faster.
‘He’s at midfield… the forty… the thirty… the Mule’s heading for the end zone, and no one in this arena’s going to catch him-touchdown!’ Todd Hoagland, the Hurricanes’ visual color commentator, is on his feet screaming into his remote headset as waves of hysteria bombard the MTI arena.
Samuel ‘the Mule’ Agler drops to his knees in the end zone, gasping great breaths of air as his delirious teammates rush to embrace him.
4:17 p.m.
Sam leans back against the carpeted cubicle in the Hurricanes’ locker room, his aching muscles in desperate need of a rubdown. The faint scent of ammonia moves through an air-conditioned current tinged with the scent of human sweat. Wearily, he raises a plastic container of tangy cold liquid to his lips and quaffs the beverage, a few drops dribbling past his chin. The high-protein drink is loaded with amino acids and biogenic fuel designed to stimulate tissue repair and help flush his system of lactic acid.
The media converge upon him. A dozen wireless videocams are shoved toward his face, linking each telecast to computer feeds around the world.
‘Sam, you’ve already broken the PCAA’s rushing record for a freshman, now it looks like you’re well on your way to smashing the all-time single-season rushing record. Can we safely assume you’ll bypass your junior year and declare yourself eligible for the GFL’s draft?’
‘Look, we lost a tough game today. I don’t want to talk about my future. Christ, don’t you guys ever get tired of asking the same questions?’
‘We’ll stop asking when you start giving us answers.’ Diane Tanner leans in, the blond bombshell’s tight gray-and-red ESPN leotard revealing more than most of the toweled athletes watching in the wings. ‘For instance, can you confirm rumors you’ve negotiated a contract to play basketball with the GBA next season?’
Sam steals a glance at K. C. Renner, who is flicking his pierced tongue at him from across the locker room. ‘I’ve been offered a dozen contracts, but I haven’t signed anything. Besides, if and when I do turn pro, it will be to play football. The Global Basketball season is way too long.’
‘A lot of GBA owners would be willing to sign you just for the playoffs. The London Monarchs’ owner told me last week that he’d even allow you to use his private jet.’
‘Enough! Ask me about today’s game, or we’re done.’
‘I have a question.’ Sun Sentinel beat writer Ethan McElwee pushes his video feed a little closer. ‘Miami only scored one touchdown, four below its season average. Was the FSU defense really that tough?’
‘They’re tops in the nation for a reason. They hit hard, as hard as any team we’ve faced.’
CNN sportscaster Cal Kitson squeezes between McElwee and Sam, offering the football star a tantalizing view of her Indian red-tinged cleavage. ‘Mule, in two years, no one’s ever come close to tackling you behind the line of scrimmage, yet in the third quarter alone, Jesse Gordon, Florida State’s left defensive end, caught you twice. How do you explain that?’
‘Gordon’s quick. He made a coupla nice plays.’
‘And those rumors about point spreads?’
‘That’s enough.’ Head Coach Ted DeMaio pushes his way through the crowd. ‘Give the kid a break. Hell, he’s been averaging over two-hundred yards a game since he was a freshman, ain’t he entitled to one bad game?’
‘Coach DeMaio-’
‘I said out! Security, get these leeches outta my locker room.’
Four taser-armed security officers push the crowd of reporters toward the exit.
Sam hangs his head.
Diane Tanner lingers behind, moving close enough for Sam to catch a whiff of her perfume, a new aphrodisiac offering a hint of lilac and strawberries.
‘Yes, Diane?’
‘Aren’t you forgetting something? You promised me a private interview after the Penn State game. You blew me off.’
‘I, uh… sorry, I’ve been busy.’
‘Sports is a business, Sam. You guys get paid from revenues we help generate. The head of the network’s pissed, he wants a live studio interview by Monday or we’ll cancel global coverage of the FAU game in three weeks.’
‘Okay, okay. How ’bout tomorrow afternoon? I can meet you in the Press Room about three.’
‘Tomorrow’s good, but tonight’s better. I thought we could do it in my hotel suite.’
Yeah, I bet you did… ‘I, uh… really can’t.’
Diane leans closer. Whispers into his ear. ‘Yes you can. In fact, I bet you can do it all night long.’
She pulls away as the ’Canes’ starting offensive line assembles in front of Sam’s cubicle. The grungy, orange-stained underclassmen are wearing nothing but skimpy towels.
K. C. Renner steps forward. ‘Hey, ESPY-ho, check out this exclusive!’
‘Trust me, Renner, there’s nothing you’ve got under those towels I haven’t seen already.’
The six football players ceremoniously drop their towels, revealing pubic hair but no penises.
Sam hides his grin as K. C. strikes a pose. ‘It was a team decision. Saves wear and tear on jockstraps and cups.’
Ignoring Renner, she turns back to Sam. ‘Tomorrow at three. Don’t blow me off again.’ She whispers. ‘Call me later, and I’ll help you forget all about today’s game.’
She pushes past K. C. and heads for the exit as Sam’s teammates, laughing hysterically, untuck their male organs from between their legs.
K. C. watches Dave Goldsborough, Miami’s 402-pound all-American left tackle struggle to free himself. ‘Yo, Moose, you oughta think about trimming that thing for real, man. Probably help you to move a lot faster.’
As if considering it, the lineman looks down, unable to see past his massive belly.
Sam looks up as his best friend slaps him on the shoulder. ‘Thanks, K. C. Lauren would kick my ass six ways to Sunday if she caught me hangin’ with the ESPY-ho.’
‘No sweat. If she corners you again, send her my way, I’d love to give her what she wants.’ K. C. lowers his voice. ‘Seriously, man, what happened out there today? ’Cept for that first score, I’ve never seen you move so slow. You pull something?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know? You’re not doin’ leeches, are you?’
‘You know me better than that.’
‘Sure, sure-’ The quarterback follows him back to the showers. ‘Well listen, you can pay me back by sticking around long enough for us to win at least one more PCAA championship. I don’t wanna be reading about you jumpin’ ship next week to join some rugby team in Orlando.’
Sam wheels around, catching his friend in a playful headlock. ‘Don’t worry, pal, I ain’t goin’ nowhere.’
7:42 p.m.
Dusk bathes the western face of the arena in its golden haze.
Sam emerges from the air-conditioned building, his skin tingling in the heavy south Florida humidity. He brushes his long, jet-black hair away from his forehead as his dark eyes search the sea of faces waiting for him behind the outer steel gate. Samuel Agler’s eyes are black as coal, making it impossible to tell where the irises end and the pupils begin. At times they seem to shimmer, radiating an inner strength and intellect.
He nods to the guard to open the gate, then pushes through the crowd, struggling to avoid the computer porto-pads being shoved in his face.
‘Come on, Mule, one autograph-’
Sam ignores the autograph hounds, whose only intention is to download his signature across the Internet. He pauses for a father and his eight-year-old son, forcing a smile as their porto-pad snaps his picture. He scribbles a signature – looking up as a black stretch limousine slows, then passes by.
Sam’s pulse quickens. He hands the kid back his porto-pad, his eyes searching for his ride.
K. C. Renner beeps at him from his ‘hydro-jeep.’
Sam jumps in the vacant passenger seat. ‘Go, man, quick!’
The fuel cells kick in, spiriting the two of them away.
