CHAPTER NINETEEN

“Whatever is going on there has so many layers to it, you can’t even begin to uncover them all,” said Trak, tossing the folders on the table. “The stadium itself was built on the grounds of an old chemical plant. Inside the lockers, treatment rooms, and coaching offices, there was asbestos found three years ago.”

“Asbestos?” frowned Ghost.

“Asbestos. A former player, Tim Runyon, claimed that the building had made him sick when he was diagnosed with advanced-stage lung disease most likely caused by asbestos exposure.”

“That should have been easy to prove,” said Gaspar.

“Apparently, the building was tested twice, and both times showed no signs of asbestos. What do you want to bet she paid off the companies who came in and did the testing?” said Angel.

“That’s an easy bet to win,” said Nine. “I’m seeing several reports from the team doctors around suspected symptoms from the concussions. Chronic headaches, mood swings, even episodes of psychosis. These poor bastards have been abused beyond belief.”

“That’s not all,” said Trak. “The helmets don’t meet the standards that the NFL set forth for its players. They’re using helmets that have been modified but are from the eighties and nineties. The safety technology has advanced beyond belief since then. These guys have been abused, lied to, poisoned, and disabled.”

“What about the contract you found?” asked Ian.

“We took photos of it and sent it to Georgie. She said she’d look at it first thing this morning and let us know what it says. I do think we need to speak with him and Kurt, the new QB.”

“Good morning,” said Trevon, stepping into the room. “I just got a weird call from Petey Rossi. He sounds bad. He said he wasn’t feeling like himself and needed help. I was going to go to him.”

“We’ll go with you,” said Ghost. “You don’t know what’s going on with him.”

Ghost, Gaspar, and Trevon piled into an SUV, and he directed them toward Petey’s townhouse in the city. When they pulled up, it didn’t look like anyone was home. Then Trevon noticed Petey looking through blinds as if he was worried that someone was coming for him.

“Has he ever shown signs of paranoia before?” asked Gaspar.

“Not to me, but we weren’t exactly best friends,” said Trevon. He knocked on the door, and Petey opened it quickly, waving him inside.

“Who are they?”

“They’re friends, Petey. What’s going on?”

“My head. My head is killing me, and I told them I couldn’t practice today, but now they’re saying they’ll let me go, and I won’t get any money.”

“Petey, my name is Gaspar. We’re working with Trevon now.”

“Working with him? Y’all are playing football?”

“No,” smirked Ghost. “We’re a bit old for that. We’re helping him to find out what happened with Butch.”

“She found someone to kill him. That’s what happened,” he said, pacing back and forth in his living room.

“She?” asked Gaspar.

“Glenda. She wanted me to get rid of Butch. She said if I did it, it would free up a lot of money for the rest of us. I told her no.”

“Why?” asked Trevon. Petey stared at him. “Come on, Petey. There was no love loss between you and Butch. You even said you thought he needed to retire.”

“Retire, yes. Die, no. I didn’t wish him dead. He was hurting, like the rest of us. This game, that place, it makes us sick, and we’re all slowly dying!”

“How did she want you to kill him?” asked Gaspar.

“She wanted me to allow the others to get to him, not cover him like I was supposed to. The problem with that is that it makes me look like a shitty O-lineman!”

“Okay, man. Why don’t you come with us?” said Trevon. Petey looked at him, then back at the other two men.

“Where? Are you taking me to a hospital?”

“No,” said Ghost. “We run a business that has a clinic on it. We can have someone check you out to be sure you’re okay. Then we can provide any treatment you need.”

“Where’s Debra? Where are the kids?” asked Trevon. Petey turned from him, nibbling on his lower lip.

“She left. She took the kids and went to her parents in Boston. Said she couldn’t take my mood swings any longer.” He sat down, gripping his head in his hands, shaking it back and forth. “I’m tired of the headaches. I’m tired.”

“I know,” said Trevon, sitting beside him. He gripped his forearm, squeezing it as he looked at his teammate. “Get your things and come with us, Petey. Please.”

The big man nodded at his friend, standing and stretching. Ghost stared at his wide, heavy body, his eyes traveling up toward the oddly shaped bone at his shoulder.

“Is your collarbone broken?” he asked.

“Docs said no, but it sure as fuck hurts like it is,” he said.

“Son, it’s broken. I can see it popped up like a tent. Did they inject it?” He nodded, holding up three fingers.

“Gave me a shot directly into it and then two shots for pain. Gave me some pain meds as well.” He saw the looks of concern on the faces of the men. Shaking his head, he stood and walked down the hallway.

“Need some help?” asked Trevon.

“No, man. I got this. Trevon?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for coming,” he said, nodding at his friend. Trevon smiled at him, nodding.

“Is that unusual?” whispered Ghost. “Do they often cover up injuries like that?”

“All the damn time,” said Trevon. “You have to be willing to shake the trees to get them to give you the right treatments. It’s all a set-up, isn’t it? You can’t play if you’re injured, but if you’re injured, she can let you go.”

“Hey, is he okay back there?” asked Gaspar.

“Petey? Petey, you okay?” asked Trevon, walking down the hall.

The next sound was not something any of them were prepared for. Not one of them. It was the sound of a gun. One single shot from a gun.

“No,” whispered Trevon. “No!”

“Son! No, don’t go back there,” said Ghost. He tried to hold Trevon back, but it was like trying to stop a bus. He plowed through him, knocking him to the floor. “Damn.”

Gaspar followed him, standing behind him in the bedroom. It was a stark room. Only the bed and a few items of clothing on the floor. Slumped against the wall was Petey Rossi with a .45 caliber pistol in his hand and a bullet wound through his heart.

“No,” whispered Trevon. “No.” He looked down at Petey’s left hand and noticed a sheet of paper below it.

Stop her T. For all of us.

It was hours before Felix and his team took the body and promised to do a thorough autopsy on Petey Rossi. Trevon notified his wife, Debra, and the police would be calling on the team to notify them. But by six o’clock, his suicide would be all over the news, connected directly to that of Butch Cavet’s.

“I’m sorry, Trevon,” said Ghost.

“I’m sorry I pushed you,” he said with a sad smirk.

“I won’t lie. It hurt like a bitch and pissed me off,” grinned Ghost, “but I would have done the same damn thing. We’ll find out what is going on, Trevon. I promise, son.”

“Thank you, sir. Can we go home now?” Ghost and Gaspar smiled at the young man, giving a quick nod.

“Let’s go home.”