LITMIR.BIZ

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you put in your two cents?”

      O’Riley quirked an eyebrow. “Are you feeling the need to blow your stack?”

      Groaning inwardly, Logan ran a hand through his hair. “Save the shrink-speak for one of your other nutcases, and give it to me straight.”

      “Dr. Gerard already gave it to you straight. you’ve played your last game.”

      They took turns spouting excuses and rationalizations, but Gerard’s was the only explanation that stuck in his dizzy, throbbing head: “The next Grade 3 could cause significant, irreversible brain damage. Worse, it could kill you.”

      In the demoralizing hush that followed, Logan heard Gerard’s wristwatch counting out the seconds, each tick hammering home the inevitable. But his career didn’t have to be over. He was young. Physically fit. He could rebound, as he had before, if they’d give him one more chance.

      “I’ll sign a waiver,” he blurted, leaning forward in the chair, “absolving the Knights from any responsibility if—”

      “It’s not just the liability,” Fletcher injected. “We’re talking about your life here. The team’s reputation. Fan expectation.” He exhaled a heavy sigh. “Bottom line, the decision is best for everyone. You, primarily.”

      Their monotone voices and deadpan expressions underscored O’Riley’s hard words: You’ve played your last game.

      He stared at the toes of his Crockett & Jones loafers. Without football, what did he have? A big house in exclusive The Preserve development, filled with designer clothes, a three-car garage where his 1955 Corvette and James Bond–like Aston Martin flanked a Harley-Davidson V-Rod. And without football, what would he do? During the season, he gave 100 percent on the field; in the off-season, he trained, studied opposing teams and basked in the media spotlight—attention that inspired half a dozen national magazines to name him Bachelor of the Year. These past three and a half years, the game hadn’t just provided for him, it had defined him.

      If he sat for one more second, he’d lose it. For a moment, Logan wished he was that troublemaking student, waiting outside the principal’s office. A boy could cry when he heard his punishment, but a big tough football player?

      He stood, then walked out of the office without a word...because he couldn’t talk around the aching sob in his throat. Stunned, he stood swaying just beyond the door’s threshold.

      “Hey, son,” the GM called after him. “You okay?”

      And then he heard the shrink say, “Let him go.”

      “It’s a lot for a kid his age to absorb,” Richards put in.

      He was twenty-five. How old would he have to be before they stopped calling him a kid?

      “Give him time,” Gerard added. “He’ll come around.”

      Logan wasn’t at all sure that was possible. As he passed Mandy’s desk, she pressed a hand to her chest and whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

      Was it really possible that in a matter of minutes he’d gone from being a celebrity athlete to an object of pity? Judging by the receptionist’s concerned expression, he had. Nodding, Logan sent her a feeble, shaky smile and hurried to the parking lot, where he sat, silent, and stared through the windshield of his prized sports car.

      He thought about calling Willow to let her know what had happened. No...he needed to get his head on straight first. The news would shatter his soon-to-be wife, and he’d need his wits about him to put her back together again. A spiteful thought flitted through his head: if she really loved him, shouldn’t it be the other way around?

      Movement to his right stunned him back to the here and now. After the SUV’s driver backed out of his slot, Logan fired up his engine and peeled out of the lot, swerving in and out of traffic as he raced up Russell Street.

      Until flashing lights and a siren stopped him.

      And a policewoman stepped up beside the car.

      “License and registration, please.”

      He rummaged through the glove box and his wallet, found what he needed and handed them to her. Before she looked at either, she grinned.

      “Logan Murray?” She read the identification while he read her name tag: Mullins.

      “The Logan Murray?”

      And so the pendulum swings back to celebrity athlete, he thought.

      “Are you aware that you were doing sixty-five in a forty-mile-per-hour zone?”

      “Really?”

      “Really.”

      He tapped the steering wheel. “Sometimes this baby has a mind of its own.”

      She returned the documents, put one hand on top of his car and said, “You’d better learn to control her, or people might get the impression that all that stuff in the papers is true.”

      Which stuff? he wondered. The “Murray Moves Fast, Even Off the Field” headline? Or maybe even the “Magic Murray Has a New Lady” nonsense online?

      He slid the license into his wallet and put the registration back into the glove box, figuring he had a 50-50 shot of getting a ticket.

      Logan turned on what the entertainment reporters called “The Murray Charm.”

      “You’re right, Officer Mullins,” he said, flashing his flirtiest smile. “I’ll be more careful from now on.”

      “See that you do.” Winking, she tapped the car’s roof. “The city expects a Super Bowl win from you this year.” And with that, she strolled back to her squad car, hiking her gun belt as she went.

      Logan eased into traffic and drove until he ended up in Fells Point, where he parked across from The Horse You Came In On Saloon, Baltimore’s oldest bar. Would his agent, or Knights’ management, leak the story? he wondered, stepping off the curb to cross the street. How many days before reporters started dogging his heels?

      A horn blared, startling him so badly he almost dropped his car keys.

      “Hey, idiot! Find someplace else to commit suicide!” the driver bellowed.

      “Yeah, whatever,” he muttered and continued across Thames Street.

      Inside, he took the stool nearest the singing guitarist.

      “What’ll you have?” the barmaid asked.

      “Whiskey, neat.”

      Either she hadn’t recognized him, or she wasn’t a Knights fan. A relief either way because it meant he could feel good and sorry for himself while he got good and drunk. As he waited for her to pour a jigger, Logan wondered if self-pity had driven Edgar Allan Poe to this saloon on the last night of his life. Wondered, too, if Poe had decided against calling a woman who wouldn’t be there for him.

      Self-pity, Logan thought as the barmaid delivered the drink, was a dangerous thing. He lifted the glass, said a silent toast to the sad, sickly author, then tossed back the shot. Maybe I’ll take up writing and drinking, just like you, Eddie, he thought, signaling the barmaid.

      His college roommate, who’d sold a novel loosely based on their campus shenanigans, explained his success this way—“Gotta write what you know, man. Only way to make it in this wacky biz.” And since the only thing Logan knew was football, he crossed “author” off his Now What? list.

      He put the glass to his lips and laughed to himself. Drinking...now, there’s something you know about.

      CHAPTER TWO

      Ten years later...

      “GREAT INTERVIEW,” Marty said. “Hundreds of emails and Facebook posts came in while we were on-air, same as last time. Come on back any time, dude. You’re good for ratings!”

      Logan

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