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  The lingering humidity from the warm storm caused his shirt to cling to his torso. He knew his physique was surprisingly muscular for his seemingly wiry frame. From the time he was a teenager, Alavi had considered his body a tool for Allah. He constantly exercised and was very careful about what he ate. He took care of himself the same way he was so meticulous about cleaning his guns, and for the same reasons. You never knew when Allah would call you up for service, so you had to be ready.

  “Majid, wait up!”

  Alavi turned to see Kaliq splashing toward him. When he reached his cousin, Kaliq put an arm around his shoulder.

  As they walked, Kaliq said, “So, you’re really going through with it.”

  The sentence came off more as a question than a statement, and Alavi at first wasn’t sure how to answer him.

  “Allah has called us to serve him in the name of jihad. Do you doubt that what we’re doing is right?” Alavi asked defensively.

  “Of course not, cousin,” Kaliq answered quickly, steering them both around an old white and rusty Taurus in order to avoid a particularly expansive lake. “You know better than that. You saw how desperately I begged the imam to let me participate.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. I would have loved to have you alongside me. But you know as well as I that the correct decision was made. You have a family at home to take care of.”

  “Bah,” Kaliq said with a dismissive wave of his free hand.

  As they walked, they took less and less notice of the puddles. Once shoes and pant legs reached a certain level of soaked, it just didn’t matter anymore.

  Alavi knew that it was hard for Kaliq to see him go. Kaliq’s family had pushed him into a marriage when he was just eighteen to a girl that he didn’t love and hardly even knew. In the four years since then, she had only managed to give him two daughters, no sons, and a lot of headaches.

  As the cousins had spent their teen years with just two houses separating them, they had always talked about fighting together. They had dreamed up plots to strike devastating blows upon the Great Satan. Often their ideas would become bigger and bigger and the results more and more ridiculous until they would both end up losing themselves in laughter the rest of the night.

  Through it all, there was one thing they knew. They were going to fight for Allah, and they were going to do it together.

  But now that the time had actually come, one cousin was going while the other was staying behind.

  “There are other ways to carry out jihad than becoming shahid, dear cousin,” Alavi said.

  “True. But none so glorious.” The disappointment in Kaliq’s voice put Alavi at a loss for words. They continued walking in silence.

  The cousins came to a stop next to Kaliq’s Jeep Cherokee.

  Alavi was surprised to see tears in his cousin’s eyes as Kaliq said to him, “Go with God, my brother. Take courage from the righteousness of your actions. And may al-Malaikah guard your every move.”

  “And may the angels watch over you, too,” Alavi said, pulling Kaliq into an embrace.

  After a moment, Alavi let go and walked away without saying another word. As much as he loved Kaliq, his cousin was now of the past. And as he was trained to remember, the past is past. All family, all relationships, everything was now in Allah’s hands. From here on, nothing mattered except the future, the mission, the calling.

  Alavi threaded through two more rows of cars before he came to his little black Focus. Suddenly, a thought struck him, and he began to laugh as he looked around the parking lot. How is it that we can despise this capitalistic system so much, yet when it comes to cars, we all still buy American? Shaking his head, he got into his tiny Ford.

  With one last look to confirm that he had, in fact, put his bag on the backseat this morning—trainings past echoed in his brain: Stupid, little mistakes are the ones that get you killed before you accomplish your mission—he started the car, backed out, and headed south.

  Sunday, September 11, 12:40 p.m. EDT

  Cleveland, Ohio

  “Okay, Riley, now tell me how you’re feeling right now—I mean, really feeling.”

  “Angry.”

  “Good, good. Now, try putting that into a sentence. Like, ‘I’m really feeling angry right now because . . .’ You know, then you can fill in the blank with whatever. Just remember to make it real, make it raw! Go!”

  Riley stared at the producer—Narbinger? Narvinger? Novinger—that’s it, Mike Novinger—trying to keep control. Come on, watch what you say! Don’t forget you’ve got a mic on! Think about it before you open your mouth! WWJD, buddy!

  Typically, with a little bit of mental reasoning and a few deep breaths, Riley was able to maintain a solid handle on his words and actions. Unfortunately, this time his inner monologue didn’t quite have the desired effect on his outer response.

  Slowly standing from his bench in the Cleveland Bulldogs’ visitors’ locker room, he leaned into Novinger’s personal space. He could feel his face reddening, and he fought to control the volume of his words. “You want to know what I’m feeling? Really? Then how’s this? I’m really feeling angry right now because I’ve had a camera in my face since 7:30 this morning!”

  “But that’s just part of—” the producer sputtered.

  “And . . . I’m really, really feeling angry right now because some obnoxious little Chris Berman wannabe keeps asking me every five minutes what I’m feeling and why it is that I’m feeling the way I’m feeling! Comprende? That clear enough for you?”

  “Sure, Riley,” Novinger stammered. “You know, I don’t mean to be such a pain. I’m just trying to do my job the best I know how.”

  Riley sighed deeply and looked toward the ground. It was true that, ultimately, this guy wasn’t to blame. Instead, his anger should be directed toward the owner, Rick Bellefeuille. He was the one who contacted HBO and offered up the ultimate subject for their new PFL series, Sunday Warriors.

  He could imagine Bellefeuille’s pitch: “Who better to follow around the entire day of the game with three cameras, multiple mics, and a producer/sports psychologist who could really get into the mind of the player than the ultimate Sunday Warrior—Captain America himself, Riley Covington?”

  Great plan, Bellefeuille, and if you get your team a little more publicity and yourself some extra spending cash in the bargain, well then that’s just bully for everyone around. Everyone except for the zoo animal you’re putting on exhibit!

  Lifting his head so that his mouth was right next to Novinger’s ear, Riley put his hand around the back of the man’s head and said, “Listen, I know you’re only doing your job. It’s just that I don’t like your job. And I don’t like that I’ve been forced to be part of your job. So I’ll tell you what: I’m going to go hit the head. While I’m gone, I’ll see if I can get myself back into the ‘It’s okay, Riley, you’re only going to be exploited for one day’ frame of mind. Deal?”

  “Sure, Riley. It’s a deal.”

  Riley could feel his hand dampening with the man’s perspiration. He started to let go, but then clamped his hand tighter. “One more thing. I’d consider it a great favor if you muted my mic for the next five minutes. Some things are just personal, and if anything like that made it into your little show, well, let’s just say you’ve read my bio—you don’t want to have Captain America out gunning for you, do you?”

  “Of course not. I mean, of course so,” Novinger grunted as Riley gave his neck a final squeeze. “I mean, no problem; we’ll mute the mic.”

  Riley released the man, then walked past two of the cameramen. As he did, he heard Novinger whisper, “Did you get all that?”

  He turned his head in time to see one of the boom mic operators holding a thumb up. “Frickin’ awesome,” the operator whispered back.

  Shaking his head, Riley continued onto the sticky tiles of the bathroom and shower area. Immediately, the stench hit him—a miasma of odors emanating from years of opponents’ nervous stomachs combining with th
is week’s new offerings.

  Swallowing back a gag, Riley found an empty stall and closed the door behind him. Thankfully, he didn’t really have to go—the thought of any part of his anatomy actually coming into contact with that chipped, semi-whitish fixture caused another wave of revulsion. He was just looking for a place to get away for a few moments, and this was the one place he hoped he could get at least a semblance of privacy.

  Well done, he chided himself. You lost your cool and gave them exactly what they wanted. He punched the metal divider with his taped and gloved hand, rattling the whole rickety stall system and causing groans of protest from a few of the players who were leaning against it trying to regain their composure.

  “Sorry, guys,” Riley called out. Then the picture flashed in his mind of all these huge, tough guys sprawled on this disgusting floor leaning against these just-as-disgusting dividers, and he began to laugh. It started small but quickly grew. Soon he had tears pouring out his eyes, and he was having a hard time standing up.

  Meanwhile, the door slammed on the stall next to him, and someone noisily barked out the contents of his stomach. This sent Riley over the edge, and he dropped onto the seat of the toilet.

  “It ain’t funny, Pach,” a voice grumbled from next door.

  “Sure it is, Panda,” Riley answered merrily, recognizing the voice. “Every week, you sound like you’re giving birth to a baby through your esophagus.”

  “Bite me,” Panda answered, starting to laugh himself. “By the way, this week it’s a boy.”

  Five minutes later, Riley emerged from the bathroom. He and Panda had gone back and forth about the newly arrived baby, covering topics from his name to his skin tone to his future college education.

  The protests from the other stalls finally shut them up, and they quietly stepped from their stalls. It was a respect thing. Each player got ready for a game in his own way. The one element that was typically honored by all was quietness. The two apologized to their teammates, then snickered on their way out.

  Riley arrived back at his locker and the waiting crew. But not before deciding that he was taking himself way too seriously. His pride was getting in the way again—an affliction that he constantly found himself battling. It wasn’t easy keeping a small head when there seemed to be a television, newspaper, or magazine story every other day that talked about how he was America’s hero and the greatest thing since frozen waffles.

  The worst thing he could do would be to start believing his own press. Chasing down glory eventually turned into a losing proposition—it always did. Ultimately, why should he care what people thought of him? Whose affirmation was he trying to gain, after all?

  He remembered the apostle Paul writing, “For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.” So his life wasn’t really about himself anyway. Just be yourself and try to show Jesus in how you’re living. Beyond that, who really gives a flying flip?

  As he sat down at his locker prepared to apologize to Novinger, he could see that the producer had tears in his downturned eyes and was desperately trying to suppress a grin. Riley looked around and saw that the rest of the crew were in various failing stages of laughter suppression.

  “So I’m assuming you didn’t mute the mic,” Riley said to Novinger, causing a brief snigger from two of the cameramen.

  The producer tried a couple of times to answer, but each time ended up looking at the bench again—his shoulders silently bouncing up and down.

  Riley could see that they were beginning to attract attention, which could mean trouble. He was about to tell Novinger that he and his crew better cool it, when he saw defensive coordinator Mick Fields come stomping through the locker room.

  Too late.

  “What’s the matter with you people? Are you a bunch of amateurs? Aren’t you supposed to be from HBO, the big leagues? In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got a team here trying to get ready for a PFL game—that’s the Professional Football League, the big show—and you’re all here tittering like a bunch of schoolgirls reading a Tiger Beat magazine! Well, I’m not having it! Get out of my locker room—all of you!”

  Novinger began to pull out a piece of paper from his back pocket. “But we’ve got permission from Mr. Bellefeuille to—”

  “Save it! I don’t care if you’ve got a signed affidavit from the Almighty executed by seven flaming archangels; I won’t have you disturbing my locker room. Now get out! You can catch up with Mr. Superstar on the field!”

  As the crew gathered up their equipment and headed toward the doors, the crimson-faced coach swung around to Riley. “And you—don’t think I won’t throw you out with them!”

  “Sorry,” Riley said sheepishly. “My bad. Seriously, Coach Fields, it won’t happen again.”

  Fields glared at him for a time. Seeing the sorry look on Riley’s face mollified him somewhat. Grunting, he turned to go.

  “Oh, Coach, one more thing,” Riley called after a few steps. Fields stopped and slowly turned, fire in his eyes. “If you happen to see a little kid named Ralph back in the bathrooms, would you mind sending him my way?”

  Originating from just beyond the doors of the locker room, the sound of the HBO crew completely losing it echoed through the tunnels of the stadium.

  Sunday, September 11, 2:35 p.m. EDT

  Cleveland, Ohio

  The eyes—watch the eyes! Riley backpedaled, staring hard at the Bulldog tight end. He felt his cleats tightly gripping the turf. A salty bead of sweat slipped into the corner of his mouth.

  He’s gonna break! Keep with him! There!

  The tight end’s eyes glanced right. It was just a flicker, barely noticeable, but that was all Riley needed. Sorry, son, this is the big time!

  But as soon as Riley committed to the right, the tight end bolted left. Riley tried to cut back, but it was too late. He had already lost two steps and the advantage.

  All he could do now was chase as the tight end pulled in the pass and tacked on another fifteen after-catch yards. Sammy Newman, the Warriors’ free safety, was the one who finally managed to trip the Bulldog up, sending him sprawling. As the tight end flew toward the ground, Riley launched himself into the man to finish off the play.

  Unfortunately, the collision happened a fraction of a second too late for the referee. Riley groaned as he watched the yellow flag drop to the grass inches from his face.

  The tight end—Lendell . . . no Temple, second-year guy out of Penn State—rolled out from under Riley, then turned and offered him a hand up. Riley grabbed it, feeling a bit like an old man being offered help up a flight of stairs.

  “Nice juke,” Riley said after he was on his feet.

  Lendell just grinned at him, then jogged back to his huddle.

  As the ref announced to the world Riley’s late hit, a hand tapped his back. Turning, he saw second-string linebacker Noah Keaton standing next to him.

  “Coach sent me in, Pach,” Keaton said.

  Riley looked toward the sideline and saw Mick Fields waiting for him. Ten yards to Fields’s right, he saw head coach Scott Medley glaring at him. He was about to ask which coach, when Medley lifted a clipboard to his face and turned away. Fields, on the other hand, had not taken his eyes off of him.

  This should be fun, Riley thought as he jogged toward the sideline.

  Fields didn’t wait for Riley to reach him. Running onto the field, he launched in. “Really, Covington? Is that really all you’ve got? Because that second-year boy just schooled you! Seriously, what were you thinking? Crap play like that just ain’t going to fly—especially not from you! Because I know your salary, son! I know how much Bellefeuille is dishing out for you each year!”

  I’m not in the mood for this. I’m truly not in the mood.

  Riley didn’t bother to look at Fields. Instead, he just kept walking, forcing the coach to follow next to him. As Fields screamed, Riley led him on a maze through the players standing along the sideline, circling around the benches, and edging between the phone bank and
the Gatorade table. All the while, though, Fields never left him and he never shut up.

  I’ll grant him one thing—he is persistent. He’s like a little yappy terrier that you just can’t shake off.

  “In fact, I can tell you your salary per game—per play, even! The way I figure it, Mr. Bellefeuille and the fans of the much-storied Washington Warriors just dished over right around $10,000 for you to miss that coverage. Or we could say it was approximately $350 for every yard you just gave Cleveland!”

  He’s good with the numbers, too! Very impressive, Riley thought as he gave an embarrassed nod to one of the Bulldog cheerleaders who had been intently watching the whole incident. He did an about-face and headed back toward the team. I’ve got to find a way to lose him before I end up saying something I’m going to regret.

  “Don’t think you’re getting rid of me, Covington! You’re going to hear what I have to say!”

  Finally, Riley saw his salvation. Moving toward the field, he made a quick right in front of a Fox Sports tech holding a parabolic audio dish. Fields, who was cut off, stumbled into the man, and then in turn was rammed by the HBO Steadicam operator who had been marching behind the two-man parade.

  Seizing the opportunity, Riley ducked into the mass of players. Behind him, the crowd roared their approval for something that was happening on the field. Good to know I’m not the only one stinking rocks today!

  Sliding his helmet off, he fought the urge to throw it at . . . what? A bench? Coach Fields? Bellefeuille’s private box?

  I got it! How about those obnoxious Dog Pound fans with their Bulldog masks and their creative speculations into my lineage? Riley made the mistake of looking in the direction he was thinking. This sent the Dog Pound into a barking and howling frenzy.

  Ultimately, none of the options seemed practical or productive, so he settled for sitting down by himself and sulking. To say that Riley was having a bad game today would be like saying the Titanic was suffering from minor structural damage. His game was going down fast and it was going down hard—a fact that was as obvious to him as it was to the coaches. This was the first time that he could remember ever being pulled from a defensive series.