Read Online Hangman's Game by Bill Syken - Free Book Online

here.
    â€œI don’t think so,” I say. “Do you?”
    He leans back in his chair and sighs. Behind Tanner, outside the window, I see a young man I don’t recognize jogging from the practice fields into the building.
    â€œWho the hell knows with that dick-for-brains?” Tanner says, massaging his wrist. “I sure hope not, but I wouldn’t put anything past that guy. If we lose him too, we’re…”
    And then Tanner cuts himself off. The last thing he would do is allow himself to admit in front of a player that he thinks the team is screwed.
    I look at the yellow folder on the desk. It has the letters DE S written on it in black marker—DE as in defensive end, which is Samuel’s position. Tanner is looking at scouting reports, already evaluating potential replacements, less than twelve hours after the twenty-one-year-old’s body was zipped into a bag.
    â€œWhy don’t you go home and rest,” Tanner says.
    My eyes drift over to the tackboard with the index cards and seek the one marked 11 GALLOW . My card is toward the bottom. Immediately underneath it is a fresh card marked 10 TOLLEY . My newly signed camp competition.
    â€œI’m going to go downstairs and get some work in,” I blurt out, though this had not been my plan at all. “Since I’m here, you know.” And now that I have said it, I have to do it. I like to keep my word that way.
    â€œGood for you,” Tanner says slowly, eyebrows raised. “Good for you. Keep your mind on the business at hand. That’s the message we’re going to need to send to everyone. That would be a great example.”
    And he picks up the folder and goes back to reading his scouting reports.
    I leave Tanner’s office and pause halfway down the hallway. Just thinking about how I teared up in Tanner’s office, I begin to do so again. I blame it on the sleep deprivation. It’s all of a piece with my cursing at Cordero. I’ve read that even one restless night causes a noticeable degradation in brain functions.
    I collect myself in the empty hallway, dry my eyes, and then I go around the bend and peek into Huff’s office, hoping to find my unit coach. He isn’t there, but I see that his computer is on and his knapsack is in the corner, so he has to be around somewhere.
    I head downstairs to the locker room to change into my gear. As I go, I talk myself into being okay with practicing now. I did need to kick at least a couple of more times between now and my minicamp face-off with Woodward Tolley. I suspect I won’t feel like driving back here tomorrow, so I might as well go ahead and knock out a session now.
    I enter our capacious locker room, with its lush gray carpet and wide wooden stalls for each player. In the middle of the carpet is the team logo of a vigilant-looking man in a colonial tricorner hat. I see Huff in the far corner, near my stall, talking to the same young man I saw running in from the practice fields.
    â€œHey, Gallow, how you doing, buddy?” This is Jacque Newton, the team’s fullback, calling at me from his stall to the left of the locker room entrance. Jacque, along with Huff and the young man, are the only people here on what is scheduled as off-time for players. Jacque is wearing on his knee a heavy black brace—he is still healing after tearing his ACL last October. I imagine he is here for a rehab session with a team trainer.
    â€œHow is your agent?” Jacque asks.
    â€œOut of surgery, I’m told.”
    He shakes his head sympathetically. “He’s going to make it, I know he is.”
    â€œI hope you’re right,” I say, though of course Jacque couldn’t know anything.
    â€œDo they have any idea who did it?” he asks. “Did you see anything?”
    â€œIt all happened very fast,” I say, shrugging. “I wasn’t much help to the police, I’m afraid.” In short, I didn’t