CHAPTER TEN

Although football in New Orleans and the surrounding area was dominated by the New Orleans Saints and the LSU Tigers, the other colleges always drew big crowds as well. Tulane, Southern, and others entertained their alumni and visiting teams with hard-fought games, outrageous marching bands, and epic tailgating. You could walk through the parking lots and smell barbecue, gumbo, fried fish, and so much more. Tailgating was a sport in itself, and the people in the South knew how to do it right.

The Fire wasn’t even in their league. Literally. From the looks of the stadium, they were struggling to bring in fans and sell tickets, with prices for upper deck seats selling at only ten or fifteen dollars.

“Well, this is sad,” frowned Ghost.

“Damn, I had no idea they were struggling financially. Maybe all of this has something to do with Butch’s death,” said Nine.

They walked through the tunnel and toward the barrier between the fans and the players on the sidelines. Trevon turned and waved at the men, then went back to focusing on his warm-up.

“I smell hot dogs,” said Tailor.

“Me too,” Alec said, nudging his friend. Gaspar turned to them both, frowning.

“Get enough for everyone. See if you can get someone to help with the sodas. And, Alec, don’t eat all the dogs before you get back.”

“That’s just rude,” he sniffed.

While the two giants walked back beneath the stands to the concessions, children were taking photos of them, believing they must be ex-players.

“Our seats are down here,” said Gabe. “Looks like we got the entire second row. Pretty sweet seats, but I imagine they’re just happy to have them filled. This is pathetic.”

The men looked around the stadium, seeing only about half of the seats filled. It was a chilly Sunday afternoon, but football in the southern United States was a big deal. The seats should have been filled, especially considering the lower prices.

When the national anthem started, the men stood at attention, removing their hats, and saluting the flag. All eyes looked their way, but no one said a word. When the Fire won the coin toss, they elected to receive the ball, placing the offense on the field first.

It didn’t take long for them to begin cheering for the Fire, yelling for Trevon to succeed. As they neared the end zone, the defense began taking cheap shots, earning themselves two penalty flags.

“What the hell is this all about? Why are they after Trevon?” asked Jean.

“Not sure,” frowned Ghost, “but they’re definitely taking their shots at him and the quarterback, and no one seems to be paying any attention to it, including the refs and the coaches.”

On the next play, Trevon snapped the ball to Kurt, who tossed it to the receiver in the end zone, earning a touchdown.

“Touchdown for the Fire! Oh no, it looks like we’ve got an injured player on the field, and it’s veteran center, Trevon Marks. Let’s hope he gets up on his own.”

“Damn. Get up, brother,” said Tailor.

“This does not look good for the Fire, folks. Marks is not moving. The doctors and trainers are on the field now, and they’ll have to cart him off. We’ll take a break, folks, and be back soon.”

It took nearly thirty minutes for them to get Trevon on the cart and slowly took him off the field. As the men watched, they noticed that some of the players walked up, wishing him well. Others stood off to the side, not saying anything.

“Anybody else bothered by all this?” asked Nine.

“Fuck yes. Let’s see if we can get into the training room below,” said Gaspar. They weren’t surprised to find that there was no security on the outside of the training room, and in fact, there was none on the inside of the room. The trainers were leaning over Trevon, speaking in low voices to him.

“Trevon? How many fingers?” asked the trainer.

“Four.”

“Good, that’s good. Hey, who are you guys?” he asked, staring at the group of men. Trevon turned his head, staring at the men, and smirked.

“It’s cool. Those are my friends. Help me up,” he said, pointing to Tailor and Alec.

“Should you be sitting up, brother? I don’t want you puking on my shoes,” smirked Alec. Trevon laughed, shaking his head.

“It wasn’t a concussion. He stepped on my back, and I got a good zinger for a minute, but I’m feeling okay now.”

“You can’t go back in, Trevon,” said Ghost. “It was pretty evident they were out to get you.”

“With me out, they can get to Kurt,” he said, looking at the men. The doors opened, and a woman walked into the locker room dressed in an impeccably tailored pantsuit. “Ms. Pinken. I was just telling these boys I need to get back out there.”

She stared at the faces of the men and then back at Trevon. There was no compassion, no concern on her face. In fact, it looked like the exact opposite. She barely gave them a second glance as if they didn’t matter any more than the dirt on Trevon’s cleats.

“Actually, Trevon, you won’t be going back in. I’m sorry, but the team will be releasing you. This is your third injury in as many years, and after what happened with Butch, we just don’t need the press.”

“Don’t need the press?” frowned Angel. “Don’t need the fucking press for a man that died on your property? For a man who gave his life to your team? Trevon was targeted out there, and now that his other linemen know, hopefully, they’ll watch out for it.”

“Young man,” she started. Angel could only smirk, knowing he was older than the woman, but he wouldn’t give her that satisfaction. “Young man, I don’t need you to tell me how to run my team. The team I own, finance, and run. Trevon has been a valuable part of our growth, but his time here is done.”

She turned on her heels and started to walk out of the room. Trevon called out to her.

“Glenda? Glenda, I’m talking to you. Turn around.” She froze and turned with a glare that sent chills up the spines of every man. “You drove Butch to his death. You. I’ll prove it.”

“Listen carefully, Trevon. If you want anything to do with this league or any other, you will mind your fucking business, pack your shit, and get out of my clubhouse. Now.”

“You know, lady, you might want to watch what you say. Strange things happen to people who threaten our friends,” said Zeke.

She glared at the men, then turned to leave, running right into Trak. She let out a shriek, earning grins from all the men and chuckles from Trevon. Edging around him, she stormed from the room, leaving the men behind.

“Fucking sorry, man,” said Tailor.

“You know what? I’m not,” said Trevon. “I’m not even thirty-five, and my body feels like I’m ninety. I need a break. I don’t need the money. I’ve been smart with my money. Besides, your pretty wife offered me a job, and I just might accept it.” He smiled at Zeke, and Zeke smiled back.

“I know she’d like that, and I’d be happy knowing that you were around to watch out for her.”

He stepped off the table as it creaked beneath his weight. He turned his neck one way and then the other, a loud cracking echoing in the room. The men all chuckled, having done the same thing a time or two.

“Alright then. Let me shower and change, and you guys can give me a ride. I took the bus here.”

“You took the bus? Don’t you have a car?” asked Ian.

“Yes, sir. I just don’t like to drive if I don’t have to.”