Sunday, September 11, 2:35 p.m. EDT

Cleveland, Ohio

The eyes—watch the eyes! Riley backpedaled, staring hard at the Bulldog tight end. He felt his cleats tightly gripping the turf. A salty bead of sweat slipped into the corner of his mouth.

He’s gonna break! Keep with him! There!

The tight end’s eyes glanced right. It was just a flicker, barely noticeable, but that was all Riley needed. Sorry, son, this is the big time!

But as soon as Riley committed to the right, the tight end bolted left. Riley tried to cut back, but it was too late. He had already lost two steps and the advantage.

All he could do now was chase as the tight end pulled in the pass and tacked on another fifteen after-catch yards. Sammy Newman, the Warriors’ free safety, was the one who finally managed to trip the Bulldog up, sending him sprawling. As the tight end flew toward the ground, Riley launched himself into the man to finish off the play.

Unfortunately, the collision happened a fraction of a second too late for the referee. Riley groaned as he watched the yellow flag drop to the grass inches from his face.

The tight end—Lendell . . . no Temple, second-year guy out of Penn State—rolled out from under Riley, then turned and offered him a hand up. Riley grabbed it, feeling a bit like an old man being offered help up a flight of stairs.

“Nice juke,” Riley said after he was on his feet.

Lendell just grinned at him, then jogged back to his huddle.

As the ref announced to the world Riley’s late hit, a hand tapped his back. Turning, he saw second-string linebacker Noah Keaton standing next to him.

“Coach sent me in, Pach,” Keaton said.

Riley looked toward the sideline and saw Mick Fields waiting for him. Ten yards to Fields’s right, he saw head coach Scott Medley glaring at him. He was about to ask which coach, when Medley lifted a clipboard to his face and turned away. Fields, on the other hand, had not taken his eyes off of him.

This should be fun, Riley thought as he jogged toward the sideline.

Fields didn’t wait for Riley to reach him. Running onto the field, he launched in. “Really, Covington? Is that really all you’ve got? Because that second-year boy just schooled you! Seriously, what were you thinking? Crap play like that just ain’t going to fly—especially not from you! Because I know your salary, son! I know how much Bellefeuille is dishing out for you each year!”

I’m not in the mood for this. I’m truly not in the mood.

Riley didn’t bother to look at Fields. Instead, he just kept walking, forcing the coach to follow next to him. As Fields screamed, Riley led him on a maze through the players standing along the sideline, circling around the benches, and edging between the phone bank and the Gatorade table. All the while, though, Fields never left him and he never shut up.

I’ll grant him one thing—he is persistent. He’s like a little yappy terrier that you just can’t shake off.

“In fact, I can tell you your salary per game—per play, even! The way I figure it, Mr. Bellefeuille and the fans of the much-storied Washington Warriors just dished over right around $10,000 for you to miss that coverage. Or we could say it was approximately $350 for every yard you just gave Cleveland!”

He’s good with the numbers, too! Very impressive, Riley thought as he gave an embarrassed nod to one of the Bulldog cheerleaders who had been intently watching the whole incident. He did an about-face and headed back toward the team. I’ve got to find a way to lose him before I end up saying something I’m going to regret.

“Don’t think you’re getting rid of me, Covington! You’re going to hear what I have to say!”

Finally, Riley saw his salvation. Moving toward the field, he made a quick right in front of a Fox Sports tech holding a parabolic audio dish. Fields, who was cut off, stumbled into the man, and then in turn was rammed by the HBO Steadicam operator who had been marching behind the two-man parade.

Seizing the opportunity, Riley ducked into the mass of players. Behind him, the crowd roared their approval for something that was happening on the field. Good to know I’m not the only one stinking rocks today!

Sliding his helmet off, he fought the urge to throw it at . . . what? A bench? Coach Fields? Bellefeuille’s private box?

I got it! How about those obnoxious Dog Pound fans with their Bulldog masks and their creative speculations into my lineage? Riley made the mistake of looking in the direction he was thinking. This sent the Dog Pound into a barking and howling frenzy.

Ultimately, none of the options seemed practical or productive, so he settled for sitting down by himself and sulking. To say that Riley was having a bad game today would be like saying the Titanic was suffering from minor structural damage. His game was going down fast and it was going down hard—a fact that was as obvious to him as it was to the coaches. This was the first time that he could remember ever being pulled from a defensive series.

The crowd behind him roared again as the stadium announcer proclaimed another Bulldog first down.

A hand landed hard on Riley’s shoulder. He looked down at it. Dirt formed a black crescent on the tips of the fingers, and three of the green-stained joints were oozing blood at varied rates. Following the arm up, he saw Don Bernier scowling at him.

Suddenly, the scowl transformed into a grin. “Well, Mr. Covington, I would venture to say that it truly sucks to be you!”

Riley chuckled in spite of himself. “Yeah, how many people hate me right now? I think I’ve got fantasy team owners all over the nation cursing my name.”

“Not if they drafted Lendell,” Bernier responded, just before dancing back to avoid a rapidly swinging forearm.

“Dude, I don’t know what’s wrong with me today,” Riley said when Bernier came around to the front of the bench. A groan sounded from the crowd—Finally, a good sign!

“It’s easy,” Bernier said as he grabbed a water bottle from a passing trainer. He squeezed the contents all over his face, only aiming into his mouth for the last four seconds. After shaking the water off, he continued, “You’re thinking too much. You’re overanalyzing. You’re forgetting the fundamentals. You’re letting your outside life affect your inside game. You’re putting matter over mind. You’re letting your form determine your function. You’re not dancing with the one who brung you. You’re putting on the Eminence Front. You’re black and white, but you’re not red all over. You’re—”

“All right, all right, you’ve made your point—I think,” Riley interrupted, laughing again. “Now, please, can’t you just go away and let me self-loathe in peace?”

Bernier leaned in close to Riley. “And most of all, mi amigo, you’re forgetting that when it’s all said and done, this is just a stupid—”

Riley cleared his throat hard, cutting off Bernier’s final word and causing the HBO audio guy to curse and snatch the earphones off his head.

Don’t forget . . . Riley mouthed, then pointed to where the mic was tucked in his pads. “Don’t say anything near me you don’t want Bellefeuille and millions of others to hear,” Riley had warned his teammates in a meeting last night.

You could say a lot of things about football, your team, even the coaches. But you never let them hear you say it’s just a game. Because then they start questioning your heart.

After a moment, recognition showed in Bernier’s eyes. Standing up, he stuck his finger in Riley’s face and, starting out slowly but building up steam, shouted, “What I meant to say is this is just a stupid way for you to be playing the game. Yeah, that’s it. You get with the program, mister! Because, by gum, if my beautiful children, Ryan, Emma, and Leah, and my enchanting wife, Heather, could hear me now, I’d tell them that I love them and that I have too much pride in my profession to be playing as poorly as you are today!”

By now, Bernier was starting to draw a crowd. “And besides that, you slacker, you good-for-nothing ne’er-do-well, our beloved Mr. Bellefeuille deserves better! He is without doubt the greatest owner the PFL has ever seen. Not only is he wise and gifted and a paragon of virtue, but he is also kind and, I’m not afraid to say it, remarkably handsome! So you give him your all! He deserves it! You hear me? You give him your all!” Bernier’s voice cracked in the final words of his speech. Then, giving Riley a quick wink, he turned and stomped away.

Most of the players who had gathered followed Bernier, laughing and slapping his back. When the crowd finally thinned, there stood Coach Fields. Not surprisingly, he didn’t look pleased.

“Phone,” was all he said; then he walked away.

That’s just great, Riley thought. With Coach Medley and all the defensive staff currently on the sidelines, there was only one person left for him to talk to by phone.

Riley crossed behind the benches. That route took him a little closer to the stands than he wanted to get, and he had to endure the Bulldog fans’ analysis of his play. Finally, he reached the phone bank, and there, lying on a table, was a single handset off its cradle. Before reaching for it, he quickly downed a cup of Gatorade from the next table over and threw the cup to the ground. He could feel Rick Bellefeuille’s eyes on him from above.

Heaving a deep sigh, he picked up the receiver.

“Covington here.”

There was silence on the other end.

Another groan came from the crowd, and Riley saw the field goal squad head out onto the field. He waited.

“Hello, this is Covington.”

Still he waited.

Looking up, he tried to spot Bellefeuille’s box. After a few seconds, he saw him. He was presently occupied yelling at the Warriors’ director of player personnel. Riley turned back to the field in time to see the Bulldogs’ kick go through the uprights. The stadium erupted in cheers and music.

I’ll give him a couple more—

“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you, Covington?”

Riley spun around to see Bellefeuille with the phone in his hand, staring down at him from three stories up.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re doing this on purpose! You’re pissed because I forced you to have that HBO crew tailing you all day! So you’re tanking it!”

Riley felt his temper rising. You could question a lot of things about him, but don’t you dare go attacking his integrity or his work ethic. “Listen, Mr. Bellefeuille, if you think—”

“No, you listen, Covington! I let you back on my team because you asked me nicely! Because you came with your little sob story about how you needed to try to make your comeback to prove to yourself and to the world that you could still do it!”

“That’s not exactly how—” Riley tried to counter.

But Bellefeuille was in talking mode—not listening. “And what did I do? I said yes! Sure, Riley, we’ll give you another chance! You’ve been there for us; we want to be there for you!”

Riley shook his head. Bellefeuille was twisting the whole situation around. “That’s not at all what—”

“And all I ask in return for your chance at recapturing your stardom, not to mention millions of dollars of my money, is that you play hard on the field and you do some interviews! Is that asking too much? Is it?”

Feeling that maybe Bellefeuille was actually wanting an answer, Riley ventured, “Well . . . no, sir, but—”

“But instead what I get is a frickin’ prima donna—”

“Listen, I’m no prima donna!”

But Bellefeuille hadn’t paused long enough to hear Riley’s protest. “—who’s gonna play hard when he wants and tank it when he wants! Well, listen to me, Covington, this is no game—”

“Well, technically—”

Bellefeuille’s voice somehow increased an octave and multiple decibels. “You want to be a smart guy? You want to be funny? This is not a game; this is business! This is all about dollars and cents! And when something no longer is bringing me dollars, it stops making sense!”

On and on Bellefeuille went, while Riley looked up at him. This is ridiculous, Riley thought as he moved the phone away from his ear and let it cradle horizontally in his hand. He was pleased to see Bellefeuille’s rage hit an all new level.

Then Riley’s eye caught something on a table next to him. No, man, you can’t do that! That would just be so wrong! So wonderfully, wonderfully wrong!

He quickly glanced at the HBO cameras around him, which had been joined by a Fox Sports handheld. Come on, remember—what would Jesus do?

Actually, in this situation, that’s fairly debatable. The question I should be asking instead is what would Scott Ross do? And as far as the answer to that question goes, there is no debate.

While Bellefeuille’s voice echoed through the handset, Riley stretched out the phone cord and walked to the table.