Chapter Eighteen

TYLER KNEWhe should have come clean to Josh, tried to explain at least, but he’d spent the past week carefully bluffing and dodging the topic every time they spoke. And then for the past two days, they hadn’t spoken more than a few minutes.

Now he stood on the field at the ATT Stadium in Dallas, his eyes narrowing as he took in the taunts from the opposing team. The Dallas Cowboys were a force to be reckoned with, and they made sure Tyler knew it.

“Better watch that heart, Fantana!” one of the Cowboys jeered, smirking as he passed by. “Wouldn’t want you to keel over on us.”

“Seriously,” another chimed in, “you got life insurance?”

Tyler clenched his jaw but kept silent, focusing on surviving today’s game. During the warmup, McBride only let him participate in about half of the position drills, conserving his energy for the real battle ahead. The rest of the time, Tyler got sent to sign jerseys and snap selfies with the fans. At about thirty minutes out, the guys were limbered up and the slow sizzle of aggression had taken root all around him. Kickers practiced their moves while small clusters of Swells and Cowboys players drifted to the sides to sign autographs.

Tyler glanced up at the boxes. Somewhere up there Boris and the other VIPs were going to be watching his every move. What happened today would determine if he stayed or got traded. Keeping up a long-distance relationship between San Diego and Cinnamar was bad enough, but cross-country might be more than even Josh could bear.

I hope he isn’t flipping out, Tyler thought. Josh might not even be indoors today. They’d chatted briefly this morning, a stilted, strained conversation that left him uneasy. As they’d ended the call, he had made a point of saying, “I love you.”

Just in case.

A sharp pang of missing Josh made his knees buckle for a moment. Part of him wished Josh was up there in the box with Boris and the team families, but another part prayed that Josh wasn’t watching at all—that he was mowing the yard, vegging out on cartoons, or taking Nadia for tamales.

No chance.Josh would watch. He had been determined to come in person, but Tyler had asked him to wait. He didn’t know if that was better or worse. He should have told Josh a bunch of stuff, but by then it had been too late to say anything.

How did Dumas put it? “Love is the most selfish of all the passions.”

He pushed away the pang of guilt and the petty thirst for approval. None of that crap was useful to him right now. He needed to focus on the game; if he made it out the other end in one piece, he’d have plenty of time afterward to explain it all to Josh.

Tyler’s hands were shaking again, so he took a swig of Gatorade and almost gagged at the sweetness. He took another run through the bad pass drills.

“Stop it,” he muttered to himself. He hadn’t told Josh about the risks he was taking or the decisions before him. They had enough trouble without him piling on his own ego. He twisted to stretch his back, using his breath to expand the fascia gently, the way Josh had taught him.

Raised voices drew his attention, so he straightened and turned.

Near the fifty, one of the Swells linemen had gotten into a chummy scrap with a Cowboys rookie with an exaggerated Spartan beard and a tribal scalp tattoo. Both of them looked young and sprung until coaches from both teams stepped in to defuse the drama. “Save it for the gridiron, boys.”

Fifteen minutes out and the air crackled with a wild charge. Smack talk flew between the two teams as they crossed paths, each attempting to rattle the other. It was all part of the game, but for Tyler, the stakes felt deadly.

The hostility of the Cowboy fans drifted over the field like a low storm cloud, and Tyler felt the weight of the other team’s disgruntlement. Even warming up, the Cowboys seemed grumpy in general, even sour, which was out of character. Then again, Tyler had gotten a lot of glowing puff pieces in the national press the past month, so maybe the Cowboys offense planned to make him pay dearly for the tacky charm offensive.

Ten minutes before kickoff, the referees and the chain gang took their positions on the sidelines. Cheerleaders began pumping up the crowd, and news crews captured final thoughts from the players. As the teams left the warm-up, Tyler flashed a big thumbs-up to the cameras, knowing Nadia would be watching with Josh back home in Cinnamar—worrying about him, no doubt. As the noise of the crowd swelled around him, Tyler steeled himself for the game, stretching properly just in case Josh was keeping tabs.

“Head in the game, Fantana,” he muttered to himself, remembering Josh’s steady voice in his ear, urging him forward. Like a musketeer surrounded by his fellow fighters: “He who chases the eagle takes no heed of the sparrow.”

He missed Josh. He missed his sister. He needed to be home but wanted to be here. Conflicting fears dueled inside his mind, but he refused to let them show—or slow him down. Today, he would prove himself on this field once more, even if it killed him.

McBride and the other coaches signaled them back into the locker room to suit up. Tyler gripped the turf beneath him, then pressed himself to his feet, feeling the weight of the moment and the challenge ahead. The Cowboys were formidable opponents, but Tyler loved the fight. With every jeer and taunt, he steeled himself further, determined to rise above it all and emerge victorious—for himself, for his team, and for Josh, who’d known him before America’s Tightest End even existed.

“Let’s do this.”

In the locker room, Tyler’s teammates buzzed with excitement and anticipation as they began to gear up for the game. Surrounded by the Swells players, he too focused on getting dressed and ready. Nervousness and determination surged within him as he prepared to step onto the field for his first NFL game since… everything.

On their home turf, the Cowboys always wore their white jerseys, so the Swells had to wear their home uniforms too: teal up top and white pants. Tyler had always nursed a secret superstition that their teal jerseys made defense harder because it drew the other team’s eyes. Still, they were visiting, and one more crappy bit of news wasn’t going to change much.

As he pulled on his socks, snapped in his cup, and strapped on his pads, Tyler couldn’t help but flash back to his earliest games. The first time he’d put on pads, he felt invincible. Nothing could hurt him like this. He’d started playing football out of desperation—first to placate his abusive father, and then to avoid his rages, and later to escape the mess he’d left behind. Those old wounds still ached under the scar tissue, yet they also reminded Tyler of how far he’d come and just what he was fighting for today.

“Hey, Fantana,” Calvin called out, breaking into his thoughts. “You look like you seen a ghost. Nerves at eleven?” The others laughed, but Tyler could see the concern hidden behind the affectionate smack talk. They knew, as he did, that this game would be a test of their bonds, as well as his own questionable fitness.

“If you really want to know, I was thinking about the barbecue we got last time we played here. Hutchin’s? Something like that. There’s an old smokehouse out in Plano that does the best ribs in Texas,” Tyler replied with a grin, trying to hide his own fears. “We win today, I say we go buy everything they got in the smoker and haul it back to the suites. My treat.”

“In! I am in, my friend.” Calvin high-fived him and the other players who crowed at the idea of wrecking their diets. “Who’s in?”

Tyler nodded to himself as he snapped on his pads. Ribs sounded great, but he doubted he’d get anywhere close. Today was survival, and his odds were crap.

In truth, he suspected that he might die today if just one thing went wrong on the field. And from the looks exchanged between his fellow Swells, it seemed most of them thought what he was doing was crazy and dangerous… even with imaginary barbecue as camouflage.

But Tyler refused to let them down—or himself. He carefully taped up his wrists and pulled on his uniform, trying to summon every ounce of courage and resolve within him. Today he would face the Cowboys and emerge stronger, no matter the cost. For his team, for his family, and for Josh.

Last night he’d been rereading the Dumas again, wanting to call Josh but knowing it would make things worse. A quote in the book had leaped out at him: “The merit of all things lies in their difficulty.”

“Remember who you are,” he whispered to himself, feeling the sweat start to bead on his forehead. He cracked his neck slowly and deliberately, enjoying the staggered crunch of it. Again he heard Josh whispering inside his helmet: “All for one, and you for me.”

Tyler took a deep breath as Coach McBride gathered the team. At the end of his speech, he addressed the elephant in the room.

“Listen up, men,” McBride bellowed. “Cowboys are going to be gunning for Fantana out there every second he’s in play. To try and kill him.”

The players murmured angrily at this. Tyler shifted his weight, unsure where this was going.

McBride pointed at him. “I guarantee they see his bum heart as a weakness to exploit. Now you fellows know, Fantana knows, I know, that’s a load of BS.”

“Sir,” Tyler barked in agreement, mostly for the public chest-thumping. Still, he appreciated the pep talk and the reminder to the other players that he’d be a constant target.

“Well I say, to hell with that!” McBride shouted. Janowitz and the assistant coaches clapped and nodded in assent. “In his hospital gown, Fantana can run circles around those pantywaists. Five minutes is all we’re giving them to try.”

The Swells growled and thumped their chests back at McBride. Fawcett shouted something and raised his fist at his squad.

McBride scowled at the whole team, his mustache bristling as he found his words. “Let me be clear, gentlemen. Your primary job during those five minutes is to protect him with everything you got, even if it gets ugly. You have my full permission do whatever it takes to keep Tyler safe out there. Anything.”

Fawcett said, “Hear! Hear!” and nodded in agreement. He glanced at Tyler and gave him a direct thumbs-up.

“You all know what that means, what that takes.” McBride sounded adamant. “You are his shield. I want you running interference, blocking tackles, keeping them off balance and out of range, doing whatever you got to keep this man’s heart beating for those five minutes.” He thumped Tyler’s shoulder pads with affectionate violence. “Until we can get Ass-tastic off the field safely.”

Tyler nodded at the head coach in gratitude. The team roared their assent.

McBride muttered something positive, but Tyler couldn’t hear it above the rest of the shouting. He felt a surge of gratitude for his fellow Swells. The coaches and the players wanted him to know they had his back. Someone must have said something, expressed concern about the management’s cockamamie idea to gamble Tyler’s safety as clickbait.

Tyler’s gratitude overwhelmed him. Still crappy odds, but better than fifty-fifty, at least.

“Out in three,” McBride dismissed the huddle, and Tyler headed to his locker. He tugged his jersey on, number eighty-six, and for once it felt unlucky as hell.

Odell ambled over, squinting at him. The young quarterback looked almost sheepish. Today he’d be starting for the first time, so the pressure had to be messing with him too.

Tyler bobbed his head. “S’up?”

“Got a sec?” Odell said quietly. “We on you. You need to know I got something special for you ready to go. A Hail Mary if anything goes south.” He stared into Tyler’s eyes a moment, unblinking. “Screw them. I don’t give a damn what they making you do, but if we need it, if you want it… I got it.” He gave Tyler a hard, scared stare.

Tyler’s eyes widened; finally he leaned closer. “Hail Mary? You serious?”

Odell nodded, and a couple of rookies nearby did as well. So a few guys were in on it. “Kids don’t want to watch our Great White Gramps humping around the shallows waiting to go boom like a movie shark.”

“Me neither.” Tyler chuckled and leaned in, thumping Odell on the back and muttering in his ear, “Thanks, man.”

Odell got somber, real concern in his eyes. “Things get rough, you look my way.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t get that crazy.” Tyler realized what he meant, what he was saying. Loud and clear. They shook hands firmly.

“Same. But it does, no matter what, you look sharp.” Odell nodded and walked backward away from him. “Inshallah, brother.”

Tyler felt calmer at least. The team had begun to drift to the door and the lineup.

It was time to take the field.

Tyler took a deep breath as the team lined up to head out of the tunnel and onto the field. The roar of the crowd was deafening, even from inside. The thrum of energy vibrated through the concrete walls.

His heart was pounding, and adrenaline chased through his veins. Time to step back into the spotlight.

The players in front of him started jogging onto the field. Tyler hesitated, doubts creeping in along with a brash urge to work up the crowd the way he normally would. Captain Fantastic, right? They wanted a show. He couldn’t back down now. With another deep breath, Tyler followed his teammates out.

The explosive din slammed into him, thousands of Cowboys fans booing and jeering as the Swells took the field under the blazing lights. Tyler scanned the sea of jerseys, the flashing cameras, the commentators pontificating from their booth. Over the loudspeaker, the announcer introduced the team.

“…and retaking the field after his dramatic heart attack last season, tight end Tyler Faaaan-tanaaa!”

A mixed chorus of cheers and boos greeted Tyler’s name. He raised one hand to the crowd, faking a cocky smirk for the cameras even though his stomach was churning.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tyler spotted the Swells’ kicker and punter warming up on the sidelines. Pretty solid odds that the next couple of hours might be his last. The team had prepared for it, putting precautions in place, but nothing was guaranteed.

Violence. He thought of Josh’s sad eyes the night they’d talked about his dad and the belt. He felt wobbly and weird as he jogged to the sidelines.

What if this went wrong? He should have told Nadia and Josh to be here. He could have flown them out, at least. What was he doing? This was insane. He’d been an idiot, thinking he could step back into the NFL after everything. Tyler blinked hard, trying to focus through the fear threatening to swallow him whole.

All for one, he told himself. One play at a time.

Tyler paced in the sidelines, glaring across at the massive Cowboys linemen currently sizing him up like meat for their grills.

“Park it, Fantana.” Coach McBride grabbed Tyler’s arm as he passed and pulled him aside. “You’re benched until we’re up by at least fourteen.”

Tyler shook his head. “Coach, come on. I’m ready.” The sidelines sucked.

“For some first-quarter yardage? No chance. Not even Jarlson is that stupid.” McBride’s frown etched deeper lines into his weathered face till his mustached drooped.

Tyler ground his teeth but nodded.

His teammates offered slaps on the back and words of encouragement as they took the field.

“Hang tight.” Duchesne shrugged as he backed onto the field. “Going to clean the kitchen before we let you start cooking.”

Tyler smiled and nodded, pride warring with frustration. As the team headed out for the kickoff, Tyler settled. Once the game started, he analyzed the plays, watching for any weaknesses in the Cowboys’ line he could exploit.

After a couple of messy possessions, the Swells intercepted a pass and started driving downfield. Bit by bit, they ground out the yards until Calvin pounded into the endzone for six.

The Cowboys responded in kind, evening the score, but the Swells’ offense was clicking now. Two more touchdowns put them up 21-7 at the half.

The cheer squad took the field to do their thing, and the Swells trotted back into the locker room feeling pretty frisky.

Grudgingly, Tyler realized the coaches had played it smart. By tucking Tyler off to the side, the coaches had hijacked everyone’s assumptions. The Cowboys had forgotten all about his triumphant return, focused instead on containing the Swells’ other offensive weapons. His moment was coming. All he had to do now was prove he deserved it.

After the second time-out of the third quarter, McBride pulled the trigger, nodding at Tyler to take the field. “Fantana, you’re up.”

Tyler stood and went to him. The Swells had the ball. Maybe he could survive this.

“Five minutes, tops.” The coach eyed him for a second. “Make ’em count.”

“Yes, sir.”

Miratto was already shuffling their way to be replaced. He gave Tyler a sympathetic grimace and thumbs-up.

“Tyler, you don’t have anything to prove. You know that, right? And for Christ’s sake, let them boys keep you safe out there.”

As Tyler stepped onto the field, the fans realized what was happening and a tidal wave of energy swept through the stadium. Even the Cowboys stopped to watch. The crowd went berserk, standing and stomping, bellowing their approval.

He wasn’t even their player, but he held a piece of them.

His heart pounded against his ribs—whether from nerves or excitement, he couldn’t tell—as the deafening roar of the crowd surrounded him, rattling his bones. Stepping onto the familiar field bathed in blinding lights, cameras flashing, felt so foreign after everything he’d been through. Violence. The terrible burden of their expectations bore down on him.

What would Josh say to him if they were jogging together?

Let all the craziness out of you. Take a breath.He felt the tension drizzle off him like sweat.

He jogged across the grass. For all the shouting, Tyler felt quiet, almost still… as though time had slipped. As though it were just before dawn and he was running beside the person who mattered most. For you, Joshua.

“’Bout time.” Odell grinned up at him and then over his shoulder at the stands. “Let’s give ’em a second to change their panties.”

Tyler took his position in the huddle, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He just needed to do his thing for five minutes while the cameras rolled.

Bracing himself as the first play was called and the ball snapped, he saw the Cowboys’ defense barreling toward him. Dodging a tackle, spinning away from a hit, he started to recall what had made him a star way back when. But he no longer cared about fame or glory. He only wanted to prove he still had the wins in him. Like a musketeer.

The sheer physicality of the game engulfed Tyler as he dodged malicious hits and dueled as nimbly as possible with the Cowboys’ defense. Sweat coated his brow, muscles straining with each canny play. He had forgotten what it felt like to play at this level, surrounded by pros who shared his passion for the game. And still he felt that odd stillness he associated with running with Josh. Time seemed to blur, melting past him in tackles and feints that kept him untouched. Panache.

In a heartbeat, Tyler saw a chance to take possession of the ball. Instead of pressing his advantage, he faked out the Cowboys by turning back the way he’d come and handed the ball off to Duchesne, who picked up nine crucial yards.

Now the Cowboys were grumpy.

The hits kept coming, each one more vicious than the last. Tyler’s teammates tried to run interference, often taking brutal falls on his behalf. He wanted to tell them not to sacrifice themselves for him, but there was no time. The clock ticked mercilessly on.

On the next play, he saw a massive fullback hurtling toward his flank. In that split second, Josh’s voice echoed in his mind: Brace yourself. Be strong. Planting his feet, he summoned all his strength and reversed the hit just before impact, sending the player reeling. En garde, Athos.

The Cowboys were out for blood now. The same three linemen swarmed him every play, but by some miracle, Tyler’s defense kept picking them off so he could slip past their grasp. The ref called penalties, but it did little good. The Swells offense was outmatched, and he was out of time.

On the next play, Tyler opted to block a linebacker coming at Odell from the outside.

That odd predawn stillness from the school track seemed to buffer him and focus him. He flashed on a memory of grabbing his father’s belt midswing, the smack of the leather as it hit his hand when he made a fist around it and pulled it free. At the last second, he braced and reversed again, almost flipping the player, who hit the ground with a nasty thud.

As the minutes passed, he kept hearing Josh in his head, believing in him more than he did himself.

The ferocity and danger of the attacks intensified as the Cowboys targeted Tyler with calculated brutality. A couple of the Swells ran interference, taking ugly falls for him, their bodies colliding with the turf in bone-jarring impacts that left them skidding across the grass. The clock seemed to slow further.

Boris had insisted he stay in play for five minutes, but this felt closer to seven.

His chest was agony now and his breath ragged. He’d almost bitten through his mouth guard.

He worried that if the Cowboys actually managed to bring him down, his chest would simply burst like a pi?ata and the medics would have to collect all his bits for the funeral. Whatever happened next, he needed to get off this field, stat.

He glanced at McBride and across to the receivers. En garde.

By now the Cowboys knew what he could and couldn’t do. His body was at its limit. A few more plays and they’d have him completely boxed in. Play by play, they’d gauged his stamina and range of motion. The Dallas coaches had probably assigned defense players to hit him at exactly the right heights to kneecap him permanently.

Game over.

Tyler signaled to Odell, who ducked his head in understanding and crossed himself. Hail Mary.

Odell turned as though about to cut left and hand the ball off, but at the last minute he froze, defying all the coaches’ orders to play it safe.

The crowd got quiet, waiting to see. Calvin and Duchesne trotted forward, then split suddenly and tore off in opposite directions.

My turn.

Twisting free of the grasping Cowboys, Tyler swung toward the startled box man at the line of scrimmage before looping back toward the goalpost. Big as Tyler was, they hadn’t expected a full sprint from a dead stop. I can run now. His arms pumped as he hauled ass, covering ten, twenty, thirty yards faster than he could remember moving since he was a kid. His legs burned, churning under him.

Thank God Josh had taught him how to run properly. All those miles, all those mornings… those dark blue eyes crinkled with a smile first thing. Hey, buddy. He ran like Josh was waiting on the other side of that line, arms wide for him. I love you. I love you.

His chest throbbed and stuttered, but he tore across the grass without looking back or doubting himself, focusing only on the end zone ahead. His whole being bent toward the line with his feet racing to catch up. His heart was a scorching fist behind his sternum. Closer, nearly, almost.

Tyler hoped the pounding he heard was just his straining pulse, not the footsteps of some massive Dallas defender bearing down on him. Almost there. When he was a couple of yards away, within striking distance, he glanced back as Odell wound up and let loose a long, arching, perfect pass right into the cradle of his arms, if he could get them there in time.

The crowd stood frozen in the stands.

Finally the Cowboys on the twenty-yard line realized what was up and took off, cutting diagonally toward him. Come home. The ball sailed through the air as Tyler closed the gap to where the ball would be, angling toward everything.

At the last possible moment, Tyler twisted to see two Cowboys barreling at him just as Odell’s Hail Mary pass started its descent. Summoning his last inch of strength, Tyler leaped upward, reaching-straining-stretching for the ball….

The crowd jumped up and down, the lights flashed, and the ball spun through the air directly into Tyler’s outstretched hands. He tucked that beautiful little nugget against his chest and rolled just before the two Cowboys could slam into his legs, a second too late. He hit the ground on his front, stunned but steady. The ball cradled against his chest had saved him. “Hey, buddy.”

Finally, pressed against the ground in the perfect silence, he began to hear his breath and his heart, which seemed to still be beating. Three-three-three. His fingers still worked, and his feet. His face too. He smiled, and then the smile got bigger. I love you, Joshua.

The deafening applause and cheers shook the stadium as Tyler pulled himself up and got his legs under him. He had done it—scored his last touchdown for the Swells. His shouting teammates sprinted toward him, leaning forward, mouths wide, while the Cowboys could only look on in mute defeat. Even if the Swells lost the game in the last quarter, he hadn’t.

Tyler shook his head in joyful disbelief. “And won for all.”

All over the field, his exuberant teammates were jumping and celebrating the impossible play. On the sidelines, McBride stood smiling and shaking his head. Odell saluted and bowed to him. The crowd was hugging and snapping pictures.

“FAN-TAN-A! FAN-TAN-A!” Their raw chanting shook the stadium. He could feel the rumbling coming up through his cleats.

The glare of the stadium thrown up at the clouds overhead made it look like sunrise. So still. So bright. He closed his eyes, and his heart was so full it hurt to breathe. Standing in the end zone, overwhelmed by the roar of the crowd, Tyler felt a swell of gratitude and love for Josh.

Tyler almost thought, He should be here,but then he shook his head.

“I should be there,” he whispered.

He looked down at the ball in his hands, then back up at the sky, bright as dawn, wide as heaven.

He lifted the ball over his head and then slowly, deliberately knelt to set it down on the ground. He stood up with his arms raised… and walked away.

Tyler headed off the field, shedding his jersey and pads as he went, along with “America’s Tightest End,” “Captain Fantastic,” and all the other dumb crap. It was time to just be Tyler again and go home.

When he reached the tunnel, his cleats clicking on the tiles, he turned and waved one last time—to the boisterous crowd, to the cameras and blazing lights—and disappeared into his own future.