CHAPTER 2

CAL MURPHY FINISHED a rare morning meeting with his editor and was taking care of a few last-minute details when Josh Moore approached his desk.

“So, hotshot reporter, are you ready to cover the Super Bowl?” Josh was unable to hide his jealousy with the snarky question.

“It’s just the nineteenth game of the season, Josh,” Cal answered trying to sound cool and professional. “Just a really overhyped game.”

Cal knew downplaying his exuberance for covering the Super Bowl was the quickest way to end any possible tete-a-tete with his former college roommate. It took Cal just two years to land most sportswriters’ dream job. In such a competitive environment, Cal’s friends on the sports staff were scarce. Not wanting to push away his best one, Cal dropped the act.

“Look, Josh, I’m super excited about this opportunity—and I really wish you could join me,” Cal said. “It would be a lot of fun.”

“But then who would be here to write about Seattle Prep and Rainier Beach’s big game this weekend?”

Cal shook his head and smiled. Josh had returned to benign sarcasm rather than the harsh ridicule. Their friendship had risen above jealousy, at least for the moment.

“Have a great time. I’ll expect lots of great stories from the award-winning Cal Murphy.”

Cal smiled and stuffed the last of his files into his computer bag then zipped it shut. He flung the strap across his shoulder and saluted Josh as he began walking down the stairs. It was 8:30 and he had just enough time to make it to the airport for his 10 a.m. flight. He would also squeeze in a call to Kelly Mendoza.

After the pair of journalists exposed a cover-up in Statenville, Idaho, two years ago, Cal and Kelly had their choice of jobs. Cal chose The Times in Seattle. With offers in Seattle as well, Kelly instead opted for a job with the Associated Press bureau in Salt Lake City. Her decision disappointed Cal. He wanted to pursue the romantic inklings that he sensed between them. However, Cal didn’t let his heart override his professional ambition. He wanted to cover a team in the NFL and Salt Lake City didn’t have one. Besides, Seattle contained all of Cal’s favorite boyhood teams, his familiar stomping grounds near the University of Washington, and an awesome music scene. He chose familiarity and opportunity over romance. But he hadn’t given up on Kelly yet.

He dialed her number.

“Hey, Cal,” came Kelly’s familiar voice from the other end. “You in Houston yet?”

“Not yet, but I will be soon. What about you? Are you going?”

“Well, the bureau isn’t sending me, if that’s what you mean. But I’ll be there as a fan. My uncle asked me to go with him. He usually goes with an old war buddy, but he couldn’t make it—so I got invited. And he didn’t have to ask his favorite niece twice.”

“That’s great. We’ll have to catch up then when I get some free time. When are you leaving?”

“Our flight gets in Tuesday night at 9:30. Want to meet up then?”

“Sure. Call me when you land.”

Cal pressed “end” on his iPhone and let his giddiness spread throughout his body. If he and Kelly were just friends, why did he always feel so excited about seeing or talking with her? It was a question he hoped to answer in Houston.

But he couldn’t deny the fact that his excitement over this trip was also due to the fact that he was covering his first Super Bowl—with his favorite team playing in it. Even better was his scheduled one-on-one interview with Seattle quarterback Noah Larson the next morning. Sometimes Cal felt like it was all a dream.

* * *

NOAH FINISHED PACKING, threw his bags into his Toyota Tundra and climbed in. The silver 4x4 wasn’t what people expected an NFL star to drive, but Noah favored substance over style. His dad used to drill that mantra into his head: “Substance matters more than style, son.” Especially after a game where Noah’s statistics were abysmal but the team still won. “Real leaders are willing to sacrifice everything for the good of the whole,” Noah’s dad would say. “Leaders don’t want medals or accolades—they just want to help those around them accomplish a common vision. If you remember that, you’ll be a great leader.”

Eventually, that philosophy sunk in and stuck. And after two state championships and a national title in college, Noah adopted this idea for all parts of his life. However, it made for a challenging life in the NFL, where people judged you by how much you were going to help their fantasy league team. But that was somebody else’s fantasy. It was his reality, a reality that was on the verge of being one he only dreamed about as a child—Super Bowl champs.

Noah pulled out of the driveway and onto the quiet street. He was lost in thought reflecting on his NFL career. The windshield wipers provided a soothing rhythmic background to his contemplative mood. He dreamed of playing in the NFL but never realized it would go so well. His hard work had paid off in various accolades and handsome contracts. But now he could earn a payoff on the sport’s ultimate stage: The Super Bowl. Now he had a chance to write a fairytale ending — “Noah Larson leads Seahawks to Super Bowl victory and rides off into the sunset.”

The ringing of his phone interrupted his pleasant mood. Restricted number. Probably one of his teammates, who all blocked their numbers. Privacy was challenging enough without some wacko fan tweeting your number to the fanbase.

He glanced out the window and saw Jake’s soccer ball on the sidewalk. This was curious. Jake loved that ball and would never just leave it laying around, much less abandon it before school. Confused at this discovery, Noah answered the phone.

“Hello?” Noah said, putting his truck in park and starting to get out.

“Is this Noah Larson?” asked the unfamiliar voice on the other end.

Noah stopped. “Yes. Who is this?”

“The who is not important, Mr. Larson. What’s important is that you do as I say if you ever want to see Jake alive again.”

The voice was heavily accented, maybe someone from Latin America somewhere. Noah couldn’t be sure.

“What? No. Who is this? …”

“No, you do the listening. I do the talking. Comprende?”

“What do you want? Money? I’ll give you whatever you want.”

“That’s good, Mr. Larson. But I don’t want your money. I want you to do something for me—and if you do it, your son will live.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to make sure that the Seahawks lose the Super Bowl by a comfortable margin.”

“Are you out of your mind?!” Jake asked. “I can’t control that.”

“Oh, I think you can, Mr. Larson. A bad decision here. A bad throw there. You can blame it on the pressure of playing in the Super Bowl and no one will be the wiser. Nobody expects much out of you anyway.”

For someone who wanted to coerce Noah into helping him, the mystery caller certainly lacked any charm. Yet his persuasion was strong enough—he had taken his son.

“It’s very simple, Mr. Larson. You lose by a touchdown or so and your son will be returned to you immediately after the game. If not, you will never see him again. Understand?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“And lastly, no authorities either. If you contact them, we will return his body to you in pieces. Otherwise, we look forward to watching the Miami Dolphins beat the Seahawks in the Super Bowl on Sunday.”

The line went dead. Noah scooped up Jake’s ball and held it close as the sky opened up and dumped a fresh deluge.