Knights of Andreas 5.01: Hail to the King

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Knights of Andreas

Part V

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Chapter Fifty-Six – Hail to the King

 

 

 

Fans pack the sidewalks on either side of Figueroa Street, standing in crowded bunches, shoulder to shoulder. A blend of excited conversation and celebratory screaming establish a festive atmosphere. Security guards line both sides of the asphalt, watching as fans extend their phones and hold up signs.

 

The parade consists of three double-decker buses plus police escort cars. Players and coaches stand on the buses’ upper levels and move from side to side, waving at fans and enjoying the ride. Over the last seventy-two hours, between the celebrations and talk show appearances, the surreal feelings have faded. The Knights parade through downtown Los Angeles and let it all sink in; they’re Super Bowl champions, kings of the sports world.

 

Though fan favorites are spread out between all three buses (as Schneider insisted), the first bus carries some heavy hitters. Maverick, Grodd, and Grantzinger stand near the front and draw huge cheers as fans watch their bus drive past.

 

Toward the back of the same bus stand Phillips and Schneider, perhaps the two most important men on board, but less marketable in the eyes of fans. They’re not the stars today. Grouped with them is Coach Harden, slightly more popular with common fans, but he seems content to find solitude among the celebration, apparently grumpy about something. Nobody tries to cheer him up.

 

Phillips goes through the motions of the parade waiting for the proper time. After about ten minutes, when the wonder of the celebration has faded slightly, he goes for it, inching closer to Schneider during a relatively quiet moment.

 

“Listen, Wayne, I’m not sure when I’ll find a better time to say something, so…”

 

Schneider looks sideways at Phillips but keeps waving at the crowd. “What’s on your mind, Chance?”

 

“You and I. We haven’t exactly been a balanced ticket these last five years.”

 

“No, we haven’t. Yet, here we are.”

 

“Here we are indeed.”

 

They wave and smile at fans as their bus crosses an intersection. Farmers Field becomes visible ahead in the distance. The sight of it reminds Phillips of the rumors circulating the league, of multiple teams gunning for relocation to Los Angeles. Phillips suspects the Knights’ stadium is about to become a western MetLife Stadium, but he brushes it off for now.

 

Then Phillips says, “I was wrong about firing Daniel.”

 

“And I was wrong about Harden being the right guy to replace him,” Schneider says.

 

“Let’s put it behind us, meet in the middle?”

 

They look at each other, and Phillips extends his hand. Schneider shakes it firmly, they both smile, and Schneider says, “Let the dynasty begin.”

 

The second bus draws plenty of cheers. A group including Bishop, Randall, Jameson, and Brock talks about vacation plans for the near future as they wave toward the sidewalks.

 

“Heading to Hawaii for a week with Ashley,” Bishop says. “How about you guys?”

 

“Damn, that sounds nice,” Brock says. “I think I’ll be confined to SoCal. Might head up to Vegas for a few days.”

 

“Not a tropical island kinda guy, Sean?” Jameson asks.

 

“Nah, it’s just vacays like that don’t run cheap.”

 

“Oh, what’s the matter, Brock?” Randall says. “Scarlett Lynn isn’t helping out with the bills?”

 

“Mind your own fucking business, okay?”

 

“Hey guys,” Jameson says, “forget about it. Let’s just enjoy the celebration.”

 

The third bus holds arguably the most colorful personalities, with Wilkes, Flash, Rose, and Schwinn on board. Rose leans against the railing silently, studying the fans, noticing a suspicious lack of #25 jerseys. Multiple fans, upon seeing him, chant “Tor-rey” in his direction.

 

So the Javion Torrey saga still lingers among fans despite Rose’s best to put it behind him. At least he has a Super Bowl ring, one that he earned.

 

“Forget them,” Flash says. “Hey, you hear me?”

 

Rose snaps out of it and looks away from the crowd. “Yeah, sorry. It’s cool. Don’t worry about it.”

 

Rose focuses on the road ahead, lined with fans as far as he can see. He’s done a lot to change himself over the last decade, things fans will likely never know, and they’ll certainly never appreciate.

 

Back on the lead bus, players move around, eventually standing towards the rear, and Phillips finds himself face to face with Maverick. He feels awkward, not sure what to do, until Maverick smiles and says, “Enjoying the celebration?”

 

“Sure am,” Phillips says. His mind is full of thoughts about Maverick, none of which he has any desire to vocalize right now. Another thought, however, occurs to him. “Jonathan,” he says as Maverick is about to walk away. He steps closer. “Five years ago, I handed this team to you, not knowing where we’d end up. Now we’re celebrating a Super Bowl. One Nittany Lion to another, I’m proud of you.”

 

“Thanks, Chance,” Maverick says, shaking the GM’s hand. “Thanks for putting the right guys around me. Keep this team together and we’ll have a few more parades like this.”

 

“We’re working on it.”

 

 

 

The long table centering Wayne Schneider’s office has a vibrant, mahogany finish that typically lights up the room. Today, binders and loose paper are sprawled all over the table, leaving the mahogany visible only in blotches.

 

Schneider and head executives surround the table with the coaching staff assembling an outer row. This is the big meeting that essentially kicks off the offseason, a positional breakdown of the roster. Seated close to Schneider, Phillips leaves his binder unopened, everything already memorized.

 

“Let’s begin,” Schneider says. “We have less than four weeks until free agency. We shall start, as always, with quarterback. Chance, how’s the trade market?”

 

Phillips flinches. His entire body tenses up. Straining to speak normally, he asks, “What trade market?”

 

“For Buchanan.”

 

“Oh.” Phillips relaxes, trying not to let on how stressed that moment was. “Sorry, um, well, there are a few teams interested. Mid-round pick, most likely. Doesn’t seem like anybody’s jumping to get a trade done, so I’d say we can pull something off in April, before the draft.”

 

“Chance,” the team president asks, “how are negotiations with Maverick?”

 

“Going well, all things considered. We’re exchanging big numbers, obviously, but talks have been productive.”

 

“That’ll get done, gentlemen,” Stein says. “Obviously we’re not going to play hardball with our franchise quarterback.”

 

Phillips glances nervously at his new assistant general manager as the conversation shifts position.

 

Running back. The Knights will carry the same top three (Jameson, Banks, NesSmith) and will only add one to the roster as an undrafted free agent, if at all. Jameson enters a contract year this season, but Phillips won’t entertain an extension until next offseason.

 

Wide receiver. Phillips is working on an extension for Jefferspin-Wilkes but probably won’t strike a deal until well into free agency. Alex Johnson, meanwhile, is unofficially a free agent.

 

“I don’t see any way he doesn’t reach the market, at least,” Phillips says. “The only way his agent accepts a deal beforehand is if we offer number-one receiver money, and frankly, we don’t see him being worth that. There’s a good chance we can keep him for number-two money, but given how Watson has developed, I’m comfortable letting him walk.”

 

“I disagree,” McKenzie says from the outer ring. “Joe doesn’t have the ceiling Alex does. The slot is the ideal place from him, too.”

 

“We can’t keep everybody, coach.”

 

“I understand, just saying my piece.”

 

“Coach,” Schneider says to Harden, “what do you say?”

 

“On offense, I say whatever Mac says.”

 

Tight end. Bishop brings obvious stability to the position, though someone mentions his 30th birthday is next week. The Knights will add a second tight end through free agency or the draft if the opportunity presents itself.

 

Offensive line. The same five starters return, the Knights will exercise Grodd’s fifth-year option for 2016, and the Adams/Fowler tackle duo should improve this season. Long-term, however, there are some concerns on the interior. Zeitler’s contract is up next year, and Penner will be 35 when this season starts. The team makes adding depth a priority.

 

At this point, Stein jumps in and says, “I know some of you may be concerned about the draft, given that we’re without second- and fourth-rounders, courtesy of trades made last year. But as Chance said, we’ll get a pick for Buchanan, and compensatory picks should be kind to us as well.”

 

Defensive line. Luck and Anthrax are entrenched as starters, though Phillips doesn’t foresee an extension for Anthrax, entering a contract year.

 

“That’s a mistake,” Harden says. “My defense relies on strength up the middle.”

 

“Only so much money, coach,” Phillips says.

 

Harden grumbles and crosses his arms.

 

Right end Gregory Vance will be released. His production isn’t anywhere near warranting his $5.125-million cap figure. Harden says Clayton Reid (sixth-round pick last year) is a fine in-house replacement, but Phillips ignores him, establishing defensive end as a top need.

 

Linebacker. With Randall entering a contract year, a long-term extension for him is a priority. Martin, however, is a free agent.

 

“We’re being aggressive on him,” Phillips says. “I think if we let him get to the market, he’s gone. We don’t need to force ourselves here, though. Coach?”

 

“He’s right,” Harden says begrudgingly. “I like Marlon. But with the front seven we have, I won’t be too angry if we gotta draft his replacement.”

 

A few people raise questions about Brock and Price competing at right outside linebacker.

 

“Let’s not mince words here,” Phillips says. “Jamari Price was a first-round pick, and he hasn’t delivered on his potential yet. This is a big season for him. As for Brock, I realize his cap figure jumps, but 8.5 million is a fair price for production at a pass-rushing position.”

 

“That’s a higher figure than Grantzinger,” the team president says.

 

“Which,” Schneider says, “is a testament to how great that Grantzinger contract was.”

 

Phillips smiles, feeling satisfied for the first time in this meeting.

 

Secondary. Richard Marshall and Sebastian Stevenson will not be re-signed. Harden makes a fuss about this, but Phillips deflects him by hyping up Robert Schwinn, the replacement at strong safety. Marshall is a bigger loss, but the Knights need money for Rose, who will be holding out this year. Harden hypes up Ken Lucas (seventh-round pick last year), who excelled last season in nickel formations.

 

Griswold “Flash” Johnson is entering a contract year, and Phillips labels his situation similar to Jefferspin-Wilkes: an expensive extension is on the horizon, but not until after the draft.

 

Special teams. McCabe is a candidate for a bounce-back year, and Lechler is under contract another season. Phillips will explore the idea of an extension later and draft a replacement if need be.

 

The meeting concludes, the Knights’ plan for the coming months finalized. Phillips heads out the door first, ready for a barrage of phone calls with agents.

 

 

 

Marlon Martin sits at his desk, eyes darting between his computer screen and a barrage of legal pads sprawled out across the desk and floor. Every few minutes, his phone illuminates with another incoming call from his former agent, and Martin ignores it.

 

He’s been through enough nonsense with agents, so Martin now represents himself. That, of course, places a mountain of responsibility at his feet. This is the third day in a row he has skipped his scheduled workout regimen—important for a 32-year-old linebacker—in favor of sit-down work at his desk.

 

With free agency weeks away, the Knights are the only team Martin hears from, which is what he wants right now: keep things simple and (hopefully) get a deal done before he has to work the phones with multiple teams.

 

He needs a starting point in negotiations, so he skims through contracts of recently signed inside linebackers. Perry Riley got three years, $12 million from Washington; Stephen Tulloch got five years, $25.5 million from Detroit. Martin would like to end up somewhere between those figures. Maybe something like four years, eighteen million.

 

Then again, that feels low. He doesn’t want to navigate free agency, but doesn’t he owe it to himself to get the best deal possible? D’Qwell Jackson got four years, $22 million from Cleveland, which sounds like a more appropriate starting point on his end.

 

He spends another few hours running calculations and brushing up on contract verbiage before calling to negotiate with Chance Phillips.

 

 

 

A crowd of men, ties loosened and sleeves rolled up, sets up camp in Phillips’ office. People come and go with news of contract numbers, rumors, and suggestions. A coffee pot in the corner of the office fills and empties every few hours. Phillips himself walks out periodically for private phone calls, always returning with something substantial. This time, he strides through the doorway, phone in hand, and the room goes silent.

 

“That was Martin,” he says.

 

“Not Martin’s agent?” Stein asks.

 

“He doesn’t have one, apparently.”

 

“Representing himself? That’s interesting.”

 

“Interesting and fortunate.” Phillips steps toward his white board, erases the purple ink in the row labeled “ILB Martin,” and writes new numbers. “We move on this now, we can have a deal done tonight.”

 

Phillips steps aside to let everyone see the fresh ink.

 

“What’s this based on, Chance?” Schneider asks.

 

“He wanted four years, I told him the only way we do four is if there’s no guarantees year four, so he conceded three. He wanted 5.5 million per year, I countered five, we agreed to meet in the middle. I think we can strike a deal around sixteen.”

 

“Sixteen?” Stein says. “You led us to believe the final number would be close to ten.”

 

“It’s not a terrible difference, in the scheme of things.”

 

“It’s still sixteen million dollars.”

 

“And it’s still much less than what he would get on the open market, which is why we need to get it signed before he realizes he could get thirty.” Stein still looks skeptical. “It only takes one stupid team, and this league has more than one. I’m calling him back.”

 

Phillips steps into the hallway, about to call Martin, when he realizes he has a new text message from Maverick’s agent. Coincidentally, Keegan walks past, stack of papers in hand.

 

“Michal,” Phillips says, lowering his voice. “I’m still waiting on that report.”

 

“Which one?”

 

Phillips steps closer. “Maverick.”

 

“Oh. I’m almost done. You’re still seriously considering it?”

 

“Yes, I am, but I want to see what you come up with first.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Doesn’t sound like you’re in favor of this.”

 

“I would never make an argument without data on either side.”

 

“Then get some. I don’t want to do anything until then.”

 

 

 

Hours later, the sun sets and fluorescent lights illuminate the MedComm Center, still humming with activity. Front office personnel wait for Martin’s arrival, contract terms agreed upon. It’s a nice start to the Knights’ offseason, though plenty of heavy lifting remains.

 

Phillips enjoys a rare moment in his office without company, but it doesn’t last. Harden barges in, shutting the door behind him.

 

“Hard to get you alone these days,” Harden says.

 

“That time of year. Something on your mind, Merle?”

 

“Yep.” He takes a seat across from Phillips’ desk, so Phillips sits down too. “I’ll keep this short and sweet. I want personnel control on the defensive side of the ball.”

 

Phillips feels his eyes widen as his relaxed seating position crunches into an awkward lean forward. “Okay…before I respond, I guess I need to know what you mean by control.”

 

“Going into the draft. I know it’s a little late for free agency, with the wheels already turning.”

 

“Merle, our draft picks are a collaboration, as always.”

 

“Yes, and if push comes to shove, and we disagree on who to take, I want the final decision to rest with me.”

 

Phillips can’t think of a proper response, trying instead to see the bigger picture.

 

“Where’s this coming from, Merle?”

 

“Jamari Price. Didn’t want him. You drafted him. He’s a bum. Wesley Mann. Didn’t need him. You drafted him. Waste of a roster spot.”

 

Phillips doesn’t hide how uncomfortable this is making him. He already knows his answer, but he lets Harden go on.

 

“I wanted Flash in the first round. Would have taken Grantzinger in the third, maybe second. I know how to pick players for my defense, Chance.”

 

Phillips opens his mouth to respond, and his phone rings. “Chance Phillips…Okay, I’ll be right in.” He hangs up and stands. “Marlon’s here. I’m sorry, Merle. The answer is no. I’m the GM. Final say rests with me, though you’re welcome to voice your opinion, as always.”

 

Phillips moves for the door, opening it—

 

“Then we take it to Wayne,” Harden says.

 

“What?”

 

“I’m sorry to go over your head, Chance, but I want Schneider to rule on this one way or another. You know I’m not the sort to scratch my own back; this is about the team.”

 

Perplexed to the point of frustration, Phillips decides to end the conversation before it gets worse.

 

“Fine. We’ll mention it to him later. I have to meet Marlon.”

 

A congregation gathers in Schneider’s office as Martin arrives to review his contract: three years, $15.9 million, with $7.2 million guaranteed. The cheerful mood fades as the agentless Martin spends thirty minutes reading and re-reading the contract, one of the team’s attorneys reviewing some details with him. Finally, he signs his name, and Marlon Martin is a Knight through 2017.

 

Phillips knows many will criticize this deal. Why should the Knights pay anything to an aging player when a cheap rookie could fill his shoes? But Martin is somehow still criminally underrated. His play ranges from very good to elite, and he should be getting paid around eight or nine million per year. To Phillips, that’s incredible value, which makes it a good contract.

 

 

 

A few days later, Phillips heads to Indianapolis for the scouting combine. Though he’s less focused on the draft than usual (his scouts are doing the hard work now anyway), he has important business to conduct this week.

 

Phillips crosses paths with Maverick’s agent, and the two walk off the field, away from cameras and microphones. They find a quiet spot in a tunnel and dive right in, haggling back and forth about contract details.

 

“Look, Chance, I’ve got a right mind to play hardball here, wait until Luck or Wilson gets their deal, then insist we top it. But I’m trying to work with you.”

 

“I know, I know. Can we agree to six years, at least? Right here, right now.”

 

“In principle.”

 

“Good. Let me crunch some numbers on my end and we’ll have a solid proposal.”

 

They shake on it, and Phillips makes his way back toward the field, where top prospects Jameis Winston and Marcus Mariota draw plenty of attention as they wait in line to run the forty-yard dash.

 

Not far from them, Adam Javad stands among a congregation of journalists, taking notes on prospects and conducting brief, casual interviews. This is the first time the L.A. Mobile has partially financed a trip to Indy for the combine, though Javad is working other sports as well. Spring training is a month away, and both basketball and hockey season are heading toward the playoff push.

 

“Good afternoon, Adam.”

 

Javad sees Phillips approach and keeps jotting down notes. He looks around, hoping some of the cameras capture a picture of the two of them.

 

“Good to see you, Chance. Hey, draft targets at thirty-two?”

 

“Way too soon to tell. Good work on Alex Johnson, by the way. I hope you understand how much I appreciate it.”

 

“I’ll understand a lot better once I get that sit-down with Rose. Time frame?”

 

“After free agency winds down. April. May, maybe.”

 

“That’s perfect.”

 

Javad loses himself in thought again, running through ramifications of the Rose interview, not least of which is the looming position at the L.A. Times, the city’s most prestigious newspaper.

 

“Listen, Adam,” Phillips says, “something else. Off the record.”

 

Javad pockets his notepad as Phillips leans in, looking around for cameras.

 

“Something big could be brewing,” Phillips says. “I can’t say more, and I can’t say when. Just keep your phone on.”

 

“Gotcha.”

 

Phillips nods and walks away. Javad keeps his cool, though he feels his fingers twitching. Something big…what could that be?

 

A marquee free agent signing? The Knights are already set up well for long-term success; it makes sense that Phillips would consider an unexpected knockout punch. Could they somehow land Darrelle Revis to replace Marshall? Pairing him with Rose would make the Knights’ already-elite defense seemingly unstoppable.

 

Maybe it’s something bigger, like a trade. But what kind of trade? Maybe Phillips is parting with a free agent he knows he won’t keep next year, like Wilkes. For a player? For draft ammunition to get an elite prospect? How about trading Wilkes for ammo to draft Amari Cooper?

 

Javad finishes working and excitedly leaves the building, eager for hours of research in his hotel room.

 

 

 

Back in Los Angeles, seven-day workweeks at the MedComm Center continue as the deadline to designate franchise tags nears. Phillips works the phones with Maverick’s agent (while taking more significant calls privately) with six-year contract figures bouncing back and forth. Talks reach an apparent impasse with the Knights offering $105 million, Maverick’s agent countering with $135 million, and neither side taking the initiative toward middle ground.

 

This creates some downtime, during which Phillips seeks the opportune moment to visit Keegan’s office. He shuts the door behind him, and Keegan extracts a thick packet of paper from a locked drawer. Phillips flips through to the end.

 

“Fifty pages,” he says, impressed. Lost in his personal struggle with this potentially monumental decision has been Keegan’s dedication, including and especially his ability to keep quiet about it. “Bottom line?”

 

“Page three.”

 

Phillips flips to the front of the packet and reads carefully. “Is this a math argument or a football argument?”

 

“Both.”

 

“Break it down for me.”

 

“Okay. We start with a potential contract for Maverick. I came up with seven different projections, but I wasn’t sure—”

 

“Let’s go with somewhere around 120.”

 

“Okay. Six years, 120 million. That was one I used. Average cap hit of twenty million, structured with a steady increase, as you historically prefer. Divide that against this year’s salary cap plus my best projections over those six years, and Maverick counts, on average, 11.8 percent of the team’s cap space.”

 

So, twelve percent, Phillips thinks. Twelve percent of all the money he has to pay players…

 

“So,” Keegan says, “is Maverick really twelve percent of this team? Or is he more?”

 

Phillips is surprised at Keegan’s bias in that comment.

 

“Sounds like you think he is.”

 

Keegan shrugs. “I can’t think of a quarterback as good as Maverick who’s worth less than twenty percent of their team.”

 

Phillips tries to think deeper, but he won’t reach a conclusion now. “I’m going to keep this,” he says. “Thank you for your dedication and diligence, Michal.” Phillips turns to open the door.

 

“I don’t know what trade offers are out there,” Keegan says, “and I probably shouldn’t, but they must be persuasive.”

 

“They are.”

 

Phillips walks out, pondering again the latest trade offer from Philadelphia: their first- and second-round picks this year plus first- and fourth-round picks next year for Maverick. He can add some late-rounders too, which would give the Knights an impressive array of draft picks. Phillips could load the roster for years to come.

 

But then, who’s his quarterback? Is it Max Buchanan? He was good enough to get the Knights to the playoffs last year, but could he have won them a Super Bowl? Even so, he’s only under contract two more seasons, and then he’d get a big contract of his own.

 

Maybe Phillips could put together a player/pick package and pull off a blockbuster to get Winston or Mariota. But why trade Maverick to draft an unproven rookie?

 

Phillips heads back to his office, longing for some private time to think. The franchise tag deadline is a week away, free agency a week after that. Whatever his decision is, it must come soon.

 

 

 

As daylight fades into a beautiful Monday night in Los Angeles, Jonathan Maverick’s mansion holds yet another extravagant party for A-list athletes and celebrities. There is no particular occasion, and while tonight won’t compare to the raucous weekend parties Maverick has been hosting lately, it’ll still be a good time.

 

Maverick sips a vodka tonic, starting the night slow, stuck in a one-on-one conversation with D-Jam. They only say a few words before Maverick feels his phone vibrate with an incoming call. He picks it up.

 

“C’mon man, don’t do this,” Wilkes says.

 

“It’s my agent,” Maverick says. “I’ve been ducking him all day, I gotta answer. Hello?” Wilkes watches Maverick’s face as he listens to the other end of the call. “So be it. Alright.” He hangs up.

 

“What’s the word?”

 

“Franchise tagged.”

 

“Damn.”

 

“No wait, excuse me, I’ve been ‘designated as the franchise player.’”

 

“Sounds all fancy and shit when you say it like that.”

 

“It’s cool. Just another step.”

 

“Man, this shit makes me worried, man.”

 

“Relax, D-Jam. We’re not going anywhere, and we’re getting big money. Both of us. I’m not sure about Alex, though.”

 

“I ain’t worried about him. That’s money they’re saving for me.”

 

“Hey, speak for yourself. I need a number-two receiver.” Maverick gulps down the rest of his drink. “Okay, let’s have a good time. Forget about it.”

 

“Sounds good—oh, shit, is that Blake Griffin? Fuck, he’s tall.”

 

“Yeah, that’s him. Hey, ten thousand dollars says he beats you in an arm wrestling contest.”

 

 

 

Phillips enjoys a rare morning at home, though he gets up earlier than everyone else and spends it alone. The kids are getting ready for school as he heads out the door.

 

Free agency is hours away as Phillips drives to the MedComm Center, radio off the entire way. He focuses on the road, replaying his strategy to himself repeatedly.

 

He arrives and steps through the second floor with a few people already gathering outside his office. He unlocks the door and says, “I need a few minutes first.”

 

He locks himself in and steps toward the almighty white board, focused on the top row, labeled “QB Maverick.” That row has been the object of his speculation for months, and today, it ends.

 

He places his first call to Philadelphia, getting an answer immediately.

 

“Hey, it’s Chance…Listen, our deal’s a no-go. I’m pulling out…Sorry to leave you hanging. I hope you know I wasn’t just stringing you along…I’m sure I don’t have to point out the need for secrecy here…That’s right. It never happened.”

 

The next call is to Maverick’s agent.

 

“It’s Chance Phillips. I know things are going to get crazy today and we probably won’t speak, but when we have some time, let’s get together and hammer this thing out…Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking…Great. Talk to you soon.”

 

Business on that end concluded for the day, Phillips opens his door, and everyone waits for 1pm, when the new league year officially begins. The Knights won’t be directly active today, but they must stay apprised of everything around the league.

 

The year begins with a flurry of surprising moves. Phones ring constantly as news and numbers get tossed around.

 

The Saints trade Jimmy Graham to the Seahawks for Max Unger and a first-round pick. The Ravens ship Haloti Ngata to Detroit for two mid-round picks. The Eagles and Rams strike a wild deal, swapping Sam Bradford for Nick Foles with draft picks involved. (So Phillips wasn’t the only one Philly was talking to about quarterbacks.)

 

“Jesus,” Schneider says, “the whole league’s gone crazy.”

 

 

 

Alex Johnson shuts the door behind him, walking through the studio apartment straight for the fridge, extracting a banana and some strawberries for a post-workout smoothie. Somewhere in between slicing strawberries and finding peanut butter, he turns on the TV, and NFL Network fills the apartment with background noise.

 

Alex pours his finished smoothie from the blender and plops down on the couch. Soon enough, the free agency special gets to wide receivers, and analysts talk about the best free agents left at the position. Alex is momentarily proud to see his name listed first, with Michael Crabtree just behind.

 

The analysts talk about receivers who have already signed. Alex doesn’t need a reminder of those numbers: Jeremy Maclin to Kansas City for five years, $55 million; Torrey Smith to San Francisco for 5 years, $40 million.

 

The days of Alex expecting a contract like Maclin’s are gone, but Smith’s contract, averaging $8 million per year, sounds about right to him. The offers he’s gotten so far, however, aren’t in that range.

 

He hears his name mentioned, and an infographic shows up, detailing Alex’s injury history throughout college and the NFL. These are facts he knows all too well, and they are the reason that despite such an active market including the Panthers, Chargers, Giants, Rams, and Knights, Alex isn’t seeing anywhere close to the money he wants.

 

All teams negotiating with Alex’s agent say they value him as an elite receiver, but actions speak louder than words, and the league has spoken clearly: Alex Johnson is an injury-prone player, and not worth more than lower-end number-two receiver money.

 

Alex studies that infographic one last time, noticing the most painful injury of his life isn’t listed. He walks toward a row of framed pictures resting on a mantle above the TV.

 

Near the middle is a crowded shot of a high school football team celebrating a state championship. The picture was taken just minutes after the game ended, and the players glisten with sweat, their broad smiles illuminating the picture as they crowd around the championship trophy. Near the edge stands Alex, leaning in awkwardly, a white cast covering his left leg.

 

This was eight years ago, though it feels much longer than that. He was the team’s star offensive weapon all season through the state semifinals, but they found a way to win the championship without him as he watched from the sidelines.

 

He feels himself committing toward a decision, one that’s been lurking in the back of his mind for months, and maybe longer. Without much hesitation, he decides. Enough is enough.

 

He paces around the apartment with the TV muted, trying to get in touch with his agent. Once he does, he outlines the proposal, fighting off his agent’s aggressive attempts to talk him down from it.

 

They run over large and small details, and finally his agent says, “Alex, as your agent, I have to advise you against this. For the sake of your career, and your future, I’m begging you to reconsider.”

 

 

 

The next day, Johnson arrives with his agent at the MedComm Center, and the Knights finalize the re-signing of their starting wide receiver, though with contract terms no one expected.

 

Johnson signs a one-year deal worth $7 million, fully guaranteed, plus $3 million of incentives based on playing time and stats.

 

Such a lucrative “prove-it” deal is an oddity, but it’s undoubtedly a win for the Knights. The only negative is the lack of a long-term commitment, but Phillips is never in a hurry to sign injury-prone players.

 

After the signing, Phillips and others go back to his office, making Johnson’s cap figure for 2015 official. This raises the team’s salary from $104.3 million to $111.3 million, still far below the league’s salary cap for 2015: $143.28 million.

 

“So that seals it, then,” Schneider says. “We’re bringing back twenty of twenty-two starters from a Super Bowl winning team, and the two losses we didn’t want back.”

 

Everyone likes that line, suddenly realizing how impressive it sounds.

 

“We’re off to a nice start,” Phillips says. “Once we get Maverick locked up, we can all breathe easier.”

 

 

 

The lucky valet takes Malik’s keys and drives away to park the Charger while Malik and Eva walk toward the restaurant’s front door.

 

Despite sunglasses, Malik is recognizable by many fans, and walking around in Los Angeles makes him a target. As he walks arm in arm with Eva through a narrow walkway, patrons seated at the outdoor tables take notice, whispering to each other and taking out their smartphones.

 

“Hey, Malik! Super Bowl!” one fan shouts, getting everyone’s attention. Malik just bows his head and keeps walking. This is supposed to be a nice, quiet day out with the kids at home with the babysitter. He doesn’t want attention of any kind.

 

“Oh look, it’s the mafia don,” another says aggressively. “Hey, Malik, can you give me your lawyer’s phone number? I wanna get away with murder too.”

 

Malik feels Eva tug on his arm as they enter the restaurant. He suddenly longs to practice again, to play football, something he sadly won’t do for months.

 

Throughout lunch, Malik tries to hide how distracted he is. He’s able to block everything out for a few minutes when Eva talks about school options for the girls, but by the time the check arrives, he’s somewhere else again.

 

After about an hour, Malik and Eva leave, and Malik spots the same asshole fan. He continues taunting him loudly, grabbing the attention of everyone sitting outside, most of whom look uncomfortable.

 

Malik blocks him out, but unwelcome memories play in his head: high school classmates whispering to each other as he walks past them, college fans of opposing teams calling him a “thug,” Alabama fans calling him “a disgrace to the university,” supposed NFL experts labeling him an “undraftable prospect with unforgivable character concerns.”

 

Malik and Eva walk past the screaming man, who says, “Yo, does your wife know what kind of man she sleeps with?”

 

Nobody sees the punch coming. The man’s head jerks to the side and his body falls backward onto the table that crumbles toward the ground.

 

A panicked scene unfolds as countless people whip out their phones and attend to the man on the ground, who groans and holds his face, conscious but dazed. Malik takes out his valet ticket and speeds off.

 

 

 

Schneider stands at his desk, pressing the phone to his ear. The office around him is silent as everyone waits for details. A few tap away on their phones, checking for information themselves. Schneider eventually sighs and hangs up.

 

“Rumors are true,” Schneider says. “The fan’s got a broken jaw. Malik left the scene. No one captured it on video, thank God.”

 

“That we know of,” Phillips says.

 

“Was he provoked?” Stein asks.

 

“Not physically.” Schneider looks around the crowded office. “Everyone out except Chance and Merle.”

 

No one says a word as the room clears, leaving the team’s owner, general manager, and head coach alone with the door closed.

 

 

 

Malik and Eva get home, neither saying a word to each other. They open the front door and Jasmin runs in with the babysitter behind her, holding Tatyiana.

 

“Hey, baby girl,” Malik says, kissing his daughter. “Did you have fun with Uncle Griswold?”

 

“Yeah!” Jasmin says. “I showed him how we make tea, and then we played with Legos!”

 

“They were angels,” Flash says, handing Tatyiana to Eva with a look of concern on his face. “Yo, I heard, man. Everything straight?”

 

“It’s cool. I gotta go in, talk to Coach. It’ll be fine.”

 

“Listen, if—”

 

“It’s cool, it’s cool. I gotta leave now. I’ll be back.”

 

 

 

Rose drives straight for the MedComm Center, calling from the road to tell them he’s on the way. He just needs to talk with Coach Harden alone, and everything will be fine.

 

He clears the security gate and parks in the front of an empty players’ lot. He strides toward the front door, and security guards approach him.

 

“Where’s Coach?” Rose says.

 

“Right here, Malik,” Harden says, appearing from the first floor hallway.

 

Rose follows Harden, who walks toward his office. When they get there, Rose finds it empty. Perfect. Harden shuts the door and they both sit down.

 

“Look, coach, I’m sorry. I’ll apologize, do whatever you guys want me to do.”

 

“It’s not about that, Malik, it’s—”

 

“I lost my cool, and it shouldn’t have happened, but…”

 

“Malik—”

 

“Coach, you know me, you know—”

 

“Malik! We gotta let you go.”

 

Rose realizes tears are forming in Harden’s eyes as the weight of everything hits him.

 

“What do you mean let me go?”

 

“You know what I mean. Don’t make this tougher, Malik. Neither one of us—”

 

“No. No way. Jasmin’s starting school. This isn’t fair, coach!”

 

“I didn’t say it was fair. But it’s done. Neither one of us can change it.”

 

Rose wants to protest. So, this is it? There must be something he can say. It ends, just like this?

 

“Fine.” Rose gets up and walks out of the MedComm Center for the last time.

 

A few minutes later, Phillips appears in the doorway and sees Harden in his chair, wiping away tears.

 

“He’s gone?” Phillips asks.

 

“Yep. Thank you for that, by the way,” Harden says, staring at the floor.

 

“Come on, Merle, you were there. It was Wayne. You were listening. Did it sound like I wanted this to happen?”

 

“Do you have any idea what this football team just lost?”

 

“Look, you want to play the sympathy game, go right ahead. A few weeks ago you’re making a power play on me, and now it’s my fault I don’t have enough control over Schneider? You can’t have it both ways, Merle.”

 

Harden springs from his chair and steps toward Phillips, who backs up against a framed picture. Harden inches closer, his lips contorting like he’s about to scream, and Phillips wonders if he needs to defend himself.

 

“Fuck Wayne Schneider, and fuck you too!”

 

Harden grabs the picture from behind Phillips, who ducks, and throws it across the room. It smashes the wall and hits the floor, shards of glass flying in all directions.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[RazorStar 4,025]

Oh man, that's a mistake. Bet he's gonna go join the Chargers, revenge mode this shit.

[Sarge+ 3,436]

 

KoA is back! This got interesting real quick...

[Vin+ 3,121]

Yep, directly to the Chargers.

 

Great stuff.

[ATL_Predator+ 1,196]

Deuces.

[Bangy 19]

Deuces.

 

WELCOME TO SAN DIEGO.

 

That was an awesome start, I had a feeling someone would leave but that was not the one I was expecting. Also interested to see the Brock story line.

[Cherry 1,302]

Always had mixed feelings about that stuff when a player ends up losing his cool and blasting a heckler. Dude deserves to get jaw shattered doing that shit.

[theMileHighGuy 656]

Craaaaazy start to this season. Did not see that coming at all. The secondary just went in the shitter.

 

So, did D-Jam beat Blake Griffen at arm wrestling or what?

[Zack_of_Steel+ 3,014]

Welp, I feel both sad and overjoyed that I waited this long to start reading Part V. What a great opening that was perfectly paced. Fuck yes, Stevo.