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“We got a scrimmage scheduled for next week. If all goes well, Jerry and Mike want to give you a crack at that,” Boris stated, looking around at the coaches for confirmation.

Mike nodded in agreement, but Jerry didn’t seem too enthusiastic.

A general chatter from the coaches let him know that everyone didn’t actually think this was a fantastic idea. If anything, they seemed to think Tyler wanted to do it, more than they wanted to force him to do it. Exactly what Josh had warned him about.

Boris snapped his fingers, remembering something. “And uhh… one other thing. Zack and his people are telling me this literacy library thing has been a big positive. More of that. Books. Swag. Anything you need,” he said. “Getting other celebrities on board was a real coup. We could almost keep you on the sidelines the rest of the season for more PR events.”

Tyler forced a smile. “Right. Maybe you can prop my corpse up on the sidelines so the fans don’t forget who owns Captain Fantastic’s contract.”

“Good one!” Boris let out a booming laugh. “But seriously, when do you think you’ll be ready for the field again?”

Tyler’s stomach dropped. Any second now Zack and his team would try to stuff Josh into a “Ty One On!” thong for Mom-stagram. He glanced at the coaches, who were all mute and obedient.

“Soon,” Tyler said carefully. “I’m not a quitter, but I am scared. With good reason.”

“You guys kill me,” Boris bellowed. “Our players get knocked around every game and they’re out partying till sunup. You just need to get back on that horse.”

Tyler clenched his fists under the table, digging his nails into his palms. He had to fight to keep his voice steady. “I just need a little more time. All due respect, a bruised rib is a little different than a catastrophic heart attack.”

Every single person at the table besides Boris seemed to realize just how close he was to snapping. The coaches shifted in their seats. They were well acquainted with his temper.

“Fantana, our insurance adjuster has given the okay for you to play.” Boris smiled like a kindly patriarch offering charity. “These guys never lose. They wouldn’t risk having to pay squat. He’s seen all the data, watched your tapes the past three weeks. They’re willing to let you play against a guarantee of six million dollars.”

To his credit, McBride winced.

Tyler blinked at the shameless arrogance of it. “Mr. Jarlson.” He sighed heavily and looked at Boris straight in the eyes. Josh had told him to keep chill, so he made his voice low and slick as black ice. “I’m not an idiot. I understand the economics. I get that you want me to return as soon as possible.”

“That sounds bad. Look—”

“You look.” Tyler interrupted the man without raising his voice. His banked anger swirled inside him like a hurricane. “You asked me here to talk. I have serious concerns about the risks even if some insurance jackhole is willing to gamble”—he counted out the obvious risks on his fingers—“my spine”—he tugged one finger—“my brain”—another finger—“my heart”—and another—“my life, to squeeze a hefty premium out of you.” He scowled and made a fist, which he lowered to the table with exaggerated patience. Keep it together.

Janowitz swallowed audibly. The other coaches said nothing, but for some dumb reason Zack the flack decided to chime in, “Tyler, we know how hard this is for you, but the Swells believe in you. If something hurts you, it hurts all of us.”

For some reason that last little squirt of BS double-talk got under his skin. “All due respect, Zack? No, it doesn’t. You didn’t flatline in front of the whole world. Your family didn’t watch you have a seizure and croak on TV. When my heart stops, the guys sitting around this table don’t fall down dead.” He slapped the wood surface with his hand.

The image-management blond flinched at the bang. Real fear. All the grinning yes-men around the table fell quiet, and the last half-assed smiles melted. Everybody knew 262 pounds of anger could do serious damage. In his mind, he heard Josh saying, Calm, buddy. He needed to stay calm.

“We don’t.” Coach McBride looked him straight in the eye. “We won’t put you in harm’s way, Tyler. I promise you. If you say you can’t do something, you don’t even have to give a reason.”

Boris frowned, but around the table Fawcett, Ojibwe, Delawn, Janowitz, and all the other coaches and flunkies mumbled agreement.

Tyler sighed again. So Boris had told them about the insurance and the ROI before he’d even gotten here. They knew, and they were just as trapped as he was. He could see it in their eyes.

“Fine.” Tyler took a deep breath and forced a smile that made him think of Cilla Miller’s shark teeth. “You’re right, in principle. I just need to get back out there. When the time is right. One hundred percent. I’m going to get out there as soon as I’m ready.”

“That’s the spirit!” Boris beamed, clearly satisfied with Tyler’s apparent capitulation. “Couple weeks, tops. You’re almost there. Right? Everybody says.”

“Mr. Jarlson, I’m thirty-three. I died on camera a couple months ago. My heart stopped beating and I was stone-cold dead until they ran lightning through me in the middle of a football field.” He let out a shaky breath. “I want to play again more than anything, but I need to be smart about my recovery.” Already he was squeezing the arms of the chair so tight he’d bent one of them permanently. “Sir.”

Boris waved his hand. “You watch. You’ll be great. Once you’re in the action again, smashing all those big strong guys like you do, the nerves will fade. Muscle memory and all.”

Tyler blinked. This rich idiot refused to listen. The team was a toy to him. Making a scene wouldn’t fix anything. For now, Tyler had to bide his time and prove he was ready when the moment came.

Boris didn’t seem to notice. “Look, Tyler.” He nodded. “I get your concerns. I do. But you got to trust we’ll do right by your talent. I didn’t get this far by playing safe or being stupid. We wouldn’t push for a comeback so soon if we didn’t think you could deliver.”

“Again, all due respect, you act like it’s nothing, but not one person in this room could go out there and survive. Not a single one. Everything else is a whole bunch of ‘who shot John?’ None of you want to end up in a coma or a coffin no matter how much money someone throws at you. So it’s all for one and none for me.”

The room got super quiet all of a sudden. Janowitz put a reassuring hand on his arm. “It’s okay, Fantana.”