Play Dead
Chapters (51)
- Cover Page
- PLAY DEAD
- PROLOGUE
- CHAPTER 1
- CHAPTER 2
- CHAPTER 3
- CHAPTER 4
- CHAPTER 5
- CHAPTER 6
- CHAPTER 7
- CHAPTER 8
- CHAPTER 9
- CHAPTER 10
- CHAPTER 11
- CHAPTER 12
- CHAPTER 13
- CHAPTER 14
- CHAPTER 15
- CHAPTER 16
- CHAPTER 17
- CHAPTER 18
- CHAPTER 19
- CHAPTER 20
- CHAPTER 21
- CHAPTER 22
- CHAPTER 23
- CHAPTER 24
- CHAPTER 25
- CHAPTER 26
- CHAPTER 27
- CHAPTER 28
- CHAPTER 29
- CHAPTER 30
- CHAPTER 31
- CHAPTER 32
- CHAPTER 33
- CHAPTER 34
- CHAPTER 35
- CHAPTER 36
- CHAPTER 37
- CHAPTER 38
- CHAPTER 39
- CHAPTER 40
- CHAPTER 41
- CHAPTER 42
- CHAPTER 43
- CHAPTER 44
- CHAPTER 45
- CHAPTER 46
- CHAPTER 47
- CHAPTER 48
Cover Page
PLAY DEAD
PLAY DEAD
RYAN BROWN
| Gallery Books A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 www.SimonandSchuster.com |
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Ryan Brown
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Gallery Books hardcover edition May 2010
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Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 978-1-4391-7130-1
ISBN 978-1-4391-7161-5 (ebook)
For Victoria and Raff, with all my love.
PROLOGUE
THE drums outside beat hard enough to form ripples in the water.
He knelt with his face only inches above the surface and watched the small concentric rings expand with each percussive thump.
He watched until his nausea subsided, then came up off his knees. The toilet was clean, but he kicked the flush handle anyway. He stepped out of the stall and struggled against shaky hands to thread the laces at the fly of his pants.
He felt worse for having not been sick. He had hoped that in getting sick he might purge himself of…everything.
The nerves. The fear. The regret.
Now he would carry all of it onto the field.
Hell, maybe it was better that way. Maybe it was the only way he could get through this.
His cleats tapped over slick tile as he moved past shower stalls, towel bins, Gatorade coolers, and a chalkboard on which remained the pale ghosts of innumerable X’s and O’s.
Back at his locker he continued to dress. Over the past four years the routine had become mindless, something he did as quickly as possible to get it over with. But now he was happy to stall. He approached the work methodically, taking special care with every detail. Shoelaces were double knotted, tucked in, and taped over. Ankles were wrapped as stiffly as plaster casts. His jersey—crisply pressed and wrapped snugly over his shoulder pads—went on last.