Authors: Jason Elam
Blown Coverage (5 page)
“Awake, O Sleeper,” came a deep, accented voice, and then the signal abruptly cut.
Naheed’s martini glass shattered on the tile floor, while a tremble that began deep inside her soon shook her entire body.
TUESDAY, MAY 5, 5:10 P.M. MDT PARKER, COLORADO
Riley saw the twinkle in her beautiful brown eyes. He knew what was coming next but felt himself powerless to stop it. Slowly
she moved her face toward his. Riley couldn’t help but smile in anticipation.
When they were just a few inches apart, she stuck out her tongue and proceeded to blow the biggest, wettest raspberry Riley
had ever experienced.
“Alessandra Ricci, what are you doing?” a mortified Meg Ricci scolded her fourteen-month-old daughter. “Riley, I’m so sorry!”
“That’s okay,” he replied, more to the little girl who was lying on top of him as he was stretched out on the living room
carpet. “As long as she doesn’t mind being my towel!” In a flash, Riley’s big hands snatched Alessandra off his chest and
dropped her stomachfirst onto his face, rubbing her all around to dry off the spit. This quickly deteriorated into a five-minute-long
belly-furber fest that eventually left both Riley and Alessandra exhausted.
Ever since his friend and former teammate Sal Ricci had been killed last February, Riley had been coming regularly to spend
time with Sal’s widow, Meg, and little Alessandra. “Just because a man doesn’t turn out to be who you thought he was doesn’t
mean that his wife and daughter should pay the price, too,” he’d often told naysayers who criticized him for his loyalty to
these two innocent victims.
After giving one more kiss to the black hair on the top of the little girl’s head, Riley rolled himself up off the floor and
dropped down in a leather chair. Opposite him, Meg set down the crossword puzzle book she had been working on. Riley noticed
that none of the squares had been filled in.
“You are so good with her,” Meg complimented him.
“It’s hard not to be.” Riley tossed a soft throw pillow from the chair onto Alessandra’s back. She giggled and continued to
crawl away.
“So, tell me what really happened to you down in Costa Rica. The news tells all these stories, but the former reporter in
me doesn’t fully believe anything I hear from them.”
Riley sighed. “You know, Meg, I’d really rather just forget about it. I’m having too nice a time to bring that junk up. Besides,
what I really want to know is how you’re doing.”
“That’s fine, Riley, you can tell me your top secret stories another time,” Meg responded with a little irritation in her
voice. “As for me, that lawyer you sent to me has been a huge help. She’s blocked anyone from seizing our assets, and she
made sure the life insurance is paying up. I don’t think we’ll have anything to worry about.”
“Excellent. So, back to my original question—how are
you
doing?”
Although Meg’s voice remained steady, Riley could see her eyes begin to tear up as she answered, “I’m fine, Riley. Really
I am. Other than the loneliness, the fact that all my neighbors hate me, and the well-deserved reputation I now have of being
the stupidest woman in the world, everything’s just dandy.” Her tears finally let loose, and Meg covered her face with her
hands.
Riley leaned forward in his chair. “Meg, if you’re the stupidest woman, then I’m the stupidest man. We were all taken in by
Sal.”
Dropping her hands, she cried, “Yeah, but I married him; I slept with him; I had his child!”
Silence filled the room, except for the soft sound of Meg’s sobs. Riley, feeling very awkward, said, “You mentioned your neighbors.
Have you been harassed at all? Gotten any threats?”
“No, nobody is that blatant. But I can see it in their eyes—that is, when they will at least look at me. Even Jill from next
door has become cold toward me.” Meg pulled a couple of tissues from a nearby box and began dabbing her eyes.
Oops,
Riley thought,
I probably should have offered those to her.
His mind raced to come up with some other conversation to break the silence.
“Have you ever thought of moving? You know, starting fresh again somewhere?”
Meg sighed and dropped the tissues on a side table. “Of course. My folks have even invited me to come live with them up in
Fort Collins. But Alessandra and I have been through so much, I just don’t think I’m ready to pack everything up and leave
home. Besides, if we tried to sell this place, we’d end up taking a huge hit. Who’d want to buy Sal Ricci’s old house?”
Riley saw his opportunity to hop back on his white stallion. “That kind of stuff, Meg, you don’t worry about. You let me worry
about it. You just do what you need to do.”
“I know, Riley. Thanks.” Then, bravely trying to brighten things up, Meg asked, “So, do you want to stay for dinner? I make
a mean peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich. Just ask Alessandra.”
Riley laughed. “No, I better get going. I’ve got to—”
“No, no, you don’t need to explain anything to me,” Meg interrupted.
“What? No, seriously, Meg. I’ve got to go meet—”
“Riley! I said you don’t have to explain,” Meg insisted as she stood up to find where Alessandra had wandered off. “We’re
just thankful for any time we can get with you.”
Meg found her daughter crawling under the baby grand piano tucked in the front corner of the room. She picked her up off the
floor and said, “Alessandra, give Uncle Riley a kiss before he goes.”
Riley took Alessandra from Meg’s hands and gave her a quick tickle and a kiss. Alessandra, for her part, tried to start the
previous game again by spraying raspberries all over Riley’s face. Meg reached around and covered her daughter’s mouth, then
set her back down on the ground.
After walking Riley to the door, she put her arms around him. Riley responded to the hug, but when he began to break off the
embrace, Meg kept holding on. Sensing that she must be a little emotional, he held on to her longer. He could feel her breath
against his neck, slow and steady.
Finally, just as it was really beginning to get awkward for Riley, Meg pulled back. She looked at him with dry eyes and said,
“Thank you, Riley, for being the man in our lives.”
Riley stammered something like “Sure” and “No problem” and went out the door.
As he walked to the car where Skeeter was waiting in the passenger seat he began trying to process what had just happened.
But as soon as he started his Denali and TobyMac’s
Portable Sounds
began blaring through the speakers, the incident was quickly filed away in the “To Be Reviewed Later” section of his brain.
“I walk up to the kid and motion for him to roll down his window.” Reggie Brooks had taken the floor and now had Dan Elijah and Abdullah in stitches. “He’s all nervous, and I can tell his mind
is trying to figure out what to say to me. I ask him for his docs, and as he’s fumbling through his wallet, he says, ‘I just
want you to know right off, officer, that these are not my pants.’”
The two-member audience completely lost it.
Reggie continued, “I’m like, ‘Not your pants?’ And he’s all nodding and saying, ‘Yeah, they’re my friend’s, so any drugs or
anything that might be in them belong to him and not me.’ So, I’m like, ‘Uh, son, you probably ought to step out of the car.’”
Abdullah’s cell phone drew him away from the story. Still laughing, he reached into his locker to grab the RAZR out of his
jeans pocket. Flipping it open, he said, “Abdullah.”
“Awake, O Sleeper.”
Abdullah sobered up in an instant. He had rehearsed so many times in his head what he would do if he ever got this call that
he kicked into autopilot. He quickly slipped his shirt over his head and grabbed his jeans.
“Everything okay, man?” asked Dan. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
But Abdullah didn’t hear him. “Sorry, boys, gotta go,” Abdullah said to Reggie and Dan and ran off before the other two had
a chance to protest.
6:19 P.M. CDT
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
Mohsin played with the remote control, lowering and raising the projection screen at the far end of the mini conference table
in his office. He tried a new button, and suddenly vertical blinds shot out of a hidden door, causing him to jump and then
burst out laughing. The blinds swept across the windows. Another button twisted the blinds closed, and still another twisted
them back open.
His cell phone rang. Mohsin checked the caller ID on the front of the phone.
Unavailable
was written across the screen. This was the third unavailable call in the last three minutes. He silenced the ringer and began
looking for the remote button that would open his television cabinet.
His phone rang again. Exasperated, Mohsin snatched the phone up, hit Send, and yelled, “What?”
What he heard on the other end caused the phone to slip from his hand onto the glass desktop. A tear rolled down his cheek.
Suddenly, he reached under his $4,000 desk, snatched up his leather-wrapped waste can, and purged every ounce of food from
his body.
Isaac Khan forced himself to finish the last of the Gatorade. Although he still felt a little weak, he was definitely on the
upswing. Looking at the empty bottle, he thought,
If they could just make a flavor that
didn’t
taste like a three-year-
old’s
birthday party.
He launched the empty at a greasy metal barrel that served as a trash can. The bottle clipped the rim, bounced to the ground,
then circled to a stop.
I probably ought to get that. . . . Nah, somebody will
pick it up eventually.
He willed himself to slide off the loading bay so he could make his way to the car. His cell phone stopped him. Reaching into
his shirt pocket with his grimy hands, he pulled out an eight-year-old Motorola flip phone that was stained the color of the
grungy fingers that held it.
“Hello?”
Isaac stopped in his tracks. After hearing the words on the other end, Isaac dropped to his knees on the hard cement and wept.
Awake, O Sleeper! Awake! Awake!
he sang in his head. Isaac turned his face up and raised his hands to the sky. “After all these years of slumber, I am finally
awake. Oh, Allah, you are so merciful to take notice of your servant. Whatever you want of me, I will do. All you need do
is ask. Thank you for not forgetting me. You truly are great.”
His prayer complete, Isaac jumped to his feet and ran to his car. The years fell off him with every step he took. By the time
he put the keys in his car door, he felt like the eighteen years he had wasted on the docks had been given back to him by
Allah as a reward for his long-suffering patience.
MONDAY, MAY 11, 8:30 A.M. MDT ENGLEWOOD, COLORADO
Is
dread
the right word?
Riley asked himself.
What
about
disgust
? Or maybe
revulsion
? Or maybe something
not quite so strong, like
hesitant
, or a fancy
word like
trepidation
?
Driving to his first day of minicamp, Riley tried to put a name to how he was feeling.
No,
nothing fancy.
Dread
’s
the right word. Pure and simple
dread!
Riley’s reluctance to start minicamp was an entirely new phenomenon. He had always loved football. And days like this used
to really get him excited. Minicamp was a time to enjoy the workouts and the game without having to deal with all the pressures
that came during the season.
Even back in high school, Riley had counted the days until the summer practices started. The competition, the challenge of
meeting and exceeding his personal goals, learning new team systems, and everything else that embodied football were things
that had gotten his adrenaline pumping from the time he was a kid. But now . . .
Riley hit the brakes hard at a yellow light, causing the car behind him to screech to a halt. When the guy laid on his horn,
it was all Riley could do to keep himself from getting out of the car and explaining to the man—in no uncertain terms—that
yellow means slow down. He resisted the urge, though, because first of all, he didn’t need the added drama in his life, and
second, any other day he would have just blown through the light.
It’s
not that
guy’s
fault
I’m
trying to stretch
my drive to take as long as possible.
“You want me to go back there and shoot him?” Skeeter asked from the passenger seat.
Riley glared at him in response.
Deep down, Riley knew the reason for his dread. There were still deep wounds from the end of last season—the attack on Platte
River Stadium, his own experience of being held hostage and tortured, the betrayal and death of people he loved.
Lord, please give me the strength
to follow through with the calling
You’ve
given me. Help me be a light,
even when I feel the darkness permeating my very soul.
Riley turned on his stereo and pushed the button for disc five. The stark snare-drum opening of U2’s
War
album filled the interior of his black Yukon Denali. Riley used the steering wheel as his own snare and began singing along
when Bono’s voice launched in.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a smirk form on Skeeter’s forward-looking face. Riley pretended to ignore him.
If
I’m
going
to have to live with this giant walking shadow,
he’s
going to have to deal
with my habits.
I’ve
already lost my privacy.
I’m
not going to sit here and
shut up just because
he’s
riding shotgun.
Riley kept singing in his off-key baritone, slipping into an auditorily uncomfortable falsetto when Bono rose out of his range.
However, when the song reached its chorus, Riley quickly hit the power button. “Sunday Bloody Sunday” ventured a little too
close to what he was trying to forget.
Unfortunately, the silence left him alone with his thoughts.
Another issue that concerned him was having to face the coaching staff and Robert Taylor, the Mustangs’ public relations manager.
It had been two weeks since Riley had returned any of their phone calls—something he was sure he’d have to answer for this
morning.
The reason for his prolonged silence was that as late as this morning, he still wasn’t sure what he was going to do about
football. At 7:30 a.m., Riley had been on a conference iChat with his parents and his grandpa. During the off-season, he had
purchased MacBooks for all of them so that they could better keep in contact through the video-chatting program.
From the left side of his laptop screen, Mom and Dad had both wished him well for the day and said they’d be praying for him.
But it was Grandpa’s words from the right side of the monitor that had stuck with him.
“I know today is going to be a tough day for you, son. Your folks and I just want you to know how proud we are of you. As
you head out today, try to keep your eye on the big picture. We’ve talked before about how, from time to time, you’re going
to face situations that may seem too much to take. It’s times like this you’ve got to remember that God won’t give you more
than you can handle. He’s promised that, so you can take it to the bank.”
“Yeah, I know, Grandpa,” Riley had replied. “I just don’t know if I still have football in me.”
Grandpa had smiled and said, “I understand. A lot has happened. I was just thinking back to the day you were drafted. Remember
the excitement you felt? The feeling of a dream coming true? The Mustangs fulfilled that dream of yours. When you finally
signed that contract with them, you were telling them that in return for that dream, you would give them your best. Riley,
as long as you are out there giving your best, your best will always be good enough.”
After disconnecting the videoconference, Riley had sat at his kitchen table rubbing his face with his hands. Riley knew Grandpa
was right. He had made a commitment, something he didn’t take lightly. A quick prayer later, he had gathered up Skeeter and
his gear and headed toward the garage.
Now that he was so close to Inverness Training Center, the apprehension was growing stronger than ever. He knew there would
be unpleasant people he would have to see and verbal lumps he would have to take. But there was one group of people that he
just didn’t have the strength to deal with this first day back. So for the last five minutes of his trip to the training center,
Riley turned his thoughts toward plotting all the creative ways he could avoid facing the media today.
8:45 A.M. MDT
INVERNESS TRAINING CENTER
ENGLEWOOD, COLORADO
It had been less than a month since Whitney Walker had joined Fox 31 News. The competition among reporters was fierce, and
she knew there were hundreds of other applicants who would jump at the chance to take her job. The window for her to step
up and make a name for herself was small. So she had decided to “catch the worm” and had gotten to the Inverness Training
Center early with her cameraman, Mark Sandoval, to begin gathering sound bites from Mustang players as they straggled in.
Unfortunately, things were not going well. Sure, she was getting all the usual comments: “We’re just looking for a fresh start”
and “I think we have what it takes to go all the way this year.” But that was the problem; they were just the
usual comments
. Every other reporter was hearing the same thing. There was absolutely nothing that would help her stand out in the crowd.
Whitney hated to admit it, but she was bored with her material.
She sat down at one of several green picnic tables that were located under a covering next to the east practice field. Sandoval
sat at the next table over, which was a relief. All morning, anytime she looked at him, he’d been staring at her. He would
quickly look away, but it was still giving her a bit of the creeps.
It was hardly as if she wasn’t used to the attention. Whitney Walker was a knockout, and she knew it. Her long blonde hair
framed a face that on anyone else might be considered a little long. But the perfect balance of her features, along with the
surprisingly rich emerald green eyes that everyone was constantly accusing her of aiding with contacts, created in her a beauty
that was difficult not to stare at.
While Whitney was not averse to using her beauty to her advantage—whether it was to further her career or to get out of the
occasional speeding ticket—she also wanted to be taken seriously, something men seemed to have difficulty doing. To this end,
she had graduated from UCLA in the top 5 percent of her class and was now working hard to develop an on-air personality that
showed true professionalism yet still drew the viewers in.
That desire to be taken seriously was what was plaguing her today. The one thing that would brighten Whitney’s day today would
be to talk to Riley Covington. He was
the
story of minicamp.
Football
star, national hero, and
let’s
face it, extremely good-looking
guy—
a few
minutes with him would brighten any
girl’s
day,
Whitney thought with a smile.
The problem was that getting to him seemed near impossible. The Mustangs’ media relations department was already busy earning
their salaries for the day trying to keep the mob of reporters away from the players’ parking lot in anticipation of Riley’s
arrival.
If I try
there,
I’m
just another goldfish in an already crowded fishbowl.
Think—
what would Riley do?
Whitney had spent a lot of time researching Riley since taking this job, and in many ways she felt like she already knew him.
He’s
always ready to do a scheduled interview, but he still avoids media
whenever he can. He has to know
what’s
waiting for him here. If I were
him, you
couldn’t
catch me dead driving into the insanity of the
players’
parking lot.
Then an idea popped into her mind.
“Come on, Mark,” she said to her cameraman, “let’s try something different.”
Sandoval, who was in the middle of a Butterfinger bar, stuffed the uneaten half of the candy into his pocket and enthusiastically
followed Whitney, no doubt hoping for something to break the minicamp routine.
Walking quickly, they passed the crowd in the parking lot. Whitney motioned for Sandoval to slow down so they wouldn’t attract
notice as they exited the gates and excused their way through the crowd of fans who had gathered to try to get autographs
when the players pulled up to punch in the gate code.
Once through the fans, they sped up again, going all the way around to the front of the main building. Just as they rounded
the front corner, Whitney saw that her hunch was going to pay off. Fifty feet in front of her, Riley Covington was stepping
out of a black Yukon Denali parked in the guest lot.
“There he is!” she shouted to Sandoval and began hustling over until she saw another person step out of the passenger side.
This other man was, as best she could tell, six feet seven and solid as a tree trunk. His hair was shaved tight against his
scalp, and his dark skin showed lighter scars in a number of areas around his face and head. He was dressed all in black,
and as he stepped out, his right hand was tucked in the left side of his sport coat.
Gathering all her courage, Whitney moved forward to intercept Riley before he made it to the building’s front door. She knew
he had spotted her when he answered his cell phone even though she hadn’t heard it ring. A bigger problem was that the other
man had spotted her too, and with surprisingly few strides cut off her progress with his body.
“Riley, please?” she called out, trying to look around the human roadblock. When he looked at her, she made a dainty little
dip with her knees, and pled with her eyes for him to stop. Riley paused, smiled thinly, and put his cell phone away.
“It’s okay, Skeeter,” he said as he walked up to her.
Whitney held out her hand to him, knowing the value of physical contact. “Hi, Mr. Covington. My name is Whitney Walker with
Fox 31. Is there any way I could talk you into just a quick interview?” She could see that he was annoyed at having to stop,
so she was laying the charm on thick.
“Sure, Miss Walker, a very quick one. I have to get in,” Riley said matter-of-factly.
“Please, call me Whitney,” she said with a flash in her eyes.
When Riley didn’t respond, it threw her off her game a bit. She had the interview all planned out—flirt a little to loosen
him up, ask him about his off-season, get him to talk about the tragic and heroic events surrounding his time with the counterterrorism division, then transition to discussing the selection of Afshin Ziafat in the first round of the draft—a perfect
journalistic coup that was bound to get her noticed by her higher-ups.
But there was something about Riley that made her uneasy. Whitney had never felt so much pain and struggle in one person before.
There was a sadness in his eyes that made her want to wrap her arms around him and tell him everything would be okay. She
tried to ask the first question but couldn’t get it out. The silence became awkward.
“Miss Walker?” Riley asked.
After a few moments, Whitney finally spoke, amazing herself with her words even as they came out of her mouth. “Mr. Covington,
I know you’ve been through a lot. I want you to know how sorry I am for what you’ve experienced. I was just hoping that .
. . that maybe you would be willing to give us a station tag?”
Riley’s shock showed in his eyes. “Uhh . . . sure.”
Whitney quickly wrote out some words on a slip of paper and handed it to him.
He read it over, then smiled at the camera and said, “Hi, I’m Riley Covington of the Colorado Mustangs, and you’re watching
Fox 31 Denver.”
Whitney smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Covington. I hope you have a great day.”
This time Riley reached for her hand and shook it. “No, thank you. And please, call me Riley.”
“Do you mind if . . . ?” Whitney asked shyly, holding out her business card to him.
Riley took it with a smile, then turned and walked toward the entrance of the training center. Whitney watched until the doors
closed behind him and his friend.
Sandoval’s angry voice interrupted her reverie. “You just had the interview of a lifetime! I mean, that was one that people
would be telling stories about for years to come! What happened?”