She sits down beside him on the bed and begins to massage his shoulders, paying special attention to his right arm, the one Harv Matision dislocated. Even though the team physician set it back into position and completely repaired the damage to muscles and ligaments, it still gives T.K. an occasional twinge. “I don’t see how something can be sort of illegal,” she says. “It seems to me it either is or it isn’t.”

He twists around to give her better leverage. “A touch higher,” he says. Her hands move up his shoulder blades to the base of his skull. She kneads in her knuckles, grinding them right and left, until his vertebrae give out with the sought-after pop. “It isn’t illegal for other people,” he explains. “It is for me because I’m a player.”

“Won’t that get you into trouble?”

“Not if nobody finds out about it.”

She accepts that by slapping him playfully on the rear. “Now you do me,” she says, rolling over onto her stomach.

He straddles her at the lower back and begins to massage her shoulders and spine.

“Has anybody ever approached you to throw a game?” she asks, her head turned sideways, making her question barely audible through the filtering of pillows and sheets.

“Do you want to know for your article or for yourself?”

“Does it matter?”

“If it’s for your article, I’ll go into expansive detail and toss in a few juicy quotes.”

“I have a hunch you’re setting me up, but I’ll bite. It’s for my article, so let me have the fully verbose option.”

“Gladly.” After pretending to check about for eavesdroppers, he whispers his answer through cupped hands. “No, I’ve never been approached to throw a game.” She punches at him. He ignores her, and continues. “Bet handlers, both legal and otherwise, want the game kept on the up and up every bit as much as the football commissioner does. They know that people won’t bet on something they don’t trust. Oh, sure, a bet handler could sweeten his profit by fixing games, but over the long haul he’d only be hurting himself. That’s one thing I can say about football. It might be tough, but it’s honest.”

Suddenly, as he realizes the ludicrous nature of what he’s just said, he stiffens, simultaneously ceasing Sarah’s massage. “Tired?” she asks.

Without answering, he rolls off and lies down beside her so they can see one another without having to move. “I had a meeting the other day with some people from EBS.”

She breaks into a broad smile. “My body succeeds where my logic fails,” she jokes, tickling his side. When he doesn’t respond, when she sees how serious he is, she stops.