The Cut (19 page)

“Right,” Bolton said. “But, as you know, so many things can happen between now and then. I tried to call Sturtz on his cell phone earlier today, but he didn't answer. So we just have to wait and see if the league allows them the arbitration they're hoping for.”

“And what's the probability of that?”

“Hard to say these days. Most formal grievances are worked out before a third party has to step in, mainly because the league doesn't feel they deserve arbitration in the first place. They prefer that both sides work out their differences on their own, quietly if possible.”

Spencer nodded. “With Hamilton, Reese, and Foster performing so well, it sounds like Brookman and Sturtz are losing more leverage each day.”

“It certainly seems that way. A lot will depend on the league's decision, Tommy. It doesn't look good for the superstar tight end and his agent at the moment.”

“Okay, well, thanks, Greg, for that update to this ongoing saga. Please keep on it.”

“You bet.”

18

Barry Sturtz stared
blankly through the north-facing window of his home office in Huntersville, North Carolina, watching a trio of deer graze on the edge of his property. In some distant sector of his weary mind, he wondered if he would ever get the chance to go out there, back to the little stream that was hidden within the brief tract of untamed forest that served as a border region between his land and that of his closest neighbor, and maybe try his hand at fishing.

He absently massaged the stubble on his cheeks. He didn't go for the unkempt look anymore; it was too much like the New York street punk he used to be, another lifetime ago. He had since taken up the practice of shaving every morning, trying to appear relatively well groomed and maybe even a little cultured. It was either that or let it grow nice and thick, but that made him look like a member of a country-and-western band. He'd tried the beard on two separate occasions but never kept it.

This time it wasn't so much a personal choice as a simple matter of not having found the time to deal with it. The situation with the Giants was pushing him to the brink of his sanity, a maddening puzzle of circular logic for which a clear resolution could not be found. In spite of all his experience, wisdom, extensive business training, and considerable intelligence, he couldn't determine the right approach—at least for him and his client. Incredibly, it seemed as though all roads led to a decisive victory for his opponent.

Did I miscalculate? Was it all a mistake?

No,
he decided. This was the point he kept coming back to.
No, it hadn't been a mistake.
The act of going in there with both barrels blazing, demanding a better deal, had been the right move. T. J. deserved it. The two of them were far from being the only ones who thought so. If only he had a dollar for everyone who had raised the topic with him. “He's not still earning league minimum, is he?” “The Giants are making out like bandits.” “They're making you and T. J. look like fools.” On and on. It was all true—T. J. was an incredible performer and contributor. He had given his lifeblood for those vultures. All he wanted was fair compensation, “fair” being defined as commensurate with those who were posting similar results.

It hadn't been a mistake.

Once he was comfortable with that point and had fully established it in his mind, he moved on. That's where the problems started. He kept trying to figure out where it all went wrong. He felt he had the edge going into the meeting, felt the team needed T. J. badly enough (there was ample evidence of this) and Gray was concerned about his own future (also ample evidence). There were no other tight ends on T. J.'s skill level available (utterly inarguable); plus, the position had continued to evolve and was more important than ever (also inarguable). It seemed like all the stars had aligned to make the negotiation little more than a formality.

So what happened?

The wireless headset in Sturtz's hand twittered. He didn't need to check the little screen to know who it was. He thumbed the button and nestled the device into his ear.

“Yeah.”

“We're
dying
over here, man.”

“T. J., calm down.”

“
Calm down?!
Are you kidding? Did you see the three of them on Saturday? Were you watching the game?”

“Of course I watched the g—”

“Christ, they looked like Pro Bowlers! Hamilton knows more about the damn position than
I
do! Reese is a friggin' acrobat! And Foster—just who in the hell is this guy, anyway? I can't believe no one drafted him!”

“You're still better than they are.”

“Not by much! They could put one of them in there instead of me and they'd barely miss a beat.”

“They're not going to do that. They want you there, believe me. Those three, I'd be willing to bet anything, were brought in just for show. For leverage.”

“Well, that's what they got—and plenty of it.”

Sturtz knew this was true. If he was right and those players were meant to tip the scales in the Giants' favor, unethical or not, it was working.

“We've still got the possibility of arbitration,” he said, amazed at how calm he sounded.

“From what I hear, that's a long shot.”

“I'm not going to try to second-guess the process. I'm just going to wait and see what happens.”

“And what if it doesn't work out? What if they won't hear the case?”

Sturtz sighed. “Then we'll try something else.”

“Like what?”

“I'm not sure yet.”

“What about talking with other teams? Weren't you going to t—”

“Let me worry about that. Don't ask about that. You don't need to know anything there.”

“Well, you've got to come up with something.”

“I will.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know, T. J., okay? I'll figure that out when the time comes!”

It came out in a roar, spit flying from his lips. Sturtz would later swear he could actually feel the rise of his blood pressure. He had no idea where all the anger came from. Just seconds earlier, he seemed to be fully in control of himself.

The silence that fell between them lasted perhaps ten seconds, but it seemed more like ten minutes.

“Dammit,” Sturtz finally said, all the fatigue and stress laid bare in the hoarseness of that one word, “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to lose it like that.”

After another pause, Brookman said, “Shit … I'm sorry, too. I know it's not your fault.”

“No, it's all right. I understand. Believe me—I understand.”

“I know you're doing everything you can.”

“I just … I don't know.”

“Maybe we should've given in.”

“Huh?”

“Maybe we should've just played along for another season, until the contract ran out, then shot for a better deal, either with them or with someone else.”

Sturtz had considered this several times over the last few days, played out all the scenarios. None of them seemed particularly appealing. Best case was that T. J. chalked up another phenomenal season, coasting them into a sweet bargaining position. Then he'd have to hammer out a new deal consisting of a fair amount of guaranteed money, much of it up front. That was the best case—but it wasn't the most likely. There were too many variables. T. J. could become injured, he could stay healthy but have an off year, he could find himself written out of schemes and spend a fair amount of time either on the bench or, perhaps even worse, on the field but not featured in enough plays. Sturtz didn't put it past a serpent like Alan Gray to purposely squelch a player's performance solely to keep him from gaining the upper hand in a postseason negotiation—especially an offensive player, knowing Gray's preference for the other side of the ball. No, there was no point in second-guessing now. He and T. J. had made the right decision last month. They were in a sweet position, and that was the time when you talked about renegotiating.

“I think what we did was right,” Sturtz said, focusing on the three deer again. One of them swatted a fly away with its little tail. Another—the male, he assumed, judging by the branchlike antlers—looked up quickly, as if he knew the owner of the property was watching.

“Yeah, I guess it did at the time. So now what? We just wait?”

“Uh-huh. Look, if they agree to arbitrate, I like our chances. If they don't, and then the team signs one of these other three and makes you sit, then I can file a new grievance, and that one, I believe, will most definitely go to arbitration. And I think we'd win it, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, 'cause I don't want to spend the season watching from my couch.”

“That won't happen,” Sturtz said. “You're not going to be warming any furniture.” He thought about legendary running back Marcus Allen, whose career suffered tremendously after the Oakland Raiders' owner and then–head coach Al Davis, in what appeared to be a purely spiteful gesture, purportedly reduced his playing time to keep him from reaching several records he'd been chasing. In the end, he retired just short of some of them.

“I hope not.”

“No, you won't.”

Brookman took a deep breath. “All right, I'm going.”

“Hang in there. We'll get it done.”

“I hope so.”

The call ended, and Sturtz could not remember a time when his client sounded so defeated.

This is bullshit,
he thought angrily.
Pure and total bullshit.

He took the phone off his belt and dialed another number. Just before the call went through, however, he killed it. One more look out the north-facing window; the deer were gone now. He closed his eyes and pinched and rubbed the bridge of his nose in a useless attempt to drive away the monster migraine he had developed. Then he dialed the number again.

This time he let the call go through.

*   *   *

Only two thoughts were running through the young man's mind as he came off the elevator and started down the sunlit dorm hallway: 1)
You can't be seen … you can't be seen
 … and 2)
This is the most underhanded thing you've ever done. You're a goddamn WEASEL.

Underhanded or not, however, he had come to the conclusion that he no longer had a choice in the matter. Too much was at risk now, far too much. It had been different in years past, when his skills and talents had carried him through. This time he needed an edge.
A little insurance, that's all
, he had rationalized it. Even then he knew it was total bullshit.
Once you have to convince yourself, then you know you're doing something wrong.
But these kinds of thoughts had to be pushed far to the back of his mind, where they could be dealt with later. This was no time for morality. Again—there was just too much on the line.
This was war.

Weasel hurried down the corridor and came to room 1833. He set his hand on the knob, praying it was unlocked. It should be—he'd made a dry run two days ago and was astonished to find it that way. Corey Reese, as well as his roommate, should've known better in such a hypercompetitive environment. But they didn't; they made the choice to be trusting instead.
Once again, the nice guys finish last.

The knob turned smoothly, and he went inside. In spite of the open windows, the room still reeked of perspiration and filthy clothing. Both beds were unmade, playbooks lying on nightstands alongside candy wrappers, half-filled bottles of Gatorade, cell phones, and who knew what else. Reese had framed pictures of his wife and two children, whereas his roommate was apparently unattached and had only a photo of his parents. Each player also had a small shaded light, and under Reese's Weasel found what he was looking for—a digital alarm clock.

He studied the controls quickly, always keeping one ear trained on the hallway and one eye on the window. The rest of the organization was still in the dining hall, having lunch after the morning session. If everyone kept to the schedule, they wouldn't be heading back here for their naps for another thirty minutes. Of course, the only certainty in life was that there were no certainties—one guy might not feel well and decide to skip lunch; another might finish early just to get an extra twenty minutes of rest. You never knew.

Weasel had always been a smart individual, and he figured out how to accomplish what he'd come here for in a matter of maybe twenty seconds. He pressed the
ALARM SET
button, and 1:30
P.M.
appeared in glowing red on the LCD screen. Then he pressed a button that bore just one character—a plus sign—and watched contentedly as the 1:30 zoomed forward until it reached the 3:00 region. The last two characters were just a blur. He had no specific time in mind. As long as it was well beyond what Reese needed, that was fine.

He set the clock down again, careful to position it precisely as it was before. Then, just to be safe, he went into the bathroom, pulled about two feet of toilet paper from the roll, and wiped away any fingerprints. It was a ridiculously anal gesture (
as if the FBI might come in here and investigate the crime
), but you never knew. Better safe than sorry.

He peeked down the hallway before stepping out, then closed the door and gave the knob a quick wipe, too. He headed toward the elevators, but stopped when it occurred to him that he might come face-to-face with someone he didn't want to see when he emerged on the ground floor.

He turned swiftly, his sneakers squeaking with each step, and went the other way. At the end of the hall, he opened the fire door that led to the stairwell. It would bring him, he knew, to a side exit facing away from the dining hall; the odds of being seen there were slim. The door drifted to a close as he disappeared, and all was quiet again.