The Player's Club: Scott (4 page)

He felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder. The doorman, flanked by two other guys, grabbed ahold of him and frog-marched him to the front of the room. “Hey!” Scott protested, pulling away, but they only held on tighter and dragged him.

“What have we here?”

Scott looked at the man asking the question. He was one of the frat boys—he was wearing a suit, but he had the drunken demeanor and too-loud, boisterous tone of voice that said he was half-bagged. His face was almost as red as his overly gelled red hair. He was peering at Scott with narrowed eyes and a sneering grin.

“He’s a fake, George,” the doorman said. “He got to the door.”

“I knew the password,” Scott protested.

“The password’s a fake, you idiot,” the doorman answered, but another man motioned him to silence.

This man was tall, with dark hair and a somber expression. He also had an air of quiet authority about him—something badass, although he appeared a refined rich guy. Scott immediately knew that this was the guy in charge. He must be Lincoln.

“So, what are you? A reporter?” Lincoln asked. His tone seemed mild, but his eyes were definitely gleaming with anger.

“Huh? No,” Scott said. “I just… I live across the street. I saw a bunch of guys walking into an alley at three o’clock in the morning, and I thought I’d see what was going on.”

Nobody seemed convinced.

“You can check my wallet,” he said sharply, wresting his arm away from one of the men. “It’s got my driver’s license with my address, and my business card. I’m a sales analyst and researcher for Daventech.” He reached into his pocket, handing the wallet over.

Lincoln examined the contents of the wallet, then handed it back to him. Now his expression became thoughtful.

“Off the top, he’s telling the truth,” the Finn guy said, his tone tinged with amusement. “How’d you know we weren’t dangerous?”

“I didn’t,” Scott admitted, feeling more and more foolish.

“So why the hell did you come down here and try to fake the password?” the doorman asked.

Scott shrugged. At this point, with the angry glares of the crowd around him, he had no idea what had possessed him to follow his gut.

“I just had to find out, that’s all,” he muttered.

“Looking for an adventure, hmm?” Lincoln asked.

Scott studied Lincoln, wondering if he was being mocked. “I guess.”

“That shows some guts. I admire that,” Lincoln said with a slow smile. “So what do you think, guys? It’s been a while since we’ve had a new member. Should we let him in?”

“Haze him first,” the red-haired guy, George, yelled out, causing a round of raucous laughter from the men around him.

“That goes without saying,” Lincoln agreed.

“Wait a minute,” Scott said quickly. “I didn’t say I wanted to
join
anything. I don’t even know who you guys are!”

“Can you keep a secret?” Lincoln asked mildly. “Because if we agree to take you on—if we make you a member—then secrecy is one of the prime rules. And it’s one we take very seriously.” He sounded ever so slightly menacing. “Or, if you’d rather, we can escort you outside and you’ll never see us again. No harm, no foul.”

Scott thought about it. He still wasn’t sure what was going on—but his curiosity still burned through him. He wasn’t sure what he was letting himself in for.

God hates a coward.
It had been one of his grandfather’s favorite sayings. He hadn’t thought about it in years, but it seemed strangely appropriate now.

“I can keep a secret,” he found himself saying.

“Swear it?”

Scott nodded. “I swear.”

“All right, then.” Lincoln smiled broadly, and to Scott’s surprise, the men in the room let out a barking cheer. “What’s your name?”

“Scott. Scott Ferrell.”

“Scott Ferrell,” Lincoln said, holding out his hand, “welcome to The Player’s Club.”

“The Player’s Club,” Scott echoed, stunned. “No shit.”

Lincoln burst into a laugh. “Heard of us?”

“Who hasn’t?” Scott said. “Are you telling me that you…that
all
of you…are those guys that do all that crazy stuff? Jet-set all around the world, throw monster parties, pull amazing pranks?”

“So it would seem,” Lincoln said, with a little frown. “We do other things, too.”

Scott felt a bubble of excitement expanding in his chest. “And…you’d let me in?”

“Interested, then?”

Scott swallowed. “Hell, yeah, I’m interested.”

Lincoln leaned back, crossing his arms, and smiled.

“Okay, guys!” George yelled, putting an arm around Scott’s shoulders. “Let’s haze him!”

With that, there was a loud cheer and Scott was grabbed and hauled toward the door.

2

“SO WHAT EXACTLY
IS
‘The Player’s Club’?” Scott asked, yelling to be heard over the noise of the plane engine.

Finn, the guy who he’d heard say the password, grinned broadly. “It’s a club like no other, my friend,” he yelled back. “It’ll change your life.”

Nervously, Scott took note of the other smirking, high-fiving members surrounding him. He wondered absently if he were being kidnapped. Maybe they were some well-to-do cult. His stomach churned a little.

“Before we go,” George shouted, with a slight slur in his voice, “we gotta go over some rules.”

Finn rolled his eyes. Scott frowned.

“Go where?” he said. So far, the “hazing” had involved getting blindfolded, thrown in a car and taken to the airstrip with several of the Players. Now they were on a cargo plane, winging toward the dawn over Marin County. Scott wasn’t sure what was going on, but at least they’d taken the blindfold off.

“Players
kick ass,
” George said, weaving closer. Scott could smell Scotch coming off the guy like fumes. The guy patted his pockets, pulled out his wallet and handed Scott a card—an honest-to-God business card, that said PLAYER’S CLUB on it in raised type. On the other side, it said George Macalister, Badass and Head Player.

“We do stuff that other losers only dream of,” George continued, weaving slightly. “We play harder, we drink harder, we
spend
harder…”

Lincoln cleared his throat. Scott was aware that almost every guy on the plane was regarding Lincoln as the leader, and pointedly ignoring George.

“Here are the rules, as we originally wrote them down,” Lincoln said. “Rule number one—to the true player, all life is a game.”

Scott waited for him to clarify, but apparently it was one of those broad, sort of Zen statements. Scott nodded, encouraging him to continue.

“Rule number two—the game is played in the field.”

“Not on your couch,” Finn interjected pointedly. “Or on television, or on the internet, or your work cubicle.”

Aha. Game as metaphor for life, Scott surmised. “Got it.”

“Rule number three,” Lincoln continued, “every day is a new game.”

“No ruts, no routines,” Finn clarified.

“Rule number four—players don’t keep score.”

“That means no grudges, and keep a sense of humor, especially with other Players,” Finn said. He was acting as translator, which was good, since this stuff was about as clear as mud. “Incidentally, you’ll want to put this on.” He handed Scott a nylon jumpsuit.

Scott knew that asking “why?” at this point was proving futile, so he put the jumpsuit on. It was bright yellow. He noticed everyone else on the plane was putting on jumpsuits, as well. “Uh…”

“Rule number six,” Lincoln continued relentlessly, “Players never lose. They just keep playing.”

“Persistence and attitude,” Finn supplied, as he strapped on what looked like a backpack. “Whether you’re hitting on a woman or hitting one out of the park, we emphasize both qualities.”

“Say, wait a sec,” Scott interrupted, suddenly feeling alert despite the fact he’d been up all night. “Is that a parachute?”

“Yeah, it seems sort of lame,” Finn said, “but these are the rules we came up with before our first jump. And, admittedly, we were sort of wasted when we wrote them.”

“They
are
lame,” George yelled, laughing raucously. “Screw rules!”

“Don’t put that parachute on, George,” Lincoln said. “You’re not jumping.”

George scowled. “What the hell? I’m fine!”

He was drawn away into a heated exchange with the jump master. Lincoln finished, “Finally, rule number seven—
keep it in the league.
You don’t tell anyone outside the club about what you do inside the club,” Lincoln concluded, his face stonelike, he was so serious. Scott was still eyeing the parachutes, but he nodded. “You don’t tell anyone about the existence of the Club. Not who’s in it, not where we meet…nothing.”

“Anything else?” Scott asked.

Lincoln grinned, and glanced at George. “More a guideline than a rule,” he said, shrugging…then nodding at the card in Scott’s hand. “Players don’t brag.”

“Real players,” Finn added, “don’t need to.”

Scott tucked the card away in a pocket, then looked over at the rest of the group. They were strapped up, tugging goggles on. Finn wore a wide grin as he headed to the door of the plane.

“You’re jumping with me,” Lincoln said, and walked behind Scott. “Tandem. Don’t worry, this is my sixtieth jump, at least. You’ll be fine.”

Scott pulled on his goggles, feeling adrenaline flood his system. “You know, I have this thing about heights,” he offered, wondering if he were making the biggest mistake of his life. This smacked of peer pressure.

If all your new friends jumped out of an airplane, would you?

“I figured,” Finn said with a roguish grin. “You had that look about you.”

“Don’t tell me I’m going to love the view,” Scott said tightly, his heart threatening to pound out of his chest.

“Actually, you’re probably going to hate it all the way down,” Lincoln said. “You might even get sick. I’ve noticed that cursing your ass off tends to help somewhat.”

Scott watched as they opened the door of the plane, the pale early morning sunlight creeping into the hatch. The air was freezing cold, hitting him in his already queasy stomach like a cannon ball. “I don’t know that I can go through with this,” he said.

“It’s easy,” Finn said, and then yelled, “Geronimo!” and dove out of the plane.

The rest of the crew cheered—except for George, who was sitting sullenly by the jump master, his parachute on the floor, his arms crossed.

One by one, the rest of them lined up, falling out or leaping out of the open doorway into the sky, hurtling toward the ground below. Scott felt his palms go sweaty. He craned his neck to look over at Lincoln. “I’ve heard about The Player’s Club.”

“I bet.” Lincoln didn’t sound thrilled by this.

“Why do you do this?”

Lincoln seemed more pleased by the question. “Tell me, Scott. Are you happy with your life?”

Scott was momentarily distracted by the intensity of his tone. “I guess.” He paused, almost squirming under Lincoln’s accusatory stare. “Well, I’m not thrilled but it doesn’t suck overly.”

“And there’s a ringing endorsement,” Lincoln quipped. “When was the last time you were excited to wake up in the morning?”

Scott blinked. “I…I don’t know.”

“When was the last time you did something that made you feel as though your life was worth getting out of bed for?” Lincoln pushed. “If you died tomorrow, would you think, man, I’m glad I got all that work done? Or would you think, my life’s going exactly the way I wanted it to go? I’ve got nothing to regret? I’ve done everything?”

“Who lives like that?” Scott asked, bewildered.