Present Day
Mr. Smith wants me in Atlanta by the day after tomorrow and the last thing I need is to have Rachel there with me.
I head downstairs to find she has set up a mini office in the dining room. Her laptop sits on one end while file boxes are scattered down the length of the table.
“Where’s Ryan?” I ask in place of a greeting.
She doesn’t look up as she organizes a set of files next to her computer. “He ran to pick up food.”
I watch her long enough to unnerve her. She stops what she’s doing and finally gives me her full attention, dropping down in the chair at the end of the table. “We have to be in Atlanta by nine a.m. Friday, so we need to leave here on Thursday,” she says. “I’ve looked at flights and there’s a direct one at four thirty that afternoon. We can get a couple of rooms in one of those hotels near the airport. Let’s plan to spend today and tomorrow going over everything so we’re prepared.”
I sit in the chair next to her, pushing the papers out of my way so I can lean on the table. “I’ll meet you in Atlanta by eight thirty on Friday morning, but there are some things I need to do first. Alone.”
She’s shaking her head before I finish my sentence. “I’m responsible for you. If you don’t show, it’s my ass. And while I’m sure you can easily—and happily—disappear, I live here. My whole life is here.”
“I wouldn’t do that to Ryan,” I answer quietly.
She rolls her eyes. “He doesn’t even know your real name.”
Rachel wants to get a rise out of me and she’s pretty close to succeeding. “It’s not up for discussion. I could ditch you anytime I want and you’d never see it coming. But I’m being nice by telling you I will meet you in Atlanta on Friday. Just tell me where to be.”
We’re staring at each other, waiting for the other to break. The back door opening alerts us to Ryan’s arrival with the food, and I need this settled before he’s in the middle of it.
“I know it may not mean much to you, but I give you my word. I will be there. And when I give my word, I don’t break it. Ever.”
She lets out a rugged breath. “You don’t think we need to spend any time going over your case.” I do need to prepare, but it needs to be with Devon, not Rachel. “I do not.”
Ryan peeks his head into the dining room. His gaze darts from me to Rachel and back again. “All good in here?” he asks.
“All good,” Rachel says. “Of course,” I answer.
“Y’all come eat,” he says, and we follow him back into the kitchen.
I pull out plates and utensils while Ryan sets the food out buffet style on the island. “I got a few different things because I didn’t know what everyone wanted.”
In the song and dance of getting the meal ready to eat, Rachel watches Ryan and me closely. Watches how we move around the room, how we are always conscious of where the other one is. She is weary of me, and I’m sure it’s hard for her to witness, knowing what she does.
I’m scooping a huge serving of chicken parm on my plate when I finally remember Ryan was supposed to have gone to the Bernards’ house today. “Was Mrs. Bernard upset you weren’t there today?”
He takes a long pull from his beer before he answers me. “I called her and told her I had something come up and wouldn’t be able to make it.”
I take the seat next to him at the kitchen table. “His funeral will be this week, so I think you should definitely be here for that instead of going with me to Atlanta.”
“I already told the Bernards I won’t be there because I’ve got an out-of-town emergency.”
I’m shaking my head. “You really need to be there. Rachel and I can handle things in Atlanta.”
He drops his fork on his plate and the sound echoes through the kitchen. “Pretty sure I can decide where I need to be.”
We’re giving Rachel a good show, so I decide to table this conversation until we’re in the privacy of our bedroom. She already knows I plan to leave this house alone. I look up at her and say, “I assume
you’re okay missing the funeral as well?”
“Yep,” she says, making that p really pop. “Last time I talked to James was about two years ago, when he called begging for money. I gave it to him on the condition he would get some help. I even had a spot lined up for him in a rehab facility. He ghosted me as soon as he got the cash. I was one of the few from our group who didn’t see him when he got to town a couple of weeks ago.”
Ryan grunts. “Yeah, I have about ten stories like that.”
The rest of the meal is filled with meaningless chitchat, and soon enough we retreat to our bedroom and Rachel to the spare downstairs.
Standing in the middle of our room, I blow out a long, slow breath. Center myself. “I need to take care of a few things alone,” I say to Ryan as he turns down our bed, not noticing that someone made it up for us. His expression sharpens, but I push on. “I’m meeting Rachel in Atlanta. You’re welcome to meet me there too.”
Ryan watches me as he strips down and climbs into bed. “I don’t want to talk anymore today.” He holds the covers back, inviting me to slip in the bed with him.
I should push, but I’m done with talking, too, so I kill the lights and join him.
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I’m at the kitchen table, my notebook out in front of me, when Rachel wanders in. I pull out the two sheets I was writing on, fold them until they are small enough to fit in the back pocket of my jeans, then put the notebook in my backpack before moving to the coffee pot so I can fill my travel mug.
“Where are the cups?” Rachel asks.
I nod toward the cabinet over the pot. She ambles over to grab one. “Are you leaving this morning?”
Glancing at the clock, I answer, “Within the hour.” I scroll through Instagram on my phone and stop when I get to the latest post from Food Network that shows Bobby Flay in front of a grill with his trademark shit-eating grin. I comment: Beat Bobby Flay is my #1 fav show!! 45 mins to beat him is impossible! #EveryGoodRecipeIsWrittenDown
Normally, I would give Devon more than forty-five minutes to meet me at the first spot on the predetermined list, but after yesterday, I’m sure he’s refreshing his feed every few minutes like I am. And the hashtag won’t make sense to anyone but Devon, but I need him to know I have something to give him so he can tell me where to leave it.
Rachel adds a packet of sugar and some creamer to her coffee, then turns to me while she stirs it in. “Does Ryan know?”
“He does,” I say as I continue to scroll, refreshing my own feed. It only takes a couple of minutes for him to post a comment on Spotify’s latest post: See you soon by Coldplay is underrated #TwinkiesAreToo
Guess I’m looking for the Twinkies when I get to the meeting spot.
I close out of the app, then book it upstairs to pack. I throw some clothes in a bag and move to the bathroom to gather my toiletries. When I come back into the bedroom, Ryan has his own bag sitting on the bed, open and half full.
“Do you think I’ll need a suit?” he asks.
I dump the stuff in my arms into my bag before moving to the closet for my shoes. “I need to do this alone.” I can’t look at him.
“I understand you think you need to do this alone, but you’re not alone anymore.” His gaze catches mine from across the bed. “I’m coming with you.”
I match his stare. “But you would miss work on Thursday and I know how important the appointments on Thursday are for you.” I’m pushing right now to see what I can shake loose.
His head tilts to the side, his eyes narrowing. “I’m willing to tell you my secrets if you’re willing to tell me yours.” His voice is deep and a bit unsettling. “You go first.” There’s a glimpse of the guy who ruled that warehouse yard.
I just cross my arms and look at him.
Ryan throws his hands in the air when I don’t take him up on his offer. “I’m not asking any questions. I don’t scare easily. And I really don’t want you doing whatever it is that you think you need to do alone.” We continue to stare at one another until he finally adds, “Plus, my skill set may come in handy in a pinch.” And there’s that smile. The one that makes him utterly charming.
And as much as I thought smiling was impossible right now, I give him one right back. “And what skill set is that?”
He shrugs and continues packing. “Take me along and find out.”
I’m torn on what to do about Ryan. Mr. Smith decided this was the job to put me in while we played this macabre game, and I need to know why.
Mr. Smith will expect me to go alone. Until this point, I wanted to be 100 percent predictable, and now I need to be the exact opposite. Plus, Ryan’s arguing pretty hard to come along even though he’ll miss James’s funeral and a week of work. Very curious.
Forcing out a deep breath, I make a show of giving in. “I make all the decisions. If I need to slip off to handle something by myself, there is no argument from you. Not a single word.”
He nods. “Don’t even think about ditching me along the way,” he says with a smirk. “I can see it all over your face.”
We both know that option is always on the table.
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Rachel is pissed Ryan is going with me but she isn’t.
I load our bags into the back of my 4Runner, while closer to the house Ryan is squaring off with Rachel in a heated conversation. I shut the back hatch and turn toward the street, committing it to memory. I will miss it more than I want to admit.
Slipping into the driver’s seat, I wait for Ryan. When he hears the engine turn over, he looks at me over his shoulder. Rachel reaches for him when he moves toward the car. She knows things about me that he does not, things she can’t tell him since I’m protected by client-attorney privilege, and she’s frantic to stop him from coming with me.
He’s not having it.
Ryan slips into the passenger seat, then rolls down the window as Rachel approaches his side. He wanted us to take his Tahoe, but this is my show, and if I do decide to leave him somewhere along the way, I’m going to need my own car.
Rachel gives me a look I don’t particularly like, then focuses on him. “I’m not joking, Ryan. No later than eight thirty on Friday morning in Atlanta. I’m working on the detectives meeting us in a location other than the precinct, so as soon as that is finalized, I’ll let you know where.”
“You’ve mentioned all of this a number of times,” he answers. His head drops back against the headrest, his gaze fixed on the windshield. Her hands grip the open window as if she’s physically trying to stop us from driving away.
I fidget around in my seat, ready to go. I don’t do good-byes. At all.
Ryan must feel my unease because he gives me a nod and I put the car in reverse, letting off the brake enough that Rachel has to pull her hands free and take a step back. “I’ll call you,” he says to her as we start inching backward. “And don’t be surprised if you have to pick me up after she’s abandoned me somewhere.”
She clearly doesn’t think his joke is funny.
Once the window is rolled up and we’re on the street in front of his house, he asks, “Do you need me to book a hotel in Atlanta? I mean, I assume that’s where we’re heading.”
“I’ve got it handled,” I answer.
I pull out of the neighborhood onto one of the busy streets that runs through town, then turn in to a gas station. “Can you fill us up while I go in for a few snacks for the road?”
He’s out of the car before I finish the question.
“Get me a Coke and some chips. BBQ flavor,” he says just before I step inside the store.
I walk down the snack aisle, grabbing a couple of different bags of chips and a package of peanut butter M&Ms, and I spot Devon filling up a cup at the fountain machine. I pull the folded-up paper from my back pocket and slide it under the Twinkies. While I’m checking out at the register, he has moved to the snack aisle to retrieve the handwritten letter that will catch him up on what happened yesterday and give the details of the plan I came up with. It’s not the best form of communication, but it’s old-school enough that I know it can’t be hacked. If everything goes the way it should, I will see him in person soon.
When I get back to the car, I slide into the passenger seat.
Ryan looks at me through the open driver’s-side window, where he’s still pumping gas. “I’m guessing you want me to drive now?”
“Yes, please,” I answer before taking a swig of my Diet Dr Pepper.
“You’ll have to tell me where we’re going if I’m driving,” he says once he’s back in the car. “Get on the interstate and head east.”
We drive for a while without a word between us. The car is quiet. No music playing. No conversation.
Only directions when needed.
The land flattens out as we head into the Mississippi Delta, where there’s nothing but row crops for miles and miles. We’re off the main interstate now, bumping along the back roads through the small towns that pop up every hour or so. The kind of towns where the speed limit drops from fifty-five to thirty-five with little warning, so the driver isn’t prepared for the speed traps that generate the revenue that supports them.
We stop for gas again, and Ryan insists on paying for it. I insist he do it with cash. He pulls out a bulging wallet filled with twenties as if he is more prepared for this trip than I gave him credit for, and I remind myself that he’s as shady as I am.
“I’m sorry you’ll miss James’s funeral,” I say once we’re back on the road.
He lets out a deep sigh. “Me too.” I don’t think he’s going to say anything else until he adds, “I spent years helping James . . . saving James. I gave him money, clothes, a place to stay. Put him in rehab more than once. I was a crutch for him. He knew I’d be there. He knew I’d save him. So why bother getting your shit together if there’s always someone saving you?”
A few minutes pass before I say, “I don’t need saving.”
His head jerks in my direction. He looks at me while I stare straight ahead, then his attention focuses back on the road. “I know that. There are things you may need, but saving isn’t one of them.”
This makes me want to ask questions. So many questions. But he made it clear—he’d show me his but I have to show mine first. So instead of questions, I say, “In two miles, you need to take a left.”
Alias: Wendy Wallace—Six Years Ago
I love this little town. In another life, I would have graduated from high school and headed straight here for college. I would have gone to every sporting event and play and art showing. Breaks between classes would have been spent in the quad, where I’d complain with fellow students on the unfairness of how our professor graded our last exam.
But I’m not living that life.
I was only in that airport hotel in Raleigh for a day before there was a knock on the door. I opened it to find a guy in a UPS uniform standing on the other side. But upon closer inspection, I realized it was the same guy who delivered my last set of instructions from Matt.
“You’re George,” I said.
He looked confused. “I’m sorry, who?” he asked.
I pointed to the space on my tee where a name tag would be if I had one. “George. It was the name on your uniform at the hotel in Hilton Head.” He seemed surprised I would remember that. “But I’m guessing that’s not your real name.”
He handed me a plain brown package without any address or shipping label and said, “No, it’s not.” I’m sure he’s not supposed to be talking to me, just delivering things.
“Are you going to tell me your real name or do I just keep calling you George?” He shrugged. “George works, I guess.”
“Okay, George it is.” He started to step away, but he stopped when I asked, “You coming to Florida with me? Or do you have other deliveries to make?”
Another shrug. “You’ll have to wait and see.” And then he was gone.
Ripping the package open, I found a Florida driver’s license in the name of Wendy Wallace, along with a slip of paper listing the address of a shipping and container store, including the mailbox number, and the name of an apartment complex and unit number. There were also two keys on a keychain, one key much bigger than the other. And lastly, there was a picture of a man in his mid-to-late thirties. On the back of the picture was his name, Mitch Cameron, and “Get to know everything about him” written underneath it.
I found Mitch Cameron immediately. Everyone knows Mitch Cameron, since he’s the head football coach for a college in Central Florida. He is loved and hated in equal parts.
Mitch is thirty-seven years old and has been married to Mindy for the last ten years. Mitch and Mindy. How adorable. Mitch is also the father of two young kids, a boy named Mitch Jr. and a girl named Matilda.
This family is brought to you by the letter M.
It only took four days for me to learn everything about Mitch and what his daily life looked like, although I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why a college football coach was the mark. I’m never told who the client is, but I’m anxious to find out what’s going on with Mitch that necessitated hiring Mr. Smith.
Every day this week, I’ve ridden my bike to the practice field so I can watch him at work. Today, I’ve spread a blanket out, surrounded myself with textbooks just like the half dozen other students studying outside on a fall afternoon, the Florida sun turning my skin a gorgeous tan. I’ve never spent so much time outdoors.
Mitch seems well liked by his players. He’s tough on them but he’s also encouraging and not afraid to tell them when they’ve worked hard. Just like every day, when practice ends and Mitch sends the players to the showers, I pack up and head to the package center to check the mailbox. It’s been empty every time I’ve checked so far, but today I’m feeling lucky.
A little shriek of excitement slips out when I see the small envelope inside. Finally! I slide it in the waistband of my shorts and pull my shirt over it, leaving the store as quickly as possible.
I don’t open it until I’ve reached the safety of my apartment.
There is a single piece of paper inside that lists five names with a date and time next to each one.
I only need to google two names before I see a pattern. Every person on this list is a high school senior who lives within a sixty-mile radius of the university and has had an amazing football career so far. And there is speculation about where all of them will end up playing next fall.
At first, this seems ridiculous to me. Why am I here? To monitor some football coach and a handful of eighteen-year-old boys?
I deep-dive into high school and college football. I realize the millions and millions of dollars that universities make on the backs of these players before they go pro. If they’re lucky enough to go pro.
It is a big business.
There’s also a lot of talk about players getting paid under the table to pick one college over another— stories of bagmen dropping off cash late at night and communicating by burner phone, and even more mind-blowing are the college boosters, aka old people, who spend big money in the hopes that their alma mater might possibly win a championship. They throw cash at programs and expect results. And if they don’t get them, the money stops. There’s a real question as to who is actually running these programs: the school’s athletic director or the wealthy few writing the checks. All you need to do is google “T. Boone Pickens” and “Oklahoma State University” to get the general idea.
There is a big push to change the rules and allow college athletes to profit off their name and likeness. In fact, most people in the industry believe the NCAA will allow student athletes to accept endorsements as early as 2020 or 2021, but for now, it is strictly forbidden. If caught paying players, schools are fined huge sums and could even lose opportunities to go to bowl games at the end of their season, which kills their recruiting efforts. But the worst penalty is to the athlete. They lose their eligibility to play. Anywhere.
The last few jobs, I’ve used this time in the lull between getting information but still waiting for exact instructions to guess what the client has hired us to do.
Since the prospective players’ names were given to me, I’m guessing they play into this somehow. Is Mitch a dirty recruiter? Is the client a rival school who wants Mitch’s program in trouble?
I concentrate on the dates and names. I map out where each player lives, I learn their stats, I scour their social media.
Five names. Five dates. The first takes place in one week. I’m going to need some tech and help installing it, so I follow the steps Devon has set up and ask him to come to Florida.
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I planned to watch Mitch Cameron court these players, but I didn’t anticipate I would also catch coaches from other schools visiting them too. These guys are the best of the best from this area and everyone wants them. While the university Mitch coaches for is a good one, there are a couple of bigger and better ones not far from here, so the competition is strong.
It was easier than I thought it would be for us to get in each player’s home to set up once Devon arrived with the equipment we needed. All their houses are in poor neighborhoods with little to no security in place. It’s hard to ignore how much money is at stake for colleges with a winning season, yet these boys aren’t even supposed to get their dinner paid for by anyone associated with the school. It doesn’t seem fair.
A week into spying on these guys, there’s another note in the mailbox.
All recordings, videos, and images of the subjects from the previous list that document meetings, conversations, or discussions (even discussions between family members) regarding any football program should be turned in. A courier will arrive at your apartment every night at 10 pm for pickup. Do not leave it in the mailbox.
I knew Mr. Smith would be keeping a close eye on me, but I didn’t realize just how close. It also weighs heavy in favor of the client being from a rival school. Mr. Smith doesn’t want the conversations just between the players and Mitch, but their conversations with all the coaches. But the coaches aren’t the only ones showing up to talk to these guys.
It’s quickly obvious who the most valued player is: Tyron Nichols. Tyron lives in one of the poorest Black communities in the same town as the university. His house consists of three small bedrooms and one tiny bathroom, but is home to Tyron, his parents, a grandmother, and five younger siblings. His parents work long hours while the grandmother tends to the kids who aren’t in school yet. It’s clear his parents have no idea what to do with all the attention Tyron is getting.
But Tyron is smart. Even though he’s been offered money, he hasn’t taken any of it. Because when it comes down to it, Tyron is the one with the most at stake. If he loses his eligibility, he doesn’t play. There’s a close to zero chance he’ll go to the NFL, where he’d finally get paid what he’s worth, if he doesn’t have a successful college football career first.
I watch on my small screen when men in starched button-down shirts show up at Tyron’s door. I notice how he handles himself with them and then later listen in on the conversations he has with his brother, who is only one year younger, about what’s being offered.
By the second week, I’m exhausted. Even though Devon and I are dividing and conquering, it takes us all day to skim through footage from all five locations and separate the relevant parts before George knocks on my door in his UPS uniform.
The only good thing is that George seems to be warming up to me. The first pickup or two, it was all business, but now he lingers in my doorway and chats a bit. I even gave him a few slices of pizza last night for the road since he looked as worn out as we did. Makes me wonder how much area he’s covering in a day if he’s got to be back here every night.
While we’ve gotten some dirt on some of the other coaches, Mitch Cameron hasn’t stepped out of bounds once in any of his meetings with potential players. He’s up front about his desire for them to be a part of his team, he’s courteous to the family, complimentary about whatever food or drink is put in front of him. He is the perfect guest.
I’m having flashbacks to my time with Andrew Marshall, and there’s a tight twist in my gut about what I might be asked to do.
I’m ready to know what the job is.
After another long day of scrolling through videos, I drop the thumb drive in an envelope and glance at the clock. George should be here any second.
Once Devon saw the last set of instructions, he wouldn’t come to this apartment at all since he doesn’t like the idea of George being so close by, so I’ve had to add in a trip to get what he’s recorded. Those meeting spots change daily.
Two quick taps on the door lets me know he’s here. “Hey, George,” I say, handing him the small package. His forehead crinkles. “You’re not looking so good.”
“Always the charmer.” I roll my eyes. “You watch surveillance videos all day long and let me see what you look like.”
He hands me a manila envelope. “Got something for you tonight. Thought I’d save you a trip to the mailbox since I have to come by here anyway. Just don’t rat me out.”
My relief is evident. “Finally. And don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.” I’m ready to tear into it but I notice George is lingering in the hall. “Is there something else?”
He nods once, then says in a near whisper, “Since this is your first job where you’re dealing directly with him, if it feels like a test, it is.”
I stare at him with wide eyes, silently begging for him to tell me more. But with those cryptic words, he’s gone.
I can’t rip open the envelope fast enough.
Cameron needs to be removed from his position without negative outcome financially or publicly to him, the university, or the program or any future prospects. No scandal.
I had a lot of theories of what I’d be asked to do but this didn’t make the top ten. And while the desired outcome and parameters are very clear, these instructions still feel very vague.
If it feels like a test, it is.
Well, here we go.
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It took a few days for me to walk through my options and weigh the potential for success against the risks of breaking one of the rules Mr. Smith laid down.
I can’t load some underage porn on Mitch’s computer and blackmail him into quitting because, for one, there’s no guarantee that won’t turn into some scandal, and two, if he quits, he forfeits the rest of what’s left in his contract—six million dollars—and that would hurt him financially.
Blackmail on his wife leads to the same results and blackmail on any member of the college opens them up to scandal and also hurts them financially, since they’d have to buy out his contract.
I feel like I’m boxed in.
I feel like I’m going to fail his test.
The only thing to do is start back at the beginning. He wouldn’t set me up to completely fail, so I’m missing something. He wants me to prove myself, so there is a way to get this job done—I just need to find it.
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The Ford dealership is shiny and new; the main room is a big open space with lots of glass and chrome. Salesmen circle the front doors like sharks, but I push my way through without breaking my stride or making eye contact with a single one of them.
There’s a young blonde at the welcome desk who eyes me up and down quickly, then pastes a gigantic smile on her face.
“Welcome to Southern Ford! How can I help you?” “I need to speak with Phil Robinson.”
“I’m not sure he’s available . . .”
“Give him this.” I drop a white envelope on the counter in front of her. Phil owns five Ford dealerships that are scattered throughout central Florida, but he keeps his main office in this location.
It only takes a moment for the receptionist to return and lead me to him. Phil meets us at the door. His eyes track me from the tips of my shoes to the top of my head. I’m feeding him the details I want him to have, to remember. My clothes are nice but not too nice. My jacket looks like it was fitted especially for me but it’s obvious my skirt is off the rack. My jewelry is minimal but tasteful. My hair is pulled back and the makeup heavier than what I normally wear. I’m thirty, easily.
My hand is out as I approach him, and he hesitates a second or two before caving. “Mr. Robinson, thank you for seeing me,” I say as we shake hands.
He motions me inside his office and I do a quick survey of the room. He’s a super fan and one of the college’s biggest boosters. There are framed jerseys and game balls. Pictures with players and coaches, including Mitch Cameron. Phil sinks into his chair behind his desk while gesturing me to take the one across from him.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asks. He’s opened the envelope and pulled out the picture of stacks of cash sitting on the tailgate of a Ford truck with a sticker of his dealership’s logo on the back window. There is no room for small talk.
“I’m here about Roger McBain.”
Phil’s face shows confusion, but there’s red creeping up under his starched white collar. “I don’t know anyone named Roger McBain.”
My forehead crinkles as if I’m really taking him for his word and am somewhat confused, then I pull out more pictures. Pictures that show Phil and Roger together. “Huh, you two look pretty chummy here.” Then I put my iPad on the desk so it faces him. I press play on the video that is waiting on the screen. It’s a recording of a dinner with Phil, Roger, and a handful of other megadonors. Their discussion comes to
life where they detail which high school prospects they want Roger to approach and how much money they will offer to each one. Phil even offers to throw in a couple of cars if necessary. “Anything to keep them from going to Florida State,” he says. There is also some bragging about how successful they were last year in scoring some of the best recruits. I end the video right after Phil says, “Giving away that F- 250 was worth those twelve touchdowns.”
Phil stares at the screen from across the desk, and I can see the color drain from his face.
The one group that was not mentioned on that sheet of paper from Mr. Smith were the boosters. The mark: protected. The school: protected. The program: protected. The prospects: protected.
But not a word about those wealthy, overly invested boosters.
Mr. Smith knew I’d not only see the players talking to the coaches, but I’d also catch men like Roger McBain approaching them on behalf of boosters like Phil Robinson.
“Roger works for you. You tell him the players you want to commit to your alma mater, give him the funds to entice them to do so.”
I came with receipts and he knows it. He’s quiet, toying with a black ballpoint pen in his hands.
“I have just as many pics of you with the athletic director, the university president, and half the coaching staff so it’s not a stretch to assume the school knew what you were doing and even condoned it. Think the NCAA will give them a three or four season bowl ban?” This is my only bluff, because I can’t really pull the school into this, but Phil doesn’t know that. I just need him scared enough that I can tie the school to his activities. The last thing he wants is to be the guy who brought down the whole program.
He finally speaks. “What is it that you want?”
Even though I knew there was zero chance Phil would let the team suffer for something he did, I am relieved he’s crumbling under my threat.
“We want Mitch Cameron gone. You and your little friends will insist he be let go but you’ll be nice about it. You’re to say you don’t agree with Mitch’s vision. You’ll say it’s time for a rebuild. And then you’ll buy out his contract. No reason for the school to eat that six million dollars when it’s all your fault.”
His lips peel up over his teeth like he wants to growl at me. “You are under the impression I have more power than I do.”
“Nope. I believe in you, Phil,” I say brightly. “I believe you can get it done.” “Why?” he asks. “Why Cameron?”
“Just like you, we want what’s best for the school. We’re all on the same team, Phil.”
He doesn’t like my answer and he doesn’t ask anything else. I gather my things, taking my time getting everything back in my bag. “I’ll expect an official announcement no later than Monday morning.”
And then I’m gone.
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Three days later, I’m back in my apartment, one eye on ESPN and one eye on the continuing footage coming in from the prospects’ homes. There haven’t been any more notes in the mailbox and no more nightly pickups from George. I’m in the waiting game to see if my gamble paid off. It’s not unheard-of for boosters to want a coach gone and to raise the money to buy them out. But that’s usually at the end of a losing season when the coach is doing a poor job.
The breaking news on ESPN takes my attention away from the grainy footage of one of the players’ houses as I focus on the words flashing across the bottom of the screen.
COACH MITCH CAMERON IS OUT IN FLORIDA
And then the details. The university had terminated their contract with him, and money raised by the boosters will cover his buyout. The reason given was that Coach Cameron and the athletic director had a different vision for the future of the program.
That’s it.
Not even a minute later, there is a knock on the door and I almost jump out of my skin. Smoothing my hair back, I take a few deep breaths before I open it. And there’s the familiar face in the brown UPS uniform, a package in his outstretched hand.
“Hey, George!” I take the package and say, “Looks like I passed.”
“Looks like you did.” He smiles and leans against the doorjamb. “How does it feel?” “Feels pretty good,” I answer.
He lingers a few more seconds, then pushes away. “See you soon.” And then he’s gone.
I tear open the package the minute the door closes. Inside is a single typed page, a receipt, and a flip phone.
The paper reads:
The balance of your fee has been deposited. Details included. Keep the phone charged and you will be contacted for your next job.
That’s it. I check the deposit receipt and read the note again. I eye the figure on the receipt once more.
That’s a lot of money. And it’s mine.
It takes only a few minutes to pack up what I need from the apartment, but I’m not going back to North Carolina. I need to find a spot where I can’t be found, a safe place to land between jobs. I’ve paid attention over the years and know how important it is to save for that inevitable rainy day. Maybe I can tuck away in another small college town like this. One where I can get lost in the sea of students.
I picture it. Visualize myself in a sleepy little town like this. A cute little house on a quiet street.
Somewhere safe.
Now I just need to see it done.
There’s one thing I need to do before I go. My “new to me” Honda rolls to a stop in front of the small house, and I lock the door before I make the short walk across the tiny yard.
Tyron answers the door a few minutes after I knock. “Hey, can you step out here for a second?”
He’s clearly confused but does what I ask. I walk back to my car and lean against the trunk while he stands on the curb next to me. This is more privacy than we would get inside his house.
“You don’t know me, but I wanted to give you some advice. You have a very bright future ahead of you and you’re smart, but you need to be smarter. Assume someone is listening. At all times. Assume someone will rat you out. I know you like to talk to your younger brother about all the offers . . . and extra incentives . . . but you need to stop. Keep your own counsel.”
His eyes are big. Like freaking-out big.
“And get what you can. Take it all. Make no promises and sign with the team you want regardless of what any other team offers you. But be smart about that too.”
I talk for a few more minutes and he seems to absorb everything I tell him. He asks questions and I answer what I can. I give him tips on where to put the money so it grows. How to keep a low profile. How to never trust technology. Just as I’m about to leave, he asks, “Who are you?”
I give him a smile and say, “Someone who has had to grow up fast, just like you.” I’m just about to turn and leave but ask one last thing. “Have you thought about where you want to play?”
He shrugs. “Not sure yet. Probably going wherever Coach Cameron ends up.” I nod. “Yeah, I hear he’s looking for a new school now.”
“Yeah, he said that was coming but not to worry.”
Something about the way he says it makes me straighten. “When did he tell you that?” I’ve watched every interaction between Tyron and Mitch in that house and I never heard him say that.
“I ran into him about a week ago. He was kind of cryptic and shit but I got what he was saying. He wanted me to know he wanted me even if he wasn’t in Florida.”
Ran into him.
A week ago.
Mitch Cameron was let go this morning. He shouldn’t have known that was coming a week ago. Very interesting.
