“Believe me, it’s not. It’s the professional attitude. Sure I hate to see good men get hurt. But football players get paid big money to take physical risks, to die, if their luck goes bad, for the enjoyment of the fans. I try hard to protect my players, as hard as any quarterback in the league. My lost player ratio, the LPR you’ll hear people talking about if you follow the game, is only one point something, good for maybe second from the bottom in the league. You know what that gets me? Sportswriters criticize my game for being colorless. Even my own head office sometimes chews me out for being too conservative. You’d think they’d be happy that I keep their personnel losses down, keep them from having to go out after a game and recruit new players. It’s not that way at all. The head office has to please the fans to turn a profit. The fans pay to see blood. I’m supposed to see that they do. Simple as that. Take the quarterback I faced in the Killerbowl. Harv Matision. He plays football like a wounded animal, kill or be killed. Yet that’s what makes for an exciting ball game, so the fans idolize him.”

“This LPR you mentioned. What’s Matision’s?”

“Four even. Highest in the league. He loses a lot of his men.”

“I also win a lot of games,” comes a deep throated growl from behind them. They both turn to face Harv Matision. His spread legged posture, hands on hips, displays to best advantage his deep chest, long legs, his power. His eyes are incendiary, his mouth twisted and mocking. Symbolically, he doesn’t give T.K. the openhanded greeting. “Isn’t that right, old man?” He puts callous arrogance into it, the way a cocky youngster might address an elderly cripple.

T.K. has slim regard for Matision on the field, absolutely none off. “This is a private conversation, Matision. Butt out.”

“Sure, old man. Just wanted to come over and pay my respects to the league’s second best quarterback.” He fairly oozes conceit. “See you outside. I think they’re about ready to call our foursome.”

“Our foursome?”

“Yeah. They’ve got us playing together, me teamed with Murado, you with Ibsem. The matchmakers thought it would be an interesting draw. Kind of an eighteen hole replay of the Killerbowl. Clever, huh?”

“More diabolical,” T.K. responds.

Matision winks at Sarah. “You see, there are still a few assholes out there saying T.K. Mann’s better than me. It’s up to me to convince ‘em otherwise. Your boyfriend here, he knows I can do it. He knows I will do it. He knows that somehow, somewhere, I’m gonna kill him.”

“And he’s the president of my fan club,” T.K. says lightly. “You should hear a few of the guys who hate me.”