Chapter 1

"Prick faggot mother fucker," Shane Ellsworth spouted as a defensive back plucked his lame duck pass out of the air, and ran it forward six yards before the coach blew his whistle.

"God dammit Ellsworth," Coach Barnes said. "I've seen you throw better with your off hand!"

The pass hadn't even been near Fazon Williams, its intended target instead it was five yards to the left, straight into the numbers of Cedric D'hall. There hadn't even been enough oomph on the ball to make Cedric work. He'd just squatted under the pass, caught it, and took off.

"Strangely get in here!" Coach yelled to Ed Strangely the team's starting quarterback. "See if you can't show Ellsworth how to throw a proper curl."

Shane groaned from his spot on the bench. He'd been throwing curls for years, the idea that at twenty three years old he would be taught it for the first time, grated against him. In frustration he kicked a Gatorade cup away from his feet, and stared at the dirt.

"Head up Ellsworth," a deep voice said from his right shoulder.

"Dude," Shane said. "I'm really not in the mood for encouragement."

"Not a problem, but if you don't get your head up, and look out at the field, coach will ream your ass some more."

Confused, Shane finally looked toward his conversational teammate. Standing there with a helmet in one hand; and an offensive playbook in the other was Daniel Jackson "The Dozer". Inwardly Shane felt an immediate foolishness.

"The Dozer" was a consummate veteran. He'd been playing as a professional for seven years, and had been to three Pro Bowls. On the Orlando team he was an anchor for the offensive squad. Any other member of the offense would have been ignored by Shane, but you couldn't ignore Dozer and expect to be treated well by the team.

Shane stood, and stepped back, over the bench. He was taller than Jackson by several inches, but the other man's presence was not diminished. Off the field he was soft spoken, and easygoing. But a man doesn't get called "The Dozer" by being gentile. On the field he was a machine, many sports journalists and aficionados called him the consummate fullback. Crushing opponents when blocking, and steamrolling them when running, he was five foot, ten inches tall, and built like a titanium fire plug. Daniel Jackson's highlight reel was a who's who of famous linebackers, safeties, and even defensive linemen, all of them going backward or airborne as "The Dozer" went through them.

"Ok, keep my eyes on the field then," Shane said, keeping his eyes glued to the field now, He leaned slightly over and spoke. "Any more advice?"

"You really want more advice?"

"From you, absolutely," Shane said. His eyes darted as Strangely drilled Fazon Williams with a bullet pass. The pop of the ball hitting the receiver's gloves echoed in the empty arena. Coach looked back to Ellsworth, and locked eyes on Shane as if he were about to speak. Then he looked to Jackson, and turned his attention back to the practice.

"You have to get to the root of things, simplify your outlook." Dozer began. "You're a rookie, and a first round pick at that. You know that ninety five percent of your fellow draftees won't be playing ball in three years, and you know that you won't get game time unless you show the Coach something hot."

Shane winced as Strangely repeated the same play. Jackson was pointing out things that Shane's agent had already said to him.

"That's too much pressure. What you need to do is ask yourself some serious questions, and condense those answers into a purpose on the field."

Shane stopped watching the practice, and gawked a bit at Jackson. It was hard to remember sometimes that Dozer had left Stanford six credits short of a degree in communications. He was more educated than most of the players and the only black man in the organization who spoke without slang.

"What questions?" Shane finally said.

"This is the last day of minicamp, why don't we get some dinner out for a change, instead of the same cafeteria crap they serve here, and I'll tell you," Dozer said, now looking Shane in the eye.

"Alright, but I'm buyin," Shane said, holding his right fist out to Jackson at waist level.

"Damn right you're buying," Dozer said, pounding his own fist down onto Shane's.

The rest of the practice went as Shane expected, he worked on his hand offs, and play action movements with the quarterbacks coach Ray Thomas, and Strangely stayed on the field with the first team.

In the shower, Shane was a bad penny. Teammates stayed clear, and Shane kept his head down. The pass he'd thrown earlier had been another in a long line of throws he'd made in the mini-camp. Every ball he'd tossed, and tossed was the right word, because he hadn't 'thrown' much of anything, had been worthless, and would have been ineffective in a game. Shane could count on one hand the number of receptions he'd thrown in the camp.

When he finally looked up, he was alone in the shower. Sighing, Shane turned off the water, and padded out to his locker. A few players were packing their gym bags, but the rest had vanished.

Shane toweled his blonde hair dry, and put on a grey team tee-shirt. Pulling on a pair of ragged looking cargo pants that had cost him a hundred dollars to look the way they did, he slipped his feet into his black leather flip flops, and with comb in hand stood before the mirror.

At six foot four, and 228 pounds, he was built lean and strong. He looked like a football player. Blonde hair that fell around his ears and cheekbones gave him a wind blown look that magazines preferred; it had been his stylist's idea.

His agent had said he'd endorse for over a million after one touch down, and if he was the starter, he'd be asked to sell sand in Arizona. A poster boy for the American dream his agent's secretary had said, if he could just get some game time.

So far all he'd signed were a few routine contracts to the memorabilia card companies, and a video game. It wasn't big money, but it'd help cover the rent on the moderate two bedroom apartment he'd found.

Ten minutes later, Shane had his duffle packed up, and left the locker room, his baggage from the dormitory the team had stayed at all week was already in his car. As he walked out of the facility, and into the parking lot, he saw Jackson leaning against a giant four door Lexus.

"Took you long enough, I'm starving rookie."

"I'm sorry, I had to try and relax," Shane said without emphasis.

"It's cool, but I made reservations, just follow me, I'm not about to drag your ass home after this, I got kids that want to see me tonight."

So Shane tossed his duffle into the back seat of his Chevrolet Tahoe, a ten year old truck his father had let him take to college, and gave him after the draft, and started off behind the Lexus.

If pro football worked out, Shane was sure a big four door sedan was not for him. Maybe some sort of luxury truck. The Lexus suited Dozer fine though, the fullback's entire being seemed to be a contradiction, intelligent and soft spoken as a man, yet violent and brutal as a football player. He looked like an imposing, tough guy, but drove the car of a Florida snowbird.

Dozer drove like Shane's grandmother, and it took fifteen minutes to get to an Italian place that Shane was sure he could have gotten to in five. The valet opened the Tahoe's door, and seemed surprised to see Shane behind the wheel.

"Mr. Ellsworth, welcome to Felini's," the kid said as he held the door open.

"Two under Jackson," Shane heard Dozer saying as his truck drove off. He made his way to the hostess where Daniel was checking in. Seeing Shane, the hostess, a young brunette with a cherub face, flushed.

"Right this way Mr. Jackson"

The restaurant had a comfortable Mediterranean feel to it, and Daniel and Shane were seated at a large round table. A busboy brought water glasses, and a pudgy middle aged woman introduced herself as Kate, their waitress.

When she left to get their wine order, Jackson looked up.

"Ok," he said. "The questions."

"Right," Shane said. "Should I be writing this down?"

"Nope," Jackson shook his head. "Question one, why do you play football?"

"What?"

"Why do you play, are you playing to get rich, to be famous, why do you do it?"

Shane stared at him. There was a trick, he could feel it. Jackson was about to take this simple question, and turn it into something surreal on him. As fortune would have it, their waitress arrived.

"Can I start you off with an appetizer?" she said as she placed their wine glasses in front of them and went about filling them.

"Uh," Shane said, shaken from thought. "Maybe some bread."

Kate jotted that down, and looked back up. "Do you know what you'd like for dinner?"

"I'd like angel hair pesto, with a double portion of chicken, and a Caesar salad," Shane said without hesitation. One of the first things Fred Day, The team's conditioning coach, had done was give him a notebook on how he was expected to eat and imbibe drink while a member of the Orlando Cannons.

Kate left the now half empty bottle of pinot on the table

"You've been reading Fred's book," Jackson smiled, then looked to Kate. "I'll have the lamb and beef lasagna, and for the sake of health, a Caesar salad."

"I'll get that right in, and Kate nodded, and sped off.

"What's the answer to my question rook?" Jackson hadn't wasted a second before jumping on Shane again.

Shane's focus narrowed as he thought about it. Boiled down to just a few instances, and then honed in on one moment.

"Because when I was eleven, I threw a perfect spiral ten yards to a wide open Billy Parker, who sprinted half the field for a game winning touchdown," Shane finally said his eyes clear and a hint of a smile on his face.

Jackson grinned, and nodded, then sipped from his glass and looked away.

"Mine was a stiff arm, my first stiff arm. Right into a kid who to this day, as an adult, doesn't know he decided that I would play ball forever. I don't even know who he was, just that he fell away and I kept right on going," Jackson said without looking across the table. Now Shane was grinning too.

"Ok, question two; Is football personal, or business?"

"Personal," Shane said with no hesitation or waver in him.

"Three; what's the best part of the game?'

"Throwing a pass," This time Shane had reflected for all of a second on his first answer.

"Ok then," Jackson said and sat up to lean toward the middle of the table as if he was a sage about to intone wisdom. Kate their waitress took this moment to drop off a basket of breadsticks, and then vanished like the professional she was.

"You love to play football, you play it for you, and you love to throw."

"Right, except now I have to do it better, and faster—" Shane began but was silenced by Jackson's upturned hand.

"No you don't, you played for the thrill and the fun of it all the way to the pros, you were drafted as a guy who flat out loves to play and blast the ball down field. Don't act like you weren't. Everyone on the team watches football on Saturdays, we all saw you play, I've seen you punch the ground after a sack, and get back up with a grin after the very next play."

Shane just stared, Daniel was right. He'd been thinking about agents, money, endorsements, and fame ever since the draft, things that he had never let get in front of him in college.

"You have got to take that on to the field with you," Jackson continued. "Leave the decisions and shit in the locker room. On the field, you need to take the damn ball, and be the guy who just plain loves to be there."

That point melted into Shane's brain, from someone less respected, he probably would have taken the statement and filtered it out of his head halfway through, but, hearing it all, he knew it was right.

Dinner blurred past, and Shane didn't even know what his food had tasted like. All he knew was that he was going to play football, just play. Sometimes he wondered how he'd ever gotten this far without someone saying it to him before, then he realized that before now, that was all he'd ever done ... he hadn't needed to hear it before.

The rest of the conversation was just chatter, later though, after they'd eaten and were waiting for their cars, Jackson said something else that sunk in to Shane.

"I expect to see the rookie from Ohio State in one week at training camp, not the first year pro with his head full of bullshit."

"You know it," Shane said, holding his fist out again, and for the second time, Jackson slammed his own fist down into it.

"Good," Jackson smiled. "I look forward to it."

His energy amplified by the experience of Dozer's talk, Shane didn't want to go straight home. Instead he climbed into the Tahoe, and drove toward downtown Orlando. He had a plane back to Ohio in the morning to spend the week before training camp with his parents. He figured he'd just not sleep until the flight.

In front of a club called "Passion" he pulled up to a chagrined valet who actually did a double take when Shane got out of the truck. Clamoring to overcome his snobbishness about parking such an old vehicle, the valet professionally handled the Tahoe and left Shane to wander up to the front door.

Shane was always surprised by the way people in line reacted when he was around. There they were waiting, probably for a long time, to gain entry to a place that he would just walk into with out stopping. Sometimes they took his picture, and sometimes they looked like they were just dying to go somewhere that he would go to. Never did they act like he was cheating.

Waving his hand at the idea that Shane would pay a cover charge, a thick bouncer unclipped a red velvet rope, and ushered the quarterback inside. Through the doors, music that had been subdued outside was deafening. This didn't bother Shane as he headed to the bar.

Fred had said that three drinks would be plenty for fun, and four would start getting him stupid. Shane decided to find out how fun three would be, and ordered a dirty grey goose martini.

Football fans were somehow reserved in this club. Shane was sure that the bouncers had something to do with this, as only a few people came to him for autographs, and they all seemed to simply expect him to deliver. Like there was an unwritten rule that he would sign, because no one else was asking him.

Half way through the second Martini, Shane was just getting up the nerve to find someone to dance with when a woman's voice caught his ear.

"Tea from Long Island," the voice said in a New York tone.

Shane turned around to see a red haired woman obviously in her twenties, wearing a black dress that flattered a fit body. Her hair was pinned up above her neck, and she flashed him a smile.

"You're a football player," She said, then gave a crooked smile. "El-something or another."

She was drunk. Which Shane thought was just his luck. Truly attractive, he would have loved to try and talk to her, but drunk like she was it probably wouldn't be worth it.

"Ellsworth," Shane supplied. "Shane Ellsworth."

"Pleased to meet you Shane," She held out her left hand, ring free, and extended in greeting. "I'm Valerie."

"Good to meet you."

Before he could turn back, a man in an expensive double breasted suit stormed up to Valerie.

"Come on Val, let's get back to my place," he said, agitation evident in his tone.

"I told you, I don't want to," Valerie said, alcohol and frustration guiding her posture. She leaned on the bar, and held her right hand up as if to block the suit from view.

"Let's go," the suit continued.

"Look Tommy," Valerie said, hand still held high. "Just cause I drank doesn't mean I suddenly found the desire to spread my legs. I just met this man here, and I don't intend on speaking to you anymore."

The suit looked at Shane unimpressed. He pulled Valerie's hand down and grabbed her wrist. Recoiling, she yanked away from him, and Shane took that moment to inject him self into the situation.

"Why don't you just call her when she's sober dude," Shane offered.

"Shut up," Tommy said without even looking at Shane. "Just get back to your light beer, go find some middle class tramp to bang, and leave us alone."

Shane squared his shoulders, and imposed himself into the smaller man's space.

"I don't really care what you think about me," Shane said edging into the man's face. "But what you know about me, is that I'm a lot bigger, clearly more sober, and I've probably been in a few more fights than you ... right?"

"So what?" Tommy said haughtily, though his body language seemed now much tenser.

"So leave her alone, before I make you shit teeth."

Tommy's face paled, and he stormed away. As soon as he was two steps away, Valerie clutched Shane's arm and pulled him away from the bar.

"Let's go," she said.

"What?"

"Let's go, he'll be back in two minutes with his bodyguards, and they won't give a crap about how many fights you've been in."

So they half sprinted, half walked to the valet, Shane realizing that his idea of a fun night was ending faster than he could believe. As they stepped out the front doors, a barrage of flash bulbs went off, and he stammered an apology to Valerie about it, saying he still wasn't used to it.

"It's ok," she had said, then seemed taken back when the valet opened the door to Shane's old truck for her.

Once they were inside, and driving she laughed, alcohol laden breath filling his nose.

"This isn't what I was expecting you to drive," she said, one hand toying with her hair.

"I like it," Shane muttered. "Where do you live?"

"Don't think I'm sleeping with you," she snorted. "You may be the white knight, but your stallion leaves a lot to be desired."

"Whatever," Shane was seriously wishing he had gone to another club. His mother would beat him if he hadn't helped this girl, but that didn't mean he had to like helping her. "I'm just going to drop you off."

Valerie just looked out the passenger window, obviously unhappy with her situation, and spouted out directions as he drove. Shane stayed silent. The attitude she'd donned for Tommy hadn't gone away, and he wanted as little to do with it as possible.

In short order, the Tahoe pulled beneath a towering high rise, and a red jacketed bell man came, and with no regard for the vehicle, just opened the passenger door, and smiled with courtesy.