CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“Folks, I’m not sure where they got the replacement defensive players today, but they are ruling the field. The Mustangs are hurting out there, and nothing seems to be working for them.”

“Great hit,” laughed Noah, slapping Noa’s back.

“It was my specialty,” he grinned. “I think that boy thought I was his mother.”

On the next play, one of the offensive linemen for the Mustangs thought he would get in a cheap shot, trying to thrust his fist upward into Tailor’s windpipe. Instead, he was met with an iron grip and pain that was unimaginable.

“Now, see. That wasn’t called for,” said Tailor, squeezing his hand. “You try to take a cheap shot on me, I’m gonna return the favor.” He twisted his wrist, forcing him to the ground. With his other hand flat on the grass, Tailor stepped on the back of his hand, satisfied that he wouldn’t be using it again for a while.

“Man, I haven’t had this much fun in a while,” grinned RJ.

“Me, too,” laughed Zeke. “Let’s see if they’re stupid enough to pass.”

It was as if they could read the plays coming their way. The quarterback for the Mustangs threw a long ball to his receiver, and despite their age, RJ and Zeke were there to intercept. RJ tackled the offensive player, and Zeke took off, scoring another touchdown for the Fire.

The entire defensive line turned toward the owners’ box, looking up and waving in defiance, then they flipped her the bird.

“Who in the hell are they!” she screamed. Except she was screaming at no one. No one that mattered. Those around her just looked at her, not saying a word. “I asked you a question!”

“I’m just a marketing guy, Glenda. Remember? I don’t give opinions.” He turned, leaving the suite and leaving Glenda absolutely furious.

“Here we go, Chip. The Fire kicks off, and the Mustangs are taking it at the eighteen. Oh. My. Goodness! I don’t know who that defensive player is for the Fire, but that man just sent that poor receiver into next week! Where has this team been all year?”

“Stop the game,” said Glenda, pushing open the doors of the press box. The announcer turned off the mic and stared at her. “I said stop the game!”

“Ma’am, you don’t get to tell us to stop the game. We work for the network, not you. The game goes on. Now, please leave. Security? Escort Ms. Pinken out of the press box, please.”

She fought them the whole way, but she was locked out of the press box, screaming and kicking the entire way.

By the end of the first half, the Fire was winning 36-0.

“Well, boys? How does it feel to be up by so much?” asked Coach Osterhausen. The original players all smiled, nodding. “Good. We have a story to tell you.”

Kurt stood up, beginning by telling his teammates what actually happened to Butch. He wanted them to know. He needed them to know. They were astounded, but they also, in an odd way, understood.

“My turn now,” said Gaspar. “I need you to understand what Glenda Pinken has been doing to all of you. How many of you have been coughing lately? Short of breath? Maybe strange rashes?”

More than a dozen men raised their hands. Gaspar nodded at Doc, Riley, and Gabi, pulling the men to the side of the room.

“Here’s what you need to know.”

For twenty minutes, Gaspar explained what they were sitting in and on in the stadium. He talked about her plans to kill off players to free money for herself, he talked about what they all knew about their contracts, and he hoped they would support their efforts to stop her.

“I think we all agree to stop her, sir. Why not just let the Mustangs win?” asked someone.

“Because we want you to get your bonuses,” said Nine. “Until we can figure out a way to void the contracts, we have to do this so that you get your money. The way we’ve been playing will definitely ensure that happens.”

“Thank you,” he said, shaking his head. “Y’all don’t owe us that but thank you.”

“We still have to win,” said Kurt. “I think with these men, we can. The league is a farce, so I don’t think anyone will give a damn if they find out they’re not really our players. I just want this over with.”

“Let’s show them what we’re made of,” said Ghost.

As the team stood cheering and heading back out onto the field, Skull smirked at his old friend.

“Show ‘em what we’re made of? Who are you? Knute Rockne?”

“Bite me, asshole. Don’t get hurt, or Avery will kill me.”

“Are you kidding me?” smirked Zeke. “I’m having so much damn fun it should be illegal.”

“It is,” laughed Nine. “Keep that in mind. It is illegal.”