Hougart is a sitting duck. Matision could take him out easily with a casual over-hip toss. Even an old-fashioned tackle would suffice. Matision doesn’t operate that way. To him, football is a game to be played for keeps. That’s just the way he plays it. For keeps.

Hougart doesn’t see the knife, coming or going, either one. It’s into his neck and gone, passing through veins and muscle like an invisible steel ghost. He only realizes something is wrong when his neck starts to ache, and his throat fills with the sticky sweet wetness of blood. He falls to his knees, to his arms, to his back.

The whistle blows, ending the play.

T.K. gets up and shakes himself off. He looks around to see what went wrong.

He sees his mediman laying a red cross over Eddie Hougart.

T.K. signals the mediman for a report. The mediman makes the dread two fingers down sign, team code for dead man. T.K. stares at him, unable to believe it. He signals the mediman for a repeat. Again he gets two fingers down in return.

Dumbly, T.K. stumbles across the line of scrimmage toward where his friend lies. His referee blows his whistle. “Mann, back on sides, or I’ll take the ball for a twenty yard walk.”

“Fuck you,” responds T.K. under his breath. There are some things more important than twenty yard penalties.

“O.K. If that’s the way you want it,” yells the referee. “Twenty yards. Stalling the game.” He picks up the football and starts walking it off.

T.K. kneels beside Eddie. He’s still alive, but only barely. The front of his uniform, his white home jersey, is a mottled maroon. His blue numerals are black where they’ve been drenched with his blood.

“T.K.,” says Eddie, “T.K.” His voice is a pleading burble, a gargle of supplication siphoned through agony.

“Right here, fellah. I got you. You’re gonna be fine, just fine.”

Eddie coughs up some bloody red spittle. “T.K.,” he says quietly, almost peacefully. “How do you spell the fuck in meat?” It’s Eddie’s favorite exit routine. For him, it’s the same as saying goodbye.

“Eddie…” T.K. holds Eddie’s head gently on his lap. “Eddie, no.”

“Tell me, please, T.K., before it’s too late.” This time the peacefulness is replaced by teeth gritting to hold back a scream. “How do you spell the fuck in meat?” A great gob of phlegm spills out the corner of his mouth.

“There ain’t no fuck in meat,” T.K. whispers, his eyes misting over.

“Yeah, that’s the same thing my butcher tells me,” gasps Eddie. His laughter blends headlong into his death rattle. The referee sets the ball down and blows his whistle.