The Cut (24 page)

“It's an Instant Messenger.”

“Whatever. Who sends messages in the middle of the night?”

“I do—to my
father
.”

For the briefest moment, Blumenthal and Gray appeared uncertain. Abraham realized then that this was, both literally and figuratively, a shot in the dark for them. They were trying to smoke someone out, but they had no idea who it was.
Someone leaking information to ESPN?
That's what it sounded like. A mole in the organization.
But why me?
he wondered.
Why did they pick me? How did they even know I was doing this?

Did Wade squeal? Abraham always kind of figured he knew. He never tried to hide it—he only went into the bathroom so he wouldn't keep Wade awake with the typing.
No, he wouldn't tell anyone.
They had become good friends, and there was no benefit to selling him out. He wasn't a spy. Abraham knew about spies, knew every team had them—guys who weren't as talented as they should be, so they needed some kind of an edge. This sometimes came in the form of spying, being a coach's eyes and ears during the private moments when the players talked freely, in the weight room, the dorms, the huddle, and so on. The information was priceless, and they were always rewarded for their services.

But not Brandon,
Abraham thought again.
No way.
He was sure of this, absolutely certain.

Gray scrolled down the column of messages again, trying to confirm or deny Abraham's claim.

“I'm going to check a little further into this person you've been contacting,” he said finally. “I'm going to make certain it is who you say it is.”

“You do that,” Abraham replied. The disgust was plain in his voice and on his face. The damage was done, so he might as well be honest.

Gray stood. “In the meantime, I'm going to keep watching—you and a few others. I'm going to keep my eyes and ears open, and so is our friend the Turk here, understand?”

“Yeah.”

He turned and went out of the room with the Turk on his heels. No sign of remorse, no apologies. Just a cut-rate dictator and his disappointed minion fleeing into the night.

After they were gone, a terrified Wade crept back into the room. “What the hell was
that
all about, man?”

Abraham, his eyes glazed with rage, said, “Nothing. Don't worry about it.”

*   *   *

Six floors up, while Howie Abraham was receiving the third degree, another member of Big Blue was sequestered secretly in his bathroom. Again, the toilet lid was down, the lights had been turned off, and there was an electronic device involved.

Jermaine Hamilton sat hunched forward with his arms folded across his knees, as if suffering from a tremendous stomachache. His cell phone was wrapped inside his enormous hand, a wispy-thin cord running out of the fist and connecting to a plug in the outlet next to the mirror. He'd had no choice but to charge it about an hour ago; that's what happened when you made so many calls.

He'd tried her at home at least a dozen times, then her cell phone another dozen, maybe more. He hadn't heard from her in over a week, and their last conversation, which he'd initiated, lasted less than a minute. The jealousy, the agony, the rage—all of it had congealed into a slippery, squirming thing in the pit of his stomach. It kept him up at night, sapped his concentration during meetings and practices. It would affect his play in the third preseason game tomorrow, and that would be costly. He had to get some answers one way or another. As the saying goes, it's the
not
knowing that kills you.

He called his brother, Lonnie, just after midnight. Four years younger, Lonnie lived about two hours from Jermaine's home and had his own key. Jermaine asked him to make the trip to see if he could learn anything. Lonnie said it was no problem. He knew about the troubles they were having. When Melanie first came into Jermaine's life, Lonnie did his best to get along with her. There were even isolated moments when he thought he might actually like her. But when she turned nasty—around the time that Jermaine's career seemed over, he noticed—he felt like an ancient suspicion had finally been confirmed. He didn't get on Jermaine's back about it; he figured his brother didn't need any more hassles. But he wasn't surprised.

When the cell phone vibrated, Jermaine unfolded it quickly. “Yeah.”

“I got here and got in,” Lonnie said.

“And?”

At first there was only a fine, hissing static, and Hamilton thought maybe the call had been lost.

“Lon?”

“She's gone, J.”

“How do you know?”

“All her stuff has been taken out,” Lonnie said. He was speaking softly, gently. “The closets are empty, the drawers … everything. I'm sorry, bro. I'm just … I'm sorry.”

His voice barely above a whisper, Hamilton said, “It's okay.”

“There's a note here, too. In an envelope.”

“A note? Where?”

“On the kitchen table.”

Hamilton took a deep breath. “Would you read it?”

“What? Now?”

“Yeah.”

“J., I don't think I should. It's for you. It even says so on—”

“No, I can't wait. It'll be the only thing I think about. Read it, please.”

He knew Lonnie wanted to protest further, but he heard the distinctive sound of an envelope being torn open, then a sheet of paper being unfolded.

The sentiments, though not unexpected, were still chilling, and the words harrowing—divorce … settlement … attorney.…

When Lonnie finished, there was more silence. And then—“J.?”

“Yeah.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Umm … no, not right now.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. You can go back home. Tell Ma what's happening, and I'll call you tomorrow after the game.”

“All right.… Look, man, I'm sorry, I really am.”

“Thanks. Thanks for doing this.”

“No problem.”

Hamilton closed the phone and set it on the marble basin. There would be no more calls tonight—for now he
knew
. No more wondering, no more being distracted. The matter was settled.

He returned to his leaning-forward position and waited for the tears to come—but to his amazement, there were none. There had been plenty in the past, but not now. He felt only numbness and detachment. In a strange way, it seemed as if the divorce had been settled years ago and he was merely thinking back on it. Then he realized why—it was because the relationship really
had
been over for years. This declaration by Melanie, followed by the eventual legal proceedings, was just a formality. Once the affection was gone, the rest was insignificant. Her love for him had probably drained away—if it ever really existed—ages ago. It was only his unwillingness to admit it that kept the marriage going as long as it had. He'd been looking for something that simply wasn't there.

Staring into the blackness, he made a wise decision then—to get on with his life. To starve whatever pain remained until it was as dead as the relationship itself. It had done enough damage, and now it had to be purged. He had some potentially great days ahead, but he'd never get to them if he kept dwelling on this. He would hire lawyers, they would handle the situation, and then it would be over; done and gone. Someday, hopefully, the memories would fade as well. For now, he had to think of the future, because it was all he really had.

And maybe that's not such a bad thing.

25

After almost two
years, Corey Reese finally rediscovered something he called the Zone.

He tried explaining it to others, but he couldn't. You had to experience the Zone for yourself. You had to be the type of person who
could
experience the Zone. It was like another dimension of reality. You couldn't see it, couldn't touch it or smell it. When you were in it, you just knew.

And he knew on the evening of the following Saturday. Third game of the preseason, at Giants Stadium in the New Jersey Meadowlands, against the Cleveland Browns. After countless dismal seasons since their rebirth in 1999, the Browns had finally begun a steady upward climb, finishing the previous year with a 9–7 record and barely missing a wild card berth via the wacky playoff mathematics that about eight people on earth understood. Still, they were getting better in all respects. A team on a mission.

On the second play from scrimmage, Lockenmeyer hit Reese for a short screen pass on third down that the tight end parlayed into a twenty-nine-yard gain. Later in the same quarter, he took a lateral from two yards behind the line of scrimmage, slipped out of three tackles, and waltzed into the end zone for the first of two touchdowns. He would catch all eight passes thrown to him, run one kickoff back to midfield, deliver more than a dozen key blocks, and even act as fullback on two plays. And through all of it, he never felt like he was breaking a sweat. It came easily, effortlessly. It was like there was some otherwordly force working with him, guiding him, unlocking every door just when he needed it. He could do no wrong on this night. It was pure magic—and this was what he called being in the Zone.

Before the injury, he was in the Zone all the time. When he stepped onto the field, his opponents worried about him. Every game was a master performance. Back then he knew he had something special, a one-in-a-million talent. He wasn't arrogant about it, but he made a point of enjoying it.

After the injury, even when he knew the rehab was working and he was certain he could play again, he wondered if the old magic would still be there. Could he still get into the Zone with the Frankenstein joints? He'd been amazing in the past, but he hadn't seen any signs of it lately. He played well enough the first two preseason games, but he wasn't about to deem them amazing.

Before the third game, on the bus ride down, he decided it was time to find out, to cast aside all inhibitions and just let loose. He couldn't play like this all the time, worrying if the knee was going to fall apart again. That kind of fear could cost him dearly.

Greenwood took him out of the game at the start of the fourth quarter. That was a good sign, Reese knew; it meant the coach felt he had seen everything he needed to see. So he sat on the sidelines with a towel around his neck and watched his two rivals. He was surprised to see them struggling. Hamilton's mind was definitely somewhere else. He dropped three passes, was knocked on his ass twice, and missed a crucial block that gave one of Cleveland's DEs a direct route to the Giants' backup quarterback. They were picking turf out of the guy's face mask after that blunder. And Foster, although as quick and eager as ever, was finally starting to show his rookie colors, missing routes on some of the more complicated plays and getting pushed around by more experienced linemen and linebackers. Most of the weaker players had already been filtered out of Cleveland's roster. In spite of the fact that the Giants were losing the game by ten points with five minutes left, Reese felt like he'd had one hell of a night—and might have cemented his future.

On the sidelines, unnoticed by all three candidates, Jim O'Leary strode over to Dale Greenwood and said, “So, what do you think?”

Greenwood had his headphones down around his neck and a clipboard in hand, jutting out from his gut. “I think I was wrong.”

“About what?”

“About telling Gray that none of those guys could take T. J.'s place.” Greenwood turned and faced him. “That's what
I
think. How about you?”

O'Leary nodded. “I think you might be right.”

26

They were dropping
like flies.

Two more cuts immediately after the Cleveland loss, and another four earlier this morning. Mondays were the worst, everyone came to realize. The coaches had a chance to review the game film, make their notes, and cast their judgments. Then they'd get together for final discussions with Gray, and the axe would start to fall. One seemingly offhand comment by a position coach could decide someone's future. One comment, one observation, one mistake—your career hung by a thread every minute.

Jordan “Itchy” Fisher seemed to know this as well as anybody. From the day he came to camp, he was as nervous as a bee. He never sat still, which was why his teammates gave him the nickname. Itchy was a wide receiver in his fourth year in the league, a free-agent pickup from Green Bay. His record there had been mediocre at best. When the team cut him at the end of his rookie contract, only two other teams seemed interested, and the Giants were closer to his home state of Pennsylvania. He wanted to do well, to get on the team at least, even if he wasn't going to be a starter. But he had such a negative outlook on the whole thing, it was almost as if he were condemning himself to a predetermined fate.

A few more cuts and it would be all over. The tension was so heavy it even made breathing difficult. Itchy was sitting on his cot thinking about how he would break the news to his wife when the inevitable occurred. Then he got to his feet, wringing his hands, and paced up and down between the two beds.

“She's gonna cry,” he said. “I know she's gonna cry.”

“You'll be fine,” his roommate replied. Clarence Pittman had also been a free-agent pickup, in his fifth year in the league and a former victim of the salary cap. He'd done extremely well during his tenure with the Saints, but when it was time for a new contract, he and his agent discovered there was very little loot left in the New Orleans till, so they decided to try their luck elsewhere. Lying on his cot with one knee raised and the other leg propped over it, he flipped through a magazine and said, “You're going to give yourself a stroke.”

“Yeah, sure, what the hell do you have to worry about? You're safe.”