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  Logan had an intensity that at first Tyson understood and appreciated. But within two weeks, Tyson was longing for the warmth and compassion of the Goons. He was expecting a mentor; what he got was more along the lines of a tormentor. Logan was relentless with no sign of letting up, no matter how many challenges Tyson faced and conquered. His grim perseverance seemed to only aggravate Logan further. They never took a day off, and Tyson began to lose all track of time. There was only one bright spot in his routine, and it was the presence of Holly, who arrived around the same time every afternoon. She was unobtrusive and kept in the background, never contributing to conversation or getting in the way, instead slipping on the headphones to the iPod she brought with her and using an elliptical machine for an hour. That was the only time Logan actually took a break from his bombardment of animosity long enough to act somewhat human. Tyson tried to keep a respectable distance, but if “SexyBack” happened to come on during her visits, his testosterone would begin to flow whether he wanted it to or not. Add Jay Z with a little “Suit & Tie,” and unless he was willing to poke out his own eyes, there was no way to keep from noticing her.

  “She’s my bookkeeper,” Logan snapped when Tyson innocently asked about Holly.

  “Damn, what kind of tyrant are you?” Tyson couldn’t refrain from commenting in her defense. “Does her job depend on a weekly weigh-­in?”

  Logan floored him with the beginning of a grin. “Would you feel better if I told you she was my girlfriend?”

  “No, not really,” Tyson replied, and Logan actually laughed. The first laugh Tyson heard from the man. And Tyson gained some insight on where Logan was spending his nights.

  That glimpse of comradery was short-­lived, however, and the acrimony returned, now overshadowed with jealousy whenever Tyson so much as glanced in Holly’s direction. Tyson thought he must be imagining it, since Holly had never been anything other than courteous in her comings and goings. He was hardly a threat. But the more they smiled at each other in passing, the more Logan would bark “Focus!” and some sort of borderline torture was sure to follow. Any admiration Tyson held on to based on Logan’s reputation quickly soured. The two were on a collision course. Less than a week later, Tyson finally surrendered and gave Logan the fight he wanted.

  It started when Holly came in and took her place on her elliptical machine, and before putting on the headphones and starting it up, shared a small joke about there being no pain, no gain. Logan broke up the conversation from going any further, and as soon as he caught Tyson looking over in her direction, he growled.

  “Are you flirting with my girlfriend?”

  “No way!” Tyson replied quickly and hated that he sounded more and more like a wuss every day. 5 Seconds of Summer started blaring bubblegum pop from the speakers, grating him further. He resented the accusation that held a ring of truth and muttered under his breath, “But I would if I could get her to give up her iPod and save me from this asinine junior prom music.”

  It wasn’t really about music anymore. It was about the abuse of power.

  “Say what?” Logan taunted him. “If you’re going to insult me, why don’t you be a man and speak up?”

  Tyson took the bait and dropped the barbell he was curling, which shook the floor’s foundation. “Your music stinks, and you’re a glorified prima donna. I can’t believe anyone would write a check and willingly subject themselves to you. Why don’t you go and report that back to the boss?”

  “And deprive myself of the pleasure of riding your sorry ass? Not likely, at least not yet. Good to know you’re worried about that though.”

  Tyson began to back up, his peaceful, easy feeling of self-­control hanging by a perilous thread. “Maybe I’ll be the one who reports in, and tell Barrow all about the cash he’s throwing away on a little prick who’s more worried about his girlfriend than his client.” The threat was a total paper tiger. He didn’t know how to reach Barrow.

  “Go ahead, crybaby. My reputation precedes me, as does yours. You might want to remember that.”

  “Fuck you, man. I didn’t go to rehab to end up the whipping boy of a spoiled egomaniac. There aren’t enough drugs in the world to make it worth putting up with you.” Tyson started heading for door, momentarily forgetting that he had no place to go and everything he owned was in Logan’s condo.

  “I think there’s a crack house a few blocks down,” Logan replied casually.

  He stuck out his middle finger behind his head during his exodus with a resounding “Peace!”

  Logan called from across the room, “Hey, Palmer, listen up! You’re not the first athlete that ever fell flat on his face after being given too much too soon. The only difference with you is somebody actually gave enough of a shit for you to get a second chance.”

  Tyson stopped, had a nano-­second debate in his mind, and walked purposefully back to where Logan was standing.

  “And if you weren’t such a tool, you’d see I’m trying to make the most of it!” Tyson shouted in his face before forcefully giving Logan a two-­handed shove against his chest, sending him reeling backward.

  It might have turned into a full-­on scuffle, but both men were stopped by the shriek-­like gasp coming from the one other person in the room. They turned to look at Holly, Tyson heaving and Logan getting up off the floor. She was still on her elliptical, but it was no longer in motion. Her headphones were still on but her green eyes were wide. Then her eyes narrowed as she glared from one man to the other and she slowly shook her head. Saying nothing, she got off the machine and began to reach for her purse, intent on leaving. But Tyson beat her to the door and was gone ahead of her.

  Once on the street, wearing sweaty, inappropriate clothes for a lion-­like day in early March, Tyson did the only thing he could think of. He began to run. Knowing nothing of the area, he took the only path that was remotely familiar, the one from the gym back to Logan’s. After a ­couple wrong turns and through the course of several miles, some of them along a highway, his feet began to drum in time with the single thought that pounded through his head.

  You blew it.

  He viewed the attack on his trainer in the same light he would an attack on a coach. It was totally unacceptable, by any standards. It was probably too late to apologize. In all likelihood the first thing Logan did was call Barrow and inform him the project was a failure. And no doubt, he did it with pleasure. He could collect his salary and spend the rest of the winter in Tahiti. Once again, Tyson was a man with nothing, not even his identity, since his license was still at the apartment. With the one-­hundred-­dollar bill he hadn’t been given the time to spend. Tyson wanted that money back, after what he’d dealt with in the last month, he’d earned it. Then he pondered if Barrow would actually have him murdered or simply make sure he never threw a football professionally again. After all, Tyson hadn’t backstabbed Barrow, merely botched up the plan.

  “Mavericks SUCK!” someone shouted at him from a passing car. The remnants of a Big Gulp hit him with such force, most of its contents splashed up his shirt and ricocheted onto his face. He licked his lips: Mountain Dew. Tyson continued on, only now trudging more than running. He was inclined to agree.

  But of all the things Tyson was unsure of, there was one ideal that wouldn’t be shaken. No matter what happened from here on out, he’d be handling it with all his faculties. He would not go back to using.

  Almost two hours later he arrived at the high-­rise, prepared to at least try to get his stuff back, even if it did all really belong to the Mavericks. That task would be easy in comparison to what would come after it. He would be forced to make a collect call to his mother, the only person he could count on to bail him without conditions and his last resort. She would wire him the rest of the money to get him home. He couldn’t worry beyond that. He was back to taking it one minute at a time, only now his heart was heavy, and he was disappointed in himself.

&nbs
p; He stormed into the building, ready to take on the doorman.

  “I’m here to see Logan Montgomery,” he announced with as much dignity as his now-­sticky attire and sweat-­soaked hair would allow. He hoped the shivering looked more like he was vibrating in anger.

  But the man behind the front desk didn’t buzz up to the apartment. Instead he reached into a drawer, retrieved an envelope, and handed it to him.

  “Mr. Palmer,” the doorman said cordially, “Mr. Montgomery asked me to give you this.”

  Inside the envelope were Logan’s keys to both the condo and his car with a note that read:

  The address to the gym is in the GPS. Be there 8:00 A.M. sharp.

  Tyson was stunned. He had started an altercation with the person who held the keys to his future, and it appeared he was being rewarded for it. With keys no less, that gave him more easy access to the outside world. Puzzled, he thanked the doorman and proceeded to the elevator to follow his usual routine. He showered and went to the fridge, which was magically restocked once a week. But on this night there was one major difference. While nuking his food, instead of meditating on his gratitude for having made it through another day, he reflected on how if he’d had any inkling as to what the end result would be, he would’ve knocked Logan Montgomery on his ass weeks ago.

  CHAPTER 5

  TYSON DROVE TO the gym the next morning with a new sense of purpose. He owed Logan an apology, and it didn’t matter to him if he got one in return. He took into consideration that being offered use of Logan’s pricey Navigator and finally getting a key to his home might be the best he could hope for. It was enough. He was eager to get back to work. And he’d forgotten how much he liked to drive.

  The first thing Tyson noticed as he climbed the stairs was the thumping bass line. When he walked into the gym, he was greeted by the aggressive head-­banging sounds of AC/DC. If Logan never said another word about the incident the night before, Tyson still considered them square.

  Logan came out of his office looking more relaxed than Tyson had ever seen him. He grinned. “Better?”

  “Much,” Tyson replied, not sure if Logan was talking about the music or his fit of temper from the day before. He got right to the heart of the matter. “Logan, about yesterday . . .”

  Logan held up his hand. “Don’t. It’s not necessary. You were supposed to have done it long before you actually did, although I wasn’t expecting it to get physical. Nice push, by the way.”

  “Thanks. But I don’t get it.” Tyson frowned in confusion.

  “At first I needed to see whether or not you were going to go straight back to your bad habits,” Logan explained with another rueful grin. “Then I realized I had a much bigger problem.”

  “Now I’m really lost.”

  “All the Zen inner peace stuff makes for a great human interest story, but a crummy top-­shelf quarterback. You’re not going to be facing a bunch of Buddhists on game day. But it’s essential for your recovery, and it’ll come in handy when you go up against your critics. You’re not the first athlete I’ve seen through a scandal. But it’s up to me to make sure you get your edge back. You’re a big guy. They like to hit you hard, you can’t be afraid of them coming. Recovery is about surrender and stepping back, football is about anything but. Now we just have to strike the balance.”

  “You could’ve just told me”—­Tyson quirked an eyebrow—­“or was it always your plan to use me as an experiment?”

  Logan gave a semiapologetic shrug. “I had to learn as much as I could about you in a short time. And while working with you was an offer I couldn’t refuse, I still had six months’ worth of clients to blow off. I didn’t want all your first impressions on me based on hearing one side of phone calls where I basically had to kiss some ass for turning them down. It’s worth it if I manage to keep some of them.”

  “You gave up all your other clients to train me?” Tyson asked in amazement.

  Logan responded with a knowing smile. “You should know better than anyone, when Clinton Barrow asks you to do something, you do it. And you can’t half-­ass it.”

  Tyson seriously doubted he and Logan had similar conversations with their mutual boss. Logan didn’t look like he responded well to threats.

  Logan continued, “It was interesting to watch you slowly build up some steam. I’m not sure if it was Holly or the music that was really behind it.”

  “I would never poach on another guy’s girl. Trust me, it was the music,” Tyson replied dryly. “It’s hard to find the eye of the tiger to Justin Bieber.”

  Logan looked thoughtful for a moment. “You’re not the first to complain.”

  “I want to know if you actually would’ve forced her to flirt on demand. She seems way too nice to be so shallow.”

  Logan threw back his head with a laugh. “Don’t be fooled. She’s one of the toughest girls I’ve ever met. I’m not going to lie, it was not among the best ideas I ever came up with, and she wasn’t overjoyed about being the bait. The longer you held out once I started pushing, the more she let me know it. But she’s another part in your current challenge. Mr. Barrow has emphasized his desire for secrecy. If he had his way, we would be on some desert island and he would fly ­people in blindfolded. I think that sort of isolation is way too drastic if you’re going to have any hope of functioning in the real world once you’re thrown back into it. We need to come to a meeting of the minds about Holly. My girl is the only girl in town, so to speak. She wants to be able to be your friend and support you, but not if it’s going to send a mixed message.”

  “I take it that this isn’t your way of inviting me into a sexy threesome?”

  “It’s my way of telling you that you ain’t getting any for a while.”

  “My record with women is sketchy at best,” Tyson reminded him. “I don’t mind taking a break.”

  They got to work, and it was different. Logan was still supremely focused, but now actively encouraging. In between sets, he began to slowly fill Tyson in on the details of his plan. Within the next week, they’d be adding a massage therapist to the mix and shortly after that, a retired offensive coach and the late-­night use of an actual football facility. Clinton Barrow’s plan had been well thought out.

  Just before lunch, Logan ducked into his office and came back flipping a football in his hand. He threw it halfway across the room. Tyson caught it and felt a jolt of electricity course through him. Never did holding a football in his hand have so much meaning.

  “Have you ever heard of the Marine Corps Rifleman’s Creed?” Logan asked.

  Tyson shook his head, feeling the leather secure within his palm. He couldn’t resist mimicking a few forward passes to imaginary receivers across the room as Logan explained.

  “The Rifleman’s Creed is about always having your gun with you, becoming one with it. Never letting it leave your side. That’s what you’re going to do, but with that football. Carry it with you as much as you can, play with it, study it. It’s a part of you already. Your talent is the proof.”

  “Thanks, Logan,” Tyson said, grateful for the compliment as well as the gift.

  “It’s also my hope that it’s going to help you get through trials you haven’t had to face yet. You’re not going to stay hidden forever. Eventually, it’s going to come down to temptations and triggers. And you’re going to be alone when they pop up. There are going to be times when it’s about nothing but the choice to use or keep clean. I’d like to believe that as long as you can touch something that reminds you of where you are you’ll make the right decision. If you can do something to keep you grounded and your mind occupied for the few minutes it will take for the urge to pass, it could make all the difference.”

  Logan quit before it turned to a sermon and went to go pick up lunch. Tyson played with the football as he waited. He aligned his fingers with the white stitches to judge the best grip and then h
e did it again from a different spot. He balanced it by one of its pointed ends on his finger. It was like he was looking at a football for the first time, and he fully appreciated the spirit of the gift as well as the message behind it. It was easy to follow his program to the letter when the only ­people in his circle were dedicated to his success. Eventually the day would come when he would be casually invited out for a beer. He squeezed the football tight in his large hand. He could do it. He would just never touch another drop.

  Logan returned with what he labeled a celebratory meal. Tyson couldn’t remember the last time a cheeseburger and fries tasted so good. By the time they finished, Holly had arrived, looking very relieved that she wasn’t entering into a war zone. Logan took a minute to check his messages while Holly grabbed a bottle of water and got ready for her daily grind.

  “I think I owe you one,” Tyson said as she started climbing onto her usual elliptical machine.

  “You do?” she asked with a giggle.

  “Rumor has it you went to bat for me,” Tyson said.

  She glanced over at Logan, still in his office, and laughed. “Not me. I would never critique the way Logan does business. He’s the best there is. I thought you were talking about the food.”

  Tyson chucked in response. “So you’re the elf that’s been restocking my fridge?”

  “Yeah,” she confirmed. “I was worried at first when Logan asked for my help. I’m not known for my cooking skills. I’m so glad I didn’t inadvertently poison you.”

  “I was pretty much just eating to stay alive at that point. But thanks for doing it. It was delicious.”