The Total Package Read online

  Tyson started to meditate, which fueled an interest in learning yoga, when weight lifting and running no longer seemed like enough. When Wanda suggested acupuncture as a pain management alternative, he willingly let them stick him with needles. He began to read for knowledge and pleasure and took long walks, sometimes with others, occasionally Wanda, forsaking his solitude. And when he was alone, his self-­talk turned from critical to introspective. After forty-­five days, when he looked in the mirror, the reflection staring back was not only one he recognized, but also one he could bear to look at. He was finally beginning to feel some peace. The last time he’d looked in the mirror and truly liked what he saw, he’d been a boy. Now he was a man.

  Within days of that revelation, after breakfast and his morning run, it was Wanda who joined him on the patio.

  “Good morning, Tyson, what are you reading?” she asked, sitting down on a neighboring chair.

  He looked up and smiled, showing her the cover. “The Alchemist. I’m almost finished.”

  “Ah. Paulo Coelho and his shepherd Santiago, one of my favorites. How do you like it?”

  “It’s an easy enough read,” Tyson replied truthfully, “and I get what old Paulo is trying to say, but I’m not sure I agree with all of it.”

  “Which parts do you take issue with?”

  “I agree it’s important to follow your dreams, but I don’t think the universe necessarily opens up to help make them happen,” he told her, reluctant to pan a book he knew she favored. “If anything, I think the opposite is true, the universe sets up roadblocks to test you on how badly you really want them.”

  “I can see where you might come to that conclusion.” Wanda nodded in the customary neutral way that all the rehab staff practiced. There wasn’t anyone at the facility that Tyson found fault with, but out of everyone, he’d come the closest to bonding with Wanda. She seemed to get him, never preached, and was good at imparting words of wisdom. It was something about that accent, all proper and British. It made everything she said sound very matter-­of-­fact, like she was merely confirming something he’d already thought of.

  “And I don’t think there’s anything really wrong with looking forward to the future.” He added with a chuckle, “Please don’t tell anyone I said that. I know I’m supposed to be taking it all one minute at a time.”

  Wanda took her finger and made a crisscross over her heart, with her standard proper smirk. “You have my word. In your case, it’s probably a very good sign and the reason I searched you out. Dr. Mayfair has spoken to Mr. Barrow and told him that he’s thrilled with your progress.”

  “That is good news.” Tyson felt a tiny surge of gratification with the thought that Barrow was getting his money’s worth.

  “Both are impressed with the way you checked your ego at the door, and the level of your dedication. They think you’re ready to tackle the next leg of your journey.”

  “You used the word tackle. I see what you did there,” he teased. And then he fought a wave of apprehension. When he left the ranch, he’d be leaving the forgiveness that came with it. Thanks to his celebrity status, all the evidence of his bad behavior, which he’d been shielded from, was still out there. Little land mines that might trigger some of the memories he was convinced didn’t bear remembering. “Do you really think I’m ready?”

  Wanda patted his hand the exact same way she did when they first met. “I don’t know if you remember the day you came here, but I do. Maybe that’s why I wanted to be the one to tell you the news. I’ve watched you make good strides, seen firsthand the way you’ve wrestled your demons. You didn’t rush the process, you let it take root. Everybody understood your need for caution when it came to your interactions, since you won’t be returning to any sort of anonymity, quite the opposite. You can’t do anything about those who are determined to judge you. We’ve equipped you with how to handle post–­acute withdrawal. You’re ready.”

  “If you say so,” Tyson said, not completely convinced. “I hope you’re right.”

  “I don’t need to be right, you do,” Wanda told him. She stood up and turned to go back inside. “Better finish up your book, you leave tomorrow. Remember, stay humble. One day at a time.”

  “Wanda?” Tyson called after her. “Is this it, or am I going to get one more chance to make you say ‘pip-­pip-­cheerio’?”

  She turned back around and gave him one last reassuring smile.

  “Mr. Palmer,” she said as professionally as possible, her best imitation of a member of the royal family. “We are taught in this business not to become chummy for the sake of our patients. It’s been a real pleasure getting to know you. I look forward to watching you from my couch next season.”

  It was the only time anyone other than his therapist had made any reference to football, and the first time anyone mentioned his playing again. Tyson knew it was her way of saying good-­bye. “Do you know where I’m going next?”

  Wanda called over her shoulder to him: “New Jersey. Don’t forget a jacket. I hear it’s cold there.”

  THE GOONS WERE WAITING OUTSIDE Barrow’s jet when the same black sedan dropped Tyson off before dawn the next day. They were a little less hostile and a little more cautious in their approach this time, but he didn’t need them to take their sunglasses off to see they were still unimpressed by him.

  “Get a haircut, douchebag,” one of them said from behind him as they boarded.

  “Can’t argue with that,” Tyson replied easily as he took his seat on the opposite side of the plane. He’d thought about shaving his head free of the now-­shoulder-­length mane the night before. It might have made the Goon that looked like Mr. Clean a little more sympathetic. Then he remembered Wanda’s warning about the cold and decided against it. It was going to take more than a haircut to win either one of those two over.

  A Mavericks cap landed in his lap, thrown at him by a Goon. Wedged inside the hat and held within the dome by a single piece of Scotch tape was a bank envelope. He opened up the envelope and found a single one-­hundred-­dollar bill and his driver’s license, another small step forward into his new reality. He pulled back his hair and put the cap on with a sense of pride, something that had long been unfamiliar to him. He knew any expression of appreciation would be wasted on his companions.

  “Thanks, man.” Tyson smiled anyway.

  “Shut your pie hole, maggot.” It was the sort of response he expected he would get and got.

  Tyson could feel them watching him for most of the flight, waiting for him to get jittery or show some other sign of weakness no doubt, but they were robbed of the satisfaction. He spent the entire six hours reading sports magazines and meditating. He was too nervous to sleep, wondering what was waiting for him when he landed. He switched out the word nervous for excited, a positive reinforcement trick he’d learned in group. And, anyway, he had slept enough in rehab for a lifetime.

  They landed in New Jersey, and Tyson was greeted by the all the chilly February dreariness that came with it.

  “Good luck, skid mark,” Goon Number One said from the plane after tossing out a different, slightly larger duffle bag from the hatchway door. Goon Two didn’t trouble himself with getting out of his seat.

  This time a white BMW convertible, canvas top up, was waiting for him on the tarmac.

  The woman who got out was the polar opposite of Doctor Wanda. Tyson could tell with one glance that the petite thirtysomething redhead was a brick house in a leather bomber jacket and jeans. He picked his duffle bag off the ground and carried it over to meet her. She opened the trunk of the car, giving him a bright smile.

  “Hi, Tyson, I’m Holly.” She extended a firm hand in introduction.

  Tyson shook her hand and dropped the duffle in the trunk. He got into the passenger seat of the toasty running car thinking that Clinton Barrow was either a genius or a moron. Holly was busty and solid, quite a looke
r, a sight for his sore estrogen-­deprived eyes. If Barrow was trying to make a statement by having him train with a woman to help clean up his reputation, he wasn’t sure it was the right move or how it would play out. And she didn’t look like his first choice to ready him for a return to football. But his job was to show up and shut up. He contemplated this new turn of events as she shifted the car into gear and they sped away from the airport.

  “How was your flight?” Holly asked politely after a few minutes of silence.

  “Uneventful.” I didn’t get punched out or puke this time. Now it’s up for grabs.

  “Always the best-­case scenario.” She gave a half-­laugh. “Logan wanted me to apologize for not meeting your plane himself, but he had a ­couple last-­minute details to see to before your arrival.”

  “Logan?” Tyson repeated, realizing that being in the dark was becoming less and less appealing the farther he got away from the comfort and safety of the ranch. “You have to forgive me, I don’t mean to sound stupid. I’ve been on a need-­to-­know-­basis.”

  Holly took her eyes off the road for second to give him a quick look. “No need to apologize. Logan told me this operation was on the covert side. I just didn’t think he was serious. You’re in New Jersey.”

  “That much I do know.” Tyson chuckled before adding, “But that’s about it. You’re not my trainer?”

  “Hell no!” Holly laughed. “I’m just your pickup. And my vast knowledge of football pretty much ends with whatever color team uniforms are.”

  Tyson asked tentatively. “You don’t follow football?”

  “Watch it all the time,” she said with a sly grin and didn’t elaborate.

  So she knew who he was and why he was there. And she wasn’t treating him like a leper, which he looked at as a good sign. He wondered just how many questions she could answer. “Can you tell me where I’m going?”

  “We’re going to meet Logan at the gym. He wants to get right to work.”

  “Does this guy Logan have a last name?”

  “Montgomery.”

  Tyson looked out the window and took a deep breath. Clinton Barrow wasn’t kidding when he said he was getting Tyson the best. On the list of athletes currently destined for the Hall of Fame, from nearly every sport, there was a common denominator—­they all trained with Logan Montgomery.

  CHAPTER 4

  HOLLY PULLED UP the Beemer behind an average two-­story structure in downtown Englewood and popped the trunk. After Tyson removed his duffle bag, they walked around to the entrance at the front of the building and took a set of stairs to the second floor. Once inside, Holly went into the small office in the back while Tyson took in his new surroundings.

  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.