1 Chapter 1

1

Week 1

Oakland Mustangs vs Phoenix Wildcats

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“Oh for fuck’s sake! I could have caught that fucking ball! Look at that fucker. Come on, Coach. This is fucking ridiculous. Why don’t we just give them the fucking game if you’re going to let the secondary be so weak!”

Nobody paid any attention to DeShawn Jones’s string of profanities. Patton Cooper looked over at the young man, watching him hop from one foot to the other, unbothered by the heat of the afternoon or his pads. He held his helmet in one hand, and Patton snorted at the sight of it. Like Coach Williams would change his mind and put DeShawn in so early in the game. The kid was good, and he’d probably be making his professional debut soon, but it wouldn’t be that Sunday. Not unless something happened to Darnell Devereaux.

“Do you believe this bullshit?” DeShawn demanded, gesturing madly with his helmet. Patton didn’t have a chance to respond before DeShawn shouted at the field again, this time encouraging Devereaux to get his “slow motherfucking ass” into gear. “Well, do you?”

“No,” Patton said mildly, hoping his tone didn’t invite any further comments.

His run-ins with the rookie cornerback had been few and far between in training camp and the pre-season, but Patton knew better than try to engage him. DeShawn had all of the attention of a badly trained puppy, every topic always turning back to his prowess on the field, the number of interceptions he had in college, the number of picks he intended to have by the end of the season. Patton didn’t mind that so much. He wasn’t any worse than any of the other kids. Except, he wasa kid. Patton was a little horrified to realize he couldn’t even remember his rookie season. Too many blows to the head, probably.

“God. How can you stand this? I want to play.”

Patton Cooper was six the first time he took a snap, leading his PeeWee team to a big win that marked the first of Patton’s string of big wins. By the time he reached high school, he forgot if he even liked playing football as the sport became a means to an end. Patton liked winning. Patton liked it when the spectators streamed onto the field and lifted him above their shoulders. He liked holding the trophies and the weight of championship rings on his fingers. Patton Cooper liked to be a winner, and for thirty years, he’d been a champion.

But he wasn’t anymore.

Patton’s body betrayed him in little, maddening ways. His knee hurt every morning, stiff and screaming at him through the muddled haze of sleep. Patton could still throw. But some of the speed had been lost, and at times he didn’t quite get the distance he wanted.

It seemed too early for this to happen to him. He was only thirty-two, his twenties just barely behind him. When Patton stretched his knee and iced his shoulder, he uselessly repeated that to himself. It’s too soon. I’m still too good. Patton became fascinated with the fodder of his own life, turning inward until he had nothing but his own mind to keep him company, evaluating and reevaluating everything he thought he knew about himself. Is this what I want with my life? Is this who I am?

Patton vaguely believed he had no business asking those questions. He was a football player. He was a good quarterback. He was Mr. November. What else could he be? He’d sacrificed his physical health, his personal relationships, his education to bethe ideal. He’d done so happily because he was so sure it mattered. Now he began to suspect that maybe, possibly, none of this mattered at all.

This was not a thought Patton indulged in lightly. Not while he sat in the midst of the massive machine that was the Phoenix Wildcats. He used to attend Mass with his very religious mother, forcing his ever-present doubts to the back of his mind, certain it was a sin to even think that God might not exist, even though he didn’t thinkit, he knewit, and he felt terrible for continuing the charade of piety even if he did it for his mother’s sake. Football had never felt more like a religion to him.

That didn’t stop him from wondering why he was there, what he was doing, how could he fix it. The technical answer to the first question was I signed a contract. The technical answer to the second was mentoring the next hot shot. The technical answer to the third question was the most depressing of all. He couldn’t fix itunless he invented a time machine or figured out a way to strip ten years from his life.