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  “No, a pizza is delicious,” Holly corrected him with a wide smile. “Grilled chicken and brown rice is the stuff athletes are made of. Please don’t tell Logan how much you enjoyed it. I don’t want him getting any ideas.”

  “Don’t worry, it wasn’t that good,” Tyson told her, adding a wink.

  Her face scrunched up. “Please don’t tell him that either. He’ll make me keep doing it until it is.”

  “You sound like you know this from experience,” he hedged.

  “I’m not only his fan club president, I’m also a client,” Holly told him teasingly before turning on her iPod and starting the moving of her feet. “Why do you think I have these headphones? I love him and all, but hey, every now and then, you need some ‘Enter Sandman.’ ”

  WINTER GAVE WAY TO SPRING and Tyson didn’t miss the symbolism of rebirth. Under Logan’s watchful eye, the threesome embarked on a friendship, and Tyson thrived. With the sun now warming his skin, his confidence began to shine through. At the end of the day, instead of feeling exhausted and on the verge of collapse, he was excited. Thanks to Logan’s knowledge and support—­both in the gym and out of it—­Tyson was starting to get his game back on. Every movement of his workout was specifically designed, through drilled repetition, to make his body leaner and stronger. As Tyson got stronger and faster, so did Logan’s enthusiasm. It was obvious the man practiced what he preached. They stopped spending all their time in the gym and began taking early morning runs outside, before the sun came up. They would jog to a local high school and race each other up and down the bleachers. They’d sprint from goal post to goal post. Three nights a week, they took a ride down the much more scenic Garden State Parkway to the shore and a sports complex that had a “bubble”: a football-­size field contained within a dome. Used mostly for birthday parties and by various soccer, lacrosse, and flag football leagues, it closed at midnight to the general public. Logan and Tyson met the Barrow-­appointed coach there at 2:00 A.M. and they would work on his passing until 4:00 before going home and taking their run. They’d resume their workouts around noon, back at the gym.

  “Can’t we get some other guys here for me to throw to, maybe run some plays?” Tyson asked Logan and the coach hopefully, both of whom shook their heads and told him no, Barrow hadn’t authorized it for fear of someone spotting them and blowing their cover.

  Still, within a week of that conversation, three men began to show up at the assigned time in the middle of the night for Tyson to throw to. Tyson was introduced to them by Logan as “Palms,” and that was all they ever called him. Little did any of them know, the nickname would stick.

  “Coach called Barrow and told him he was missing a golden opportunity to get a head start on his playbook,” was all Logan gave him by way of explanation, adding with a smile, “and you were wearing me out.”

  Aside from Logan’s condo, Holly set up a room for Tyson in her beautiful four-­bedroom Colonial in a neighboring town. That was where Logan kept most of his clothes and spent most of his time, so Tyson began spending time there as well, at first hesitantly, afraid of feeling like a third wheel. But Holly wouldn’t have any of it, and her invitations became insistent. She considered him part of the family. It wasn’t long before the three spent their free nights and weekends holed up watching movies or playing video games, with Holly wrinkling her nose in distaste and leaving the room to do something else whenever the choice was Grand Theft Auto.

  “Boys.” She’d sigh under her breath as she made her escape. Both Tyson and Logan knew that a chick flick of her choosing would be in their future.

  Tyson would watch Holly and Logan in action. They were playful and affectionate, clearly connected, but without too many public displays. It was all so very intriguing. Logan had the kind of looks and magnetism that could draw a dozen supermodels, yet he genuinely appeared to be head over heels for the feisty, buxom spitfire who could get his attention with little more than a look. That forced Tyson to think about the women from his own life. The beautiful party girls, their names long forgotten, who he always knew deep down were using him for one thing or another. Much as it pained him to admit it, that was probably true of his marriage as well. Now he saw how hollow those relationships had been, and that made him cautious. He still had too much work to do on his own. He wanted sex, but now he wanted it to be meaningful too.

  “TURNABOUT IS FAIR PLAY,” HOLLY told him one night in late July when Tyson asked her about how she and Logan had met as they watched TV and Logan snoozed on the couch next to her. “I did my time on Planet Logan.”

  They had been seated next to each other on a flight from Toronto to Newark three years earlier, she explained. Holly had been recently widowed and was lost and afraid, using food as her main coping mechanism. By the time that flight landed, Holly had made an impression and Logan threw down a gauntlet.

  “He offered to train me, more as a challenge to himself disguised as an attempt to save me,” Holly said, lovingly running her fingers through the black hair on the sleeping head that rested in her lap. “He’s a good man, but he needed to be reminded the whole world isn’t gorgeous and ripped like him.”

  “Please tell me you made him suffer”—­Tyson chuckled—­“just a little bit.”

  “He wanted a challenge. He got one.”

  “What I wouldn’t give to have seen it.”

  “I heard that,” Logan mumbled sleepily, with his eyes still closed. “All you would’ve witnessed was that I can take a punch better than Rocky.”

  “That sounds way more like the beginning of a story than an ending.”

  “Let’s just leave it with we both learned a lot. We should turn in. Tomorrow’s a big day. You’re going out to get a little exposure.”

  “Like for a haircut?” Tyson asked, reaching his hand back for a grab at the thick ponytail that he’d grown tired of.

  “If you want,” Logan replied, sitting up and then standing. “But first, we take our run in broad daylight. Around the reservoir in Manasquan I think, then maybe hit the beach.”

  “I love the reservoir!” Holly exclaimed.

  “Then come with us,” Logan said, leaning down to give her a quick kiss and extending a hand to help her up after rising off the couch. “I’d like to be on the road by seven.”

  “I don’t know what I’m more excited about,” she said as all three of them began to shut off the television and the lights to make their way to bed, “the road trip or seeing Tyson without that raggedy mop.”

  “Don’t be jealous,” Logan said, giving her a swat as he followed behind her while they climbed the stairs. “You wish you had that hair.”

  “No comment,” was all she said in reply.

  When Tyson bounded down the stairs the following morning, Logan and Holly were already in the kitchen, packing up a cooler with snacks and bottles of water.

  “I was thinking that since we’re going to be down by the shore, maybe we’ll spend the rest of the day at the beach,” Logan said.

  “You weren’t kidding about putting me out there,” Tyson said, excited about the prospect of giving up his vampire-­like secrecy and letting the sun really shine on his face. But a guy that looked like Logan was bound to draw some attention, especially if you stick him half naked on a beach in the middle of summer. “What if ­people recognize me?”

  Logan gave him an indifferent shrug. “Then they recognize you. Come on, help me load this stuff into the car.”

  The Manasquan Reservoir was also a county park, a beautiful twelve hundred acres complete with a playground, fishing areas, and hiking trails. It was still early when they arrived, but there was a sizable number of ­people taking advantage of the cooler morning hours to get their exercise done before the already oppressive humidity really kicked in. They all got out of the car and did some quick stretching as they made their way to the five-­mile trail that surrounded the perimeter of the m
ain attraction, the large serene body of water.

  “You going to run with us?” Tyson asked Holly as they made the trek from the parking lot, already aware of the occasional looks being cast in the trio’s direction.

  “No thanks.” Holly shook her head as they approached the path. “Gravity already has one eye on my rack. I don’t see the need for all that gratuitous bouncing and jiggling. I’ll be here, doing the slow and steady behind you.”

  Logan snickered and rolled his eyes but didn’t press her, instead starting a slow jog. Tyson followed his lead, and they left Holly behind to stroll along the trail. They ran for a while in virtual silence, the only words coming from Logan being the friendly “good mornings” with casual nods to ­people they encountered as they passed. The more Logan did it, the more conscious Tyson became of the ­people around them. He kept his head down, hidden underneath the brim of his now-­faded Mavericks cap.

  “Head up,” Logan would tell him every time he caught Tyson doing it. “There’s no oxygen down there.”

  After three miles, they began to slow down until they were walking.

  “How you feeling?” Logan took several deep breaths to start his cooldown.

  “Fine.” Tyson matched Logan’s more relaxed pace. “We do three miles with our eyes closed.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “I know.” They continued to walk along the manicured path together until they were alone and the only sounds were the water lapping against the sides of the dam that contained it and some children laughing in the distance.

  “I heard from Barrow. The mother ship is calling you home,” Logan announced as he stared out over the water.

  “Already?”

  Logan nodded. “I guess you and I did our jobs well. They want you down in Austin for training camp to start running drills with the team. Barrow is holding a news conference August first, the day your suspension is up.”

  A wave of mixed feelings washed over Tyson. He knew he was ready physically. It was what he’d been training for. He had been having dreams of making Hail Mary passes and running the ball in for touchdowns on his own. But he’d felt like he’d been watching it all from a distance. It was easy to succeed with all the safety nets that had been put into place around him. Once he landed in Austin, all those nets would disappear, starting with the most comfortable one, his anonymity.

  “We knew this day was coming. We’ve done all we can, and you’re ready to get back to the game.” Logan broke the silence, reading Tyson’s mind at the same time.

  “I’ve never felt stronger,” Tyson said confidently.

  “There’s nothing left for me to teach you, except for one thing. From here on out, you will never avert your eyes or hang your head in front of another man again. Ever. No matter what they say or any comparisons they make to your past, you’ve earned the right to be back on the field. You are not the same person or player you were a year ago. You have to be able to win the stare-­down against any critics and cynics. And you might be surprised to find just how short the public’s memory is. It may be rough at first, but in the end, the world loves a good redemption story. I’ll make sure you have my number if you need it.”

  If it was any other man who said it, Tyson might have viewed it as a lecture. And if it had been a year ago, he would’ve taken offense. All the new Tyson did was reply, “I can do that.”

  “I’ve got a reputation to uphold,” Logan told him jokingly, then said seriously, “and you have one to tear down. Remember—­fake it till you make it. And ice, lots and lots of ice.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Four years later

  Tyson pulled up in front of the Barrow Building in downtown Austin and got out of his Bentley, handing his keys over to a doorman. He stopped inside the lobby to sign in with security, shook a few hands, and then took the elevator up to the high-­rise’s top floor. He told Barrow’s secretary not to bother getting up and strolled down the hall to knock on the closed office door at the end.

  The door swung open before he reached it. Theo and Sal, who Tyson had stopped calling the Goons several years ago, both gave him a friendly nod as they walked past him out of the office.

  “How’s it going, rock star?” Theo said. He had yet to run out of alternates to Tyson’s name, only now they had more positive connotations.

  “What’s up, Palms?” Sal asked, using his nickname and adding a fist bump.

  Clinton Barrow brought up the rear, happy to see his all-­star quarterback. “Tyson, thanks for stopping by.”

  “We are having lunch in two hours. You only call ­people to the office when you don’t want business talk to spoil it,” Tyson pointed out.

  Clint laughed before patting Tyson heartily on the back. “You caught me. Come on in, have a seat.”

  Clint closed the door behind them, leaving the two men in private. He went back behind his large mahogany desk while Tyson settled into a leather wingback chair across from him. Barrow studied Tyson for a minute. Hard to believe he was the same man who had woken up groggy and disheveled in his house nearly five years ago. The Tyson Palmer before him now was clear-­eyed, level-headed, and one of the best quarterbacks in the league. It had been a long, sometimes bumpy journey to redemption. When it was originally announced who the Mavericks had signed as their new quarterback, there was palpable surprise followed closely by universal condemnation. Even the Mavericks’ coaching staff and players were caught off guard. That first year, both Tyson and the Mavericks were the laughingstock of the NFL. But the critics were silenced after Tyson appeared on the field in top physical condition and proceeded to take charge. His nickname “Palms” spoke to his talent for keeping his hands on the football, no matter what was happening around him.

  “You know we’ve been through a lot together. I’m proud of you, Tyson. You surpassed all my expectations. Our agreement turned out better than I could’ve ever imagined, if I do say so myself.”

  “You never got your ring,” Tyson replied, with a twinge of guilt.

  “We never got our rings,” Barrow corrected him firmly, “and that’s not your fault. Thanks to you, we made the playoffs. If it wasn’t for damn injuries, I think we would’ve taken the whole enchilada last year.”

  “That really was awful timing,” Tyson readily agreed.

  Silence lingered and Barrow leaned back in his chair with an uncharacteristic sigh.

  “I know you didn’t bring me here to rehash last season,” Tyson said, cutting to the chase.

  “Ty, I need you to play one more year,” Clint told him bluntly.

  It was the last thing Tyson expected to hear. They both knew the beating Tyson’s body took on the field had started taking its toll. He had put in his three years without complaint, plus another one for good measure. It was Barrow himself who had used his influence to get Tyson the audition with the national broadcasting group, telling them that Tyson was a good fit for television. He was handsome and good-­natured, had poise and a quick wit, not to mention a thorough understanding of the game. Now Clint wanted to take it all back, reneging on their deal.

  “Clint, I don’t think you really know what you’re asking of me. I’m grateful to you, you know that. I gave you everything I had. I’d take a bullet for you. But I’ve been getting knocked around with nothing stronger than Tylenol, ice, and cortisone shots for going on five years now. I’m no complainer, but when I got word I was going to get the opportunity to move into broadcasting, I didn’t lie to you about how excited I was and why.”

  “Agreed. You’ve done everything I’ve ever asked of you and more. I think of you as a son. And there’s no question that you’ve been serious about your sobriety and what you’ve had to sacrifice to keep it. I’m ashamed to say it was the one thing I didn’t consider when I made my offer. It’s out of respect that I wanted to see you taken care of. I wouldn’t be asking you this if it wasn’t import
ant to me, to the team.”

  Tyson tried not to whine. “What’s wrong with CJ Bradford? He’s a third-­round draft pick. We’ve been prepping him all season. He’s more than ready to lead the Mavs.”

  “Two words, Marcus LaRue.”

  The name hung in the air. Tyson and LaRue had a history. They had faced each other six times in two years, and every damn time their teams played, Marcus could be counted on to intercept him, often more than once. Adding insult to injury, it was only part of what made LaRue the absolute best. Most of those interceptions Marcus ran in for touchdowns, he was just that fast. And he did it in a Boston Blitz jersey, racking up the score for Tyson’s former team.

  “Are you just throwing that name up in my face to motivate me?”

  “He’s thinking about making a change. A ­couple of them.” Barrow broke into a sly grin.

  “So the rumors are true,” Tyson said flatly. There had been rumblings that Marcus was thinking of making the switch from defense to offense. “The kid is cocky enough to think he can play the whole field. I don’t know what that has to do with me.”

  “Every team wants him, and they are willing to sell the farm to get him. He wants to come here.”

  Tyson was more baffled than enlightened. “That’s great. Go get him. Not having my salary to burden you frees that money right up.”

  Barrow laughed at another one of their inside jokes. Tyson had never been one of the league’s top salaried players, but this last year Barrow had forced him to accept a salary more in keeping with his superstar status, stating that he no longer looked like a savvy businessman, but more like he was taking advantage of his outstanding quarterback. This time, Tyson invested wisely. After his rehab, Tyson had started living simply, and it suited him. The trappings of his previous life no longer held any appeal. He was choosier about where he spent his money. When his mother mentioned wanting to move out of the family home, he bought her a lovely maintenance-­free town house. When his sister got married last year, he paid for her wedding, and his gift to her was substantial. Douglas Palmer couldn’t be found to invite. Tyson still did enjoy a nice car though, and every now and then he liked dressing to impress. When he became enlightened, his priorities changed. Gone from his now-­uncomplicated life were multiple houses and jet-­set vacations. If it didn’t involve some sort of greater good, it was easy to talk himself out of doing it. Most of his endorsement deals were donated to charity. It was only recently Tyson considered marrying again, maybe starting a family. Neither of those scenarios included going back to the gridiron until he was too crippled to make a good run at either.