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

rat anyone out.
    â€œThis team is cursed, man,” Jacque says, shaking his head. “After a while it’s like, what’s the next thing that’s going to happen around here?”
    I shake my head, too.
    â€œHow’s your knee doing?” I ask. “You going to be ready for next week?” I steal a glance toward Huff, who I don’t want to miss, but he is still in the corner, talking to that young man.
    â€œI hope so,” Jacque says. “I’ve been targeting this minicamp as my comeback date.” As well he should have. The Sentinels drafted a fullback in the seventh round, and teams rarely keep two of at that position.
    â€œGood luck,” I say.
    â€œGood luck to you, too.”
    Huff is now limping across the locker room to greet me. He is African American, in his late fifties, with short salt-and-pepper hair. He is a former linebacker, and his souvenirs from his playing days include an artificial hip, false front teeth, and two crooked fingers. He wears these disfigurements as proud signifiers of a kamikaze abandon, the kind he wants to instill in his players.
    â€œYou should be at home, Nick,” he says. Then he hugs me. In five years together we have never hugged. “How are you doing?”
    â€œI’ve been better,” I say.
    I hang my head, fighting to stay composed. Huff looks away.
    â€œStay strong, Gallow,” Huff says, squeezing my shoulder. “You’ll get through this, I know it.”
    And then Huff leaves. His abruptness is surprising, and bracing. I turn and watch him limp off.
    When I reach my stall, still dazed by this brush-off, the young man to whom Huff had been talking is staring up at me. He sits on a stool a couple of stalls down, in an unmarked space traditionally used by the most transient players. He is wearing only gray underpants and one sock that he has just pulled on, and his dark hair is still damp from the shower. He looks as if he wants to speak to me.
    I glance at his leg muscles, and I know right away. Huff only had a few seconds for me, but he had plenty of time for this young man who has come to take my job.
    For here is Woodward Tolley. Hunter, meet hunted.
    â€œHello,” I say evenly. “I’m Nick Gallow.”
    â€œHi, I’m Woodward Tolley,” he says, standing up quickly. His brown eyes are aglow, but he strains to maintain a respectful somberness, as befitting the morning news. His lean and gangly frame carries some muscle, but he still has plenty of filling out to do; I would guess that he only began working out with professional seriousness in the past year.
    But even in his immature state, Woodward has a competitive advantage over me. Woodward will play for the rookie minimum, which is about a third of my $970,000 salary. Plus, I’ll be due a roster bonus of $350,000 if I am with the Sentinels for the first day of full training camp in late July. I thought the idea of the bonus sounded cool when I signed my contract, but as its date of payment approaches, I now see it as a reason for the team to get rid of me. I suspect the front-office folks see it that way, too.
    â€œWelcome to the Sentinels, Woodward,” I say. We shake hands, firmly. Very firmly.
    â€œThank you, Mr. Gallow,” he says. “How are you doing? How is your agent?”
    â€œI’m okay,” I say. “Cecil made it out of surgery. And please, call me Nick.”
    â€œThat’s great, Nick,” he says, hands on his hips. “I’ll be praying for the best.”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œI know it’s a strange time, but I just have to say, ever since they signed me, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. I am such a big fan of yours. I mean, that hit on Dez Wheeler last year, that is just about the coolest thing I’ve ever seen a punter do.”
    If Woodward is going to attempt to curry favor with compliments, at least he is choosing his wisely. The Dez Wheeler