The Cut (4 page)

At first he kept his spirits high by continuing his workout program, studying his old playbooks, and telling himself someone would call. Through the miracle of the NFL Sunday Ticket and digital video recorders, he built a library of every game played that year—and watched to see which teams might be able to use his services. Matt Nolan moved closer to sainthood when he fielded every call from his favorite client with characteristic patience and good cheer.
It looks like the Chiefs might need a second guy, Matt, give them a try
, or
Eckersley from the Patriots got hurt, so we should talk to them.
Nolan followed Hamilton's requests faithfully, and he couldn't help but admire the guy's determination.

But no one bit on the hook, and as the season drew to a close, Jermaine Hamilton began a downward spiral into the kind of depression from which many never return. Whereas before he was up every day at five thirty, jogging, now he slept until eight or nine. His carefully planned diet was cast aside in favor of comfort foods, most of which he had barely touched since being drafted—barbecued spare ribs, roast beef hash, lasagna, and piles of chocolate bars. He stopped accepting most visitors and phone calls, didn't shower some days. He was still friendly with fans, but he no longer made formal appearances.

This was when his basement museum was subconsciously promoted from hangout to refuge. From the moment the Super Bowl ended that year, he spent at least half of his waking hours down there—watching game tapes, staring into the glass cases, and thumbing through scrapbooks until the edges were filthy. There was a part of him that realized he was losing mental ground, knew it seemed like he was headed for a sanitarium. A stronger part of him knew this wouldn't happen. He wasn't the type to end up in a straitjacket and a padded cell. He simply couldn't let go of the world he loved, and this was the closest thing to it that was available to him. But it wasn't the same—he
had
to get back out there. That was where salvation was waiting. Once he got back on the field, he told himself, he'd be fine. Friends who were still lucky enough to be on other teams invited him to practices, just to be there. He always declined. Even his old Panthers coach offered to let him hang around. But he couldn't bear to watch without being a part of it.

Eventually his agent began looking for things for him to do, things that were somehow connected to the league without putting him anywhere near the field. That was where Nolan's charity golf tournament idea came from. It was a common kind of activity among retired pros—golf tournaments, broadcasting spots, commercials, product endorsements, collectibles shows—but Hamilton couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger on any of them. It would be a form of acceptance, a confirmation that he acknowledged the end of his playing days. It was the football equivalent of a rock band taking a gig in Vegas—the best days had come and gone, and now it was time to reflect and remember. He just couldn't do that yet.

There was another problem as well.

*   *   *

He sat on the couch in shorts and a crewneck and watched a tape of his third game with the Panthers. It was a 24–21 overtime win against the Cardinals in which he was responsible for a crucial two-point conversion in the closing seconds of regulation. Without it, they would've walked out of Sun Devil Stadium with a 19–21 loss and 1–2 record. It was the first time the team hung all its hopes on his shoulders, and he rose to the occasion. It also supercharged the team's confidence and led them to eight more victories in the following nine contests. They would make the playoffs that year but fall to the 49ers in the second round. Still, what an amazing ride that first season had been.

For the average NFL player, watching a game tape meant seeing a lot more than what was on the screen. Jermaine remembered conversations he'd had with guys in the huddle, jokes on the sideline, and the coach's halftime speech when they were behind. He remembered he ate sushi for lunch that day, then threw it all up shortly before taking the field. He also recalled some quick words of encouragement from a guy on the team he really never got to know that well, a defensive back named Charles Edwards. Edwards, normally quiet and distant from his teammates, clapped him on the shoulders and said, “Relax, rookie, you've been doing good.” Although Hamilton exchanged only two or three more sentences with Edwards the rest of that season, he felt deeply saddened when the guy died the following March after his SUV slid off an icy road, sailed silently through the air for about fifty feet, then slammed into an oak tree, snapping his neck and killing him instantly.

Melanie came into the room. She was a small and strikingly beautiful woman of thirty-four, dressed in a tight black skirt that stopped well before the knees and a matching camisole that was stretched almost to the breaking point. A tiny corduroy jacket did little to hide her considerable cleavage, but then it wasn't supposed to. Dark stockings and three-inch heels rounded out the ensemble, plus a Prada handbag and a pair of diamond earrings.

“I'm going,” she said simply.

Hamilton turned, took in his wife's formidable appearance, and muted the TV. “Please don't.”

“I'm sorry, Jermaine.”

Summoning all his strength, he said, “Where will you be?”

“Carly's.”

He knew this was a lie—or, at the very least, a half-truth. Maybe she really was going to Carly's, but that would only be the start.

“And then?”

“I don't know. We'll see.”

“Any chance you'll be back before I go to sleep?”

“Maybe.”

He could do nothing but stare. They both did. His eyes were flooded with pain. Hers were colored more by frustration, anger, and—the part that hurt him the most—indifference.

“Mel, come on. I really don't—”

She put her hand up, a signal for him to stop. “We've had this discussion a thousand times. I'm not going to hang around this house for the rest of my life while you sit down here in this weird place of yours.”

He got up. Although he was an enormous individual, there was nothing even remotely threatening in his body language.

“Mel, I'm going through a tough time right now. I need you, I need you to be here. You've got to understand.”

“And what about me? You don't take me out, you don't talk to anybody … you don't shower!”

“It's not going to be like this forever, I swe—”

“I'm not spending the rest of my life taking care of an overgrown child!”

There it was, out in the open and drifting in between them like a specter. And that was what it'd been for the past year—a specter. A ghost. Something they hoped they were only imagining. But it wasn't imaginary anymore. It was as real as the concrete under the carpeting and the cinder blocks behind the walls. It explained so many other things, too—her sudden devotion to fitness, the renewed contact with some old friends, her new wardrobe.…

She
doesn't want me anymore, either.

His wife took a deep breath. “I'm going. I'll be back later.”

She turned and went out before he had a chance to reply. She pounded up the steps, the anger making her sound about five times heavier than she really was. He heard the front door slam shut and her black Jaguar XK convertible roar to life, tires screeching as it tore out of the driveway.

Then all was quiet again.

*   *   *

It was past dark when the phone rang. Hamilton happened to be in the kitchen, the first time he'd been out of the basement since the confrontation. He was making himself a sandwich.

The caller ID displayed Matt Nolan's number.
Not more golf crap
.

“Hey,” Nolan said, sounding particularly bubbly.

“Hey.”

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Nolan knew it was a lie, but it didn't matter. “Well, I've got something that'll cheer you up.”

“Yeah? What's that?” Before his agent answered, he added, “I'm not golfing.”

Nolan chuckled. “Golf, gimme a break. No, my friend, you don't have to get out your clubs. That's for
retired
players.”

Hamilton stopped spreading the mayonnaise on the torpedo roll. “What are you talking about?”

“You have to get something else out of storage—your pads.”

Nolan told him why.

Hamilton thought perhaps he was still downstairs, asleep on the leather couch and dreaming. He wasn't.

His greatest wish in the world had been granted.

3

Reese

Corey Reese high-stepped his way through the agility trainer, turned swiftly, and went through it again. Then he took a breather. He was dressed in black satin shorts and a loose white T-shirt. His Nike sneakers were brand-new and would've retailed for over a hundred bucks if he'd paid for them—but thanks to a sweet endorsement deal made long ago, he'd have as many new pairs as he wanted for the rest of his life.

With his hands on his hips, he took a moment to survey his neighborhood. It was a collection of modern mansions, each spaced far enough apart so that getting to know the “folks next door” required considerable effort. He and his family had lived here for almost five years, and they still didn't know anyone. There were nearly a hundred homes in the development, but only four were visible from his current vantage point. One was owned by a guy who made his fortune on the Internet, although Reese didn't know the details. He had a dozen cars, all vintage. He was also apparently divorced, dated often, and had two young daughters. Reese couldn't tell the daughters from the girlfriends.

He drained the remaining contents of a Gatorade bottle and tossed it aside. Then he jogged in place for a few moments. A breeze whirled up and cooled him off. His own home, about a hundred yards away, was of an imposing size and suitable for a young millionaire, but architecturally uninteresting. It was little more than an enormous cube with a few interchangeable frills, cut from the same template as other houses in the area. But it was still beautiful in its opulence, and it served the needs of his family. It had central air and heating, a swimming pool with a flagstone patio, and a fully automated lighting system. It screamed wealth, which suited him just fine. Nothing was too luxurious for his wife and kids.

He checked his heart rate and blood pressure on the wrist monitor. Good enough—125 over 82. He got back in front of the trainer and made five more runs. When he stopped this time, it was to lean down and adjust the knee brace. He'd tried six different models before opting for the current one. It looked like a prop from
Star Trek,
but it seemed to be doing the job. It had a pivot-point design with an adjustable hinge. As he loosened the straps, he caught sight of the scars again. All the times he'd seen them, not to mention all the violence and brutality he'd seen in his years in the game, yet those deep lines still made him cringe. They would never disappear. And he knew what was behind them, what lay beneath that pliable husk of dark flesh. He'd done his homework on the injury and the surgery required to repair the damage. He knew exactly what was going on within this section of his body, and visualizing it sometimes made him feel light-headed.

It happened two years ago, in the second-to-last game of the season. His Titans were playing at home against the team that replaced them in the Lone Star State, the Houston Texans. It was an important game for Tennessee, as they were in the thick of the wild card race. The Texans, conversely, were in their first year with a new head coach and only managed six wins. But five of those six had been the five they'd just played, so they were on a roll. Knowing the postseason was beyond reach, Houston's coach wanted to see if they could at least go undefeated for the rest of the year. It would provide momentum into the following season, a sure sign they were getting better and had something to be proud of. It would also be a real feather in their cap to defeat a team that was, at least on paper, performing on a higher level. So, playoffs or not, Reese knew his opponents would be primed.

The first two quarters went well enough, with Reese getting the ball six times for forty-six yards and one touchdown. Then came the third quarter. They were ahead by nineteen points, so they switched to a ground game to chew up the clock. He was given a lot of blocking assignments, trying to create outside lanes for halfback Gregory Cope and fullback Jared Lemmon.

With three minutes to go before the fourth, quarterback Reggie Burton pitched out to Lemmon with Cope leading the way. Cope was a decent blocker for his size, but he couldn't punch the required holes by himself. Reese's job on this play was to soften up the line before Cope got there. He executed well, leveling Houston's defensive end and then stepping in front of their outside linebacker.

Reese wasn't sure what happened next until he saw the film later on. Houston's middle LB read the play and came charging in to plug the gap. This was Derrick Elgin, and Reese remembered Elgin screaming, “Left side! Left side!” He was considered the leader of Houston's defense, so the others followed him with the blind obedience of a flock of sparrows. Reese ended up in the middle of the melee, and somewhere in the mess he felt an explosion of heat in his right knee. He was no stranger to pain, but this was something more. He was immediately overcome with shock—not so much physical, but the mental astonishment that such tremendous agony could exist at all. He rattled off a string of expletives, then wormed his way out of the pile and fell again. He would remember the soft ground coming up to meet him—
whump!
—and then all other awareness was eclipsed by the crushing torment that radiated from his jumbled knee. Players on both teams stepped back; whistles blew. Corey thought he heard a collective gasp from the crowd, but that might have only been imagined. Familiar faces appeared—trainers, physicians, and head coach Jerry Wynn. They worked on him for a few minutes while the crowd held its breath. Everyone hoped he would follow the standard heroic script by getting to his feet and, with the aid of two smaller but fully grown men, hobble to the sidelines. That didn't happen. Instead, they lifted him delicately onto a stretcher, then onto the shuttle cart.