even know the terms of the deal—it's something Mr. Salley and the Washington Warriors' owner, Rick Bellefeuille, have worked out.”

“Washington?”
Wake up; wake up; wake up!

“And I know this is a lot to ask, but Mr. Salley is insistent. Because of the fallout that's going to result from this, Mr. Salley has asked that you don't mention the trade to anybody—particularly not to your teammates or the media. You're obviously excused from any more practices or workouts, and you don't have to report to the Warriors until training camp starts. Take the time to get away. To process. To get used to the idea.”

“I still don't understand. Why?”

Burton, who was obviously disgusted by the whole thing and just wanted it over with, finally lost his patience. “I don't know why, Riley! It's the nature of the game! Players come and players go, and it's your time to go, okay? I'm not happy about this; you're not happy about this. But what am I going to do?”

Riley sat glaring at the man. He wanted to throw something, maybe sweep the stacks of papers and binders off the desk, break a monitor or two. But he just sat.
The man's right. What's he going to do? What am
I
going to do?

“When you leave today, just make it seem like any other day. Don't clear out your locker. We'll do it later and send everything to you. Mr. Salley wanted me to threaten you with all sorts of financial things if you say anything, but I know you better than that. You're a man of integrity. I know you'll do the right thing.”

Yeah, you know where you can stick that “man of integrity” thing! I'll say what I think I need to say to anyone who I think needs to hear it,
Riley thought, knowing deep down that he was going to end up doing exactly what was asked of him. This was the nature of the game, after all.

Coach Burton stood up and extended his hand across his desk. “It's been a pleasure coaching you, son. I hope someday to get a chance to do it again.”

Riley stood also and shook Burton's hand, all the while mumbling something about it “being an honor” and “let's hope so.”

As he walked out of the office, he was in a daze. He heard Karen Watkins say something to him, but he didn't acknowledge her.

For the past few months, he had been wrestling with whether football was still for him. Many times he had considered leaving the Mustangs and moving into counterintelligence or even high-tech private security. But now that the Mustangs were being taken from him rather than him leaving the Mustangs, he was devastated.

The Mustangs had been his team from the time he was a small child in Wyoming. He'd grown up wearing orange and blue pj's and T-shirts and undies and jerseys and ball caps. He'd drunk his hot chocolate from a Mustangs mug and celebrated his birthdays with Mustangs cakes. He'd painted his body, colored his hair, and even considered getting a homemade tattoo with a few of his high school buddies until a friend's dad had told them a tattoo horror story that had scared some sense into them.

Now he was going to play for the Washington Warriors.
The Warriors? Really? They're not a rival. They're not a contender. The Warriors just kind of fall into that “who-gives-a-rip” category of PFL franchises. They're paragons of mediocrity.

Riley struggled with feelings of loss and betrayal as he packed his day bag and left the locker room for his car.
They may think they hold all the cards and can play them however they want. However, I still hold one big ace in the hole. There's nothing that says I have to be anywhere but in my living room when the next season starts.
And the farther Riley walked away from that locker room, the farther it felt like he was walking away from his football career.