Chapter Sixteen

TYLER RUSHEDinto the team conference room, late to the meeting with Boris Jarlson and the San Diego Swells coaching staff.

“Aaaand… Captain Fantastic.” said one of the marketing reps, eyeing Tyler skeptically.

Boris and the coaches regarded him with a mix of thinly veiled irritation and feigned good humor.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, slightly out of breath. He felt embarrassed by his disheveled appearance. He was unshaven, his clothes were wrinkled, and he probably smelled of stale sweat. The soreness in his muscles from yesterday’s workout made his movements stiff.

“No problem, kid, we’re just glad you could make it,” Boris said with an exaggerated smile and scratched his gray-blond comb-over.

Tyler took a seat, trying to shake off the fogginess of a poor night’s sleep. This meeting was about his future with the team, and he needed to have his wits about him.

“You see my point I’m making here.” Boris launched right into business, extending a hand toward Tyler but looking around the table at his coaches and staff. “We’re making TV dinners. I came from nothing. But a little sauce, a little sizzle, and enough pressure you can crack anything.”

Coach Fawcett, who headed up defense, leaned forward. “And we appreciate what you’re saying, but Tyler’s still breathless too soon. He’s 21 percent slower than just last season.” He nodded at the monitors, which were running clips of Tyler’s yardage over the past year. “We’re worried about meat, not sauce.” He glanced back down the table at Tyler. “Sorry, Fantana. You know what I’m saying.”

Tyler said, “I do.”

“Listen,” McBride chimed in, “your performance has been solid, but you’re not a hundred percent yet.”

“Given. We all agree.” Boris took the reins again. “But who’s a hundred percent? Right? You serve what they buy. Frozen meatloaf is a meal.”

“Sorry.” Tyler shook his head. “What is the meatloaf here? You mean me?”

“Nah. The game. Packaging. Shelf space. Customers. These I know.” Boris spread his arms like a magnanimous patriarch. “Kid, you been busting your butt the past few weeks. Hell, the past three months. Right?”

Tyler nodded. The coaches around the table nodded.

Boris shrugged and smiled. “What we got is a story.”

Tyler held up a finger. “But—”

As if heading him off at the pass, Boris lifted stapled pages. That had to be Maureen’s PT report highlighting his progress. “Mo says you’re doing way better than a normal guy would. Off the charts.”

“All due respect, that doesn’t mean I’m ready, sir. That just means I’m healing faster than Joe Average.”

Tyler knew Boris was ignoring the caveats, that he still had a long road ahead, but Maureen had sprinkled her assessment with plenty of vague positives to document how hard he’d been working. Nice thing to do, but not a clean bill of health by any stretch.

Boris seemed confused, his optimism almost delusional. “She says so right here.”

Tyler didn’t know how to counter that level of denial. “I’m still struggling to keep up, sir.” He crossed his arms and sat up. “I’m not a quitter, but if you think I can head back out—”

“No. No way. You’re too valuable. I want to send a clear message of strength. You’re hurting but you’re strong. Right, Zack?”

The head publicist and his flacks nodded.

Tyler wasn’t about to exaggerate his progress for anyone. “My speed, my reflexes, none of it. The pain and exhaustion is pretty rough, sir. I’m not using any painkillers, but it’s touch and go some nights.”

“That’s only natural after such a long break, son,” Coach McBride reassured him. “You’ll get back into it soon enough.”

“You say so.” Tyler forced a smile, grateful for the encouragement even if it seemed nuts. He knew he needed more time to heal and build up his strength before he could compete at the level he was used to. He thought back to Josh’s advice, warning him not to rush, to pay attention.

This all felt bizarre. Nobody was asking him anything. It seemed to him that this meeting wasn’t a conversation but marching orders. Apparently they’d decided his fate without any input from him.

Boris tapped another stapled report that had pink highlights and some yellow tabs stuck to it, flagging specific pages. “This is the last one from that Reynolds broad. Look at these numbers… EKG. Reflex times. Oxygen uptake. Range of motion. Heart rate. You’re feeling great, seems to me.”

“No.” Tyler uncrossed his arms and sat up. “Not great. Not even good, if you want the God’s honest truth. I’m stronger, Mr. Jarlson, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready for a couple thousand pounds of meat thrown at me tomorrow.”

Coach Fawcett raised a hand and tried to interrupt the owner’s flow. He closed his lips, and his mustache moved as he tried to put something into words. “Boris, I think Tyler is trying to keep our expectations reasonable.”

“Reasonable. Who’s reasonable? A billion-dollar game chasing a pointed ball isn’t reasonable.” Boris held out his hand toward Tyler. “He’s a godsend is what he is. Have you seen the press numbers?”

Jarlson’s assistant slid a folder to him. “You have those right here, sir.”

Tyler felt isolated and numb. Somehow he’d walked into this room off balance and determined to be cautious, and now they were rushing him right into the most dangerous of all the options. He wanted a time-out, a break to regroup and reset his dislocated brain.

Around him the flacks and staff murmured excitedly, already floating promos and hashtags. Tyler felt his stomach twist into knots.

Just then Zack, the team’s head publicist, piped up. “Tyler, my team and I just want to thank you. Your interviews last week generated tremendous buzz. And the library campaign angle did wonders for our brand image too. A lot of goodwill aimed your way. Definitely keep that book crap up.”

“Uhh. Great. It’s really important to me.” Tyler managed a weak smile. “I wouldn’t call it crap, exactly.”

“No. Oh! Right… absolutely.” He made an awkward face and continued. “Books are great.”

A gushy blond at Zack’s elbow nodded and raised a finger. She said, “Hi. Image management here. Don’t underestimate the body stuff. All these shoots you’ve done the last couple weeks.” She spread her fingers wide, just shy of jazz hands. “Golden! Any stills of you showing some skin are extra useful. Especially featuring that beautiful butt. I guarantee the TMZ piece and Sports Illustrated will have you trending on porn sites for a month at least.”

“I— That doesn’t— Why?” Tyler started to feel like he was short-circuiting. “Porn? You want pornography?”

Her eyelashes fluttered as though he’d paid her a compliment. “Not porn of you, but porn searches for you. Amazing. Swimsuit shots. Locker room. You know.”

“No, I don’t.”

She spread her fingers close to jazz hands again. “PG stills and freeze-frames. Gifs of grabs, ass taps, you getting tackled. We’re seeing a lot of high-value facial expressions too. And that’s going to stir up serious fanfic, of course, which is excellent for your numbers.”

“Fan what?” Tyler blinked and turned to face her fully, which seemed to make her blush.

“Fiction. Fic. Stories people write.” She beamed at him like she’d won a prize. “About you and… Josh? I think his name is. Mr. Ayres. A few sites dug up a few photos of him on some swim team, and I got to say, the stories are bonkers. Really hot.” She fanned herself and tipped her head conspiratorially, eyes wide with glee.

“About Josh.” Tyler swallowed, his heart rate so high he started to feel faint. “Fans are writing about Josh and me?”

“Totally tracks.” She nodded. “You’re, like, magical now. Because of the heart attack. I mean, just this morning we got offers on you from producers pitching Jock of Love and one of the Kardashians who needs a hot boyfriend for a show. But love triangles score poorly in most markets.”

Tyler blinked at her. He felt like a rumbling volcano of bewilderment and anger. Any second now, he’d blow. Had they called him in here to trigger a psychotic break?

She misinterpreted his silence. “We said no. They weren’t willing to pay half our ask.”

Zack, obviously sensing imminent disaster, weighed in again to shut down the blond and shift gears. “With you headed back out on the field, people have practically forgotten about last season’s, ahem, unpleasantness from some of your teammates. That time-share scam with Timmons, Ira’s coke scare in St. Louis, everything else has dropped to the second page of searches. You’re pure gold.”

Tyler chewed his lip. Is that all he was to them? Soft soap to wash off the dirt? A hot ass? They were even pimping out Josh. The team, the fans… they expected a performance. And Tyler didn’t know if his heart could take it.

He thought back to Josh’s advice about finding his path first. You get where you’re going one step at a time. But what if there wasn’t a path to find? How could he find anything when he felt so lost?

Tyler fidgeted in his seat. Think like a musketeer. He should have brought his agent, his lawyer. The Swells brass had ambushed him, and he was only just now waking up.

Coach Ojibwe tried to slow things down. “Tyler, we don’t want to rush you. We’re just laying out a few options. A couple different contingencies depending on how things play out.”

“Based on this report, we think you’re ready to start playing in some scrimmages,” Boris declared, gesturing toward the rest of the table. “Fantana, we know you got the spirit. We just want to see how you perform against some real competition before making any big decisions.”

Tyler’s heart raced at the thought of finally getting back on the field. But he also felt a twinge of anxiety at the risks involved. He knew they were right—he was an experienced player and had proven himself time and again on the field—but he still couldn’t shake his fear of his heart giving out on him during a game.

“When?” he asked, torn between worry and excitement.

“We got a scrimmage scheduled for next week. If all goes well, Jerry and Mike want to give you a crack at that,” Boris stated, looking around at the coaches for confirmation.

Mike nodded in agreement, but Jerry didn’t seem too enthusiastic.

A general chatter from the coaches let him know that everyone didn’t actually think this was a fantastic idea. If anything, they seemed to think Tyler wanted to do it, more than they wanted to force him to do it. Exactly what Josh had warned him about.

Boris snapped his fingers, remembering something. “And uhh… one other thing. Zack and his people are telling me this literacy library thing has been a big positive. More of that. Books. Swag. Anything you need,” he said. “Getting other celebrities on board was a real coup. We could almost keep you on the sidelines the rest of the season for more PR events.”

Tyler forced a smile. “Right. Maybe you can prop my corpse up on the sidelines so the fans don’t forget who owns Captain Fantastic’s contract.”

“Good one!” Boris let out a booming laugh. “But seriously, when do you think you’ll be ready for the field again?”

Tyler’s stomach dropped. Any second now Zack and his team would try to stuff Josh into a “Ty One On!” thong for Mom-stagram. He glanced at the coaches, who were all mute and obedient.

“Soon,” Tyler said carefully. “I’m not a quitter, but I am scared. With good reason.”

“You guys kill me,” Boris bellowed. “Our players get knocked around every game and they’re out partying till sunup. You just need to get back on that horse.”

Tyler clenched his fists under the table, digging his nails into his palms. He had to fight to keep his voice steady. “I just need a little more time. All due respect, a bruised rib is a little different than a catastrophic heart attack.”

Every single person at the table besides Boris seemed to realize just how close he was to snapping. The coaches shifted in their seats. They were well acquainted with his temper.

“Fantana, our insurance adjuster has given the okay for you to play.” Boris smiled like a kindly patriarch offering charity. “These guys never lose. They wouldn’t risk having to pay squat. He’s seen all the data, watched your tapes the past three weeks. They’re willing to let you play against a guarantee of six million dollars.”

To his credit, McBride winced.

Tyler blinked at the shameless arrogance of it. “Mr. Jarlson.” He sighed heavily and looked at Boris straight in the eyes. Josh had told him to keep chill, so he made his voice low and slick as black ice. “I’m not an idiot. I understand the economics. I get that you want me to return as soon as possible.”

“That sounds bad. Look—”

“You look.” Tyler interrupted the man without raising his voice. His banked anger swirled inside him like a hurricane. “You asked me here to talk. I have serious concerns about the risks even if some insurance jackhole is willing to gamble”—he counted out the obvious risks on his fingers—“my spine”—he tugged one finger—“my brain”—another finger—“my heart”—and another—“my life, to squeeze a hefty premium out of you.” He scowled and made a fist, which he lowered to the table with exaggerated patience. Keep it together.

Janowitz swallowed audibly. The other coaches said nothing, but for some dumb reason Zack the flack decided to chime in, “Tyler, we know how hard this is for you, but the Swells believe in you. If something hurts you, it hurts all of us.”

For some reason that last little squirt of BS double-talk got under his skin. “All due respect, Zack? No, it doesn’t. You didn’t flatline in front of the whole world. Your family didn’t watch you have a seizure and croak on TV. When my heart stops, the guys sitting around this table don’t fall down dead.” He slapped the wood surface with his hand.

The image-management blond flinched at the bang. Real fear. All the grinning yes-men around the table fell quiet, and the last half-assed smiles melted. Everybody knew 262 pounds of anger could do serious damage. In his mind, he heard Josh saying, Calm, buddy. He needed to stay calm.

“We don’t.” Coach McBride looked him straight in the eye. “We won’t put you in harm’s way, Tyler. I promise you. If you say you can’t do something, you don’t even have to give a reason.”

Boris frowned, but around the table Fawcett, Ojibwe, Delawn, Janowitz, and all the other coaches and flunkies mumbled agreement.

Tyler sighed again. So Boris had told them about the insurance and the ROI before he’d even gotten here. They knew, and they were just as trapped as he was. He could see it in their eyes.

“Fine.” Tyler took a deep breath and forced a smile that made him think of Cilla Miller’s shark teeth. “You’re right, in principle. I just need to get back out there. When the time is right. One hundred percent. I’m going to get out there as soon as I’m ready.”

“That’s the spirit!” Boris beamed, clearly satisfied with Tyler’s apparent capitulation. “Couple weeks, tops. You’re almost there. Right? Everybody says.”

“Mr. Jarlson, I’m thirty-three. I died on camera a couple months ago. My heart stopped beating and I was stone-cold dead until they ran lightning through me in the middle of a football field.” He let out a shaky breath. “I want to play again more than anything, but I need to be smart about my recovery.” Already he was squeezing the arms of the chair so tight he’d bent one of them permanently. “Sir.”

Boris waved his hand. “You watch. You’ll be great. Once you’re in the action again, smashing all those big strong guys like you do, the nerves will fade. Muscle memory and all.”

Tyler blinked. This rich idiot refused to listen. The team was a toy to him. Making a scene wouldn’t fix anything. For now, Tyler had to bide his time and prove he was ready when the moment came.

Boris didn’t seem to notice. “Look, Tyler.” He nodded. “I get your concerns. I do. But you got to trust we’ll do right by your talent. I didn’t get this far by playing safe or being stupid. We wouldn’t push for a comeback so soon if we didn’t think you could deliver.”

“Again, all due respect, you act like it’s nothing, but not one person in this room could go out there and survive. Not a single one. Everything else is a whole bunch of ‘who shot John?’ None of you want to end up in a coma or a coffin no matter how much money someone throws at you. So it’s all for one and none for me.”

The room got super quiet all of a sudden. Janowitz put a reassuring hand on his arm. “It’s okay, Fantana.”

“We know. You’re right. I just get excited.” Boris nodded with a contrite expression. “We got your backside, kid. We just want to show ’em number eighty-six ain’t been eighty-sixed.” He held up his hands as if to reassure Tyler. “Couple minutes, tops. Just so the fans can see.”

Taking a deep breath to steel his resolve, Tyler finally spoke up. “Okay,” he said quietly. “I’m willing to risk it, but I’m going to need help staying alive. Even one minute out there is one dangerous goddamned minute.”

Everyone around the table nodded in agreement.

Boris grinned widely at Tyler before cocking his finger like a gun and firing it. “You got it! Whatever safety pads or special whatever you need. No matter what happens out there, we got you covered.”

Tyler hoped he meant well, but the way Boris said it, covered sounded less like safety or insurance and more like extra cameras to make sure they got the footage.

Boris knocked on the table, jolting him from his thoughts. “Don’t look so glum! Comebacks are instant classics. Everyone wants their hero back from the dead.”

Hero. Dead. The words echoed in his mind. He just wanted to get back to Josh and feel whole again.

“Right. We all want that.” Tyler nodded, though he still felt doomed. He knew the team’s motivations were about the bottom line. But he wanted to prove himself, and they wanted to help him do it. That was something, at least.

And with that, the train started leaving the station.

Boris clapped his hands together loudly. “All right, sounds like we all agree. Tyler keeps training and flexing for the cameras whenever he can.” He pointed down the table to each person as he named them. “Mike, you’re going to run him in that scrimmage. Zack, see about the cover of the Union-Tribune and the Valley News, maybe twenty or thirty billboards around town showing off his assets.”

Tyler sat numbly as Boris and his people put the periods on the meeting, their canned enthusiasm grating on him. All roads led to what they wanted: they had blithely decided he would play for a few minutes in the game against the Cowboys next week, just to prove he still could.

“Didi, Roger, you two leak some teasers to the press with some muscle shots. Nothing definite but get ’em juicy. Maybe some more library stuff if they’ll fluff a little. Human-interest crap. And if we roll sevens, then we can announce Captain Fantastic’s big return game in Dallas. That’s just over a week out.”

Tyler nodded mutely, not trusting his voice. He knew they wouldn’t listen to reason. Josh’s calm voice echoed inside his skull: don’t let fear or anger make the decision. No matter how much he wished he could walk away, the field called to him. He just prayed his heart would be ready to answer.

“Now, one last thing before you scram. I understand you’ve been seeing a new person recently? Some muscle guy. They showed me a picture.”

Tyler stiffened. What picture? How much did Boris plan to interfere with Josh? He specifically hadn’t told anyone on the team yet, wanting to keep their relationship private for as long as possible.

“I, uh…,” Tyler stammered, flushing. “Yeah.”

Boris waved a hand. “No need to be a princess! He’s a looker too. Between us, I think it’s great, two hot guys for the red carpet. You poke whoever you want. The ladies love it. We got an NFL badass dating a hometown hero who reads books. It’s a PR dream!”

The gushy blond girl nodded enthusiastically. “Crisis response confirms that Joshua Ayres is already gaining nice buzz from the paparazzi photos. Clean-cut, masculine, ideal ‘boy next door’ beefcake.” She offered a chef’s kiss. “Gossip sites are eating it up.”

Tyler’s face burned with anger and embarrassment. Privacy didn’t mean squat. They were going to exploit the only person who mattered to him? He wanted to tell Boris exactly where they could shove their PR dream, but he bit his tongue. He could feel the worst of his dad inside him, the rage wanting to loose itself on the room, the blind strength coiled like a razor snake at the base of his spine.

No way in hell was he going to let Josh get mauled by the media to sell season tickets.

“I appreciate your support,” Tyler said through gritted teeth. Violence. It coursed through his limbs, begging to be let out. His hands, his arms, his back could feel how easy it would be to lift the entire table and flip it over on top of them all. Instead, he exhaled. “But my personal life is off-limits. Josh is a private person. I don’t want him exploited or hassled in any way.”

Boris frowned, clearly displeased, but nodded. “I think that’s shortsighted, but if you don’t like it, we don’t like it. All we care about is you feeling comfortable. Of course, maybe he might like it. Who doesn’t want to be a star?”

Tyler needed to leave. His fingertips were numb, and his heart beat so hard that his vision had started to blur at the edges. He let go of the wrecked chair arms. Coach McBride looked sad, and Fawcett wouldn’t even meet his eyes.

The owner shrugged. “The offer stands if you change his mind. Ask him. Your… friend. Who knows? A lot of reality shows are booking the wives these days. As filler, you know.” He nodded, and the blond fanfic PR woman nodded back.

“Overkill.” Zack looked at Tyler with genuine fear. He must have done some quick math about how long they’d have to scrape remains off the ceiling if anyone messed with Josh. “Let’s table that, I think.” He nodded at Boris. “Tyler has given us plenty to work with.”

Before anyone could add any more fuel to the bonfire, Tyler stood up, knocking the chair back a little too hard, eager to escape before he threw someone out a window. “Thank you all for understanding. If there’s nothing else, I should head home.” Rather than wait to listen to another word, he turned and left.

“Of course,” Boris called after him from the other end of the room. “Ezra and Robin will be in touch about leaking your miraculous recovery schedule. Let’s get cracking, people.”

Tyler barreled out of the room, pulling out his phone as the elevator doors closed behind him. He scrolled through his contacts until he found the one he needed.

As he strode to the elevator, he left a terse voicemail for his agent. “Fantana. Call me back. Now.”

More than anything, he yearned to call Josh. To hear that calm, steady voice grounding him. But for the moment, Tyler didn’t trust himself to keep it together on the phone. Josh would sense his distress and know if he held anything back. Tyler refused to lay this burden on him.

Josh would tell him to refuse, to walk away rather than risk his life to salvage his career. But Tyler couldn’t bear to slink offstage, leaving a legacy as a weakling and a failure. On some horrible level, he wouldn’t give his father, wherever he was holed up, the satisfaction.

And just maybe, deep down, he was worried Josh still held on to that high school fantasy, Tyler as the big, sexy superstar. Not the broken man he had become. He wanted to deserve Josh. He’d finish out his contract, and everything would work out, maybe.

Downstairs, the security goons gave him a high five. Tyler slid into the sleek black sedan the team had sent to collect him this morning.

As the car glided through the streets of downtown San Diego, his thoughts spiraled darker. He imagined himself dying midgame, for real this time, his life snuffed out on national TV as the world watched. If he wanted to prove himself, he would have to do it alone. And he knew the NFL wouldn’t do a damn thing to protect him.

All he wanted was to get back to Josh in Cinnamar.

Tyler had to see this through. Had to find a way to protect himself, body and soul. But he ached at the thought of how his choices might impact everything left ahead of them both.

Tyler squeezed his eyes shut, cutting off the thought. He had nine days if he got lucky. Or he would die.