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Prologue

August

You see that guy? The one standing precariously on the four-top, wearing tuxedo pants, a—God, is that a purple faux fur coat—and nothing else? The one yelling, “Are you not entertained?” with arms spread wide as a crowd of drunken onlookers cheer.

No, fucko. No, I am not.

I am embarrassed as hell. Heat-flushing, “please make it stop,” “why won’t it stop” humiliation. The problem is?

That wannabe gladiator fucko is me. And I can’t seem to shut him up. I am outside myself, looking on in horror as I decide to gild the lily and dance . . . Oh, God, is that . . . No, no, no.

It’s the Funky Chicken.

I am dancing the funky chicken. At a black-tie fundraiser, crawling with media. There’s got to be a hundred phones lifted high and facing me. All those little palm-sized rectangles, like eyes of hell, recording every second.

It might not have been so bad if Coach hadn’t given me a “lock it up and concentrate on your game” speech a few short hours earlier.

My agent had done the same the day before.

They’re both here now, standing on opposite sides of the room, sporting surprisingly similar stances: arms crossed over chests, legs braced shoulder width apart.

Angry sentinels itching to take me down.

My pulse kicks up. Horror courses through my veins.

This is not the way to celebrate our second game win.

I know I’m fucking up. Inside I’m shouting: Stop, this isn’t me.

I’m never like this. I’m a rock, the cool head both on and off the field.

Yet what do I do? I wink at Coach before gyrating my hips.

I’m woefully out of sync with the music.

I mean, if you’re going to go down in flames, it should at least be skillfully done, with a certain panache. But I’m a hot mess.

Before you ask, I’ll answer: No. There is absolutely no reason for me to be acting like a clown right now.

I have the world at my feet—good looks, good health, went number one in the draft, an outrageous contract, multiple corporate sponsorships, starting quarterback for a team that has a ton of potential . . .

Everything I’ve ever wanted is mine for the taking.

Maybe that’s the problem. When you’ve reached the top the only place to go is down.

Isn’t that what they say?

I think I’m about to find out. I take a wrong step, the table wobbles, the room spins. My stomach roils. What was once up is now down. I go down, down, down.

My first thought is, Not the arm!

My second?

Well done, fucko. Are you not entertained?