Free North Dallas Forty by Peter Gent Page B

one.
    I nodded toward the radio. The trainer frowned and shook his head.
    “I’ve met some strange people in this game, Phillip,” Rand said, turning the lock and pulling the drawer open, “but, undoubtedly, you have to be the—goddammit, quit dancing— how many do you need?”
    “Enough to get me through Saturday. I’ll get more from you for the game.” I held out my hand. He dropped a sterile gauze wrapper into my open palm. Inside were twenty Codeine Number Four.
    One of the whirlpools ejected a cumulation of pink flesh. I set the pills on the tape counter, pulled off my jock and T-shirt, and stepped into the hot, swirling water. It took a minute for my balls to crawl to the back of my throat, but soon I was up to my neck in tonic heat, taking a long, relaxing piss. The hot water began to distract agitated nerve endings, to thaw numberless minor knots. The dull ache in my lower back remained, untouched.
    “Hi, men.” Conrad Hunter issued a blanket salutation from the doorway. He came by daily to check the stock, pat butts, and shake hands.
    The football club was owned by Conrad Hunter. Ten years ago Hunter had paid a half million dollars for the franchise, now valued in excess of fourteen million dollars. The corporate offices of his CRH Holding, Incorporated were on the thirteenth floor of the CRH building downtown. A big “13” painted on the outer-office doors testified that Conrad wasn’t superstitious. With two hundred million dollars, who needs to be?
    Conrad Hunter viewed his team as family. During training camp his five children lived on the same floor with veteran players. Conrad lived one floor below. He considered the dormitory a family residence and admonished children and players alike in matters of personal behavior, dress, and hygiene.
    A two-year veteran of the squad automatically qualified for membership in the family; no player personally disagreeable to Conrad or to any of his children ever lasted more than two years. I had passed quietly into the family several years back, but avoided its privileges whenever possible. I preferred climbing an extra flight of stairs and rooming with rookies to living near his megalomaniac children. I often saw them in the hallways, listening at someone’s door for something to tell their father.
    I played football where, and when, Conrad Hunter desired. It was all I knew to do, and it was terrifying to be owned by a fifty-year-old, devout Roman Catholic millionaire, whose only pleasure was hanging out in locker rooms.
    “Phil.” Conrad approached my whirlpool. He was dressed in spotless sweats and new Adidas flats. “How’s the back?”
    “Good, Con,” I answered. “Feels real good.”
    Conrad nodded, then bounced up and down several times on the balls of his feet.
    “Ever tried these?” he asked, pointing down at the new Adidas.
    I shook my head.
    “Bill Roberts from Adidas gave ’em to me.” He made little jabs to the side with his feet, testing the traction of the green-and-white striped shoes. “Light. Real good support. You oughta try ’em.”
    I nodded.
    “You played a great game Sunday. I was proud of you. The kids were still talking about that catch this morning on the way to church.” Conrad and his nuclear family were daily communicants.
    “Emmett called from Chicago this morning,” Conrad continued. “I think he’s planning to get married.”
    “Good,” I said. “Good.”
    Emmett John Hunter was fifteen years his brother’s junior and, as a result, Conrad treated him more like a son, smiling at his monumental fuckups, never really expecting him to be successful. Emmett was oily and unpleasant. He had been bounced from every Southwest Conference campus except one before he finally got a night school degree in business administration. As a graduation present, Conrad elected Emmett president of the football club.
    “Emmett likes you,” Hunter said. “So do the kids, and so do I! I’d like you to give some serious