CHAPTER 43

NOAH LARSON STOOD IN THE TUNNEL with tears in his eyes. He knew everyone would be able to see, but he didn’t care. Maybe the announcers would use this as an opportunity to talk about his reputation as a soft quarterback. Or maybe they would use the visual as proof that the aging veteran’s dream of playing in the Super Bowl had come true. But they would be wrong.

Noah teared up because his family was safe. Some greedy people almost took one of the most precious things in his life for money. It made him sick. He had dreamed his whole life of playing in this game, walking out of the tunnel at this exact moment. He used to think this was what it was all about. But he had worshipped a lie. Difficult times have a funny way of revealing who we really are and what we really value. And Noah realized he didn’t value this. The Super Bowl. Being a sports hero. None of that mattered at all. In the greater context of life, it meant nothing. But Ellen and Jake? They were everything. He couldn’t wait to spend the rest of his life with them. No more practices. No more interviews. No more demands.

His tears said good-bye to a life he once revered and hello to what mattered most to him.

But even through his blurred vision, nothing clouded his final goal: winning the Super Bowl. He knew if he played his best, it would happen. Nothing would stop him. He would make Seattle throw another parade—the best one the city had ever seen—and then he would disappear.

“Starting at quarterback for the Seattle Seahawks, number ten, Noah Larson.”

The voice over the public address system echoed in Reliant Stadium as he ran through the fog and onto the field. Cheerleaders shook their pom-poms. The crowd roared. Highlights played on the jumbotron. His name flashed on the matrix boards.

Noah met his teammates along the sideline at midfield. The testosterone in the team huddle could have powered the state of Rhode Island for a week. It was time to kick off.

Noah took his place on the sideline for the kickoff as Zombie Nation’s “Kernkraft 400” pumped through the speakers. The stadium swayed. Flashbulbs popped. The game had begun.

* * *

CAL GREW AGITATED over the fact that the game had kicked off and he wasn’t there to see it.

“I can’t believe the FBI has a private jet that doesn’t have a television in it,” Cal grumbled.

“We do,” said one of his accompanying agents. “Just not this one.”

Cal sighed in disgust.

“We do have wireless internet. You could probably listen to the game on your smart phone.”

“Yeah, that’d be great—if I had it. Some kid stole it while I was in Juarez.”

“Here use mine,” the agent said, handing Cal his phone.

Cal thanked him and took his phone.

“Not a sports fan?”

“Oh, I am. But I like the Raiders. It’s been a while since I’ve cared about the Super Bowl.”

Cal laughed as he searched for an app to follow the game. He found one and began listening.

Larson drops back to pass. He’s got Hayes wide open on the far sideline. Hayes makes the catch at the 40. He makes a move. 35, 30, 25. One man to beat. Hayes with the stiff arm and he’s going to take it in for a touchdown. A 55-yard touchdown pass from Larson to Hayes and the Seahawks have the lead.

Cal smiled and pumped his fist in a reserved fashion.

One of the agents looked at him and smiled back. “Did somebody score?”

“Yeah, the Seahawks did on a long touchdown pass.”

“Nice.”

Brandon Gomez on for the extra point. The kick is up and … it’s wide right! The hold looked good, but Gomez hooked it. But the Seahawks still lead 6-0 with 3:15 to go in the first quarter.

Cal shook his head. The Seahawks had only missed two extra points all year. This was not the time for Gomez to get the yips. But at least Noah Larson seemed sharp.

Listening intently to the game, Cal imagined each scene painted by the announcer. Nothing happened for the next several minutes in the game as the teams traded punts. Then the Dolphins scored on a 20-yard touchdown run midway through the second quarter to take a 7-6 lead.

Cal felt the sweat start to bead up on his forehead. He was supposed to be unbiased, an objective observer, a reporter being the eyes and ears for people in the most watched and listened to game of the year. But this was his team, the Seahawks. Outside of Steve Largent and Cortez Kennedy, Seattle didn’t have a history of great players. Plenty of great players wrapped up their careers with the Seahawks, but they didn’t start and finish there. They epitomized milk toast. Some success but nothing to make people take notice.

And that’s why Noah Larson leading the team to the Super Bowl held special meaning for Seahawks fans. Larson was drafted by the Seahawks and had played his entire career there; a man determed to win a title for the franchise and city. It was a quest ten years in the making.

So despite everything he had been taught about remaining objective, Cal just couldn’t. He wanted the Seahawks to win more than anything. He wanted it as a fan. He wanted it as a sports writer. This was the kind of story he wanted to write about. And in an unlikely way, Cal played a big role in making sure they actually had a chance to win. Cal thought about his extended family and what a big deal a Super Bowl win would mean to them. They all toiled with this team through both the good and the bad. They had their hearts broken before. But it was going to be different this time. This time, the Seahawks were going to win. At least that’s what Cal wrote. Maybe it was his professional opinion; maybe it wasn’t. No one would know. Picking the Super Bowl winner was never easy and if he was wrong, none of his readers would complain.

As the plane began to descend, Cal lost his wi-fi connection. He handed the phone back to the agent and prepared for the landing.

Cal’s stomach was in knots. The Seahawks were playing in the Super Bowl and he was in a private jet. Get me out of here and to the stadium! Cal clamped his hands down on the arm rest. The game frayed his nerves more than landing did. He couldn’t wait to leap from his seat and begin listening to the game again.

The tires barked as the plane made contact with the tarmac. Cal let out a sigh of relief as the nose tilted down to a safe position and the plane slowed to a creep.

Once the plane stopped, Cal thanked the pilots and the rest of the agents on board and sprinted toward the stairway leading him to ground transportation. He needed a cab and fast.

Instead of his normal game of people watching, Cal focused on a single goal: getting in a car and back to his hotel and then to the game before it was over. He still needed to look somewhat presentable. A fresh shower would help him feel better, not to mention make him socially acceptable again. The stench emanating from his body was beginning to bother even him.

Curbside at the airport, Cal flagged down a cab driver. He decided to keep his small bag with him instead of putting it in the trunk.

The cab driver spoken broken English. Cal couldn’t place his accent exactly, but he guessed it was somewhere in Eastern Europe.

“Are you from Bosnia?” Cal asked.

“Close. Moldova,” he replied. His accent may have been broken but he understood Cal just fine.

“What’s the score?” Cal asked, immediately recognizing the familiar radio announcer’s voice as he slid into the backseat.

“14-13, Dolphins,” the driver answered.

Cal sighed but said nothing.

“Missing an extra point? That’s a disgrace!”

The cabbie’s comment shocked Cal. He struck Cal as more of a soccer fan, not American football.

“Do you know how much time is left?” Cal asked.

“It’s halftime.”

Down by a point at halftime. The Seahawks could still pull out a win. At least I don’t have to endure Brittany singing at halftime.

The cab driver turned the radio up and Brittany wailed out her auto-tuned lyrics to “Toxic.”

Cal moaned. He figured he would be at the stadium in time for the fourth quarter.