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  For David Wainer

  PROLOGUE

  He sat on the floor, towel around his neck, drenched in his own sweat, eyes trained on the screen. Football in one hand, a half-eaten banana in the other, a bottle of Gatorade in his lap. She sat next to him. Jeans. Older sweatshirt. Legs crossed. Remote in one hand, laser pointer in the other. Staring through reading glasses. Her hair had turned. Once deep mahogany, now snow gray. The turn was not unexpected; the timing was. Life had amplified genetics. In her early thirties, she was technically old enough to be his mom, but the last third of those years had not been kind. It wasn’t so much the wrinkles as the shadow beneath them. He was a rising senior, a seventeen-year-old kid strapped with immeasurable talent, high hopes, and dreams he’d only whispered. At six feet three inches—nearly five inches taller than her—almost two hundred pounds and very little body fat, there wasn’t much kid left. She didn’t need magnifiers to see that. When she wanted his attention, she raised an eyebrow, lowered her voice, and spoke slowly, “Dalton Rogers.” At other times, she just called him Dee. He respectfully called her Sister Lynn while in the presence or earshot of others. When they were alone, he called her Mama.

  Having some experience with talent like his, she was realistic about his prospects and had been careful to temper his expectations while not dashing his hopes. A delicate balance. The game on the screen moved in slow motion, a frame at a time. In the middle of the field—and the screen—number 8 stood under center. Well known during his time, he was the plumb line by which all others were measured. Which is why they were watching the film. Dee wanted to learn from the best. Few, if any, had been better than number 8.

  She pressed pause and lit the screen with a green laser. The focused beam circled his feet. “Everything starts right there.” She tapped him gently on the head with her remote. “Feet. Feet. Feet. They’re the first link in the kinetic chain. When he throws, what comes out of his hand starts in his feet.”

  Dee quoted from the article Sports Illustrated had later written about number 8’s performance in this game, “ ‘Million-dollar arm, two-million-dollar feet.’ ”

  She tapped Dee on the head with the remote again. “Neither of which happened by accident. Remember…” She laughed once. “Football is chess played in 3-D with a little cardiovascular challenge thrown in for good measure. Not to—”

  “Mention the marauding horde.” He waved her off like a gnat buzzing his ear. “I heard you”—he took another bite—“the first five hundred times.”

  She smiled and lifted the green dot to his helmet. “Where’s he looking? Show me his eyes.” She spoke in present tense even though the game had been played fifteen years ago.

  Dee followed the line of sight to the left cornerback on the opposing defense, who, at the moment, stood lined up three yards off number 8’s primary receiver, a rather gifted individual named Roderick. Better known to his friends and those who worshipped him as Roddy.

  Dee pointed him out with what remained of the banana. Mama made Dee eat one a day because the potassium and magnesium helped alleviate muscle cramps in his calves. He spoke through a mouthful. “Three yards off Roddy. Man coverage. He’s playing inside, which means he’s taken away the slant, challenging Roddy to hug the sideline and forcing the Rocket to throw outside shoulder.” It had been a close game, and the opposing team had not been impressed with the undefeated Saints or their star quarterback.

  She pressed play and the video continued in slow motion. The quarterback began his count, checked right, and then paused. Noticing movement by both the weak side linebacker and strong safety, he stopped his count, pointed at both of them, and began walking up and down his offensive line hollering a change of play. Given the crowd noise, the quarterback then motioned hand signals to the receivers and the lone tailback. They nodded and made adjustments, spreading out slightly wider. All of this took less than four seconds.

  Dee sat mesmerized—eyes large, mind taking notes. Taking everything in. He never grew tired of this. He’d watch these all night if Mama let him. Her film library consisted of more than a hundred films. Most of the high school games were reel-to-reel. By college they’d converted to VHS. Some of the ESPN stuff and most of the championships were HD. To give Dee access to the entirety without having to constantly switch back and forth between three types of technology, she’d had it converted to electronic files now stored by game and date on a Mac laptop that projected onto an enormous TV via an HDMI cable. She didn’t need to watch the screen to see the play developing—she’d been there. Could still hear the crowd’s roar and echo. The pennies rattling inside the milk jug. Smell the cut grass. She saw this and lots of other videos almost every time she closed her eyes.

  She advanced the film several frames and the green dot rested on his helmet. “Eyes. Show me. Where are they now?”

  Dee’s hand dwarfed the ball when he pointed. “The umpire.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s got the play clock.”

  She circled the umpire with the green light. “Watch what happens when his hand goes up.” The light flashed back across the screen to rest on the quarterback. “What’s he doing?”

  “Back under center. Restarting his count. Right now he’s racing the clock ’cause he knows he’s got about three seconds left.”

  She smiled. She’d taught him well. The light created a green halo as she circled the number 8 on the screen. “Think about everything going on in his head right now. Yes, he’s physically talented, but the thing that sets him apart is the stuff you can’t see.” She then circled the entire screen. “This is a chess game. He’s just moving the pieces around the board.”

  He nodded. Eyes fixed. The Rocket was about to expose a defensive weakness and win a Class 5A State Championship. Again.

  She pressed play and whispered, “Checkmate.”

  The play proceeded. The center—a giant, fun-loving, faithful Labrador of a man called Wood—snapped the ball and then created a seemingly impenetrable wall of protection. The quarterback faked a handoff to the lone running back as he stepped into the B gap, bolstering Wood’s wall and blocking the blitzing strong side linebacker. The quarterback then took three quick yet long steps backward to gain distance from the line and give the receivers time to make their cuts and get open. When the defensive tackle broke through and threatened to sack number 8, the Rocket turned, rolled right, and began checking down his receivers. While he was dangerous inside the pocket, he could dismantle you when he broke outside. Everybody knew that. In recognition of his talent and speed, SI had coined the phrase “the Rocket.” The name stuck, and more than a hundred scouts and coaches stood in the stands that night, salivating over possible takeoff. The crowd rose to their feet, and the entire stadium sucked in a collective gasp. When he threw the ball, he didn’t throw it where his receiver, Roddy, was. He threw it where Roddy would be when the ball got there.

  She turned off the video and clicked on the light. Dee began packing up his books. It used to bother him that she never watched the ending. Then he learned that some memories fester, and if you pick at them, they cause the most pain. They walked outside under the covered walkway that would lead him across the grounds
, back to school and his dorm, and her to her cottage, sequestered behind the massive brick wall. Her shield against the outside world. She hung her arm inside his. “You finished calculus?”

  He smiled, nodding. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Physics?”

  “Test tomorrow. Second period.”

  She raised an eyebrow, asking him if he’d studied without having to ask him.

  He shrugged. “Some.”

  She checked her watch. It was already after ten p.m. “Not too late.” She pointed her finger at him. “And no SportsCenter. You can’t watch that stuff and study for a test.”

  He smiled and pointed back inside the room. “He did it.”

  She nodded. He was right, he had. They’d watched it together. Some of it had been about him. “And you see where it got him?”

  He chuckled but didn’t respond. He knew better. Some things were still tender. A pause. He wanted to comfort her but didn’t know how. “It’s all over the news—he’s getting out tomorrow.”

  She nodded and stared toward the garden.

  He pressed her. “You made any plans?”

  She shook her head.

  “He know you’re here?”

  A single shake.

  “You think he’ll come find you?”

  “I don’t know.” She crossed her arms. “I don’t know what he’ll do.”

  He felt the heaviness but didn’t know how to help her carry it. And she’d always been careful not to let him. That weight she carried alone. He bent at the knees, bringing him eye level with her. “You need anything?”

  She kissed his cheek. “Get some sleep and ace your physics test.”

  “You know,” he slung his backpack over his shoulder, “I do have an A in the class.”

  She held up a finger. “A minus.”

  He lowered his voice, whispering, “It’s an AP class.”

  She smiled. “Night.”

  She meandered through the walkways, her shadow appearing before and then retreating behind as she passed beneath the overhead lights and under the arms of the towering oaks that blanketed the private cottages. She pulled the door shut and curled up in a ball on the bed. Moments passed and she found her fingertips tracing the edges of the dove hanging from the chain around her neck. She’d always wanted to work with kids. Just not like this.

  Two hours later, she twisted off the cap, poured three pills into her hand, and chased them with water. She showered, the pills kicked in, and her eyelids grew heavy. She turned on the TV, clicked resume, and tucked her knees into her chest. She drifted off to the sound of the crowd chanting his name. Rocket! Rocket! Rocket! The last image she saw was familiar to everyone. The whole country had seen it. On the screen, a kid in the stands held up that week’s Sports Illustrated. It was the first time a high school quarterback had graced the cover of SI. Even the angle of the shot was deliberate—the photographer had taken the picture lying on his back on the grass. Number 8 stood on the field, ball in hand, all promise and possibility, goalposts rising behind him, the world at his feet. The title read THE GOD OF FRIDAY NIGHT.

  She blinked, the tears spilled, and she drifted off to a time when all her dreams had come true.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Thirteen years ago

  The assistant clipped the microphone to my lapel, smoothed my shoulders with a lint brush, and admired my day-old suit. “Moldone’s Off 5th?”

  Busted. “Yes.”

  A brush of my collar, then she turned to Audrey. “Nicely done.”

  Audrey nodded once, accepting the compliment. The lady looked over her shoulder and then handed me a Topps football card with my picture on it. “My brother’ll disown me if I don’t ask.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Ben.” She blushed. “He watches all your film. Wears your number. Your picture covers the door of his bedroom.”

  Topps had printed a special run of all the guys they thought would go in the first round. Glossy. Thick cardboard. Picture on one side. High school and college stats on the other. I signed the card and she clicked back into assistant mode. “The audience will filter in through those doors in a minute. Feel free to mingle. Or not. Your call. They have strict instructions not to cross that line, but you are free to do as you wish.” She pointed. “Those guys over there in the black T-shirts, with arms like yours but not quite as tall as you, will help keep order if needed. Jim will be in”—she eyed the digital clock on the wall—“in twenty-three minutes. We’re live in twenty-three and a half. Any questions?”

  “No. I’m good. Thanks.”

  She left and I glanced over my shoulder where Audrey had raised a knowing eyebrow and waved her finger at my suit. “Told you.”

  I sat on the sofa, sent two texts on my phone, muted the ringer for the third time, and then sat while my left leg nervously bounced. My tie felt tight. Face flushed. Suit stiff, awkward. Along the far wall, behind the cameras, sat a table covered with danishes, bagels, and fresh-cut fruit. My eyes fell on the raspberries. I thought about sneaking a few, but then there was the issue of the mic and the cord and what if part of it stuck in my teeth and I didn’t know it. Sweat trickled down my back. Eight years as a starting quarterback, but little had prepared me for the media blitz of the last several days.

  Audrey stood offstage, out of view of the camera. Hands tucked behind her. Shoulders relaxed. Wood called her “the real power behind the throne.” He was right. Between high school and college, she had endured more than ninety-six games. Sun. Rain. Snow. Thunderstorm. Power outage. Sacks. Concussions. Sprains. Pulls. Injuries. Little phased her. That had earned her the rather unflattering nickname—one of several—of “Prestone.”

  As in, antifreeze.

  The producer had given her a set of headphones so she could hear the interview. I motioned to the space next to me on the couch, then pointed to Jim Kneels’s empty chair. “He won’t mind.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t even think about it. You bring me out there in the middle of this thing and you’re not getting any loving for a month.”

  Two days ago, Audrey had taken me to an appointment-only, custom men’s shop called Moldone’s Off 5th. For three hours, I modeled various colors and patterns and textures in a process that gave me a newfound respect for runway models and new cars. I’d walk out of the dressing room, climb the platform, and stand there in solids and pinstripes while she tilted her head from side to side and considered me. I felt naked. She’d then twirl her finger and I’d turn in place, allowing her to study the whole of me where she’d either nod in approval or be rid of me in much the same way she shooed pigeons in the park. After the fifth costume change, I protested.

  “I’m quite happy with my wrinkle-free from Sears.”

  “Honey, one of the things I love about you is that you’re small-town grounded and proud of it.” She turned to Moldone, who stood attentive with a measuring tape draped around his neck and reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. “Mr. Moldone, you’ll have to forgive him, he’s been playing football a long time. One too many hits to the head.”

  I smiled and turned to leave, confident she had begun to see things clearly. “Thank you.”

  Evidently I was mistaken.

  “But…” She held up a finger, stuffing my end around. “We’re uptown now.”

  I pointed discreetly at the price tag, knowing that she was a miser at heart and reason would prevail.

  She stood and smoothed my lapel. “I know. Crazy isn’t it? But this city is full of crazy people. Have you seen the numbers attached to your contract?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Get over it.”

  “Everyone I meet will know I just bought all this stuff.”

  She brushed my cheek. “It makes your eyes dance.”

  When I opened my mouth to object to one more combination, she pointed her finger at me and raised both eyebrows. So I tried on a dozen more suits and just as many pairs of shoes.

  We walked out with th
ree suits, six custom shirts, five ties, two belts, two pairs of shoes, a maxed-out Visa card, and one very happy Mr. Moldone. I’d only ever spent that much for one other thing on the planet, and she was wearing it on her left hand.

  At T-minus twenty, the double doors swung wide and the audience shuffled in, jockeying for front-row seats. Most waved, sat quietly, mumbled in hushed tones, flashed pictures, or held up their digital cameras and recorded me just sitting there. Others hollered, cheered, or shouted words of encouragement. One guy whistled. Might have been two hundred people in total. Sensing a growing chorus, the “bouncers” moved in. It seemed silly to keep sitting, so I untethered from the mic and mingled among the audience, shaking hands, signing autographs, and posing for pictures.

  One lady hugged me. “Sweetheart, I drove 264 miles. Been standing in the rain since lunch.” I thanked her and signed her ticket stub and T-shirt and then laughed as the bouncers stepped in to pry her off me from one final hug. I worked my way through the first few rows, climbed the stairs, then made my way down to a woman in a wheelchair who was wearing my college jersey. Said her name was Jenny. I knelt for a picture and signed her sleeve. She just sat there crying. I kissed her forehead, and she squeezed my hand. She couldn’t really control her muscles and neither of her eyes would look at me, but I found her beautiful and tender. A small boy, about ten, dwarfed in my college jersey and wearing the hat of what in a few hours would become my NFL home team, tapped me on the shoulder and shoved a Topps card in my face. I signed it, kneeled posing for a picture, and said, “I like your hat.”

  He shrugged, shook his head once, and put both hands on his hips. “You’ve made things really difficult for me.”

  Still on my knees, I chuckled. “Really? How so?”

  He turned the hat in his hands. “I hate these guys, and now I’ve got to pull for them.”

  Knowing I had met my match and was about to have my hands full, I extended my hand. “I’m Matthew.”