Paydirt

19

Martin Kingsley chewed on the ice in his gin and tonic. Earlier in the game, his mind had drifted. He had thought of the scarred and dangerous Houston Tyler. His extortion. His threats. The five million, chicken feed when you're flush, an impossible amount of cash when you've pledged everything to the friggin' banks that have cut off your credit.

But now, Kingsley's only concern was football. His suit coat was off and his sleeves rolled up. The skybox was overheated, and he felt feverish. All he had worked for, all the dough he had spent on rookie bonuses and veterans' multi-year packages, on egomaniacal free agents and scouts and nutritionists and weightlifting trainers and even a damn ballet master to teach the D-backs body control, all the boasts about bringing the Lombardi Trophy to Dallas, were about to go down the drain. When the timeout ended, that hundred-sixty-five pound piss-ant soccer player from Colombia would send the Mustangs back home and take his own team to the Big Dance with one scythe-like swing of his leg.

"We gotta block that kick," he muttered under his breath.

"There's a gap between the center and the right guard," Scott said, peering through binoculars. "I saw it on the two field goals they kicked earlier."

"What?"

"Dad knows everything about the kicking game. He taught me to watch how the linemen interlock their legs on the kicks when they come up out of their three-point stance. That's how they form a protective shield in front of the holder. But the Green Bay center is slow getting back. His right leg never locks with the guard's left leg."

Kingsley grabbed the phone before Scott had finished talking. The line went directly to the bench where Frank Morrow, the director of game day operations, wore a headset for the singular purpose of fielding his boss' calls. Sometimes, the phone wouldn't ring the entire game. Sometimes, there would be an innocuous order that the defensive linemen tuck their jerseys inside their pants. Other times, Morrow would have the unhappy task of carrying a message from owner to coach. "Mr. K would like you to run the end-around with Jackson." Coach Chet Krause would curse, spit, and then run the play.

Now, Kingsley ordered the middle overloaded just off the center's right shoulder, the Banzai middle formation. As the teams lined up for the kick, Kingsley raised his binoculars. Focusing on the center of the Mustangs' defensive line, he gave his last order of that day, this one muttered softly, but directed from Olympian heights to his eleven employees, pawing at the frozen earth like angry stags. "Block that son-of-a-bitch, you overpaid bastards!" he demanded.

Make it, Bobby urged, under his breath. Though the kick wouldn't affect his bet, he wanted Dallas to lose. Let Kingsley wallow in utter despair. Let him know how it feels. The old man put all his cash and whatever heart he had into the team. Making it to the Super Bowl-and winning it-was his number one priority. To be stopped a game short would be unbearable agony.

Bobby would be sorry for Scott, though. The kid told him he'd be rooting for the Mustangs to win by less than seven, a result that would make both grandfather and father happy. That was just like Scott, always looking out for everyone else, trying to achieve peace through compromise.

Please block the kick, Christine Gallagher prayed. She gripped Scott's hand and watched him biting his lower lip, totally engrossed in the game. She'd spent much of the day studying her son. Three weeks since she'd seen him, and he looked an inch taller. The older he became, the more he resembled Bobby, and not just his looks. They had the same gait, the same sense of humor, the same pauses between certain words. When Scott asked her a question and cocked his head waiting for an answer, she could swear it was Bobby. Her ex-husband would always be with her, she thought, one way or another.

What was it about him, anyway? Why did she still have feelings for her ex? Chemistry, she supposed. She'd read in one of the women's magazines that we each have a subconscious sense of smell, and we're drawn to others who have the scent we lack. Whatever it was, all the senses worked with Bobby. When they fell in love, they laughed and played and shared everything, including a finely honed notion that the world was their amusement park. How did it go so wrong?

If Bobby hadn't gone to work for her father, maybe it could have been different. But Bobby's self-indulgent kamikaze act was unforgivable. Her father's investigators told her that now he was involved in illegal gambling. She'd be forced to use the information against him in the court case that would determine where Scott would go to school and who would be the primary custodian. She did not look forward to the hearing, but she intended to do whatever it took to win. It was a lesson learned from her father.

She wanted Scott to take advantage of his natural aptitude for mathematics. Sure, she'd miss him desperately, but the boarding school in Massachusetts offered advantages not available in either Miami or Dallas. They had Harvard professors, for crying out loud! Someday, Scott would thank her. So would Bobby. Another one of Daddy's lessons: grit your teeth and do what you know is best.

Poor guileless Bobby. Sometimes he was so exasperating she wanted to grab him by the collar and shake him.

If only you had some of Daddy's toughness…and if only he had some of your tenderness.

Now she was dating Craig Stringer, heartthrob of Texas, and a pretty fair quarterback to boot. After fifteen years, it was his last season, given his gimpy knees and a desire to move into the front office. With his income from endorsements and his investments, Craig didn't need to work, but he told Christine that his dream was for the two of them to run the team together someday.

There was only one thing that was missing with Craig, but she could rationalize that. Maybe you only get that once in life. It's something you can't plan or control or call up on demand. It's hidden somewhere in the senses, that buzz of excitement and flood of feelings, a blend of sight and sound and, as the magazine would have it, smell, too. Okay, so she didn't have it with Craig, and she had it with Bobby. But that's over, right?

The crowd was on its feet but quieted itself in homage to the home team's attempt to make the winning field goal. The Green Bay center, Chuck Stynchula, bent over the ball, cradling it in two hands. Stynchula was thirty-six years old, and his right knee had more tracks than the Union Pacific. Six surgeries left him with a permanent limp but an ability to scrape out a living in the pits once he ingested sufficient pain killers and was wrapped in several dozen yards of tape and supported by titanium braces. The offensive line dropped from a two-point stance to three points as the holder called out the signals. From the moment of the snap count, the center, the holder, and the kicker would have 1.3 seconds to accomplish their interdependent tasks.

The holder barked "set-set-set" and Stynchula, looking at the world upside down between his legs, snapped a perfect spiral to the holder, then raised his head and brought his right leg a step backward. Automatically, he searched for the guard's left leg, trying to lock up, hoping to push the Cowboy rushers to the outside of the cup, but Buckwalter Washington, who was blessed with what coaches call quick feet, lunged straight and low, driving a wedge between the two offensive linemen. T.J. Moore, a cornerback who had nearly made the Olympic team as a high jumper slipped past Washington's ample backside and jumped into the gap Buckwalter had just created between Stynchula and the guard. Moore took two steps and leapt high with one hand extended, a graceful cherry-picking leap which left him suspended while the kicker's leg swung through the ball.

Bobby Gallagher saw none of the action on the interior of the line. He kept his eyes on the holder, in fine appreciation of the unrecognized talent of such men. He noted that Stynchula's snap was perfect and that the holder, a backup quarterback, made a smooth catch, spun the laces forward and placed the ball down at just the proper angle.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a Cowboy defender — T.J. Moore — leaping, and it occurred to him that Moore had invaded two yards or so behind the line of scrimmage.

Oh shit!

The thwack of the ball striking Moore's hand could be heard over the hushed crowd. The ball tumbled end-over-end and appeared to be headed out of bounds.

Damn, Bobby thought, watching the blocked kick careen toward the sideline. Dallas will survive by a point, and I'll have to put up with Kingsley's gloating.

At least, I'll still win sixty grand.

Suddenly, Nightlife Jackson, on double duty as a defensive back, sped into Bobby's line of vision. He jumped high, speared the errant kick with one hand just before it crossed the sideline. He caught the ball in full stride, a fluid, effortless play of such beauty and grace as to belong to the special preserve of the supremely gifted athlete. Jackson accelerated down the sideline past the Mustangs' bench, his cohorts waving their arms toward the Packer end zone, windmilling him home.

The scene was surreal, the stadium in numbed shock, only the voices of the Cowboy players and their scattered fans breaking the silence.

The sole pursuer was the kicker who gave half-hearted chase to the sprinting Jackson. The game, after all, was over. Except for the bettors.

Dallas had won the game the instant Moore's hand touched the kick, but now Jackson carried the Vegas point spread, as well as the football, down the sideline. Falling farther behind, the Green Bay kicker gave up, shaking his fist in disgust at the fleeing Jackson. Looking back over his shoulder, Jackson slowed to a dancing, knife-twisting waltz at the twenty, then high-stepped into the end zone where he boogied, pirouetted, and feigning a faint, toppled over backwards as if knocked unconscious by his own sheer brilliance.

Bobby watched, reeling from the ramifications.

No! No! No!