The crowd jumped to their feet. So did Billy. When it came to athletics, there was no such thing as luck. This was especially true for professional sports. It was all about hard work and being in the right place at the right time.
This was Night Train’s place and his time. The football landed in Night Train’s outstretched hands, and he cradled it like a baby and sprinted to the opposite end zone.
Game over.
Outside the suite, a glorious display of fireworks lit up the sky. Leon started yelling like he’d won the lottery, and the girls started dancing. Billy pulled up the calculator app on his cell phone and did the math. All totaled, he’d just won twenty million bucks on the prop bets and the Rebels’ win. With half going to Night Train and his teammates and another three million for his crew, he’d clear seven million. It was a monster score, and he should have felt on top of the world, but the realization that he’d never see Mags again was haunting him. He’d won the game but lost the prize.
He dropped into his chair. He couldn’t ever remember feeling this bad after pulling a heist. The money was worthless without someone to share it with. His crew decided to take the party downstairs to the M’s bar. Pepper stopped in the doorway. “You going to join us?”
“Not tonight,” he said.
“Why so down in the mouth? We won.”
“I’m just worn out. It’s been a long couple of weeks. I’ll catch up with you later.”
Pepper started to say something but decided not to and left. He continued to watch the TV. The scene on the field was bedlam. A small stage was wheeled out, and the Rebels were presented with the Lombardi Championship Trophy while brightly colored confetti filled the air. After the ceremony was over, a reporter cornered Night Train and stuck a microphone in his face.
“Congratulations. You’ve just been named the game’s most valuable player,” the reporter said. “How do you feel about that?”
“It’s a real honor.” Night Train paused. “I’d like to dedicate this game to my father. He sacrificed a lot for me. This one’s for you, Pop.”
“What are you going to do next?” the reporter asked.
That was a good question. Night Train’s playing days were over, and the NFL would surely take the broadcasting job off the table. Every professional athlete had to walk away from the game they loved, and few knew where that journey would take them. But Night Train got to depart with the gift of knowing that he’d played his last game the right way, without resorting to compromising himself or the sport that he loved. Night Train flashed his famous smile.
“That’s easy. I’m going to Las Vegas.”
He killed the picture with the remote. Had this been a movie, he would have walked off with the beautiful girl on his arm and lived happily ever after. Instead, he was going home alone.
“I want my money,” a female voice said.
His head snapped. Mags had materialized in the doorway wearing a leather skirt and red blouse. She’d cut her hair short and dyed it blonde and wore a pair of owlish glasses. The new look was different enough to beat the surveillance cameras, and he wondered why she’d done it.
He rose from his chair and approached her. It was a mirage, or maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. He placed his hand on her arm, just to see if she was real.
“How did you find me?” he asked.
“You once said the M was your favorite place to watch sporting events. I convinced the guy at the front desk I was your girlfriend, and he gave me a room key.”
“That was clever. What’s with the new look?”
“I’ve decided to quit show business and go back to stealing.”
“But I just saw a trailer for your show.”
“It’s a secret. Filming starts Monday morning. I want that prick Rand to come to the set and not find me there. Let him twist in the wind for a while.”
“Rand really hurt you, huh?”
“He most certainly did. Not as bad as you hurt me but damn close. The difference was, you said you were sorry and tried to make things right. That fucker never apologized. Rand doesn’t care what happens to me, and he never will.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“I’ve never been more sure in my life. Now where’s my money from the super con?”
“It blew up in our faces. The good news is, I just made seven million bucks off the Super Bowl, which you can help me spend. Sound like a plan?”
“Seven million? And to think I met you selling newspapers on the corner in Providence.” She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. “What did you do, fix the game?”
“It’s a long story.”
Her heel caught the door, shutting it. Her eyes were on fire, and her hand started to undo the buttons on his shirt.
“Those are usually the best kind,” she said.
Acknowledgments
Most writers are fortunate to have a good editor in their corner. For this book, I had three editors helping me, the brilliant Jacque Ben-Zekry, the always patient Liz Pearsons, and the incomparable Kevin Smith. I would also like to thank my wife, Laura, whose enthusiasm has never waned. Brian Touhy, whose writing on sport fixing opened my eyes to an area of cheating that I knew little about. And to the crew of cheaters I met in Las Vegas who agreed to let me tell their story.