The Total Package Read online

“My name is Clinton Barrow,” the man replied evenly. “I’m one of the owners of the Austin Mavericks.”

  Tyson knew the name. Barrow was one of those high-­profile dudes whose family made their fortune in crude. Clint and his oil baron cronies started the Mavericks a decade ago after deciding that the fine ­people of Austin shouldn’t have to choose between the Cowboys and the Texans when it came to professional football. He prided himself on being a hands-­on guy who was loaded but classy. While he wasn’t above the occasional spectacular stunt, he didn’t drive a big Cadillac convertible with steer horns mounted on the grille.

  “I didn’t recognize you without the hat,” Tyson said, referring to Barrow’s signature ten-­gallon Stetson.

  “The missus doesn’t like me to wear it in the house.” Clint grinned. “But I didn’t bring you here to talk about wives. I’m sure they’re not on your list of favorite topics either.”

  Tyson rubbed his face again. Jessa Thompson, the former Mrs. Palmer, wasn’t on any of his lists. Tyson really couldn’t blame her. She had been one of his last attempts to make himself appear an upstanding citizen. It was a whirlwind romance that started when he met her after her failed Blitz Babes cheerleading audition. He swept her off her feet and provided her with a lavish and highly publicized wedding. She was beautiful and sweet and they made a lovely ­couple. Tyson tried to be a good husband at first, but he was already too far gone. And he never took into account just how shrewd his wife was. She remained unassuming and adoring, right up until the day TMZ broke the Carla Dowe story. By the time he rushed home, she had blocked his number from her cell phone and packed up all her belongings (plus some of his) and gone, leaving behind only a note with her lawyer’s contact info. He had signed the papers that officially ended his marriage while in a stupor over a month ago.

  It was clear that Clint Barrow had done his homework on him, but why?

  “At this point, I would’ve thought there was something wrong with Jessa if she stayed,” Tyson said, sighing, giving up and falling back onto the bed. “You still haven’t told me what I’m doing here.”

  “I have a proposition for you,” Clint said. “A one-­time deal designed to mutually benefit both of us.”

  Tyson stared at the ceiling, trying to gather his bearings and sighed again. “I don’t know anything about the Blitz that can be of any use to you.”

  Clinton Barrow shook his head. “I’m not looking for insider information. That would be cheating, and I abhor cheaters. What I have in mind is more of a long-­term investment. This one is all about you, if you’re man enough to accept the test.”

  Tyson steadied himself on his elbows to get a better look at his would-­be benefactor. “Go on.”

  Clinton Barrow waited a moment. The smile was gone and he became all business. “I’m going to buy your contract at the fire sale, and you’re going to win me a Super Bowl.”

  Despite the war raging between his stomach and his head, Tyson laughed. “You’re out of your mind. I couldn’t pay to play football now, even if I wasn’t flat broke.”

  A general grumbling could be heard from the Goons at the perceived insult directed at Barrow. Clint didn’t join in and instead leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You have a hell of an arm, Palmer. And I believe you have a good head on your shoulders, or at least you did, before you started spending all your time in the gutter. If it wasn’t for your no-­account daddy taking you out to the strip clubs instead of the woodshed, you wouldn’t be in this mess. But here we are. And if you were any closer to thirty, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

  Barrow paused for full effect so that Tyson might recognize the gravity of the situation before he continued. “Now here are the terms I’m offering you. You’re going to leave straight from here and go to an intensive rehab facility I’ve already lined up. You’re going to be a model patient in every way and get yourself clean of whatever shit currently pollutes you. After they’re satisfied you’ve completed their program with flying colors, I’m going to see to it you have the best training out there to get you back to playing form. I will supply all your housing, transportation, hell, even your clothes. There isn’t going to be any fanfare, nobody is going to know what’s going on. As far as the league is concerned, you will have gone down the drain with the rest of the sludge. With the exception of a phone call to your mother to tell her you’re going on a retreat to clear your head, you’re not going to have contact with anyone from your prior life. You won’t have a phone. You may want to think about firing your agent. He’s out of the loop. The only ­people with access to you will be the ones I’ve appointed, who will be reporting back to me on a regular basis. Your sole focus is going to be on getting yourself ready to get back on the field as soon as your suspension is up.”

  “Looks like I’m not the only one trippin’. You’re never going to be able to make that happen,” Tyson jeered, both skeptical and scared. What if he agreed and couldn’t pull it off?

  The Goons both began to lunge forward, probably to clock him again for disrespecting their boss, but Clinton Barrow straightened up, raising his hand to stay them. He sat back in his flowery upholstered chair, crossed one leg over the other, and picked at some imaginary lint on his slacks before rounding out the details of his proposal. “As soon as you’re reinstated and eligible, my partners and I are then going to sign you to a three-­year deal with that first year being paid at the league minimum. The following two years’ salary will be determined by your performance, but you will not leave the Mavericks for any better offers unless we cut you loose. These terms are nonnegotiable, and if you don’t agree to them, my associates here will be more than happy to return you to the dump we pulled you out of.”

  The only sounds that could be heard after Clint finished his speech were the four men breathing. Clinton Barrow had lost his mind, Tyson thought, probably the result of his team never making it past the first round of the playoffs. Or Tyson was the pawn in an extreme game of wealthy boys with toys who spent their free time making outlandish bets on the downtrodden.

  Or maybe he had just been thrown a lifeline to get back into the game. “What if I can’t do it?” Tyson broke the silence, giving voice to all the fear, doubt, and self-­loathing that had plagued him for months.

  Clinton Barrow rose from his chair and buttoned his suit jacket, seemingly satisfied that Tyson’s question was his agreement. “Well, that’s the risk now, isn’t it? And it’s a risk I’m willing to take, even if my partners think I’ve taken leave of my senses. All I’m asking for is that you participate in your treatment with the same gusto you used to give your game. And that you give a hundred and ten percent every day, even when you can’t stand one more minute. I think you’re going to do just fine and I’m looking forward to owning a championship ring. Now get yourself cleaned up, you have a plane to catch. Welcome to the Maverick family.”

  Tyson sat up, only to quickly lie back down as the room began to spin around him. “Wait! Don’t you want me to sign a contract or something?”

  Clint started to make his way to the door but stopped short of exiting. He turned and gave Tyson a fatherly smile that belied his parting message. “This part of our deal is based on a gentlemen’s agreement. Your word is considered our bond. I have faith in you, son, but if you try to double-­cross me once you’re back on your feet, it’ll be my pleasure to have you killed.”

  Clinton Barrow strolled out of the room, leaving the Goons behind. They pounded their respective meaty fists into equally imposing palms.

  “Now that sounds like a party, right, Pilly Bob Thornton?” the bigger of the two said.

  Tyson might have been more intimidated, but he was busy making use of the bucket by the bed.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE GOONS WERE uncommunicative on the ride back to the airport, where Barrow’s private jet waited to take Tyson to his new, as yet undisclosed, location. Bef
ore they confiscated his phone, they demanded Tyson call his mother, per the boss’s instructions. Too ashamed to admit that hearing his worried mother and trying to sound optimistic was a conversation he couldn’t pull off, he texted her instead. Without waiting for her to answer back, one of them took his phone and fiddled with it a bit.

  “Your agent just got his walking papers,” Tyson was informed with a sneer. He could only imagine how that text must have read.

  Then the Goons removed the phone from its protective case and took turns stomping on it. After that, any of Tyson’s attempts at garnering information were met with various grunted versions of “shut up.”

  They were the hard-­core disciplined Neanderthal types. Both taller than Barrow, who was already six feet, they were all muscle and had sunglasses they didn’t remove. One had a crew cut, squared off and sharp enough to etch glass. The other was one earring, a white T-­shirt, and a grin short of looking exactly like Mr. Clean. Tyson measured up physically, but he was too strung out. And they were the kind that would never be found facedown in a bar. It was obvious they viewed him as a lower life-­form. Tyson gave up saying anything once he began to shake uncontrollably. His bucket had been replaced by a bag that he gripped tightly in his hand and occasionally used although he had nothing left to deposit. He spent most of his ride to the airport floating in and out of consciousness and retching. He refused to groan or complain to the monsters, although on more than one occasion, his eyes filled with tears of self-­pity and despair. After showering and changing into fresh basketball shorts and a plain T-­shirt and hoodie, supplied by Barrow, he thought he might be starting to come around, but as the day wore on, the feelings only intensified. Or maybe he had just begun to feel again, period, after months of near blacked-­out haze.

  Tyson had just agreed to something he didn’t think he could deliver. Surely Barrow had to have known what a clusterfuck he was setting them both up for when he made his offer. How was he, as one man, supposed to guarantee a championship season for a team, even if he was at the top of his game and in peak condition? It was by sheer luck and maybe even divine intervention that Tyson was alive at all. But all he’d really been asked for was his participation. Go back to being a football machine, even if it was football that had ruined his life. And he was getting three years to make good on it from his end. Clinton Barrow had made him feel worthy. Barrow had called him “son” in a way that struck Tyson at a primitive level, and he responded like a child who once again would do anything to please the father.

  Of course, it was probably just coincidence that his real father had also threatened to kill him. Right after Tyson fired him, a drunken argument over his mother came to fisticuffs. Now all that remained was a long road ahead, and a very unpleasant one.

  Tyson continued to shake after he and the Goons took off in the luxury jet. They sat as far away from him as possible, alternating between snickering and snarling, all the while making disgusted faces in his direction. Tyson finally fell back into a tormented sleep. When they landed and one of the Goons shook him awake, it was almost dark. Tyson had lost all sense of time or space. All he could do was go with it. They unceremoniously tossed him and a small duffle bag out the plane’s door and onto the tarmac with a contemptuous “Go get ’em, dipshit.”

  A black sedan was waiting. Standing outside the car were a man and a woman, dressed more casually, businesslike. The man retrieved the duffle and Tyson stumbled, still groggy, into the backseat of the car through the door the woman held open for him. She went around to the other side and joined him while the driver put the bag in the trunk, then took his position behind the wheel and they left the airport. From the backseat of the car, the woman introduced herself as Wanda. Withholding her last name, she identified herself as a doctor and after a quick inspection of the bruises on his face, began to take his vital signs. She was gentle in her approach, plump and motherly, her black hair streaked with gray contained in a loose bun. She had a very proper British accent. She handed him a bottle of water and asked him what substances he’d been using, heroin and cocaine in particular.

  “I’m a weed-smoking, pill-­popping alcoholic. No crack or smack. I had to draw the line somewhere.” Tyson replied with feigned indignation, earning a small grin from Wanda, who looked up from the file she was writing in.

  “We’re very glad you did. What are you currently taking, starting with prescriptions?”

  She stopped his recital of pain meds somewhere between Adderall and OxyContin. “Do you know how long you’ve been on them?”

  “As long as I can remember,” Tyson answered flippantly in an attempt to hide his true misery. This time, her face remained expressionless. She no longer appreciated his jokes. But bad jokes were all he had. He felt like the very definition of a bad joke himself. “About three years. I didn’t think my withdrawal symptoms would start so soon. I could use a cigarette right about now, and I don’t even smoke. Am I still in the United States?”

  “You’re in California, Mr. Palmer, Southern California. You’re starting your new life where the weather is always sunny. And we’re very happy to have you. Every person’s physical withdrawal pattern is different, and we’re here to help you through it. You are on the road to recovery. It’s not going to be easy. But I promise you that it’s going to be worth it. You’re worth it.”

  “I played in California,” he mumbled. Then he remembered the terms handed down by the man footing the bill, with that first condition being You will be a model patient. Tell the lady what she wants to hear. “That’s great. I’m ready to get to work.”

  Wanda resumed her questions about his background and history, and as he answered honestly, he began to feel the weight and scope of what exactly he had done to himself and those closest to him. He added completely emotionally overwhelmed to dizzy and nauseated. Wanda took note and, after giving him a reassuring pat on the hand, stopped talking. Tyson leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes to combat it, but there was no escape. His self-­loathing was unrelenting. By the time they turned onto a hidden driveway that ended in front of the sprawling ranch that would become his new residence, he felt like bawling. As soon as they settled him into his private room with its magnificent view, he did just that. Surrounded by ­people who were there to support him, he’d never felt more helpless and alone. He kept repeating that he could handle it all, as long as nobody saw him break. He spent the night curled up in the fetal position, trying to keep from sobbing.

  The first week was akin to one long dry heave. As the chemicals started making their way out of his system, his addiction screaming to be satisfied, Tyson shook, hurled, and had manic, vivid dreams that bordered on hallucinations. Any food he put in his mouth tasted like it had been poisoned, and it was all he could do to keep it down. And while going through it all, he was expected to keep a very scheduled routine, which the staff monitored closely. Like a robot, he went through the motions and showed up on time without any fuss, even when fighting off wide-­ranging mood swings. He made an effort not to come off as surly, while trying to make deals with God to end his suffering. He was quiet, contributed when asked, but never volunteered. There were five other patients, three women and two men, all ranging in age and in different stages of recovery. Some were having a harder time than others, but they were all respectful of one another and if there was any serious drama, he made a conscious effort to keep his distance from it. One man, a celebrity, had been through the program before. If anyone knew who he was, they made no mention of it. The facility itself, which sat on several acres, was beautiful, with amenities more in keeping with a five-­star resort. There was a pool and a hot tub and several waterfalls leading to babbling brooks. Koi ponds were the view from the cardio equipment in a gym that also had a Universal and free weights. He was scheduled for an hour of exercise twice daily. It felt like someone was watching him constantly, always leaving just enough room to keep him from getting completely paran
oid, but there if he wanted some company. When he wasn’t being led from one therapy activity to another, he spent all his free time sleeping or staring off into space, trying to reconcile who he once was with who he had become.

  And then something happened. Without knowing it, Tyson embraced his program. On the first day he woke up without a headache, he got on a treadmill and ran. Originally, he thought he was doing it just to fulfill his exercise requirement. As days passed and his endurance built back up, it became something he looked forward to, and then turned into something he couldn’t stop himself from doing, like a new addiction. With the pounding of his feet against the belt, he felt his focus coming back. Then it started to resemble a pointless effort to run away from the disgrace of his past, much of which was foggy at best. Most of it was a complete blank, but he knew deep in his gut that whether he remembered it or not, all of it was bad. What he did remember was a good indicator of just how low he had plummeted. It made him run faster, longer, as he struggled to fill in the missing pieces of the time he had spent in a fog. As soon as he was allowed, he began taking his runs outside, where he felt free to yell at himself with only the flora and fauna to hear. He berated himself for miles. Christmas came and went without his celebrating. On a subdued New Year’s Eve, he drank coffee around a fire pit with the staff and clients before turning in well before midnight.

  He preferred to listen rather than talk in the group sessions, which were twice a week, and because he was attentive, no one pressed him for his story. Through their confessions, he discovered that he really didn’t have the market cornered on addiction, or despair. Though every story was different, the struggle was still the same. But in the safety of the psychiatrist’s office Tyson began to open up. About his family and the destruction brought on by his wealth and fame. About the frustration over the chunks of time he couldn’t account for. In doing so, he learned that he didn’t have any control over his father, or his mother and sister for that matter. He could empathize and support, but he couldn’t take responsibility for their broken hearts or control how they handled their pain. He was allowed to stop punishing himself for the mistakes made by those around him. Eventually he might forgive his father, but when he did, it would be for himself, and it didn’t have to be today. He could only manage his own actions, and now it was time to forgive Tyson Palmer. Even for the things he couldn’t remember. He owed it to himself to live fully, complete with all the feelings that sometimes bring grief, but his self-­medicating days were over. He would learn the skills to cope, then make amends. The first step was to take each moment at a time. And that’s what he set out to do.