"That's why he sent Trace and Randy up to the cabin, to look for what we were looking for." I stopped halfway down, taking in the view. The crowd's energy was starting to build. Just win, baby. "But when you capped Randy, that was a message to him you weren't gonna ride the pine." I glanced back at Wilma. Her skirt and blouse were fluttering in the wind. Man, what a sight.

"Yes. Julian and I met after the cabin incident. I convinced him to lay in the cut, as you'd say, and let me take the risk of getting rid of Stadanko and Chekka rather than him."

I walked down to the field. She was still behind me. It was on the field I would be free. "You don't give a shit about the money, do you, Wilma?"

"Nine million is barely enough to keep the club in jockstraps and shoulder pads, you know that."

"But you needed the robbery and the files as a way to expose Stadanko." We were walking across the dirt track surrounding the field. To my right was the tunnel the Barons came out of at home games. The ghost people in the stands were cheering again. Zelmont Raines was back in the formation.

"That's true, Zelmont."

"You can't trust Weems." It felt as if I was standing outside of my body, watching the two of us. "He'll turn on you faster than a pit bull that's been poked in the eye now that you've done his dirty work."

I heard her pull the gun from her handbag. It was probably the piece she'd killed Randy with at the cabin. Later she'd no doubt link it to Danny "Let me worry about that, darling."

"Looks like you don't need your old partners, huh?"

"You won't run away run like Danny or be scared shitless like Ysanya. And I know you can't be confused like poor Pablo."

"Ysanya must be terrified. Nap ain't around and her old man is going down."

"She got a call in the middle of the night and ran off with whatever she could carry."

"The only thing I'm running for is the glory, Wilma. The Locker Room should be mine along with a piece of the Barons' action. I deserve that much for all the hell you put me through."

She raised the gun. ''You're right."

The crowd was chanting my name, the sound filling up the stadium. I turned away from her and took off down the field. I weaved and dodged, both my hips churning like well-oiled rocker arms. I threw the bag in the air and leaped up, spinning like I'd done in the Super Bowl. In midair I caught the bag with one hand, my other arm cocked at the elbow so I could twist and set my body right.

Wilma's bullet caught me dead center in the chest and the impact screwed up my landing. I was coughing blood even as I hit the deck. I could hear Wilma's high heels echoing on the stone steps as she walked up to the peristyles and out of the Coliseum.

I still had ahold of the bag, and through a haze I could see the goalposts. I got up, staggering. Then somehow my second wind kicked in. I felt great. Head up, shoulders forward, I was a human freight train. In the stands my mother was clapping. Terri had brought our child and Cody was laughing with joy at his father. It was beautiful. This was the way football was supposed to be, clean and pure like when I was eleven and played Pop Warner just for the love of the game. Before the scouts, the slaps on the back, the classes you were allowed to skate through, the coach in high school making his dreams yours, the alumni big wheels, the agents, the hangers-on. This was what the sport was all about, you and the ball and the goal line.

The crowd was on their feet, urging me on. They were chanting my name over and over again.

It was so beautiful.

I fell to the field, breathing in the fresh watered grass. I was gonna hold onto that bag forever.

Gary Phillips